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Avery Johnson says he's not a player's coach
BY DAVID ALDRIDGE
Philadelphia Inquirer
DALLAS - At every turn, Avery Johnson has been too short, too shot-challenged, too high-pitched, too young, too inexperienced, maybe too country, too SWAC for some to fit comfortably into the Armani world of the NBA. But he's still here, having willed himself through 16 seasons as a player without much of a jumper, without much vertical lift, without much of anything.
Except brains and toughness and character.
You know, the little things.
"I used to hear him, in that high-pitched voice," Pat Riley recalled on Friday, "telling everybody where to go, admonishing David Robinson and Tim Duncan, and they would say `Yes, sir.'"
Then, Riley pauses, asking an NBA official, "Can I say this word?"
Given permission, apparently, Riley continues.
"He's a (S.O.B.)," Riley said.
Crude, but appropriate.
"Well, I think for me, you've got to, first of all, have credibility," Johnson said this week. "You know, in this situation, everybody feels that I got this job so suddenly. But this is my 18th year in the NBA, so whether it's as a player or a coach or combined, you know, this is 18 years in basketball, after playing a thousand and something games, when I wasn't necessarily invited to the party, all right? I had to kind of come in through the back door."
A 5-foot-10 fist of a player out of Southern University, Johnson bounced like a beach ball from team to team throughout most of the 1990s, a whiz of a passer who was always found wanting because he couldn't make an open shot. While he worked on that, he challenged his teammates at every turn, asking for more, more, always more.
"Me and Sean (Elliott), if we let our guy past us, he'd say, `Come on, guys, you're better than that,' " recalled Heat guard Derek Anderson, who played with Johnson in San Antonio in 2000.
He hit the biggest shot in Spurs history - appropriately, a jumper that clinched San Antonio's first championship in 1999. And now that the coaching title is official, as it's been for the last 14 months, the 41-year-old Johnson looks like he's straight out of central casting: the coach as dictator. A shouter. A friend to his players when he wants to be, a jerk to them when he needs to be.
And a coaching savant.
I don't care what talent you've been given; when you win 95 of your first 131 games, and you get your team to the NBA Finals in your first full season, you know what you're doing.
"We made it to the Finals, and it's a tribute to him, obviously," Mavericks all-star forward Dirk Nowtizki said. "Every time he's hard on you, it's not the person, we all know that. He's got great relationships with his players, but he's just a very emotional guy. And he can get heated, but it's nothing personal."
"I think when you've played in the league, you've still got to be able to communicate and teach," Johnson said, "because your playing career can only get you so far."
Give former coach Don Nelson and owner Mark Cuban credit, for they both quickly centered on Johnson as Nelson's heir apparent three years ago, after their first choice, Sidney Moncrief, left the Mavericks' bench to return to his car dealerships.
(Ah, fate. What would we have known of Riley, for that matter, if then-Lakers head coach Jack McKinney - our Jack from St. Joe's - hadn't fallen off a bicycle 14 games into his tenure in 1979? If not for that accident, assistant coach Paul Westhead would not have taken McKinney's place, and Riley would not have been culled from his job to take Westhead's spot - meaning Riley could well have ended his days as the best-dressed color radio analyst in history.)
Johnson took to coaching like a duck to water, running entire practices in 2004 while still a player as Nelson and top assistant Del Harris stood by.
"Nellie and I thought that was the perfect situation, because we had this guy with all this energy running up and down with the guys, hooting and hollering on every play," Harris said.
Last season, when Nelson - whose relationship with Cuban had gone south in recent years - resigned with 18 games left in the regular season, Johnson moved over for good. He's continued to bark at his players, and goad them into improving their defense, and it's paid off. "Dirk couldn't guard his shadow when he first got here," guard Darrell Armstrong said.
And the Mavericks have taken on the personality of their coach. They aren't pretty any more. They got a little, well, Riley's blue term of endearment for Johnson, in them.
"My relationship with (my players) is very important," Johnson said. "But I'm not a player's coach."
