Category: Basketball

For three decades we’ve covered many amazing basketball characters, but some stand above the rest—not only because of their on-court skills (though those are always relevant), but because of how they influenced and continue to influence basketball culture, and thus influenced SLAM. Meanwhile, SLAM has also changed those players’ lives in various ways, as we’ve documented their careers with classic covers, legendary photos, amazing stories, compelling videos and more. 

We compiled a group of individuals (programming note: 30 entries, not 30 people total) who mean something special to SLAM and to our audience. Read the full list here and order your copy of SLAM 248, where this list was originally published, here.

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Michael Redd was a 2004 NBA All-Star, a member of the 2008 USA Olympic basketball team…and, during the summer of ’08, a teammate—and de facto tile teacher—of Kobe Bryant. 

“Our relationship doesn’t get publicized,” shares Redd, once the subject of a memorable SLAM story by Scoop Jackson, “but it doesn’t have to. We know what we had behind the scenes.”

It’s 2008, and thousands of the best athletes from all over the world are staying in the Olympic village in Beijing. Fifteen of the most famous athletes, though, are staying at the Intercontinental, on their own. It’s there that Redd remembers schooling Bryant in dominoes—forging a friendship that would still feel fresh in his mind 15 years later. 

“It wasn’t about the dominoes,” says Redd. He remembers sitting and playing on a Team USA plane with Kobe, Tayshaun Prince and Chris Bosh—and a photo exists to prove it. “He was trying to ingratiate himself with us, with his teammates. He was masterful at using his mind like that.” 

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Intentionality.

If there are two words the public associates with Bryant, it’s MAMBA MENTALITY. If there’s one—one word from those who know him—it’s INTENTIONALITY. 

Bryant was, famously, intentional in his approach to the big picture. His prep for practice and games was detailed down to the minute, down to the movement. He was the same way with his sneakers, pushing Nike to develop new silhouettes, to incorporate lighter materials, to deliver a better performance product. 

It shouldn’t surprise people to hear, then, that Bryant was detail-oriented about less visible minutiae, too. Yeah, he pretended to care about playing dominoes to win over teammates. And, yeah, he was exactingly meticulous in his 20-plus year relationship with SLAM.

It began a few covers in, with Bryant admitting in the early aughts that he read Trash Talk. He didn’t just peep them, though; Bryant used any and all negativity as fuel. 

“It mattered to him,” recalls Ryan Jones, a former SLAM Ed., “that SLAM heads didn’t have an accurate idea of what made him tick. On some level, that motivated him.” 

Fast forward to 2006. A lot has happened in the Bryantverse in the decade since he’s been drafted, even in the few years since his Trash Talk admission. Now, he appears on the cover of SLAM clutching a snake—symbolizing his Black Mamba moniker—to his face. 

“Who else would have done that?” laughs Jones.

Another few years, another cover. Bryant is no longer looking for love. Now, he’s mindful about all the details. The shoot is set to take place in Hawaii, but Bryant and his team want SLAM to fly in his personal barber from L.A. After some back-and-forth, the sides compromise: a local Hawaiian barber of renown is booked to be on set for Bryant. Only thing is, when Bryant shows up, he’s already rocking a fresh cut. The resulting cover—American flag draped over his freshy—is iconic. 

Twenty10. At this point, Bryant doesn’t show up for cover shoots. He wants to pitch ideas, to own the creative process. A hint at his post-basketball life. 

“He demanded Martin Schoeller,” says Ben Osborne, the then-Ed. at SLAM. Schoeller, famous for his up-close celebrity portraits, would shoot Bryant for SLAM 136. “There’s never been anyone like Bryant about that. Not even close.”

Fast forward again. 2019. Bryant’s last cover before…you know. SLAM is amenable to having their first retired player not named MJ on the cover. They want him in a suit, to represent the business, man, he’s become, but he wants to be captured as a coach, to have his girls’ team with him. Emails are exchanged, and when the day arrives, Bryant walks in wearing a Mamba sweatsuit and carrying a big ol’ bag of basketballs.

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Mamba Mentality. 

A hoops writer at a different magazine once defined the depths of Michael Jordan’s transcendence by pointing out that the best people in any given industry were labeled “the Michael Jordan” of that sector. 

There’s no denying that the author made a great point. Just like there’s no denying that Mamba Mentality, Bryant’s self-titled ethos, is the Michael Jordan of motivational phrases.  

Bryant, in the only autobiographical book he ever published, defined Mamba Mentality as, more or less, an acute and laser-like focus on excellence. Since his death it has taken on new meaning.

“I had…an epiphany the other night,” someone messaged me recently. “Mamba Mentality has evolved into more than just a mindset or approach. It has become an ideology.” 

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In the years after his death, Bryant has been enshrined as one of the most important ambassadors of the women’s game. In the weeks leading up to his death, he led a small camp for elite women at his gym. In his final SLAM cover, he insisted on having his youth team—his girls’ youth team—on the cover with him. In his afterlife, he made the orange WNBA logo hoodie a bestseller. 

First, he changed the men’s game. Then, he changed the Mentality. Finally, with his final moments on hardwood, he helped give women a small boost. 

Yeah, Kobe Bryant is the Michael Jordan of SLAM’s era. Yeah, SLAM is the Mamba Mentality of magazines. Yeah, we were lucky to have Bryant, and we’re lucky to still have SLAM. 

