This is the inspirational and completely untrue story of Hasheem Thabeet’s turbulent rookie reason with the Memphis Grizzlies of the National Basketball Association (NBA). Any similarity to persons living or dead is highly unlikely, but the per 36 minutes stats are real.
A nervous Hasheem Thabeet entered the Memphis Grizzlies locker room for the first time. Looking around at the room full of strangers he felt as though he didn’t belong. His eyes dropped to the floor. Draft night seemed like a distant memory now, and he knew being the number two overall pick would count for little unless he could prove himself. He thought about his family and friends and how they were relying on him. He quickly pulled himself together. “Come on Hasheem Thabeet,” he thought to himself, “you’ve come through tougher situations than this before.” Feeling a rush of confidence he decided to look up and introduce himself to the first person he saw.
“Hello. I am Hasheem Thabeet from Tanzania and the University of Connecticut. I am pleased to meet you.” Hasheem spoke quickly but deliberately and extended his hand to greet the stranger in front of him. The stranger seemed taken aback by Hasheem’s introduction and glanced around the room. He paused before reaching out and shaking Hasheem’s hand. Hasheem smiled. “What is your name?” he asked.
The stranger stared at Hasheem. “What’s my name?” The stranger looked around the locker room and laughed. “Hey!” he yelled out to everyone in the room, “Did you hear what he just said?” The rest of the players and staff turned their attention to Hasheem and the stranger.
“I am sorry sir, I do not understand what is funny.”
“Check this out, you know what this dude just asked me? He asked me what my name was!” The entire locker room burst into laughter. The loudness of it shocked Hasheem, he couldn’t understand what he had done wrong. After the laughter had died down, the stranger’s smile quickly disappeared. “You want to know my name, huh?”
“Please sir, I was just…”
“I’m Allen fucking Iverson. You better recognize.”
***
After getting off to a rocky start, Hasheem and Allen had become good friends in the short time they had known each other. Nobody could understand it, they were complete opposites in every way, yet for some reason they enjoyed spending time together. As Hasheem became better informed of Allen’s achievements he started to idolize him, and regularly sought his advice. Allen enjoyed this. He looked upon Hasheem as a little brother, despite Hasheem standing well over a foot taller than him.
That all changed one morning, when a rumour started spreading throughout the Grizzlies organization about Allen. Hasheem had not wanted to believe it. He panicked and ran all over the Memphis Grizzlies practice facility looking for Allen – to ask him if the rumours were true. When he had not found him there, he remembered a nearby coffee shop where they often went. Sure enough, he found Allen sitting alone in a booth drinking a mugaccino and eating a macadamia cookie – his favourite. Hasheem stood in the doorway for a moment as he gathered his breath and steadied himself. He walked over to Allen’s booth.
“Is it true?” asked Hasheem. He tried to seem calm, but he was visibly upset.
“Is what true?” Allen asked coyly. He formed a sly grin and stared out through a window, not looking at Hasheem.
“You know very well what I mean! They said you have quit the team. I did not believe them at first, but here you are. You… you have your mugaccino and your macadamia cookie and I suppose you think everything is fine? Well it is not fine Allen Iverson! You cannot quit the team!”
“Calm down Hash-brown. Chill. Sit with me a minute.”
Hasheem reluctantly slumped into the seat across the table from Allen, shaking his head.
“You should be at practice right now, it is not too late. You can come back and we will work things out.”
“Practice?”
Allen looked at Hasheem and smiled, “We talkin’ ’bout practice? Practice?” He soon realised that Hasheem did not understand the joke. The reference to Allen’s infamous anti-practice press conference from several years ago was completely lost on him. It was things like this that had made Allen warm to Hasheem in the past few weeks. Seeing the world through this innocent rookie’s eyes had refreshed him briefly, but he knew it couldn’t sustain him any longer. His face became serious. “Hasheem,” he said.
“Yes Allen?”
“Let me tell you something ’bout this league. I been in this league for… shit… ’bout 20 years or so. I know how things work.”
“Right.”
“One thing I’ve learned. If you ain’t a starter in this league…” Allen paused to sip his mugaccino and grimaced. “If you ain’t a starter, you ain’t shit. And that’s on the real. If Coach Hollins ain’t gonna start me, I ain’t playing. I don’t need this shit. Allen Iverson is a starter in this league – period. Always have been, always will be until I say it’s over.”
“But Allen, you can…”
Allen held a finger to his lips. “Sshh. Hash-brown, trust me, I know this league.”
