Watch him as he leaves. The buzzer sounds, and by the
time your eye finds him, he's already in the tunnel leading to the
locker room, like a base stealer who has gotten a good jump. He's
walking swiftly, taking long, purposeful strides, as though he has
just remembered something elsewhere that requires his immediate
attention, The eyes that moments earlier were darting, taking in
every movement on the court as he directed the Utah Jazz attack, are
now staring straight ahead now, meeting no one's gaze. The game is
over, so there's nothing left here for John Stockton, nothing that
interests him in the least. The court is filling with peripheral
people - photographers, sideline TV reporters, nameless folk with
credentials around their necks and no function he remotely cares
about. Stockton is a man at a party who realizes it's not his kind
of crowd.
Follow him to the Jazz's Delta Center locker room, and stay alert
because he'll try to slip away again. He's not as reclusive as he
used to be, when he would hide in the trainer's room, waiting for
reporters to drift away out of frustration or deadline pressure, but
he still usually dresses in an area off-limits to the press after
the game. When he finally emerges, almost always attired the same
way - a golf shirt, khakis and sneakers as close to plain white as
he can find - he pauses at his stall to put a few things in a canvas
duffel bag. "I can't remember ever seeing him in a suit," says Mark
Kelly, The Jazz's media relations manager, "but I've only been here
4 1/2 years." Look at the 37-year-old Stockton now and you see him
as a teenager back in Spokane, getting ready to head home after a
game at Gonzaga Prep.
He stops only for a moment, obviously hoping the media will be so
busy interviewing his teammates that he can slip out unnoticed. It
seldom happens, and once spotted, he's rather cordial, which often
surprises people who have heard so much about his aloofness. Years
ago Jim Murray, the late Los Angeles Times columnist, found Stockton
at his locker, ringed by a half circle of empty chairs. "What's
this?" he asked Stockton accusingly. "A fence?" Stockton quickly
explained that the other writers had been sitting there and had left
the chairs in that arrangement. He invited Murray to sit down, and
had a long conversation.
"Some people think John's cold, but he's not," says Utah forward
Thurl Bailey. "It's just that if he could take away all the
accolades, all the hoopla, all the nationally televised interviews
and just play basketball, he'd be in heaven. John might be the one
player who really wouldn't miss it if the fame went away tomorrow
and all he was left with was the game."
But it is precisely because he shuns at attention that Stockton
attracts attention. He seems like an artifact from a less ego driven
age, and there's a tendency to want to preserve him and study him.
It's often said when a great player retires that there will never be
another like him - no one with Michael Jordan's combination of
talent and will, for instance; no one with Magic Johnson's mix of
size, playmaking and joie de vivre. The truth is, those players are
far more likely to be replicated than Stockton, if only because so
many others will try. There are far more kids out there trying to
fly like Kobe Bryant or crossover dribble like Allen Iverson than
there are trying to perfect the bounce pass and set tenacious picks
so they can become the next Stockton. Everything in the culture
militates against the emergence of another point guard so brilliant
and so uninterested in being praised for it. Sports these days are
about form, not function. Players are all glowering or goofing for
the cameras, raising the roof or slashing the throat or flashing the
choke. Another player like Stockton emerging is as likely as a rose
blooming in the desert.
Stockton is an unimposing man of unprecedented accomplishments. The
13,076 career assists and 2,701 career steals he has accumulated
through Sunday are NBA records, and though his average points (11.0)
amd assists (7.4) have dropped off this season along with his
minutes (28.3), his steady and larcenous handiwork is a primary
reason that Utah will be a favorite as the playoffs begin this
Saturday.
"I'm not much of a numbers guy, and yet that's the way I'm defined a
lot," Stockton says. "There was a lot of attention when I was
nearing the [assists] record, and that wasn't comfortable for me.
Everybody asked about it. But I've never paid any attention to that
stuff. People who watch have to have their fun, too; I understand
that's part of it. They have to have something to talk about. If
they can enjoy it that way, looking at the numbers, that's fine, but
that's not what I'm seeking.
So we try to understand him, while he tries to understand why we
want to understand. He's so obsessed with protecting his privacy
that his wife, Nada, would only consent to do a 1997 TV interview if
the Salt Lake City station with which she did it promised to air it
while John was at the All-Star in Cleveland. John often refuses to
reveal what seems like the most harmless information. What did he
learn from playing against Magic Johnson? "I won't tell you that,"
he says. How has he improved his game over the years? "Oh, in
certain general ways. I don't really want to get into specifics."
No one can do more than guess at Stockton's world view, because part
of his philosophy is that he doesn't articulate his philosophy. If
we had really been paying attention, no questions would be
necessary. We would know that he hasn't changed - not his hairstyle,
not his wardrobe, not his personality - because there has been no
need. We would know that what he's all about is stripping away the
excess, getting down to what's important. "When you're doing it
right," he says, "it looks simple."