BY DAVID ALDRIDGE
Philadelphia Inquirer
DALLAS - At every turn, Avery Johnson has been too short, too shot-challenged, too high-pitched, too young, too inexperienced, maybe too country, too SWAC for some to fit comfortably into the Armani world of the NBA. But he's still here, having willed himself through 16 seasons as a player without much of a jumper, without much vertical lift, without much of anything.
Except brains and toughness and character.
You know, the little things.
"I used to hear him, in that high-pitched voice," Pat Riley recalled on Friday, "telling everybody where to go, admonishing David Robinson and Tim Duncan, and they would say `Yes, sir.'"
Then, Riley pauses, asking an NBA official, "Can I say this word?"
Given permission, apparently, Riley continues.
"He's a (S.O.B.)," Riley said.
Crude, but appropriate.
"Well, I think for me, you've got to, first of all, have credibility," Johnson said this week. "You know, in this situation, everybody feels that I got this job so suddenly. But this is my 18th year in the NBA, so whether it's as a player or a coach or combined, you know, this is 18 years in basketball, after playing a thousand and something games, when I wasn't necessarily invited to the party, all right? I had to kind of come in through the back door."
A 5-foot-10 fist of a player out of Southern University, Johnson bounced like a beach ball from team to team throughout most of the 1990s, a whiz of a passer who was always found wanting because he couldn't make an open shot. While he worked on that, he challenged his teammates at every turn, asking for more, more, always more.
"Me and Sean (Elliott), if we let our guy past us, he'd say, `Come on, guys, you're better than that,' " recalled Heat guard Derek Anderson, who played with Johnson in San Antonio in 2000.
He hit the biggest shot in Spurs history - appropriately, a jumper that clinched San Antonio's first championship in 1999. And now that the coaching title is official, as it's been for the last 14 months, the 41-year-old Johnson looks like he's straight out of central casting: the coach as dictator. A shouter. A friend to his players when he wants to be, a jerk to them when he needs to be.
And a coaching savant.
I don't care what talent you've been given; when you win 95 of your first 131 games, and you get your team to the NBA Finals in your first full season, you know what you're doing.
"We made it to the Finals, and it's a tribute to him, obviously," Mavericks all-star forward Dirk Nowtizki said. "Every time he's hard on you, it's not the person, we all know that. He's got great relationships with his players, but he's just a very emotional guy. And he can get heated, but it's nothing personal."
"I think when you've played in the league, you've still got to be able to communicate and teach," Johnson said, "because your playing career can only get you so far."
Give former coach Don Nelson and owner Mark Cuban credit, for they both quickly centered on Johnson as Nelson's heir apparent three years ago, after their first choice, Sidney Moncrief, left the Mavericks' bench to return to his car dealerships.
(Ah, fate. What would we have known of Riley, for that matter, if then-Lakers head coach Jack McKinney - our Jack from St. Joe's - hadn't fallen off a bicycle 14 games into his tenure in 1979? If not for that accident, assistant coach Paul Westhead would not have taken McKinney's place, and Riley would not have been culled from his job to take Westhead's spot - meaning Riley could well have ended his days as the best-dressed color radio analyst in history.)
Johnson took to coaching like a duck to water, running entire practices in 2004 while still a player as Nelson and top assistant Del Harris stood by.
"Nellie and I thought that was the perfect situation, because we had this guy with all this energy running up and down with the guys, hooting and hollering on every play," Harris said.
Last season, when Nelson - whose relationship with Cuban had gone south in recent years - resigned with 18 games left in the regular season, Johnson moved over for good. He's continued to bark at his players, and goad them into improving their defense, and it's paid off. "Dirk couldn't guard his shadow when he first got here," guard Darrell Armstrong said.
And the Mavericks have taken on the personality of their coach. They aren't pretty any more. They got a little, well, Riley's blue term of endearment for Johnson, in them.
"My relationship with (my players) is very important," Johnson said. "But I'm not a player's coach."