A long article about Zach Randolph. I almost passed on it but thought you all would miss your daily read so decided to put it on.... 
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Rejected
By Chris Broussard
All his life, Zach Randolph wanted to be a Marion Giant. To him, Marion's Giants were the equal of New York's or San Francisco's. The purple and gold of Magic and Kareem, of Shaq and Kobe, had nothing on the purple and gold of the local high school.
Marion isn't much, just about 30,000 people and a bunch of factories. There's prosperity in some areas but poverty in most – from the old Boys & Girls Club where the toilets didn't flush to the cracked concrete courts where his AAU team sometimes practiced. But you could never tell Zach Randolph there were nicer places, that this town 65 miles northeast of Indianapolis wasn't the bomb. He didn't want to hear it, and he was in no rush to leave.
When he made the NBA, he would come back, get his mom off welfare, buy her a new house on the outskirts of town where the bankers and lawyers lived. He'd get 100 acres for himself, too. Put a mansion on it, get a few dogs to run around in the backyard. He'd breed 'em and open up a kennel. Randolph would use some of those max-level dollars to make Marion better for everyone. He'd be a fixture in the community, throwing parties at Zeke's Lounge, and an inspiration to the children. They'd love him and he'd love them back. It was a beautiful plan.
Today Zach Randolph pretty much hates his hometown. He's still got love for the teachers and coaches who mentored him, the cats around the way, and especially the Giants. But he's not going back anymore. Not to stay, anyway. He may roll through on special occasions, like when his No.50 Giants jersey was retired on Nov. 11. And he'll visit his son, 6-year-old Zachariah. But the crib that would keep Mom in Marion forever? The 100 acres? The kennel? It ain't happening.
* * *
"RANDOLPH, I don't like you."
That's what the star of the Portland Trail Blazers claims a Marion cop said to him the day after he led the Giants to Indiana's hallowed state championship in 2000. Randolph says the officer saw him standing outside an apartment building in town and actually kept driving, before stopping his squad car and throwing it in reverse just so he could deliver his message. "I remember it like it was yesterday," Randolph says. "I remember his name, everything. I was like, 'What do you mean, you don't like me? You don't even know me.'"
"I don't care," the cop said. "I don't like you."
If that cop had known Randolph, chances are he would've liked him. Almost everyone who spends more than 10 minutes with him does. The man is a 6'9", 253-pound magnet for affection with a round face, vibrant smile and easygoing manner. Ask Blazers coach Maurice Cheeks, or GM John Nash, or Marion High's ex-coach Moe Smedley or assistant principal Carole Matchette. The words friendly, likeable, warmhearted and loyal come up again and again. "He's a big, lovable teddy bear," Matchette says.
The teddy bear is in evidence the day before camp opens. Randolph strolls into the Blazers' corporate offices with the aura of an incumbent politician and greets a reporter he's never met with a firm handshake, a hug and a lively "What's up?" Far from blingin', he sports an ice-white T-shirt, jean shorts, the '92 Dream Team Jordans and a red-and-blue-beaded necklace that reads SKY. "It stands for Soweto Kliptown Youth," Randolph says proudly. "It's motivation for me because they ain't got nothing and we're blessed."
"They" are the kids of Soweto in Johannesburg, South Africa. In September, Randolph was one of seven NBA players who helped run a camp there as part of the league's Basketball Without Borders program. Word is, Randolph was greeted like Ali in Zaire. The decrepit living conditions nearly brought tears to his eyes. Shoeless kids got candy, a hug, a handshake, anything to draw out a smile. Randolph met Nelson Mandela and could barely contain himself. Afterward, David Stern tracked down Blazers owner Paul Allen just to give his player props. "You don't get those kind of kudos from the commissioner without earning them," team president Steve Patterson says.
His experience in Africa aside, Randolph is still a typical young baller, sporting the white Escalade (he also pushes a 1973 candy-green Chevy Caprice Classic), platinum rope and fascination with video games. Eight-hour marathons of ESPN'S NBA 2K5 are a habit for him and two of his closest friends, teammates Qyntel Woods and Darius Miles. Randolph doesn't think his replica is as tight as it should be, so he opts to play as Ray Allen.