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Feature photo via Getty Images.

For three decades we’ve covered many amazing basketball characters, but some stand above the rest—not only because of their on-court skills (though those are always relevant), but because of how they influenced and continue to influence basketball culture, and thus influenced SLAM. Meanwhile, SLAM has also changed those players’ lives in various ways, as we’ve documented their careers with classic covers, legendary photos, amazing stories, compelling videos and more. 

We compiled a group of individuals (programming note: 30 entries, not 30 people total) who mean something special to SLAM and to our audience. Read the full list here and order your copy of SLAM 248, where this list was originally published, here.

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The idea for SLAM came to me sometime in early 1994. A friend of mine suggested I make a hip-hop basketball magazine. This light bulb moment became much brighter that night, and I published the first issue of SLAM three months later. The rest is history—30 years later, it is surreal to me that it has survived this long. 

Keep in mind, there was no internet back then—SLAM was the basketball internet. The world is much different now, but what continues to blow my mind to this day is how many times people come up to me to say how much SLAM influenced their lives. It feels good every time I hear that.

Let’s go back to 1994 in New York City, where it all began. Cory Johnson, the founding editor of SLAM, and I began to plan out that legendary first issue. Larry Johnson would be on the cover, and we had features on Jason Kidd, Rodrick Rhodes and playground legend Joe Hammond, a column on Felipe Lopez, SLAMadamonth and our first PUNKS story on Steve Wojciechowski. No one had seen a sports magazine like this. If you were lucky enough to buy that premiere issue on a newsstand, then you are officially an original member of the SLAM Fam. 

Then we were on to Issue 2. Enter Stephon Marbury—the first of a few players who would help define SLAM through the years. I’ve been following HS basketball since I saw Lew Alcindor (Kareem Abdul-Jabbar) play in high school. And if you followed high school hoops in the ’90s and lived in NYC, you know everyone was talking about Stephon Marbury from Lincoln HS in Brooklyn. The Marburys were New York City’s first hoops family. There were three Marbury brothers who came before Stephon, and now it was his turn to be the first Marbury to get to the NBA. The pressure was real, but you would never know it from watching Stephon play. He was the best point guard since four-time All-City player Kenny Anderson. He had to be in SLAM. 

Stephon appeared in two articles in Issue 2 (the one with Shawn Kemp on the cover). The first was for our inaugural SLAM High School All-American team. Stephon made it as a junior, alongside another junior, Kevin Garnett, and seniors Felipe Lopez, Raef LaFrentz and Jerod Ward. Plus, for our first-ever fashion shoot, we wanted to feature Stephon and his teammates at Lincoln. SLAM dug up some hoop apparel for the Lincoln players to wear like they do in GQ. Thankfully, Coach Bobby Hartstein was open to the idea, as insane as it was.

The SLAM team packed up our cameras and subwayed (no Ubers back then) out to Coney Island. This is the first time I met Stephon, and I will never forget it. When we arrived at Lincoln, the principal directed us to his class. Steph was sitting in the front row rocking a POLO hoodie with a fresh haircut in his signature style. We shook hands and just clicked. We bonded right away around basketball and what it meant to both of us. Looking back, I’m sure we both had no idea how it would shape our lives in so many ways. Steph represented a new generation of hoopers influenced by hip-hop that only SLAM could understand. The photo shoot went down without a hitch. If you want to see the spread, check out the SLAM Digital Archive (available at slamgoods.com) and look for “School Daze” in Issue 2. Not exactly GQ, but way ahead of its time for any sports magazine. 

Stephon continued to play a prominent role in our early days. He was the first SLAM High School Diarist, which began in SLAM 4 (the John Starks cover—our first real cover shoot). I went on to watch most of his games his senior year at Lincoln and saw him finally win his first NYC PSAL championship at the Garden. He was Mr. Basketball in New York. I saw him announce his commitment to Georgia Tech and then watched him go head-to-head against Allen Iverson at MSG. I was at the 1996 NBA Draft when he was picked fourth by the Bucks and then traded to the Timberwolves to team up with KG. The Marbury family had finally made it to the NBA (for the record, 1996 is unquestionably the greatest NBA Draft class ever). SLAM continued to grow with every issue, and Stephon was on a few more covers along the way. He had a great but underappreciated NBA career. He ended up playing in China, where he won three rings. Go watch the documentary A Kid from Coney Island if you want the full story.

Stephon and I speak or text maybe once a year. I was just texting with him while he was in China. He posted a photo on Instagram of him running a clinic. He had his head down, dribbling with his left hand, going hard to the hoop. The same patented move from Lincoln that only
Stephon can do. I recognized it immediately and DMed him: “I know that move.” He replied: “Big bro, you know because you saw it live.” If you know, you know. 

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For three decades we’ve covered many amazing basketball characters, but some stand above the rest—not only because of their on-court skills (though those are always relevant), but because of how they influenced and continue to influence basketball culture, and thus influenced SLAM. Meanwhile, SLAM has also changed those players’ lives in various ways, as we’ve documented their careers with classic covers, legendary photos, amazing stories, compelling videos and more.

We compiled a group of individuals (programming note: 30 entries, not 30 people total) who mean something special to SLAM and to our audience. Read the full list here and order your copy of SLAM 248, where this list was originally published, here.