“Allen, I do not doubt that you know this league. You are a man of considerable wisdom, and I am merely a rookie. But I beg of you, please do not quit the team. We need your guidance.”
“Nah, fuck it.” Allen stood up from the booth and casually flipped a couple of hundreds onto the table. He left behind most of his macadamia cookie. “I’m out.”
As Allen walked to the door, Hasheem sat in the booth in disbelief. Hasheem had come to rely on Allen over the weeks he had known him, but now Allen was walking out of the coffee shop and out of Hasheem’s life forever. It was the last time Hasheem ever spoke to Allen.
***
Months later, Hasheem Thabeet sat at a dimly lit bar in downtown Memphis. He stared at his whiskey sour and tried to process the days events. There had been a team practice session, everything had seemed normal. Hasheem felt like he was constantly improving and he was starting to feel like he belonged in the league. He was regularly dominating Hamed Haddadi in scrimmages and one-on-one drills. Then came an unexpected meeting with Coach Hollins in his office.
“Sit down son. Let’s have a talk.”
“I would be glad to.” Hasheem tried not to seem nervous, but he could tell something wasn’t right.
Coach Hollins leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. “So Hasheem. Halfway through the season now. Time flies right? How do feel like things are going?”
“Well, Coach Hollins, I think we are on the right track. We still have a chance of making the playoffs and we have performed more strongly than most pundits suggested prior to the season.”
“That’s true. I was thinking more about how you’re doing… individually.”
Hasheem could only vaguely recall what happened next, because it had all become an emotional blur in the hours since. He had began to give an assessment of his play to Coach Hollins, but as soon as he started to speak he was interrupted. Hasheem sat stunned as his coach delivered a staggeringly blunt assessment of his performance. There were no positive words, only bitter put-downs. “We’ve wasted a draft pick on you…you’re making us a laughing stock…you’re a waste of space…I hate you…your footwork is poor”.
The shock Hasheem felt during the conversation was still making him shiver hours later as he sat at the bar. He had known Coach Hollins to be a hard man, but always fair, at least until now. Perhaps Coach Hollins was deliberately trying to provoke something in Hasheem, trying to motivate him with tough love. All Hasheem felt was the hostility. He had spent half a season worrying about how to defend NBA centres, now he found himself trying to defend his integrity.
The initial onslaught from Coach Hollins had left Hasheem stunned, but he calmed himself down and gathered his thoughts. He attempted to reason with Coach Hollins. He argued that he was blocking 4.0 shots per 36 minutes, 0.8 blocks per 36 minutes more than Dikembe Mutombo’s career number of 3.2. He argued that his rebounding was also respectable and he was shooting a healthy 58% from the field. Coach Hollins would hear none of it. He was quick to point out Hasheem’s fouls per 36 minutes, which was over seven. “Not much point in talking about per 36 minutes unless the league gives you unlimited fouls, son.”
Hasheem delved deeper into statistics. He pointed out that according to sports economist Dave Berri’s ‘Wins Produced’ metric he was the 5th most productive player on the Grizzlies in the first half of the season, despite being given little court time. He mentioned that his WP48 of 0.136 was clearly above an average player’s 0.100 and that if he was given more opportunities he could help the Grizzlies stay above .500 for the rest of the season.
“Wins Produced?” Coach Hollins scoffed. “Everyone knows that metric favours big men. Your numbers don’t impress me.”
“The metric does not favour big men. The mathematics are sound. It is the game that favours big men, Coach Hollins.” The coach shook his head dismissively. “Besides,” continued Hasheem, “supposing Wins Produced does favour big men. How do you explain Hamed Haddadi. Do you not consider him a big man? His WP48 is -0.357! He is hurting our team with every minute he plays!”
“Now just hold on! Don’t you dare talk about Hamed like that, I love that young man like a son! He’s a wonderful person.”
“That is true. I have always found him to be polite and courteous. Unfortunately he cannot play basketball very well.”
Coach Hollins bristled with rage. He was incredulous. “Who the fuck are you to be saying someone can’t play basketball? You’re a joke.”
“I am not a joke Coach Hollins. I just need a chance to play more.” Hasheem remembered the last conversation he had with Allen Iverson. He remembered the wisdom of Allen’s words as he told him that a player was nothing in the NBA unless he was a starter.
“Coach Hollins, let me start.”
“Say what?”
“Just give me a chance. I want the starting center spot. I will not let you down.”