This diplomat in an awed kid's body – his eyes grow wider than basketballs when he talks about his newfound mo' money world – is whom Matchette embraces each time he visits Marion; she proudly leads a couple of hundred locals to Conseco Fieldhouse when the Blazers are in Indy. Portland assistant John Loyer says, "I'll take all the Zach Randolphs I can get, on or off the floor." Loyer's 5-year-old son, Foster, calls Zach his "big brother." By all accounts Randolph is one of the NBA's young stars. But he's also one of its emerging enigmas.
See, this teddy bear with the easy smile has a history of unseemly behavior as long as his wingspan. By his 18th birthday, Randolph had been convicted of shoplifting, battery and two counts of receiving a stolen gun. Weeks after his rookie season, he was arrested in Marion for possession of alcohol when he was still a minor. The next season, he broke teammate Ruben Patterson's left eye socket with a sucker punch at practice. Eight months later, he was cited for driving under the influence of marijuana. And just this past August, he was hanging in a popular nightclub in Anderson, Ind., when his brother, Roger, allegedly shot and injured three people. The police considered charging Zach with providing false information and assisting a criminal. He was eventually cleared of any wrongdoing. "I've made some mistakes," Randolph admits, "but everybody's made some mistakes."
His record, though inexcusable, looks worse than it is. The shoplifting incident occurred in junior high when, tired of being called "crusty" (welfare kids don't dress fly), he took a pair of pants out of Wal-Mart. The battery charge was a fight between youths, Randolph being the younger of the two. The guns? A guy approached him and some friends as they played ball in the park and gave Randolph two handguns. Randolph sold one a few days later after realizing he was a fool for taking them in the first place. The infraction cost him the second half of his junior season at Marion. As for the underage drinking charge, Zach was two months shy of 21 when he got pulled over, and swears he only had a sip of beer and some champagne (his blood-alcohol level was less than half the state's legal limit). He was never charged for that drug citation.
This summer, Randolph's face was plastered on national TV after the incident in Anderson – and that caused an uproar in Portland. Three of the team's sponsors pulled their business. A half-dozen season ticket-holders canceled. A local writer called for a trade. Randolph's work on the court suddenly was little more than a footnote to the main story.
"Perception is greater than reality," Nash says. The Blazers remain committed because they're convinced the real Randolph exists in his personality and not in his past. They backed up that faith with a six-year, $84 million extension. "To Zach's credit, he has not forgotten where he came from," Nash says. "But he has to be careful about where he goes off the court. He's not Jenny from the block anymore. He's Zach from the NBA."
Of course, Randolph's cornerstone play on the court factored into Portland's decision, too. He went straight from two years of coming off the bench to being one of five players to average at least 20 points and 10 rebounds. The other four are your average MVP types: Shaq, Duncan, KG and Jermaine O'Neal. Randolph's was a man's 20-and-10. Not a low-40s-shooting-percentage 20-and-10. Not a wannabe-guard, jump-shot hoisting, waste-your-built-for-the-blocks-body 20-and-10. No, his numbers were hard-core and grimy, drawing favorable comparisons to a classic banger of old. "Moses Malone and Zach have similar bodies," says Cheeks, who played with the Hall of Famer in Philly. "But Zach has a feathery touch. And he's lefthanded, which makes him harder to defend."
Randolph thrives on basics like footwork and positioning. While many live and die with their size or jumping ability, he gets by on grit and know-how, foiling jumpers by getting off the floor quickly. And while superstars are always demanding trades, Randolph says he's happy to stay and lead. "I want my own team, and I want to take it to a championship," he says.
Randolph, who entered the league after just one season at Michigan State, is by no means a finished product. He has to improve his defensive positioning, cut down on his turnovers and pass better out of double-teams. But he's got the firm foundation every contender looks for in a leader.
And he got it in Marion.
* * *
MARION, IND., is a town of two faces. Its poorest sections don't reek of urban blight, but the small ramshackle houses are a noticeable contrast to the sprawling new homes that surround the town's interior. Randolph, like most of the African-Americans who make up 16% of the local population, grew up in a tough part of town. His was known as Down Central.