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“Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos.” Purple “a” in chaos. To this day, still, probably the most brilliant story title and opening spread for a feature in the history of this magazine. The slightly out-of-focus stark-black and shaded- white Bob Berg portrait. Looking like DaBaby’s daddy. Russ spent hours looking at the picture and reading the story in search of the perfect words to call it. Looking at the picture and reading the story again. And again. The story of the drama orbiting Shaq’s basketball world. Penny. Kobe. Lakers. Contracts. Free throws. No rings…yet. Injuries. Shaunie. Hollywood. Career. Then Russ yelled, “I got it!” Damned if he didn’t.

And while the brilliance of the title and spread took center stage, it was the story that became the story. The story of getting Shaq to sit for the interview and photo shoot (Issue 34 + Shaq’s uni number 34 = Levels), of giving us time that very few athletes had given us (two days, if I’m correct?), of the insanity and ignorance of us waiting five years and 31 issues (as Tony explained in his hilarious and equally brilliant “Sixth Man” Ed. letter to open the issue) between covers with him on them. It was a story of society’s unique and unusual love/hate relationship with Shaq. Of the love he gave the world and the hate it gave him in return. The story was a chaotic, all-over-the-place journey of the conflict inside one of the greatest ballplayers we’d ever witnessed as he struggled between the power and indifference between (and the importance of that indifference) greatness and dominance. And how he chose dominance.

There’s also that difference between being loved and being beloved. What we learned from and about Shaq over the 30-year relationship this magazine has built with him is that sometimes
it’s better to be one than the other. It all depends on what you are looking to get out of life and how you want the world to receive you and your contributions. See, Shaq changed the course of this magazine (and those of us who worked on the decades of stories that have been done on him), what it would become, and our collective approach in how to make it what it eventually became. He taught us how to balance patience and persistence in approach and storytelling. He taught us to expect nothing while being prepared for anything when it came to plotting and planning stories. He (along with MJ and AI) taught us that icon athletes will always be more important to the reader than the writer telling the story or photographer lensing it. Presence is a present. He is Him. There’s only one Shaquille O’Neal. Rather be loved than beloved.

Aesthetically adjacent to his basketball prodigy was his ability to multi-hyphen on a Donald Glover-level that no one understood while he was collecting Larry O’Briens. Stacking chips, hoisting trophies, spitting bars, dropping gems, moving product, marketing dreams, building brands, getting degrees, becoming police, rescuing cats, investing ingeniously, extending zeros into a cultural and wealth-building account that already had more commas than only a handful of athletes who’d ever lived. The giant wasn’t gentle, he was brilliant. One of none. The one MC Wu should have asked to GA on “C.R.E.A.M.” No one else woulda made sense.

There was a moment toward the end of those two days with Shaq in 1999 when he made it all make sense. The Lakers had won 61 games the previous season and could have easily won 70
had Shaq not missed 22 games and played through an injury instead of saving himself for May and June. He said, “Had I played, we woulda won 75.” But winning 75 games wasn’t the point, having the greatest record in NBA history wasn’t the point, just winning a ring wasn’t the point. It was the way he was going to lead the Lakers to eventually win those rings that was. 

“Domination,” I remember him saying. That he’d rather go through the playoffs unbeaten—something that no team in NBA history had ever done—than to go down in history with the most wins ever in the regular season. Because, if nothing else is learned about how Shaq flows in mind and process, when it’s all said and done, being unbeatable—and unbeaten—is greater than being the greatest. The very next season the Lakers began their three-peat. That TWIsM life: different. 

He also said another prophetic thing that was hidden in that PE entitled story but used as a pull quote: “When the game is over, they’re going to remember my name.” Preach, n****. 

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For three decades we’ve covered many amazing basketball characters, but some stand above the rest—not only because of their on-court skills (though those are always relevant), but because of how they influenced and continue to influence basketball culture, and thus influenced SLAM. Meanwhile, SLAM has also changed those players’ lives in various ways, as we’ve documented their careers with classic covers, legendary photos, amazing stories, compelling videos and more. 

We compiled a group of individuals (programming note: 30 entries, not 30 people total) who mean something special to SLAM and to our audience. Read the full list here and order your copy of SLAM 248, where this list was originally published, here.

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“They say I’m hopeless/As a penny with a hole in it.” 

—Dionne Farris, “Hopeless”

For us, at SLAM, at that time, it was always that pass. The one Tony Gervino brilliantly used as cover art for Issue 8. 1995 ’til infinity. From the exit series that ended Jordan’s comeback. But made him come back. It was this cover that made Shea Serrano become a basketball griot. It allowed a reintroduction.

The Anfernee Hardaway Experience was something different. Something basketball at the NBA level hadn’t experienced. The new generation’s first hybrid. Part Oscar, part Magic, part Gervin, part Pippen. All Tracy McGrady before Tracy McGrady became the next Penny. Like a muthafucka invented strictly for Super Nintendo NBA Live 95. By the time he appeared on his first SLAM cover, he was already on some low-key legend shit. Memphis basketball God, Parade Magazine National High School Player of The Year, Blue Chips co-superstar, NBA Rookie All-Star Game MVP, All-NBA Team 1, NBA Finals appearance, leader of the game’s new generation of “We got next.”