He's talking about basketball. Or is he? The reason he doesn't go in
the air for a no-look, behind the back fancy dish when a simple
chest pass will do is the same reason he makes other choices. If
simple works, why change? If the Jazz franchise fits you like your
favorite pair of khakis, why even think about playing anywhere else?
Why even have an agent? Just figure out a salary you think is fair,
tell the owner to do the same thing, and meet somewhere in the
middle. If you've always worn your shorts a little snug and no
longer than middle-thigh, why change just because everyone else is
letting them billow around the knees? If the hometown girl you began
dating in college will give you a lifetime, no-cut contract, why go
looking elsewhere? Marry her and settle down. If you've never been
happier than you were in the neighborhood you grew up in, why not
get yourself a house right next door to your parents' and re-create
your childhood for your five kids? "You don't do anything just
because other people do," Stockton says. "My father taught me that."
The interviews, the agents, the autograph seekers he's been known to
duck - Stockton doesn't avoid them because he's shy. He avoids them
because they complicate things. "You know, people say to me
sometimes that John looks so serious out there, like he's not having
any fun," says Karl Malone. "I tell them not to worry about John.
He's enjoying himself on the court, and I don't know anybody who's
been happier with his life than he is. That son of a gun has it all
figured out."
It's an April night at Arco Arena in Sacramento. Stockton's playing
time may be down, but it's a tight game in the fourth quarter, and
the important minutes still belong to him. Down the stretch he
steals a pass from flashy Kings rookie point guard Jason Williams,
takes off on the fast break and gets to the foul line, where he
holds up for a beat, freezing two Sacramento defenders. That split
second of hesitation he created makes it impossible for either Kings
player to do anything about Malone, streaking to the basket from the
wing for a lay-up. It looks as if Stockton has just made an
elementary pass that any point guard in the league could have made,
but if he had not time it perfectly, he might have led Malone into a
charging foul instead of a lay-up. Moments later Stockton leads
another break. This time two Kings defenders take away the pass to
the wing, so Stockton casually drops the ball off to the trailer,
forward Greg Foster. Another lay-up. The Jazz win 105-100.
It's the kind of performance that he has been giving for 15 years,
the kind that long ago persuaded Utah coach Jerry Sloan to trust him
implicitly. You get the feeling that if Sloan needed a triple
bypass, he'd let Stockton perform it. Sloan is known for calling
timeouts far less often than most coaches, especially late in close
games. "What do I need to call one for?" he says. "I got a guy out
there who knows more about what we need than I do."
Opponents hold him in the same high regard. Although Stockton and
Malone are thought of as a tandem and, if there's any justice, will
enter the Hall of Fame together one day, many insiders believe that
Stockton is the Jazz's engine. Peers may gripe that he sometimes
gets a fistful of jersey when he sets a screen and that his sharp
elbows too often stray below the belt, but even those whose style is
nothing like Stockton's bow to his mastery of the position. "He's
the best," says Seattle SuperSonics point guard Gary Payton. "When I
came into the league, he was the guy who took me to school. I'm
still looking for a weakness in his game."
Stockton's game is structured, measured. After 1,175 games in the
league, he has created precious few moments appropriate for video
montages. If Dominique Wilkins in the Human Highlight Film, Stockton
is the Human Instructional Video. There are guys playing pickup at
the Y who can give you a flashier show, if that's what you're
looking for. "I think I saw him go behind the back against Bobby
Hurley once, a couple of years ago," says Foster. "That's about as
Showtime as John gets." His work has to be seen over long stretches
to be truly understood, because it's the cumulative affect of all
those perfectly timed decisions, one after another after another,
that illustrates his greatness.
Stockton has never liked a fuss, especially when it was over him.
When he was in high school, he wouldn't even let his parents buy him
a letter jacket. In fact, he never wore anything that would let
people know he was an athlete. When he got married he made sure that
the wedding announcement in The Spokesman-Review said only that the
groom was "employed in Salt Lake City." When Stockton surpassed the
NBA career record for steals in February 1996, the game was stopped
and he was presented with a plaque. Kelly went out onto the court to
help with the ceremony, and as soon as Stockton saw him, he threw
the hardware into the surprised Kelly's hands. "I remember my wife
saying how nice it was of him to choose me to trust with the
trophy," Kelly says. "But you know what? He was just looking for the
first familiar face to take the thing off his hands so the game
could start again."
He was at the top of his profession, but Stockton might as well have
been back in the pickup games of his youth, when the action would
stop for an injury or an argument and he would urge everyone to get
on with the game.
As you walk down North Hamilton Street in Spokane, the red lettering
on the white sign is visible in the distance: Jack and Dan's Tavern.