He and his three younger siblings were raised by a single mother, Mae, who gave birth to Zach when she was 16. Zach has no relationship with his biological father, Zachary Johnson, even though Johnson still lives in Marion. Once, Johnson approached Randolph after a game in his senior season and offered him $100. "Zach told him, 'I don't want your money,'" Mae says. "He's nothing to Zach. Zach gets angry if I bring up his name."
Marion has produced five NBA draft picks and seven state championships (second in Indiana history to Muncie Central). Randolph grew up hearing the mythic stories about the three straight titles the Giants won in the 1980s, and about the exploits of local heroes Jay Edwards, Lyndon Jones and James Blackmon. He was in seventh grade when he started attending games at the Bill Green Athletic Arena. To him, the 7,500-seat facility was a sanctuary. The championship banners screamed Giants supremacy. Oversize pictures of past winners hung on the walls; 65-year-old women wore school sweatshirts and cheered like their granddaughters. It was a place where both sides of the tracks came together. For two hours, it didn't matter if you owned a Ford dealership or worked on an assembly line. The haves would cheer for the have-nots as they watched them run and dunk.
Randolph was too young to understand the inequality that existed in town. He didn't notice that his virtually all-black AAU team always had trouble securing a practice court while the mostly white teams were guaranteed times at clean, modern facilities. All he knew was there was lots of love for the Giants when they ruled. For every young baller, that tradition of hoops glory was a source of beaming pride. What happened in the gym overshadowed what went on outside of it. That's why Zach could always say, "Nothing's going to take me away from my town. I love my town." But now he knows it was too much to ask that the town love him back.
Marion needs good news these days. Most of its factories have closed. Unemployment is up (10.6%; the state average is 5.6). None of Randolph's ballyhooed predecessors lived up to expectations: Edwards couldn't overcome a drug problem, Jones and Blackmon had mediocre careers at Indiana and Kentucky. Even the Giants have been uncharacteristically inept; a crowd of 1,000 is considered huge for a game at Bill Green Athletic Arena now. "Zach could do so much for this town," a local businessman says. "But they keep pushing him away."
To hear Randolph and his family tell it, local police are doing the pushing, making him feel unwanted in town. Some might accuse Randolph of paranoia or call his predicament the price of having a record, but an officer on the Marion force who asked not to be identified confirms the claims. The longtime cop says, "Zach's a target. If I were him, I'd never come back." But David Gilbert, Marion's police chief, denies any bias. He says, "I can assure you no one in our department has any feelings about Zach that are unfair."
Don't talk to Zach about unfair. You want unfair? How about the town building skateboard ramps and a BMX dirt track for the better-off white kids but not renovating its outdoor hoops courts. In fact, the best outdoor court in town for public use is the one behind Zach's girlfriend's house (full-court, fiberglass backboards, breakaway rims). Unfair is the Grant County Jail being filled mostly with people of color, at least in part because, as Randolph says, "Marion doesn't have a lot of opportunities for them."
Randolph wants to help but he's gotten the idea town officials don't want him to. After he was busted for underage drinking, he volunteered to do community service by holding a basketball camp. His gesture was turned down; he was instead fined $1 plus court costs. Is there a townwide vendetta?
Depends on whom you talk to. Marion is known for more than fine basketball. One of the most heinous photographs in American history – two bloodied black teenagers hanging from a tree while white men and women point, gawk, smile and pose – serves as a never-ending testimony to the town's legacy of racism. While things have improved, Randolph appears to be the victim of racially charged jealousy. The notion of a poor black kid, especially one who has run afoul of the law and has friends in prison, earning more money than many of Marion's wealthiest citizens combined simply does not sit well with some residents, particularly those with badges. So there are those who aren't upset when Randolph screws up.
"When anything happens to him," Matchette admits, "there's always that faction that says, 'I told you so.'" She's advised Zach the best thing he can do is to stay away.
So he hasn't spent more than a few weeks in Marion since 2002. After his sister, Kelly, graduates this spring, Randolph will move his family from the plush home he built nearby the bankers and lawyers to Atlanta, his off-season home.
"I see what's going on," he says, dropping his head into the palm of his hands. "I ain't giving them nothing bad to talk about anymore."
The Blazers will be thankful for that.