Yet what we forget: He got shot. Forgot that all of this career called his could have been just a dream, that none of it was supposed to happen. That the second that bullet entered his right foot, ricocheting off the ground during a drive-by robbery in front of his aunt’s house in Binghampton in April 1991 during his freshman year at then-Memphis State University (University of Memphis, now), the end was supposed to follow. 

Hopeless. Yet, his “oh, shit” moment became his “closer to God” moment. He script-flipped what should have been his basketball and Black life stereotype of a young kid from where “we” from getting shot into what Benji Wilson and more recently Quincy Reese Jr never had the chance to. Which is the part of Penny we don’t discuss enough. The resilience of an 18-year-old not allowing the circumstances he came up in and around define him—but still shape him. Allowing a bullet to provide clarity instead of despair, anger, hate. All of that is lost when we look at Penny because he made sure we never saw what he saw when he looked in the mirror at that point in his life. His foot. A Penny with a hole in it. Never again.

Because a superhero emerged. A basketball alien. A 6-7 point guard with destination talent at almost every phase of the game. Speed, bounce, range, handles, vision, creativity, instincts, leadership abilities, defensive awareness, who was fundamentally sound with survival in him that made him immune to intimidation. Fearless. Young, gifted and generational. Personable. Chill. Unassuming. Humbly arrogant. Unbothered. True to exactly who he was. Strong enough to carry his NCAA squad (only a year after being shot) to the Elite Eight, then his NBA squad (only three years later) to the NBA Finals. Second SLAM cover, toothpick sic. Revenge tip. Blue pinstriped fit. Shining like pre-green copper. 

But the cultural impact (almost) overshadowed the magic (get it?) he was producing on the court. His sneaker acumen and foresight made him illuminati. Foams? Him. Air Max namesakes 1, 2, 3, 4? Him. The only other basketball player at the time to have Nike signatures besides 50, 34 and 23. 1Cent, heaven sent. But God had other plans.

The injuries stacked like cordwood piles. Putting a halt (not a full stop) to an ascend that was legendary. Centual. More than just an athlete, he year-after-year inched closer to single-name American icon status by showing glimpses and flashes of what he had left inside, of what wasn’t stolen from him. Just because the game forced him to stop bouncing the ball never meant the ball stopped bouncing for him. A return to his Mecca allowed the world to see that his basketball mind and heart were far superior and in-need than his basketball body and skills. Deon, not Deion. His coaching, too, became his calling.

He’s become the basketball equivalent of Gale Sayers, Stephen Strasburg. A GOAT for whom the only reason isn’t considered the GOAT is because injuries loved them so much. That singular, idiosyncratic, unparalleled, one-of-a-kind type who, if we just talked about what they showed us—and what they did when they were able to play—we’d admit that they were almost unarguably the best we’d ever seen. Bill Walton. Yao Ming. Grant Hill. Derrick Rose. Penny’s probably above all of them on basketball’s “what if” list. Which makes “what will never be again” much more appropriate.

And oh, one last thing about that first cover, the “wrap-around” cover, the last time we’d see Jordan wearing “45” cover. Two months after it hit the stands, his alter ego Lil Penny was introduced to the world. Shit ain’t been the same since. 

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Photo via Getty Images.

For three decades we’ve covered many amazing basketball characters, but some stand above the rest—not only because of their on-court skills (though those are always relevant), but because of how they influenced and continue to influence basketball culture, and thus influenced SLAM. Meanwhile, SLAM has also changed those players’ lives in various ways, as we’ve documented their careers with classic covers, legendary photos, amazing stories, compelling videos and more. 

We compiled a group of individuals (programming note: 30 entries, not 30 people total) who mean something special to SLAM and to our audience. Read the full list here and order your copy of SLAM 248, where this list was originally published, here.

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“Skip to My Lou” was not Rafer Alston’s first nickname. The pseudonym that would stick with the point guard throughout blacktop supremacy and an NBA career was born the summer after his Rucker Park debut. That prior summer, the frail 14-year-old from South Jamaica, Queens, was all the way uptown balling comfortably with collegiate starters. Despite a considerable difference in age and size between him and the other players, not one could remain in front of him. He handled the rock as if it were a yo-yo and treated defenders like turnstiles in subway exits. “Here comes The Energizer!” shouted Rucker Park MC Duke Tango.

“He just keeps going and going,” said Duke’s co-host, Al Cash. Rafer’s new notoriety climbed to a point where Harlemites would anticipate a lopsided score just to witness The Energizer bounce to his own drum.

The following summer, Rafer received the keys to that same Rucker team. During a particular game in which he felt the players and crowd lacked synergy, he premeditated a move in hopes of producing stimuli. The opposing guard found himself alone with a 3-on-1 fast break quickly approaching. Rafer bounced the ball in front of him and shuffled his feet with hope that his defender would take the bait. As expected, the opp reached for the ball. Raf then snatched it back, wrapped it around his own waist and dimed his slashing teammate. Spectators erupted onto the court and Al Cash immediately renamed The Energizer “Skip To My Lou.” 

For Rafer Alston, life has only been easy as Skip To My Lou. When he wasn’t performing on a playground, he was consistently weathering obstacles and downhill winds. As an 11-year-old prodigy, he was too young to understand the neighborhood fuss around his ability. All he knew was that he was better than the other kids, but their parents were present at games and his weren’t. Mama Alston worked two jobs and dad was so consumed by drugs he stole Raf’s Michael Jordan rookie card. Perhaps a healthy home life would’ve prevented one of the greatest high school guards ever from only playing a combined 10 games his junior and senior years.

