The 6-8 point guards were going at it, one of them a nobody andone of them a somebody, and they weren't supposed to be hand-checking, but they were hand-checking and they were bumping andgrinding, and the nobody was winning. One had jersey No. 175-one ofthe highest numbers known to man-but he was lucky to be at thisbasketball camp, lucky because he almost had a fight on the bus. Somekid named Zach Marbury, younger brother of a certain Stephon Marbury,had ticked him off, and they had almost come to blows, and if theyhad, that would have been it-he would've been sent back to the swamp.And the idea had been to get out of the swamp, out of that Floridaheat, out of that Florida anonymity. He'd already been kickedoff his high school team as a junior for, according to him, "talkingnoise" to a teacher. He'd been late for class all the time, and hisdog was always eating his homework, and the teacher challenged him.So he gave her some lip, and he was told to hand in his jersey-jersey No. 1-and so that's why, five months later, in July 1996, hewas a desperate 17-year-old, wearing No. 175 at this basketball camp,wearing it because he was a nothing, an absolutely unrated, unheard-of nothing.
The college coaches had all come to see the somebody. They'd cometo see Lamar Odom, the left-handed point guard; center. And none ofthe kids wanted to guard Odom. None of them wanted to be abused inpublic. But No. 175 wanted him, and in the first game of the camp, hegot him. "What, are you nuts?" someone said. He weighed 100-nothing,and a few months before, he'd struggled to bench-press 135. Hismother had always thought he looked like J.J. from the old show "GoodTimes." But he was 6-8, his hands were huge, his arms went on fordays, his vertical leap was 40 inches and he had his grandmother'sfire. His grandmother Roberta drove a pickup truck, worked as ajanitor at his grammar school and fished for dinner every morning inthe local pond. She had raised him herself because his mother had hadhim straight out of school, and Roberta always used to tell him,"You're the best athlete I ever done seen, and don't ever forgetthat."
And so he asked to guard Odom that day, and the college coachesyawned, and then this nobody took this somebody to school. He tookhim for some 30 points. He'd back Odom in or he'd lure him outside,and what he did was put his No. 175 on the map. All the collegecoaches went running to the camp's director, Sonny Vaccaro, andVaccaro told them that the kid was a mystery. That he wasn't even atop-500 prospect. That no one had scouted him down at the swamp. Thata friend had begged to get him into the camp. And the coaches wantedthe kid's name, and they wanted it now.
"It's McGrady," Vaccaro said. "Tracy McGrady."
He spent the next year in a bunk bed, next to an alarm clock setfor 4:45 a.m. He spent it running the wooden steps of a footballstadium. Success hadn't spoiled him; it had just landed him time withthe self-proclaimed "black Bobby Knight."
The coach's name was Joel Hopkins, and he had come to the swamp torecruit McGrady. He had come to Auburndale, Fla., near Orlando, andhe'd waited in the kid's living room, and when the kid walked in withan earring in each ear, the coach pointed to the jewelry and said,"That got to go."
The kid listened. But he listened to a lot of people now. A streetagent for Adidas, Alvis Smith, had gotten him into Vaccaro'sbasketball camp, and now Alvis had the kid's ear 24; 7. Alvis wantedhim to spend his senior year playing for this black Bobby Knight atMount Zion Academy in Durham, N.C., because he wanted to see if thekid could take "the noise" and not talk back. He figured if the kidcould handle the five-mile runs and the midnight practices and theban on girlfriends, he'd be ready for the NBA. Ready out of highschool.
"I'd decided he was going pro," Smith says. "I was not gonna letsome college coach screw him up. If he was gonna get screwed up, hewas gonna be a screwed-up millionaire."
But the 5 a.m. runs at the stadium were killing the kid. "Finishthese runs, and you're a horse," Hopkins would say. "If not, you'renothin'." The kid would call his grandmother at the swamp, and he'dtell her he wanted out, but she'd tell him he'd have to hitchhikehome. He started spending evenings with the coach's family, watchingthe NBA with him on DirecTV. He was averaging 28 per game on a 26-2team that defeated powerful Oak Hill twice. One game, he camedowncourt 1-on-3, lobbed a pass to himself off the backboard anddunked on all three.
"He was the best player in the state of North Carolina," Hopkinssays. "Including the Charlotte Hornet players and the ACC players."
But late that season, the kid's mind drifted. He started seeinggirls behind Hopkins' back and started loafing. Alvis was afraid thekid was jeopardizing it all, and he told Hopkins to push him. SoHopkins pushed. "It might have been a little bit worse than BobbyKnight," Hopkins says.
He literally choked the kid one day, and the shocker is the kidfought back. The kid fought back and laid hands on his coach the wayLatrell Sprewell laid hands on P.J. Carlesimo. This had been brewing.The coach, for weeks, had been telling the kid he wasn't hustling.And then, one time, he told the kid he wasn't shooting right, that hewasn't snapping his wrist right.
"But Coach, it went in."
"You're doing it wrong."
"But Coach, it went in."
"You do it my way or I'll whip your tail."
"Bring it on."
And so the coach brought it on. "I grabbed him in a headlock andtried to break his neck," the black Bobby Knight says.
"Well, he was tougher on me than the other guys," the kid says."Yelling at me. I didn't want to listen, and it kind of got a littlephysical. We were rasslin'."
The brawl lasted five minutes, until the coach said, "Stop. I loveyou and want the best for you. Let's pray." And they dustedthemselves off and prayed, and that's how Tracy McGrady says hebecame a man.
"It was the breakthrough of my life, that day," he says. "Fromthen on, I went to a whole other level. I could take `the noise'now."