They know what Marion has lost.
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Rejected
By Chris Broussard
All his life, Zach Randolph wanted to be a Marion Giant. To him, Marion's Giants were the equal of New York's or San Francisco's. The purple and gold of Magic and Kareem, of Shaq and Kobe, had nothing on the purple and gold of the local high school.
Marion isn't much, just about 30,000 people and a bunch of factories. There's prosperity in some areas but poverty in most – from the old Boys & Girls Club where the toilets didn't flush to the cracked concrete courts where his AAU team sometimes practiced. But you could never tell Zach Randolph there were nicer places, that this town 65 miles northeast of Indianapolis wasn't the bomb. He didn't want to hear it, and he was in no rush to leave.
When he made the NBA, he would come back, get his mom off welfare, buy her a new house on the outskirts of town where the bankers and lawyers lived. He'd get 100 acres for himself, too. Put a mansion on it, get a few dogs to run around in the backyard. He'd breed 'em and open up a kennel. Randolph would use some of those max-level dollars to make Marion better for everyone. He'd be a fixture in the community, throwing parties at Zeke's Lounge, and an inspiration to the children. They'd love him and he'd love them back. It was a beautiful plan.
Today Zach Randolph pretty much hates his hometown. He's still got love for the teachers and coaches who mentored him, the cats around the way, and especially the Giants. But he's not going back anymore. Not to stay, anyway. He may roll through on special occasions, like when his No.50 Giants jersey was retired on Nov. 11. And he'll visit his son, 6-year-old Zachariah. But the crib that would keep Mom in Marion forever? The 100 acres? The kennel? It ain't happening.
* * *
"RANDOLPH, I don't like you."
That's what the star of the Portland Trail Blazers claims a Marion cop said to him the day after he led the Giants to Indiana's hallowed state championship in 2000. Randolph says the officer saw him standing outside an apartment building in town and actually kept driving, before stopping his squad car and throwing it in reverse just so he could deliver his message. "I remember it like it was yesterday," Randolph says. "I remember his name, everything. I was like, 'What do you mean, you don't like me? You don't even know me.'"
"I don't care," the cop said. "I don't like you."
If that cop had known Randolph, chances are he would've liked him. Almost everyone who spends more than 10 minutes with him does. The man is a 6'9", 253-pound magnet for affection with a round face, vibrant smile and easygoing manner. Ask Blazers coach Maurice Cheeks, or GM John Nash, or Marion High's ex-coach Moe Smedley or assistant principal Carole Matchette. The words friendly, likeable, warmhearted and loyal come up again and again. "He's a big, lovable teddy bear," Matchette says.
The teddy bear is in evidence the day before camp opens. Randolph strolls into the Blazers' corporate offices with the aura of an incumbent politician and greets a reporter he's never met with a firm handshake, a hug and a lively "What's up?" Far from blingin', he sports an ice-white T-shirt, jean shorts, the '92 Dream Team Jordans and a red-and-blue-beaded necklace that reads SKY. "It stands for Soweto Kliptown Youth," Randolph says proudly. "It's motivation for me because they ain't got nothing and we're blessed."
"They" are the kids of Soweto in Johannesburg, South Africa. In September, Randolph was one of seven NBA players who helped run a camp there as part of the league's Basketball Without Borders program. Word is, Randolph was greeted like Ali in Zaire. The decrepit living conditions nearly brought tears to his eyes. Shoeless kids got candy, a hug, a handshake, anything to draw out a smile. Randolph met Nelson Mandela and could barely contain himself. Afterward, David Stern tracked down Blazers owner Paul Allen just to give his player props. "You don't get those kind of kudos from the commissioner without earning them," team president Steve Patterson says.
His experience in Africa aside, Randolph is still a typical young baller, sporting the white Escalade (he also pushes a 1973 candy-green Chevy Caprice Classic), platinum rope and fascination with video games. Eight-hour marathons of ESPN'S NBA 2K5 are a habit for him and two of his closest friends, teammates Qyntel Woods and Darius Miles. Randolph doesn't think his replica is as tight as it should be, so he opts to play as Ray Allen.