He averaged over 30 points both seasons at Benjamin N. Cardozo High School, despite playing under 20 minutes per game. He kept his name ringing on the AAU circuit with Riverside Church by besting future legends like Chauncey Billups and Allen Iverson, but his dream was never to be a playground legend before age 18. It happened anyway––before he played a single minute for Jerry Tarkanian at Fresno State, this very publication put him on the front of its December ’97 issue with the cover line: “The Best Point Guard In the World (you’ve never heard of).” The pressure meant little to Rafer. His only goal was to become an NBA point guard like his idols Mark Jackson and Kenny Anderson. 

Even when Alston’s name was called in the 1998 NBA Draft, it was the beginning of yet another scenic road ripe with rocky terrain and opposing nature. Being confined to George Karl’s Milwaukee Bucks bench quickly taught the rookie that the League had little regard for those amazing AND1 mixtapes. After two seasons, he nearly quit his dream job. Then close friend Troy “Escalade” Jackson (Mark’s little brother—RIP) convinced him to join the D-League. One 10-day contract begat another and in a couple years, Rafer was lobbing alleys to new Dunk Contest GOAT Vince Carter in Toronto, zipping by defenses with a rookie phenom named Dwyane Wade in Miami, then running an offense through Tracy McGrady and Yao Ming in Houston. His game was also worth nearly $30 million. 

Today, only one NYC playground legend has played in an NBA Finals. After being traded in the middle of his 10th season to the Orlando Magic, Rafer led prime Dwight Howard and Co. to the mountaintop of the 2009 NBA season for a championship bout with Kobe Bryant’s Lakers. Games 1 and 2 saw rough performances from Alston. Coach Stan Van Gundy pulled his floor general aside and instructed him to abandon the previous contests and return to whichever style of play was most fun. In Game 3, Alston dropped a dazzling 20 points on 8-12 shooting, ushering the Magic to their only win of the series. The highlight of the game was when he spun off of Derek Fisher and hit Lamar Odom with a stutter-step before jelly rolling Pau Gasol. As he ran back on defense, the Magic’s energizer smiled and pointed toward his idol, who just happened to be commentating the game for ABC. 

“I wanted Mark Jackson to know that even though I’m getting old,” said Alston after the game, “I still have a little Skip left in my game.” 

Hell of a journey. 

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For three decades we’ve covered many amazing basketball characters, but some stand above the rest—not only because of their on-court skills (though those are always relevant), but because of how they influenced and continue to influence basketball culture, and thus influenced SLAM. Meanwhile, SLAM has also changed those players’ lives in various ways, as we’ve documented their careers with classic covers, legendary photos, amazing stories, compelling videos and more. 

We compiled a group of individuals (programming note: 30 entries, not 30 people total) who mean something special to SLAM and to our audience. Read the full list here and order your copy of SLAM 248, where this list was originally published, here.

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Well, this is awkward. I was asked to write about Reggie Miller’s evolving relationship with SLAM, I’m assuming, because it started very poorly—and specifically because of me. And I just now realized that the 2024 NBA All-Star Game will be in Indianapolis. Given that fact, and the intervening years, I had a thought: let Reggie (the greatest-ever Pacers player) bask in his Hall of Fame-ness and enjoy the festivities without any childishness or negativity.

All these years later, it no longer hurts to give Reggie his flowers for his exemplary career, and we can now accept the fact that he is universally considered one of the greatest long-range shooters in NBA history. Over 25,000 points (including 2,560 three-pointers) in 18 seasons, two Gold medals. One of the greats.

It’s called growing up, people.

SLAM, during what I like to call “The Profanity Era” (issues 3-38), is linked to Miller more than any other player not named Iverson. But the way we treated them couldn’t be in starker contrast. Iverson could do no wrong in our eyes, while the magazine relentlessly targeted Miller. Why? Because we needed a foil. If we were looking to mix things up in the sports media world (lol), antagonizing a perennial All-Star was the most efficient way to do so. 

And Reggie was the best player on the Pacers and the Pacers routinely clobbered the Knicks, while Miller preened, pouted and flopped. He was like the annoying progeny of Mick Jagger and a professional wrestler, enjoying himself so thoroughly while riling the crowd. It was infuriating to us. 

And so we (OK, me) pounced on him and began a campaign of poking Miller with a stick. We (OK, I) said all kinds of things about him to try and get a rise from him. He never responded to me directly but, looking back, his annual teabagging of the Knicks in the playoffs was probably enough of an answer.

During his career, Reggie Miller made an enemy of every NBA fan in every city other than his own. He wore that hatred like Superman’s cape. It intrigued him, amused him, and then it fueled him. The hostility, however, was far, far worse in Madison Square Garden than in any other arena. When Miller played the Knicks, he was extra arrogant and spiteful and scornful and miserably clutch. The 25-point fourth quarter. The 8 points in nine seconds. The choke sign.

Those hijinks went on for years—way longer than our “Glen Rice’s wife” campaign or whatever other idiocy we cooked up—and culminated with SLAM publishing Miller’s high school prom photo—which he attended with his sister Cheryl, who was an unreal basketball player in her own right. That I considered it to be a “gotcha” moment shows that we were completely losing the plot.

