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Just One of the Guys
There's a little glint in the eyes of Dora the Explorer as she stares out from the glossy pink backpack. Clearly, she knows how uncomfortable the giant wearing her feels. It can't help that he has to be the highest-profile athlete ever to don this hallmark of preschool chic. The backpack, a welcome-wagon gift from Clippers veteran Brian Skinner, is a constant reminder to the most important draft pick in team history of his place in the NBA hierarchy.
Skinner ordered the team's hotshot rook, Blake Griffin, to wear the backpack at all times in the presence of teammates, and it has quickly become a receptacle for the bric-a-brac no team can be without: playing cards, poker chips, cell phone chargers, gum. "I'm pretty much there whenever someone needs something," says Griffin. On the team plane, in the locker room, on the bus to the arena -- where there's Blake, there's Dora. "Sometimes I feel silly, but this is what rookies do."
Even rookies who control the fortune of pretty much every other employee in the organization. Griffin's importance is lost on no one. Drafted first overall out of Oklahoma, the 6'10" power forward has the tools to alter the course of his forever-wallowing franchise. Problem is, sweet dreams of quick turnarounds and freshly minted playoff tickets have had to be postponed until December. Griffin fractured his left kneecap in the preseason, and until it heals, his initiation into the ways of the NBA and his assimilation of the ways of his team have been annoyingly delayed. You can't chest bump from the seats behind the bench. "I'm trying to do everything I can to stay involved," Griffin says. "But it's hard if you're not out there."
Of course, the setback has only ramped up anticipation of the debut. "I hear things like 'franchise savior,' and I try not to pay attention," he says. "Right now, I just want to be included. The more stuff I go through, the more I'll be a part of the fraternity. I know the backpack is just the beginning. And you know what? I kind of like it." Give him this much: The big guy knows his place. "He's not stepping on anyone's toes," says Clipper Marcus Camby. "He knows how to be a rookie."
Welcome to the NBA, Blake. We take our coffee with cream.
Ramona Rosales for ESPN The MagazineBlake Griffin, armed with Dora and donuts.
Veterans rule locker rooms, and that's just fine with Griffin. At his most confident, he is neither boisterous nor loquacious, so it is no stretch to be the new guy who moves quietly through practices and chooses to listen during off-court gatherings rather than steal a punch line. For now, he'll play it safe, observing team dynamics like a seasoned anthropologist. It's the right strategy, because should he make a social misstep -- say, laughing too loudly at a longtimer's expense -- his superstar reputation could be held against him. A vet who was once a low draft pick can level the field some by putting a little extra zip on barbs he directs toward earlier rooks. And no one in this locker room was drafted earlier than Griffin. Don't think it a coincidence that Camby, who was taken second by the Raptors in 1996, has become Griffin's unofficial mentor.
So far, the rookie's low-key approach has kept him from being an even bigger target, but it's not getting him any special treatment, either. His locker is the worst parcel of real estate on the block. Sandwiched in a corner between Kareem Rush and Eric Gordon, he's lucky if he has 36 inches of elbow room. It's the clubhouse equivalent of a nonreclining middle seat in coach. During the first quarter of his first preseason game, Griffin was ordered to sit on the floor until his number was called. "They told me the bench was for vets only," he says.
Early in the summer, second-year center DeAndre Jordan tested what little veteran capital he'd accrued on his new, wide-eyed buddy. Shortly after arriving in LA, Griffin started hanging out at Jordan's crib most afternoons, inevitably falling asleep on the couch while they watched movies or played video games. Jordan took it upon himself to break the habit, sticking things in Griffin's ears or playing with his nose. When all he got was a groggy response, he stepped up the attack, recording video and taking pictures of his snoring pal that he naturally posted on Twitter. But it hasn't been all cold shoulders and petty humiliations for the kid. Jordan has also been kind enough to show Griffin the ropes, pointing him toward the nearest doughnut shops, simplifying the leaguewide rookie task of fetching the morning confections. And he has been happy to chaperone the new guy around town.
Then again, every trip is an opportunity. After a few visits to Santa Monica's Third Street Promenade, Jordan noticed how Griffin got somewhat embarrassed when he was recognized by fans. So, of course, the next time they walked through the open-air mall, Jordan bellowed, "Hey everybody, it's Blake Griffin! Oh my god -- can you believe it?!" Fans immediately surrounded the mortified rook, pleading for autographs and snapping photos. As Griffin forced himself to take the unwanted furor in stride, Camby's first piece of advice echoed in his head: Go with the flow. "Resisting is one of the worst things you can do," says fourth-year forward Steve Novak, who lives next door to Griffin. "It just makes it worse."
Griffin has it in him to give almost as well as he gets. His dry wit and self-deprecating charm have been a hit, partly because they complement Chris Kaman's zaniness, Jordan's class clownishness and the general locker room raunch, but also because his demeanor is a stark contrast to the whirlwind of hype he rode in on. After an early-season shootaround, Novak walked off the court, and Griffin pulled him aside. Looking earnest, the rookie said, "Steve, anytime you need some work with your shot, I'm available." He walked away leaving Novak, who once drained seven threes in a game, to decide if the new guy, who took only eight such attempts all last season, was serious. "He's got a sarcastic sense of humor," Novak says. "But he gets that we get on him because we want him to be part of our family."
Getty ImagesEven sidelined, Blake has been a staunch supporter of his squad.