After the season, Alvis and Hopkins took McGrady to a Magicplayoff game. They had advised him to turn pro, and because he wasunsure and still looking like J.J., they decided he should see an NBAgame. See Penny Hardaway up close.
Penny had been his childhood hero. He'd always worn Penny's number-No.1-and he'd kept a Penny beach towel in his room. He would cut hishair like Penny and trim his goatee like Penny. But now, after thisplayoff game, he was going to visit Penny in the exclusive Isleworthcommunity of Orlando. They walked into Penny's house, after Penny hadjust scored 40, and the kid was numb. "You know how when you meetfamous people and you're a nobody, you usually have a millionquestions for them?" he says. "I couldn't say nothing. My mind wentblank. I was a black hole, man."
He ended up turning pro. But he always remembered that house, andthat street. And to himself, Tracy McGrady said, "Gonna live theresomeday."
He was taken ninth overall by the Raptors in '97, who put himninth in their rotation. It was an ugly rookie year he had, and hiscoach, Darrell Walker-who mistook his droopy eyes for a bad attitude-told him if he didn't work harder he'd be out of the league in threeyears.
He was 18 and alone in Canada, and there were lessons to learn.They played the Heat once, and McGrady talked trash to Tim Hardaway.
"I'll light your (butt) up in the second half," Hardawayresponded.
"Do it then," the kid said.
And Hardaway got 30 that second half.
"I'm never talking noise again," McGrady told himself. "Never."
What he needed was a partner, and what he ended up with was acousin. The Raptors drafted Vince Carter before the kid's secondseason, and, according to the kid, they became "like white on rice."
They'd been friends back in Florida, but now they began callingeach other "Cuz." They'd been told that the stepfather-in-law ofCarter's grandmother was the brother of McGrady's grandmother, andthat's all they needed to hear. "It's not like they're first orsecond cousins-it's way on down there," says McGrady's mother,Melanise. "But if they want to call themselves `Cuz,' they can goahead."
But soon the Raptors were calling plays only for Carter. He gotthe game-ending shots, and over the next two seasons, the kid startedonly 28 percent of the time. The fans were wearing Carter jerseys-not the kid's-and even if he wouldn't say it, it was Lamar Odom allover again. "In Toronto, it was Vince this, Vince that," Melanisesays. "I got sick of it."
The kid wanted to share the load. Hopkins had hooked him up with apersonal trainer, Wayne Hall, and the trainer had him up to 212pounds. He was no longer a J.J. He'd work out wearing a weightedvest, and scouts compared his all-court game to Scottie Pippen's. Heaveraged 15.4 points during the 1999-2000 season and had the bestplayoff series of any Raptor in their loss to the Knicks. Hiscontract was expiring, and other teams were drooling. "I keep hearingthe comparisons to Pippen," Magic coach Doc Rivers was saying. "Ithink he can be better than that."
People assumed that if Carter asked him to stay, he'd stay. But,turns out, Carter had zero pull. "I don't think he and Vince are thatclose," says Vaccaro, now a McGrady confidant. "They respect eachother, but it wasn't like their families shared chicken and picnicsgrowing up."
The truth is, Toronto had been cold and lonely, and the cousinshad helped each other through some rotten times. But, from abasketball standpoint, there were inequities. Carter was taking 20-some shots a game; the kid could barely get a dozen.
"It's my time now," the kid says. "It's time now I get some shotsat the end of a game. It's time I bring my team back when we'redown. Get the ball in my hands and see what I can do. Call mynumber."
So at midnight July 1, he was gone.
"Four years ago, Tracy McGrady had $70," Vaccaro said. "Now, he'sabout to have $70 million."
He spent his 21st birthday taking a bubble bath. He spent iteating a low-sodium meal cooked by his private chef. He spent itthinking about finding a new team. Toronto was out. On the weekend ofhis birthday, he had thrown a party in Orlando, and not one Raptorshowed up. When Carter called to say he was stuck in Chapel Hill atsummer school, McGrady rolled his eyes. Asked why other Raptorshadn't made it either, the kid says, "Don't know" and rolls themagain. "All I can tell you is I'm gonna guard Vince next year," thekid says, winking. "I know all his moves, so he better watch out."
Meanwhile, Alonzo Mourning was recruiting him hard for the Heat,and Elton Brand was recruiting him for the Bulls. But there wasreally only one team for him. He would look outside his new house,and he would see the vacant lot Tiger Woods had just bought acrossthe cul-de-sac, and he would laugh. He would laugh because he'd doneit; he'd bought a house on Penny's old street.
He'd always wanted to come back to the swamp, to come full circle,to come to the Magic. His old teachers wouldn't have recognized him.He was going to school now at Rollins College, taking a leadershipcourse. He was doing his Mount Zion routine again-running the stadiumsteps. And that's why he and Rivers hit it off. Rivers decided thekid was wise beyond his years, and the kid decided Rivers was similarto the black Bobby Knight-only quieter. Rivers had promised him last-second shots and a hybrid position that included playing some pointguard. Just four years ago, he'd been nobody. But he had lived and learned. From his Odom experience, he'd learned he had the goods.From his Sprewell incident, he'd learned how to be coached. From hisTim Hardaway experience, he'd learned to zip his lip. From theCarter experience, he'd learned to share a spotlight. And from Penny,he'd learned the value of home.
Now he's about to have his Grant Hill experience. He'll be playingshooting guard, and Hill will be playing small forward. Butessentially they'll be interchangeable, and they'll be unselfish, andthis time there will be Hill jerseys in the stands, and also McGradyjerseys.
He told the Magic he would be wearing No. 1.
But only because No. 175 wasn't available.