Many issues after we’d begun our crusade, we were exhausted, frankly, and pumped the brakes. Not long after, Miller appeared on the cover of SLAM 33, sneering in victory. On the magazine’s spine we put the about-face into context, printing, “Hell Freezes Over.”

Once we crossed that rubicon, it was much easier to accept/swallow the fact that Miller was a clutch big-game player and, thanks in large part to his relationship with SLAM, the greatest and most willing villain in basketball history. It also became significantly less complicated to include his name in a conversation without relentlessly denigrating him and must have been freeing to the subsequent editorial staffs. Thankfully, grudges do not transfer well.

A few years ago, long after Reggie retired and began earning big bucks as a very capable color commentator, SLAM asked me to interview him—a first, as it turned out—in an attempt to settle our differences. We were both up for it.

Over the course of an hour, Reggie and I talked about his storied career, his relationship to SLAM and to opposing fans, and how players today would have a much harder time coping with our level of vitriol. I apologized for publishing the prom photo—a stunt that he accurately described as “crazy”—and then we talked extensively about how SLAM’s unrelenting public hatred of his persona had actually helped him. 

As it turned out, Reggie was likable, and we both blamed my dubious behavior on my misspent youth and a complete lack of journalistic training or, really, morals. As Russ Bengtson would say, “cool, cool.” 

He also credited me for burying my own hatchet and offering him the cover, which is great except for one thing: six months after the Reggie Miller cover was published, I ran away from SLAM, never to return. 

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Photo by Clay Patrick Mcbride. Featured image via Getty Images.

For three decades we’ve covered many amazing basketball characters, but some stand above the rest—not only because of their on-court skills (though those are always relevant), but because of how they influenced and continue to influence basketball culture, and thus influenced SLAM. Meanwhile, SLAM has also changed those players’ lives in various ways, as we’ve documented their careers with classic covers, legendary photos, amazing stories, compelling videos and more. 

We compiled a group of individuals (programming note: 30 entries, not 30 people total) who mean something special to SLAM and to our audience. Read the full list here and order your copy of SLAM 248, where this list was originally published, here.

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In 1980, Stephen King published a novel called Firestarter. The title character was Charlie McGee, a little girl who could harness a vast power to—among other things—start fires. One important lesson she learned early on was to always push the power out, because to absorb it would destroy herself. Hold that thought.

Kevin Garnett never talked before games. And it’s not just that he didn’t do interviews; he didn’t talk, period. If he knew you, he might give you a nod, maybe a tap on the chest. But he didn’t say anything. Afterward he’d talk, but always last. The equipment guys had long since gathered the sneakers and the uniforms and bagged it all up for the next destination; reporters were getting antsy about deadlines and airtimes. But you waited for the same reasons producers ask Andre 3000 for features—because while you might have to wait forever, it was always worth the wait. KG had bars. He’d tell you things about the game you’d never have noticed in a way you’d never have thought of. 

In between, KG did things on a basketball court you’d never seen before. He’d start plays and finish them, guard every position, somehow be everywhere all at once. Dude was like this from the start, from Mauldin, SC, to Chicago—he came into his first pre-NBA workout and by the end had converted even the most staunch nonbelievers in guys making the high school jump. He went fifth and should have gone first (sorry Joe Smith). He soaked up the NBA like a sponge, put his imprint on ’Sota right away, got the Wolves to grab Stephon Marbury in the following year’s Draft. We documented it with a classic cover: “Showbiz & KG.” Nike slid him their coolest shit—he wore Jordans against MJ—before lacing him with a signature sneaker and making him head of the Fun Police. When we did that first Nike-sponsored KICKS issue, there was no question who’d be on the cover. 

For the December 1999 “100 Percent Real Juice” cover—we shot KG on a gold background but switched it out to orange—Jonathan Mannion and I flew out to Minnesota to shoot him at his crib. Garnett shot hoops in his driveway in his full road Wolves uni, the new Mobb Deep bumping from outdoor speakers. He had “It’s Mine” on repeat, trying to memorize Nas’ verse. By the end of the day, I was like, Man, I need to pick this up—only to find out at the closest record store that it wasn’t due out for another couple of weeks. We did that adidas KICKS cover with him and TD and T-Mac and the roundtable interview that anchored it was one of the most fun interviews ever. KG—never listed at 7 feet despite clear evidence to the contrary—busted on Mac for actually being 6-10 or 6-11 and then acted all surprised when it got turned back around on him.

On the court, his intensity spilled out of him like sweat. He burned so hot he had to constantly push it out lest it burn him up. He talked, yes; he cursed up a storm, but he was always talking to himself, pushing and pushing and pushing. KG picked up an MVP in Minny—but couldn’t make it all the way. By the time he decamped for Boston, it was almost a relief. 

“ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE!” He messed up the adidas tagline, but that happens when you add that final (or Finals) touch. That chip. It took him a minute to say anything at all, he said it quiet first before primal screaming it into the TD Banknorth Garden rafters. Achievement unlocked, weight lifted, program complete. Not that he was finished quite yet; there’d be another Finals trip, a Brooklyn stop, a final return to Minnesota as elder and sage—21 seasons for 21.