Coach Hollins laughed. He shook his head in amazement, and then he laughed some more. Hasheem stood up to leave. He knew he was wasting his time and he couldn’t stand to be in the same room as Coach Hollins any longer.
“Wait a minute,” Coach Hollins said. He smiled and stroked his chin. “You want to be a starter, huh? Come to think of it, maybe there is something I can do for you. How would you like to become a member of the Wizards.”
“The Washington Wizards?” Hasheem was confused. He knew that the trade deadline had passed. He couldn’t understand how going to the Wizards could be possible.
“The Dakota Wizards motherfucker. I’m busting you down to D-League!”
“What?”
“You heard me, now get out of my damn office you turkey. Have fun in Dakota.”
***
“Have fun in Dakota….” the words were echoing in Hasheem’s head as he drank one whiskey sour after another. He looked up at the bartender and realised he had been staring at him for some time.
“That’s it,” the bartender said. “I know who you are. You’re that Hasheem Thabeet guy. Memphis Grizzlies right?”
“That’s me.”
“Cool. I’m a huge Grizzlies fan. Hey man, no offence but we really fucked up by drafting you.”
“But my WP48 is…” Hasheem trailed off. He was too tired to argue. “No, you are right. Imagine if the Grizzlies picked Tyreke Evans. What a player he is.”
“Yeah, I know, he’s killing it,” said the bartender. For the first time he recognised how upset Hasheem was. “Um, like I said, no offence dude,” he said.
“If we drafted Tyreke Evans,” said a woman’s voice from the other end of the bar, “we wouldn’t even know what to do with him. How many decent centers are there in the league right now? Not many. You can get a shoot-first point guard any day of the week.”
Hasheem lifted his head to see where the voice was coming from. Perhaps it was the multiple whiskey sours talking, and perhaps Hasheem was influenced by her vaguely flattering comments, but what he saw was a woman of incredible beauty. She looked at Hasheem and smiled.
“Come on man, you’re 7-3 and you can run without tripping over. There’s always a place for you in the NBA.”
“Well thank you,” said Hasheem. Then the bitter memories of Coach Hollins’ tirade came flooding back. “Only, you are mistaken. I do not play in the NBA. I play in the… D-League.” The words tasted like poison as Hasheem spoke them.
“Yeah, I heard about that. It won’t be forever,” said the woman. She stood up and walked across to sit next to Hasheem. He looked at her and realised she was not as pretty as he first thought. But she was OK. “She’ll do,” he thought to himself. He managed to flash a charming smile at her.
“You know what you need, Hasheem Thabeet?” she said as she ran a finger down his chest. “All you need is to learn a few go-to moves.”
“Is that right?”
“Uh huh. And guess what?”
“What?”
“It’s your lucky day. I know some really good moves. And I can teach you.”
“I hear that.”
“What say you down that whiskey sour and we get out of this dump, are you with me? I’ve got my car outside, I know a place we can go.”
Hasheem quickly slammed down his drink and stood up, taking a moment to shake the cobwebs out before following the woman towards the door. She turned around.
“Oh, how rude of me. I didn’t introduce myself. The name’s Sharon,” she said. “Sharon Abdul-Jabbar.”
Hasheem furrowed his brow as he tried to think why that name would be familiar. There was something about it that was ringing a bell, but his mind was foggy from the whiskey sours.
“Are you ready to go?” Sharon asked.
“Yes, I just…”
“What is it?”
“Never mind.”
They got into Sharon’s late model Toyota Camry and drove away. It was only after they began driving that Hasheem started to wonder where they were going. He looked across at Sharon. She was smiling. They had driven a few blocks when they arrived at a park. Sharon pulled over and parked the Camry. “This’ll do.”
“Huh?” Hasheem was confused. “Where are we?”
“See just across there,” Sharon pointed. “There’s a basketball court. The lights aren’t great, not to mention the hoops or the surface. But it’ll do. Hey, reach behind my seat, there’s a Spalding.”
“Are you serious?”
“Damn right. I’m going to show you some moves.”
Hasheem grabbed the ball and started laughing, and Sharon soon joined in with the laughter. “This is very funny,” said Hasheem. “I thought…”
“You thought what, Hasheem Thabeet?” Sharon asked innocently.
“When you spoke of teaching moves… I assumed… well, you know. But you are not a groupie or prostitute after all. Such a misunderstanding. It is funny.”
“Hasheem! How could you think such a thing.” said Sharon. She smiled knowingly and snatched the ball from his hands. “Let’s hit the court.”