As you get closer, you can see the tiny shamrocks that dance around
the letters. It's the sight that Little Johnny, as some of the
neighborhood old-timers still call him, saw every day as he pedaled
over from school to see his dad, the Jack of Jack and Dan's. First
he came from grammar school at St. Aloyius, a few blocks away on
East Boone Avenue, and later from high school at Gonzaga Prep, about
a mile away. "When he was small, he'd show up at the door at 4:30
every day, and sometimes I'd give him a quarter to get French fries
from the Dairy Queen across the street," Jack says, coming out from
behind the bar and wiping his hands on his apron. "When it was time
to go home, he'd sit on the handlebars of the bike, and I'd ride him
back to the house." His eyes look off into the distance for a moment
as a slight smile crosses his face. "Those are some good memories,"
Jack finally says. "Thanks for bringing them up."
Connect the dots on a Spokane city map - St. Al's, Jack and Dan's,
Gonzaga Prep, Gonzaga University and the Stockton family home around
the corner from the tavern on North Superior Street - and you have
the borders inside which the first 22 years of John Stockton's life
were neatly contained. The neighborhood is nicknamed the Little
Vatican for its preponderance of Catholic residents. Jack Stockton,
his wife, Clementine, and their four children, Steve, John, Leeanne
and Stacey, were regular at Sunday mass. John and Steve, who is four
years John's senior, were alter boys, but they weren't choirboys.
The weathered wooden backboard and faded orange hoop still hang
above the carport at Jack and Clemmie's house, where the intense
competitions between the brothers often led to loud profanity that
gave the good sisters at the girls' school across the street cause
to shut their windows. Watch those tenacious picks Stockton sets on
bigger players today and you are seeing the combativeness he
developed in the driveway against his big brother and friends.
There are a couple of pieces of Jazz decorations in Jack and Dan's -
one sent by a fan in Utah and another made by one of Jack's
neighbors - but there's no pictures of John, no memorabilia that
indicates the co-owner has a famous son. "I know he wouldn't like
it," Jack says. "I don't even have to ask him." This way John can
talk into the tavern when he comes to town and feel like he has
stepped back into Spokane, circa 1975. When he made it to the NBA,
John told the owner of the house next door to his parents' to let
him know if he ever wanted to sell. A few years later the owner did,
and now John and his family spend much of their summers in an
unassuming home on the same street where he grew up.
During the season the locals crowd into Jack and Dan's to watch the
Jazz play, cheering as though their voices will somehow help little
Johnny make it in the NBA. They're not above praying for the luck of
the Irish to help him. Years ago Jack wore the purple Jazz polo
shirt that John gave him on a night that Utah beat San Antonio. He
still wears the shirt whenever the Jazz face the Spurs. "Just a
little superstition," he says. "Every little bit helps."
John takes the same approach to improving his game. Every off-season
he goes back to the gym at Gonzaga, where he worked out so often on
his own as a college student that he was given a key, and hones his
subtle skills. One summer he wanted to work on shooting over and
making entry passes around big men, so former Gonzaga coach Dan
Fitzgerald brought some of the Bulldogs' centers and forwards in to
drill with him. It's the kind of preparation that Stockton feels
lost without. Last fall he was available to play in the Gonzaga
alumni game for the first time, because of the NBA lockout. "He said
to me, 'I've never been so ill-prepared for a game in my life,'"
says Jeff Condill, a former Bulldog team mate who's also co-owner of
Jack and Dan's. "There were no plays, no sets, no nothing. He didn't
know where the guys were going to be on the floor. It was almost
unnerving for him."
But Stockton will surely play again someday, because his devotion to
his school and his hometown is as great as their devotion to him.
"Earlier in his career, he kept to himself even when he was here in
town," says Condill. "He'd rather have a barbeque at his place with
a few friends than go out and have everyone cause a commotion. But
people tend to give him his space now. It's more like he's just
Johnny, coming home for a visit. It's coming back around to where he
was in college, when Spokane was the most comfortable place he could
ever be."
Stockton sums up his hometown as precisely and efficiently as he
does most everything else. "I feel very lucky to have grown up where
I did, and the way I did," he says. For him that is a testimonial.
"You know what?" says Jazz broadcaster Hot Rod Hundley. "The day
Stockton retires, I bet he'll be back in Spokane by nightfall."
The quick, young point guards are getting by him with greater
frequency now, and the day is coming when Stockton will take his
permanent leave. He's in the last year of his three-year, $15
million contract, but that doesn't mean his departure from the NBA
is imminent. He will know when he is playing his last game, but
don't be surprised if he doesn't tell anyone until afterward, until
he's back in Spokane or relaxing with Nada and their kids at their
cabin in Idaho. When he's at a safe remove, he'll probably send
word: By the way, I'm not coming back. There's nothing he would like
so much as a quiet exit. Don't bother with the obligatory highlight
reel set to a syrupy sound track. You want to honor him in a way
that he will appreciate? Don't make a speech, don't give him a
plaque, don't block his exit, even if it's just to shake his hand.
Just hold the door for him. Just watch him as he leaves.
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