(Of FRANCESCO RIVANO). I don’t know why, but very often, on winter evenings, when the cold and hostile climate force me home, I find myself looking out the window with a hint of melancholy and a memory that frequently recurs in my thoughts. My mother busy preparing dinner after a day spent teaching away from home (and the commuter life of an islander isn’t all that pleasant); my father not yet returned from the job that led us to live in the wonderful setting of one of the last Astronomical Observatories still operational on the entire planet; my brother out with friends on board that Piaggio “SI” which at the time I saw as beautiful as a collector’s Harley and I, little more than a child, intent on lining up all the tin soldiers I had at my disposal (there had to be at least 22), certainly not to have them face off in battle but to simulate yet another football match after school homework. The TV is on, even if no one watches it, perhaps left on that channel after the afternoon cartoon marathon. What catches my attention is a voice with a markedly foreign accent which I recognize as the one who sponsored a famous tea, calling it “Number One” in his opinion. I turn and see a black man flying with a green jacket and a number printed on his back, 40, as if he were walking suspended in the air, almost mocking Newton and his laws of gravity. My mother looks out from the kitchen, surprised by not hearing me croak the classic phrases of an experienced commentator with which I used to tell myself the games between toy soldiers and sees me with my eyes fixed on the television as if enraptured by a hypnotic image. “Everything OK?” it wakes me up. “Yes mum, everything is fine”. I look away from the TV, unconsciously record in my brain the memory of what I saw and undeterred and hurriedly resume my game before the table where it is taking place is claimed to be transformed from a packed stadium into the setting for our dinner.
You will surely have guessed two things: the first is that I was addicted to sport at an early age, but this matters very little to you; the second is that the black guy with the 40 on his shoulders was Shawn Kemp, The Reign Man. In sports the main rule is to win; if you win you are someone, if you do it as a protagonist you are an idol, an icon, a divinity; if you act as a supporting character you are at least a good luck talisman. If you don’t win you are nobody and nobody cares how much you sacrificed, how much good you did, how much you contributed to making your opponent’s victory even more beautiful. And yes, because without the losers there would be no winners and without the antagonist there would be no protagonist. But here we are not on the pitch and the lights don’t only come on on those who have achieved the final goal, not in my way of seeing sport; In my vision the lights are shining on those who made the sport great, even if only for limited periods of time, so get comfortable because the spotlight is about to shine on Shawn Kemp. Shawn deserves a lot of light shined on him and he also deserves particularly bright ones. I’m not here to tell you all about the pre-NBA history, but that Kemp was a rare element even in the very rich and hyper-productive talent pool of American basketball is demonstrated by the fact that he was, after Moses Malone, the second player to land in the NBA directly from High School. Not that it was really a choice to skip college, let’s say it was more of a forced thing. Having reached an agreement with Kentucky, young Shawn, with little academic aptitude, gets caught with two gold chains stolen from the coach’s son. Pat on the back (not to mention kick in the butt) and no college basketball, off to the NBA. The Seattle SuperSonics chose him and Shawn enchants in the city of Grunge. He is the seventeenth pick of the 1989 draft, which saw “Never Nervous” Pervis Ellison go to the NBA and which gave birth to NBA players of the caliber of Glen Rice, Tim Hardaway and Vlade Divac. Kemp immediately shows off extraordinary athletic skills and the combination with Gary Payton, in the year following his entry into the NBA, enriched by the guidance of Coach George Karl, gives life to one of the most entertaining teams in the Western Conference for most of the 90s.