They made their way over to a poorly maintained, completely deserted basketball court. It was late at night, or early in the morning and nobody was around. Sharon handed Hasheem the ball and gestured towards the hoop.
“Show me what you’ve got.”
Hasheem began to dribble towards the basket, but as he gathered momentum and started a spin move he dribbled the ball off his foot. He watched despondently as the ball rolled to the side of the court. He looked at Sharon, she seemed worried. “Hey, I am not normally that bad. I drank a lot of whiskey tonight.” Sharon stared at him and folded her arms. “Sharon, I did.”
“Go get the ball. Hurry up.” Hasheem reluctantly fetched the ball from the side of the court. “Throw it over. Let me show you something.” Hasheem threw the ball to Sharon. She stared at the ball as she spun it in her hands, then looked up at Hasheem. “You know, I told you I could teach you moves.”
“Yes.”
“Well, you really only need to know one. It’s been passed down through my family for generations.”
Finally, Hasheem made the connection.
“Sharon Abdul-Jabbar! Of course, now I remember why that name is familiar.” A wave of excitement rushed through Hasheem as he began to realise what he was possibly about to learn. “Can you… can you really teach me the skyhook? Is that the move you are going to show me?”
“It is.”
“This is incredible. Every coach I ever had told me all about Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and his mighty skyhook. But when I asked them to teach me how to do it… well they just shook their heads and said it cannot be taught. They said Kareem was just a freak and nobody will ever be able to master the skyhook again.” Hasheem was grinning and unable to stand still. “I knew it. I knew somebody could teach me. Of course, I thought that it would most likely be Kareem himself, but now here I am with you. Sharon Abdul-Jabbar. This is amazing.”
“Are you finished?” said Sharon. “OK, calm down and just watch what I do.”
Sharon and Hasheem stayed on the court for hours as she painstakingly taught him every subtle intricacy of the skyhook. First they worked on footwork, then establishing position and how to get to the right spots on the court. They worked on getting the right amount of knee lift on the turn. Eventually they moved on to shooting mechanics and arm extension. The amazing thing was, it all seemed so easy. Sharon was an excellent instructor and Hasheem was a willing and able learner, especially once he began to sober up. By the time the sun rising on a fresh Memphis day, Hasheem Thabeet had completely mastered the skyhook.
After hours of practising they stopped for a break and sat down in the middle of the court. They started speaking about philosophies on life and what it meant to be successful. They discussed their favourite painters and composers and found they had a mutual love of Brahms. Hasheem spoke at length about his childhood in Tanzania and how important his success was to his family. They were thoroughly enjoying each others company, but there was something Hasheem was dying to know. “Sharon, may I ask you something? How are you actually related to Kareem?”
“I couldn’t tell you exactly. He’s not what you would call a close relation actually, I’ve only met him a few times.”
“Yet he was able to teach you the skyhook. Amazing.”
“Well, not exactly. He showed me some of the basics, true, but I learnt most of what I know about the skyhook from Pam Grier. She and Kareem used to date.”
“Fascinating.”
Hasheem got up and practised some more, but it hardly even seemed necessary. He was consistently chucking in skyhooks with either hand from all the way out to 18 feet from the basket. It was a thing of beauty.
“The Dakota Wizards are gonna flip when they see you,” said Sharon. “D-League won’t know what hit ’em.”
Hasheem just smiled. The mention of the Dakota Wizards and D-League still made him feel bitter, but he now felt that he was going to triumph over any basketball adversity that came his way. He had a new unstoppable weapon – the skyhook. Hasheem and Sharon began to walk back to Sharon’s Camry.
“So what are you gonna call your new move?” Sharon asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t just call it a skyhook. That’s been done. You need to come up with your own name.”
Hasheem paused briefly before snapping his fingers. “I’ve got it. I will call it the ‘Hash Key’.” Sharon frowned and shook her head.
“That’s stupid.”
“No, not really.”
“Yeah… it is.”
“It’s like the hash key on a phone, when I make my move they will all say ‘Hasheem Thabeet just dialled the Hash Key on that one – and the call was connected!’ and the crowd will go wild.”
“I can see where you’re coming from and I understand it… but it’s stupid. I was wrong, just call it a skyhook.”
“Hash Key… ” Hasheem whispered and grinned.
It was the beginning of one of the greatest NBA careers of all time.
Jonathan Bretag is a guest writer with A Stern Warning. Australian basketball fans should also read his piece on the NBL Glory Days.