One of this family's values is that rookies dress for all home games in a tuxedo, vets' choice. Jordan, Eric Gordon and ex-Clip Mike Taylor were outfitted in pale, '70s-era versions last season, so the one-size-too-small, powder-blue number Griffin will wear once he's off the shelf looks downright elegant. On the other hand, the blue will make Dora pop that much more. "Can you imagine how funny that's going to be?" Griffin says, and even he chuckles. Yup, it's all fun and games until someone develops a bad case of jock itch? Sometimes rooks will feel too comfortable too soon and harbor the silly notion that they should retaliate. Last season, Jordan briefly toyed with settling a score before wising up. Griffin has contemplated payback as well. "It would be pretty sweet to get those guys," he says, "but I don't need to make things harder for myself." Camby told him a story about a Nuggets rookie whose compression shorts were laced with itching powder after vets learned he was plotting retribution. You don't want to fight the power.
Especially if it knows where you parked. One of Griffin's first big-ticket purchases was a 2010 Mercedes-Benz S63 AMG. With its sophisticated lines and 20-inch five-star rims it made the Oklahoma City native feel like he had arrived. Thoughts of anyone messing with his ride were remote. Talk about your rookie mistake. Jordan immediately pulled Griffin aside to break it down. This past April, Jordan returned to the players' lot to find his car filled with red, white and blue balloons. All these months later, he still finds deflated remnants in his trunk. Skinner recalls the time they stuffed newspapers into Michael Olowokandi's sunroof. Kaman's car was encased in Saran Wrap. The vets haven't messed with Griffin's precious baby yet. Too early. In any case, balloons, newspapers or plastic wrap won't do for a No. 1 pick. Camby and Baron Davis are scheming. "We're thinking of putting his car on bricks," says Camby, "But it's going to take some thought to do it right. He's a special rookie, so we've got to do something special."
Griffin's preseason averages of 13.7 points and 8.1 rebounds through seven games hint at what is to come. He learned the sets quickly, unfazed by the lack of pick-and-rolls. His fluid stroke and quick-release jump hook surprised some of the older players; others were awed by the strength and off-the-floor explosiveness that had him getting after offensive rebounds more quickly than anyone his size they'd ever seen. Ah, yes, those hops. It's not just the clearance -- 39 inches -- but the in-air control, too. Weeks after a preseason contest against the Lakers, teammates still buzzed about Griffin's dunk over DJ Mbenga. After one alley-oop drill, Sebastian Telfair nicknamed him Amazin', because he finished no matter where Telfair delivered the ball. "Even the bad ones," says Telfair. "Just crazy." It was all just as GM and coach Mike Dunleavy imagined when the Ping-Pong balls bounced his way in the spring. And then Griffin ran into something far more unforgiving than the rookie wall. In late September, he was participating in a voluntary precamp run when he knocked knees with Craig Smith. Although he felt ready to get back on the floor right away, he was ordered to sit out a week. The eager rookie resisted strongly before finally giving in, then sulked for days. A few afternoons later, Dunleavy peered out his office window which overlooks the practice floor and saw Griffin throwing down windmill dunks. The coach rapped on the window and sternly wagged his index finger, and Griffin left the floor, busted.
Many young players view a visit to the training room as weakness; if you're in there, you must not be tough. "I know what he's thinking," says Rush. "He's got a lot of people looking at him, and he doesn't want them to think he's injury-prone." But a player like Griffin, who'll make just under $5 million this season alone, has to know that shaking the play-through-it mentality is the only way to survive. "He has to understand we don't need him to be a warrior 24/7," says Clippers head trainer Jasen Powell. "Part of being a professional is telling us exactly how you feel every day." In fact, had Powell known Griffin was experiencing discomfort in his knee in the weeks following the bump, he'd have sat him down sooner than the day before the Oct. 27 season opener. Griffin was just doing what he had always done, keeping the "minor stuff" to himself. But by the time the doctors told him his kneecap was broken and he'd be missing significant time, he had already learned his lesson and took the diagnosis in stride. "I just have to look at the big picture," he says.
His teammates have done their best to loop him in while he's out. Jordan has kept their afternoon routine, and after a loss to the Jazz for which Griffin didn't travel, Novak jokingly texted him, Party in our building when we get back. Just a little something to buoy the rook's fragile spirits.
Getty ImagesBlake's smiling visage should be the face of the Clips for years to come.
Savior or not, Griffin continues to carve out a place in the Clippers' social order. After a recent shootaround, the vets are playing an odd shooting game: make it and save yourself the indignity of mimicking a certain act of pleasuring a teammate. Camby is challenged to attempt a set shot from the corner to erase some of the half dozen IOUs he has already racked up in this young season. He tees up and misses badly, sending guys running and howling as his unfortunate total grows.
Griffin is shooting free throws alone on a nearby side basket. "What happened?" he asks timidly, an 11-year-old on the playground desperate to gain the acceptance of the older boys. When Kaman explains the perverted shooting game, Griffin looks confused. "You guys are acting as if you'd really have to do it," he says naively, referring to the consequences of missing.
Griffin realizes he can join the twisted high jinks, should he so choose. He hesitates; this crassness really isn't his thing. But he knows, too, that bonding is bonding, and he's on the doorstep of a huge breakthrough. So he shrugs and seizes the moment. "If I make this, you gotta do all the bigs," he says to Kaman, getting to the crude heart of the game, just before he spots up at the right hash mark -- 40 feet away. Griffin fires a set shot. Swish! "Noooooo!" Kaman screams. Griffin slides over to the S in the Clippers logo, about 10 feet inside the half-court line. "This is for all the guards," Griffin says a couple of seconds before the ball snaps through the net. "Stop including me!" Kaman yells in desperation. Everyone doubles over, but none of them wants to be Griffin's next target, so they scamper to the safety of the locker room.
The most important draft pick in Clippers history cracks a smile even wider than Dora's. Today he isn't savior or rookie. He's just one of the fellas.
NOW, WITNESS THE ORANGE POWER OF THIS FULLY OPERATIONAL HALF-EMPTY STADIUM!!!!!
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