And now. Kevin Garnett at 48. He’s a Hall of Famer, a media mogul, doing production and a podcast with Paul Pierce. We did a whole special issue on him in 2021. He’s out in Cali, a Midwest guy retired to the beach. He doesn’t hoop anymore because hoop goes just one way for him—the demon comes out, as he puts it, and the demon needs to stay away. At long last, after two decades of relentless intensity, peace. 

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Portrait by Benoit Peverelli. Photo via Getty Images.

For three decades we’ve covered many amazing basketball characters, but some stand above the rest—not only because of their on-court skills (though those are always relevant), but because of how they influenced and continue to influence basketball culture, and thus influenced SLAM. Meanwhile, SLAM has also changed those players’ lives in various ways, as we’ve documented their careers with classic covers, legendary photos, amazing stories, compelling videos and more. 

We compiled a group of individuals (programming note: 30 entries, not 30 people total) who mean something special to SLAM and to our audience. Read the full list here and order your copy of SLAM 248, where this list was originally published, here.

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Forget how Merriam-Webster defines “iconic,” here’s how it should be defined: someone who or something that makes an enormous impact not only through his or her or its presence but also through his or her or its absence. 

“Iverson left.” 

Those were the first two words I remember hearing from Tony Gervino when he called from the NBA’s rookie orientation in Florida where we were shooting what would become the 1996 Draft fold-out cover. This was a huge shoot for us, and now we weren’t gonna have the first overall pick. (This news overshadowed the far funnier story of us having to keep a curious Todd Fuller—11th overall pick, Golden State Warriors—from wandering into the shoot. As an aside to an aside, if we included Golden State’s Draft pick, we probably would have taken out Kobe and wow how things could have been different.) 

“Iverson left.” This wasn’t good.

Over the years, we became incredibly familiar with those words, with that happenstance. Iverson was always there on the court and almost never there for photo shoots. He was 12 hours late for the SLAM 32 “Soul on Ice” shoot, dipped from practice (yes, yes, I know) entirely before we were supposed to shoot him for SLAM 42 the following year. We’d driven from New York to Philly, Clay Patrick McBride had everything set up, done the test shots and for a while we just stood around, hoping beyond hope he’d come back. He didn’t. We finally broke it all down and drove back. Instead, we eventually shot him in a room off to the side at an arena—grabbed him for literally a minute before a game and shot maybe one roll. For the record, every frame was amazing.

But it’s that rookie cover I keep going back to, and how Iverson’s absence ended up defining it better than his presence ever could have. It helped of course that Kobe Bryant and Ray Allen and Steve Nash ended up Hall of Famers (and Stephon Marbury and Jermaine O’Neal should be). In a way, Iverson being on there would have completed it. But in another way, his not being on there makes it cooler. This might just be me after-the-fact rationalizing, but I don’t think so.

Iverson had already had his debut SLAM cover by then, an action shot while he was at Georgetown that Scoop had to convince Dennis would work. He’d get another in short order, “Who’s Afraid of Allen Iverson?” on the June ’97 issue. This was the proto-Iverson, a skinny little dude with one tattoo on his bicep, cornrows, a single long gold chain. This is who the mainstream sports media was railing against? By then he’d been Rookie of the Year, dropped 40-plus in five straight games, dropped Michael Jordan with a quick bap-bap, BAP-BAP crossover (and earned the GOAT’s ire in their previous matchup by proclaiming he didn’t have to respect anybody). Iverson loved Jordan, still does, but on the court? No love there.

Off the court though? I gave Iverson a copy of that “Who’s Afraid of Allen Iverson?” issue—we all used to carry copies of the latest issues to give to players—and in return he gave me a big hug. This was the first time I’d met him. But that’s how Allen Iverson was, and how he is. If he loves you, he shows it. I think of Sosa talking to Tony Montana in Scarface and saying, “There’s no lying in you, Tony.” There’s no lying in Iverson either. The last time I saw him, a couple years ago, he gave me a hug, too. “Who’s Afraid of Allen Iverson?” Someone who never interacted with him, that’s for sure.

The “Soul on Ice” cover, which came nearly two years later (March ’99) happened with the NBA still in the throes of a lockout (note the “84% NBA Free!” in the upper left corner). It—both the cover shoot and the story—were part of a larger Iverson media push, so both the shoot and the interview for it were slotted in right before The Source Sports (The Source’s sports offshoot). We had to hire his hairstylist to both unbraid and re-braid his hair so he wouldn’t go into the Source Sports shoot still sporting a blowout. Of course in those pre-social media days, it was actually possible to keep a secret, so when the cover hit, no one was expecting it (an editor at Sports Illustrated actually asked Tony how we got him to wear a wig).

The interview happened in the morning and was something he wasn’t late for—I rode around NYC in a limo as he went to Modell’s HQ with Reebok (and stopped in the diamond district to get a massive piece of platinum and diamond jewelry repaired) and then out to Teterboro Airport. There, a Source Sports guy would accompany him on the flight and I’d catch a car service back to Manhattan. Now, Iverson is clearly not and never has been a morning guy unless he’s coming at it from the other side and preferably from the Main Line TGI Fridays. But he was still cool and compelling and heartfelt and honest to a fault—asked if he could be any other NBA player, he eschewed his childhood hero MJ (by then retired again) and went with Latrell Sprewell, who had yet to be reinstated by the NBA after choking coach PJ Carlesimo. It’s kind of crazy to think that at the time, he was still just 23 years old and hadn’t even been an All-Star yet. That summer, when KICKS Magazine opened to include all brands (it launched as Nike-only), he was on the cover of that, too.