This diplomat in an awed kid's body – his eyes grow wider than basketballs when he talks about his newfound mo' money world – is whom Matchette embraces each time he visits Marion; she proudly leads a couple of hundred locals to Conseco Fieldhouse when the Blazers are in Indy. Portland assistant John Loyer says, "I'll take all the Zach Randolphs I can get, on or off the floor." Loyer's 5-year-old son, Foster, calls Zach his "big brother." By all accounts Randolph is one of the NBA's young stars. But he's also one of its emerging enigmas.
See, this teddy bear with the easy smile has a history of unseemly behavior as long as his wingspan. By his 18th birthday, Randolph had been convicted of shoplifting, battery and two counts of receiving a stolen gun. Weeks after his rookie season, he was arrested in Marion for possession of alcohol when he was still a minor. The next season, he broke teammate Ruben Patterson's left eye socket with a sucker punch at practice. Eight months later, he was cited for driving under the influence of marijuana. And just this past August, he was hanging in a popular nightclub in Anderson, Ind., when his brother, Roger, allegedly shot and injured three people. The police considered charging Zach with providing false information and assisting a criminal. He was eventually cleared of any wrongdoing. "I've made some mistakes," Randolph admits, "but everybody's made some mistakes."
His record, though inexcusable, looks worse than it is. The shoplifting incident occurred in junior high when, tired of being called "crusty" (welfare kids don't dress fly), he took a pair of pants out of Wal-Mart. The battery charge was a fight between youths, Randolph being the younger of the two. The guns? A guy approached him and some friends as they played ball in the park and gave Randolph two handguns. Randolph sold one a few days later after realizing he was a fool for taking them in the first place. The infraction cost him the second half of his junior season at Marion. As for the underage drinking charge, Zach was two months shy of 21 when he got pulled over, and swears he only had a sip of beer and some champagne (his blood-alcohol level was less than half the state's legal limit). He was never charged for that drug citation.
This summer, Randolph's face was plastered on national TV after the incident in Anderson – and that caused an uproar in Portland. Three of the team's sponsors pulled their business. A half-dozen season ticket-holders canceled. A local writer called for a trade. Randolph's work on the court suddenly was little more than a footnote to the main story.
"Perception is greater than reality," Nash says. The Blazers remain committed because they're convinced the real Randolph exists in his personality and not in his past. They backed up that faith with a six-year, $84 million extension. "To Zach's credit, he has not forgotten where he came from," Nash says. "But he has to be careful about where he goes off the court. He's not Jenny from the block anymore. He's Zach from the NBA."
Of course, Randolph's cornerstone play on the court factored into Portland's decision, too. He went straight from two years of coming off the bench to being one of five players to average at least 20 points and 10 rebounds. The other four are your average MVP types: Shaq, Duncan, KG and Jermaine O'Neal. Randolph's was a man's 20-and-10. Not a low-40s-shooting-percentage 20-and-10. Not a wannabe-guard, jump-shot hoisting, waste-your-built-for-the-blocks-body 20-and-10. No, his numbers were hard-core and grimy, drawing favorable comparisons to a classic banger of old. "Moses Malone and Zach have similar bodies," says Cheeks, who played with the Hall of Famer in Philly. "But Zach has a feathery touch. And he's lefthanded, which makes him harder to defend."
Randolph thrives on basics like footwork and positioning. While many live and die with their size or jumping ability, he gets by on grit and know-how, foiling jumpers by getting off the floor quickly. And while superstars are always demanding trades, Randolph says he's happy to stay and lead. "I want my own team, and I want to take it to a championship," he says.
Randolph, who entered the league after just one season at Michigan State, is by no means a finished product. He has to improve his defensive positioning, cut down on his turnovers and pass better out of double-teams. But he's got the firm foundation every contender looks for in a leader.
And he got it in Marion.
* * *
MARION, IND., is a town of two faces. Its poorest sections don't reek of urban blight, but the small ramshackle houses are a noticeable contrast to the sprawling new homes that surround the town's interior. Randolph, like most of the African-Americans who make up 16% of the local population, grew up in a tough part of town. His was known as Down Central.