Kemp is a rollercoaster, always ready to end with a bang any action triggered by The Glove’s defense and restartthe ones hosted at the Slam Dunk Contest are pure formality but what is surprising is the senseless ability to close at the rim even in front of the deployed defense. First round of the 1992 playoffs, the Sonics face the Golden State Warriors and game 4 is rather nervous. Kemp snatches the rebound (20 for him in that game) and relies on the expert hands of Payton who pushes the counterattack. The ball ends up to Nate Mc Millan, Indiana’s current coach, who gets lost, doubled on the back line, and is forced to pass to a teammate positioned on the perimeter. Nate finds Shawn who, with a lightning start (208 cm carried around as if they were 30 less), starts the audio of the Kemp Airline: “Dear customers, welcome aboard the Kemp Airline, fasten your seat belts, the flight is about to leave.” I’m not sure what Alton Lister, Warriors center, thought, we only know that a fraction of a second after takeoff he found himself with his ass on the ground as the backdrop to one of the most explosive dunks ever seen, complete with taunting at the landing which today would have been worth a technical sacrosanct. The “Lister Blister”, as that incredible play was renamed which is still today one of the most famous dunks in the entire panorama of world basketball. Seattle is embarrassingly beautiful and the Sonics are an ever-evolving reality. In ’93, after having sunk the Jazz and the Rockets, they surrendered in the Conference final to Sir Charles’ Suns, but it now seems that the Sonics are ripe to play for their chances of the title. The following year they are insurmountable at home and close the regular season first in the West with an idyllic Kemp. The first round against Denver seems like it should be a formality. The Nuggets, led by the insurmountable Mutombo, achieved the first ever victory in which the number eight eliminated the number one in the playoffs, and goodbyes to the Sonics’ dreams of glory. It seems that the playoffs are a taboo for the Sonics, also due to the premature defeat in ’95 in the first round at the hands of the less popular Lakers. The appearances in the post season are never up to what is shown during the regular season and a turnaround is needed. Karl once again obtained the trust of the Seattle management and 1996 was the year of his definitive consecration. Kemp plays 79 games at around 20 and 11 on average, the level of spectacularity in the shadow of the Space Needle is at levels never reached before and the playoffs are never in question. The Kings were eliminated in four games in the first round while in the Conference semifinals Hakeem and the title Rockets, still in search of Kemp’s plaque, were asphalted without appeal with a memorable sweep. In the Conference final there is the highly anticipated clash between the two strongest play-long combos in the league. The Jazz of Stockton and Malone take Gary and Shawn up to game 7 but Kemp’s physical and technical dominance gets the better of Postino & Co. and the Sonics finally face the scenario of the Finals. The final is against Jordan and the finals against Jordan we know how they end. Kemp plays his best basketball ever but it’s not enough, 4-2 Bulls. Despite the defeat, the Sonics emerge with their heads held high from the comparison with the best player ever and Kemp is recognized by many experts as the real MVP of those Finals despite the award being withdrawn by the cannibal MJ.
What seemed to be the definitive consecration turns out to be the beginning of the end. From then on Shawn begins to dig himself a deeper and deeper grave; the arguments over the salary not considered suitable for his performances and the first mental disorders took him away from Seattle to Cleveland. In Cleveland he will still play a lot of basketball but will be overwhelmed by the abuse of narcotic substances which are not compatible with the life of an athlete. He grows in weight dramatically and the one who was once the best Dunk-Man in the entire league can no longer even skip the classic newspaper. He passes through Portland and Orlando and even flirts with Montegranaro for whom he signs and then terminates before the start of the season. Fourteen years in the league of which at least a good half spent above three meters and five centimeters, yet Shawn could have had much more than what he had. No title, no ring, a Larry O’Brien Trophy sniffed but blown under his nose by His Majesty MJ; yet Shawn deserves to be remembered for the true champion he was. The lights are about to go out, a few candles remain lit and soft, sad music accompanies its end. The voice is that of Layne Staley, front man of Alice in Chains, who appeared in public for the last time in 1996, the year of the Sonics’ Finals, in an Unplugged concert, with an unrepeatable version of “Down in a hole ”. “I’d Like to fly, but my wings have been so denied” and these words are perfect for both the singer and Shawn, both of whom have reached the end of their careers and beyond. The Reign Man’s wings have been clipped by his own madness which has prevented him from dominating the world of sports preferring to seek something better in drugs and alcohol. Just like Layne, Shawn let himself be overwhelmed, he fell down, into that hole from which it was impossible to get up, depriving many fans of the pleasure of seeing him once more flying towards the iron, depriving many children, like it was me during that football match between tin soldiers, the possibility of being overwhelmed by a unique and bewitching gesture like the flight of the Ruler.
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Francesco Rivano was born in 1980 in the deep south of Sardinia and grew up in Carloforte, the only inhabited center on the island of San Pietro. Graduated in Economics and Commerce from the University of Cagliari, he returns to his beloved island where he lives, works and cultivates his great passion for writing. Surrounded by the sea and fascinated by sport, he was suddenly overwhelmed by the love of basketball. He collaborated as an editor with some online magazines that mainly deal with NBA basketball, an experience that led him to develop the skills to write and publish his first work: “Ricordi al basket” linked to the history of basketball. And a few months ago he published his second, entitled “The escape route”. Link to purchase the book.