In 2001, Iverson became a god. There was the All-Star Game in DC in February, where he scored 15 of his 25 points in a furious fourth-quarter comeback from down 21 to win by 1. He was, of course, named MVP. On top of that he dropped 50-plus twice in the regular season and won MVP, dropped 50-plus twice more in a seven-game series against Toronto (and posted a season-high 16 assists in the closeout game), and took the undermanned Sixers to the Finals to face an undefeated Lakers juggernaut that he promptly defeated in Game 1 in Los Angeles with a 48-point masterpiece. To paraphrase then-SportsCenter anchor Dan Patrick, you couldn’t stop Allen Iverson or hope to contain him.

People tried, of course. That magical year in Philly did not lead to sustained postseason success, the clashes with Larry Brown did not cease, the local sports radio call-in types did not become rational. Iverson continued to be judged for what he didn’t do (show up to every practice, shoot at a high percentage) rather than what he did (carry a team on his back every f*cking game). I am half convinced that the analytic nerd obsession with “efficiency” was at least in part embraced because it discredited Iverson, a guy whose misses wouldn’t have even been shots for someone who didn’t have his crossover or first step or long arms or big hands or sheer fearlessness to drive again and again into the teeth of physical defenses.

Here was a guy who stood 6-0 (maybe), weighed 165 pounds (maybe) and led the League in minutes per game seven times! He averaged over 40 minutes a game for his career!

He was as superhuman as could be, but Iverson remained a hero to most for his humanity, in a way that even Jordan never was. Jordan always seemed to be above the fray even when he was in it, unreal even when he was standing right in front of you. The myth became the man. Iverson? He was the people’s champ long before Paul Wall, grindin’ out of VA before The Clipse. If you were a young NBA fan, Iverson was a guy who dressed like you, listened to the same music you did; he faced untold struggles and doubters and still he rose. He was a hip-hop icon who was himself of hip-hop, with the cornrows and the throwbacks and the jewelry and even the (unreleased) album. He did commercials with Jadakiss, pushed a Bentley, kept crazy hours and still dropped 45 whenever he felt like it.

Let’s talk about the throwbacks for a minute. His wearing his own Wilt-era No. 3 Hardwood Classics jersey on the cover of SLAM 32 was instrumental in kicking off the whole craze and making the Mitchell & Ness flagship store in Philly a must-hit spot for everyone (including us). AI even rocked throwbacks on the bench when he was out—I distinctly remember him wearing an Abdul-Jabbar Bucks joint in Milwaukee—but, despite the NBA brand synchronicity, the NBA commissioner didn’t love it. There were rumblings of an NBA dress code long before one was ever implemented. So when we were brainstorming ideas for Iverson on the February ’05 cover, I came up with this: What if we shoot Iverson in a suit? 

The first question was whether he’d be down to do it, which he was. Phew. The second question was, did he even own a suit? The last time he wore one was probably when he got drafted. The answer to that, at least in terms of whether he had one he’d be willing to be shot in, was no. So he had one made. If you look at that cover with its black-and-white Atiba Jefferson photo, you’ll notice the suit is kind of baggy. So is the fedora, somehow. He’s like a hip-hop Humphrey Bogart. I ran into Que Gaskins, Iverson’s long-time Reebok guy, some years later, and he told me that Iverson kept telling the tailor everything had to be bigger, no, bigger than that, so many times that the guy finally just threw up his hands and quit. Well, nearly quit anyway. In October of that year, David Stern finally instituted the long-anticipated NBA dress code and hey, at least Allen Iverson already had a suit.

AI’s career didn’t end the way anyone wanted it to, but it lasted long enough for him to get endless bouquets from the generation that came after his—fitting for someone who never hesitated to pay homage himself, once wearing Dr. J’s No. 6 instead of his own No. 3 in an All-Star Game. Traded to Denver, he teamed with a young Carmelo Anthony, his own 6-7 doppelganger complete with ink and braids and a headband. Their SLAM cover together in March 2008 is a frozen moment of laughter, two guys clearly delighted in each other’s presence. And it wasn’t just Melo; that whole class of 2003 was filled with Iverson fans, from LeBron—forced to cover up his own tattoos in high school—to Dwyane Wade, who wore No. 3 because of him.

Allen Iverson inspired us, too. Here was a guy who, from the very start, was uncompromising in what he believed, in what he did, in what he said. With apologies to the great Kool G Rap, he was the realest. It shone through in everything, from his on-court performances to photo shoots to Reebok commercials. There were layers to go through to get to him of course, but by the time you did get to him, you knew exactly where he stood.

Yeah, he could be exasperating, especially to photographers (and writers) with schedules and families and whatnot, but even they got past it when they realized AI wasn’t being malicious or big-timing them or anything, it’s just who he was. But his presence—or his absence—was always huge. We always did what we had to do to get him, no matter how many times we had to reschedule. After all, we knew what missing him was like, and we didn’t want that to happen again. 

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Photo via Getty Images. Portrait by Clay Patrick McBride.