He and his three younger siblings were raised by a single mother, Mae, who gave birth to Zach when she was 16. Zach has no relationship with his biological father, Zachary Johnson, even though Johnson still lives in Marion. Once, Johnson approached Randolph after a game in his senior season and offered him $100. "Zach told him, 'I don't want your money,'" Mae says. "He's nothing to Zach. Zach gets angry if I bring up his name."
Marion has produced five NBA draft picks and seven state championships (second in Indiana history to Muncie Central). Randolph grew up hearing the mythic stories about the three straight titles the Giants won in the 1980s, and about the exploits of local heroes Jay Edwards, Lyndon Jones and James Blackmon. He was in seventh grade when he started attending games at the Bill Green Athletic Arena. To him, the 7,500-seat facility was a sanctuary. The championship banners screamed Giants supremacy. Oversize pictures of past winners hung on the walls; 65-year-old women wore school sweatshirts and cheered like their granddaughters. It was a place where both sides of the tracks came together. For two hours, it didn't matter if you owned a Ford dealership or worked on an assembly line. The haves would cheer for the have-nots as they watched them run and dunk.
Randolph was too young to understand the inequality that existed in town. He didn't notice that his virtually all-black AAU team always had trouble securing a practice court while the mostly white teams were guaranteed times at clean, modern facilities. All he knew was there was lots of love for the Giants when they ruled. For every young baller, that tradition of hoops glory was a source of beaming pride. What happened in the gym overshadowed what went on outside of it. That's why Zach could always say, "Nothing's going to take me away from my town. I love my town." But now he knows it was too much to ask that the town love him back.
Marion needs good news these days. Most of its factories have closed. Unemployment is up (10.6%; the state average is 5.6). None of Randolph's ballyhooed predecessors lived up to expectations: Edwards couldn't overcome a drug problem, Jones and Blackmon had mediocre careers at Indiana and Kentucky. Even the Giants have been uncharacteristically inept; a crowd of 1,000 is considered huge for a game at Bill Green Athletic Arena now. "Zach could do so much for this town," a local businessman says. "But they keep pushing him away."
To hear Randolph and his family tell it, local police are doing the pushing, making him feel unwanted in town. Some might accuse Randolph of paranoia or call his predicament the price of having a record, but an officer on the Marion force who asked not to be identified confirms the claims. The longtime cop says, "Zach's a target. If I were him, I'd never come back." But David Gilbert, Marion's police chief, denies any bias. He says, "I can assure you no one in our department has any feelings about Zach that are unfair."
Don't talk to Zach about unfair. You want unfair? How about the town building skateboard ramps and a BMX dirt track for the better-off white kids but not renovating its outdoor hoops courts. In fact, the best outdoor court in town for public use is the one behind Zach's girlfriend's house (full-court, fiberglass backboards, breakaway rims). Unfair is the Grant County Jail being filled mostly with people of color, at least in part because, as Randolph says, "Marion doesn't have a lot of opportunities for them."
Randolph wants to help but he's gotten the idea town officials don't want him to. After he was busted for underage drinking, he volunteered to do community service by holding a basketball camp. His gesture was turned down; he was instead fined $1 plus court costs. Is there a townwide vendetta?
Depends on whom you talk to. Marion is known for more than fine basketball. One of the most heinous photographs in American history – two bloodied black teenagers hanging from a tree while white men and women point, gawk, smile and pose – serves as a never-ending testimony to the town's legacy of racism. While things have improved, Randolph appears to be the victim of racially charged jealousy. The notion of a poor black kid, especially one who has run afoul of the law and has friends in prison, earning more money than many of Marion's wealthiest citizens combined simply does not sit well with some residents, particularly those with badges. So there are those who aren't upset when Randolph screws up.
"When anything happens to him," Matchette admits, "there's always that faction that says, 'I told you so.'" She's advised Zach the best thing he can do is to stay away.
So he hasn't spent more than a few weeks in Marion since 2002. After his sister, Kelly, graduates this spring, Randolph will move his family from the plush home he built nearby the bankers and lawyers to Atlanta, his off-season home.
"I see what's going on," he says, dropping his head into the palm of his hands. "I ain't giving them nothing bad to talk about anymore."
The Blazers will be thankful for that.
They know what Marion has lost.
man this article sucks
