Free to be Spree

By Danyel Smith/Purchase

There are 14 seconds left on the clock, and Latrell Sprewell has the basketball in his hands and Vince Carter in his face. It's the second game of the first-round playoff series between the New York Knicks and the Toronto Raptors. With the Knicks behind by a point, Sprewell gathers himself in the left corner, the seconds ticking down and the crowd noise building up. Then he springs toward the lane, pulls up and hits a silky six-footer that floats over Carter's head. New York wins 84-83 and, four nights later, terminates the Raptors in Toronto.

The Knicks-Raptors match-up was supposed to be a coming-out party for Carter, a.k.a. Air Canada, the NBA's designated supernova. Instead it turned into a showcase for the NBA's new back-from-hell hero, Sprewell, whose career was nearly cut off, along with Golden State Warrior coach P.J. Carlesimo's air supply, when Sprewell attacked and choked his coach more than two years ago. Sprewell was barred from the 1997-98 NBA season, lost nearly $7 million in pay and was reinstated only after an arbitrator ruled in his favor. The Warriors unloaded him on the Knicks, who were desperate for help and willing to take a chance. It paid off when Sprewell helped lead the Knicks' unlikely charge into the NBA finals.

Since then, Sprewell has been a favorite among New York's hard-hearted fans, who have embraced his maturity and industry. He still blazes with intensity--his suffocating defense on Carter included a flagrant but not malicious foul that floored Air Canada. But Spree leaves it all on the court, and even NBA commissioner David Stern has had kind words for him. It's Sprewell's face, after all, that the League elected to represent the Knicks in its playoff commercials. "I'm glad I was able to turn it around," Sprewell told reporters last week. "It could have easily gone the other way. I've done a good job of keeping my head above water, and I want to stay there."

This week he'll be a pivotal player in the Knicks' showdown with the Miami Heat, their archrival in the Eastern Conference. Previous playoff series between these two teams have resembled WWF throwdowns. These days the only thing Sprewell goes after is a win. He's not a fluid player, but unpredictably jerky, his arms everywhere at once, his feet in the same place for only a millisecond. Then he makes the swift shot or the quick pass, or he's above the rim crashing the ball through the hoop--as he did in game three against the Raptors--with grimacing passion. If only the FedEx guy delivered with such drama.

Yet as much as Sprewell is a magnetic athlete, he is also the personification of the new NBA hoopster: talented, vehement, hardworking and nonchalant (and, 8 times out of 10, African American). Today's player is a man who sees his profession much as a stockbroker might see his own. He likes the competition, the camaraderie and the money. He's there because it's an exciting job that pays extremely well. He doesn't reek with gratitude for being allowed into the league. The player enjoys being part of a team and part of the community--Sprewell last week donated $100,000 for athletic gear for local kids--but does not suffer a coach's presumptions, familiarities or tyrannical moods.

The new NBA player reflects a knowledge of his importance to his team as well as to-the-decimal point cognizance of how he contributes to the bottom line. Sprewell doesn't walk into Madison Square Garden as if he owns the joint. He walks in as if he knows very well who does, and as if he doesn't owe the landlord a single solitary thing--except the best game he can play.

Sprewell, 29, has just moved into a sprawling home in the suburban town of Purchase, N.Y., a sign--like his recent, five-year, $61 million deal with the Knicks--that he's there to stay. Until recently he lived at a Marriott Residence Inn, where his black Mercedes CLK 430 was parked out front with all the other vehicles. The car seemed a raven among sparrows, and it stated emphatically: Spree is home.

In social situations, Sprewell has always had a disposition to solitude. His parents divorced when he was young, and he moved around a lot. Back home in Milwaukee, in high school, he says, "I was to myself until I played basketball." He didn't actually play organized hoops until his senior year. For Sprewell the NBA was the goal of somewhat fanciful--or incredibly prescient--career planning. "My girlfriend [at the time] was pregnant with my oldest daughter, so I needed to go to college," he recalls. "The best way for me to get there was basketball or football. In my senior year good players left the hoop team--a perfect opportunity for me to go out."

Sprewell excelled, went to junior college and then to Alabama and ended up 24th pick in the 1992 NBA draft. He became the first rookie in Golden State's history to set down at least 1,000 points in a season. A workhorse, he led the team in minutes played. But he was suspended twice for missing a practice and for "conduct detrimental to the team."

He plays basketball, he says, for six reasons: his three girls and three boys. He's unmarried but active in their lives, and he often shows up (late, sometimes, even on game day) at the Garden with four or five of them in tow. "[Having kids so early] pushed me toward wanting to do something with my life. At 17 I was, like, 'O.K., you've got a kid--you've got to make a way.'"

That he has, and it allows him a second love, the open road. Near his home in Los Angeles is Sprewell Racing. It's a high-performance tire- and wheel-shop featuring lots of things that make you go zoom. "I drive all the time," he says. "I used to drive back and forth to school--to my junior college in Missouri, then from Alabama to Milwaukee. I've driven from California to Milwaukee by myself three times. I stop--sleep in the car for a couple of hours and then back on the road. I enjoy driving...not as much as basketball."

Then, with quiet weight, Sprewell says, "I'm a fighter, definitely. But I don't pick fights. I'm more the type that's defensive. If you're pushing me to the wall, I'm going to come out the corner swinging hard."

So it comes back, as it so often does, to Dec. 1, 1997, when Sprewell throttled Carlesimo. He then left the building, drove away, came back, went into practice and took a swing at the coach. It has been reported that Sprewell's explosion was in response to some criticism from Carlesimo, a man noted for his perfectionism and intensity. Neither Sprewell nor Carlesimo has spoken about exactly what was said in the moments before the attack. Ironically, Carlesimo, the victim, is out of the NBA, having been fired as coach of the sinking Warriors. (Many things are pardoned in pro sports. Failure isn't one of them.) Attorney Johnnie Cochran, who represented Sprewell for a short time, has said race was not the issue.

"What can make me mad?" says Sprewell. "In general, I don't get upset unless somebody's doing something to me or to my family--disrespecting me to where I just can't tolerate it." Asked if that's what happened in Oakland in 1997, he says, "To make a long story short, yes."

University of Washington professor David Shields, author of Black Planet: Facing Race During an NBA Season, sees Spree's silence as finesse. "He's never gonna tell. He'd be playing into sports journalism's hand. Like the racial situation in America--silences speak more than the utterances." Shields says Sprewell is one of the few players in the NBA--along with Seattle's Gary Payton, Houston's retiring veteran Charles Barkley and former Chicago Bull Dennis Rodman--who consistently, either consciously or subconsciously, bring racial issues to the fore through their use of language and symbols.

"Sprewell shows the racial subtext of the league," says Shields. "His hair forces conversation about a taboo subject. The librarian-like glasses [which he often wears postgame] press you to consider him a mental as well as a physical being. His nonchalance and distance force talk about how black men are 'supposed' to act. Sprewell is sophisticated and transgressive. He pushes the envelope."

He doesn't push it where he lives, though: at home Spree's cornrows are fuzzy, not as tight and glossy as they are on game nights. "The bad-boy thing doesn't bother me," he says. "People are going to think what they're going to think. The first impression of me is the incident with P.J. I understand why I have the image. I'm not trying to downplay the incident. It wasn't right. We make mistakes, and we've got to move on."

Then he's into the ebony dream buggy, pedal to the metal, cornrows in the wind.