Full Article |
Were the Thunder being loyal to Durant and his teammates when they traded James Harden, two and a half years ago, breaking up the best young core in the league in order to save a few luxury-tax dollars? Has the team ever really given Durant what he needs to win? Durant has been asked this question so many times he may not realize that he's begun answering it honestly. "Players are paid to do their jobs, no matter who's on the court. And as superstars, you gotta lead what you have. You gotta make them better. Some players might be better than others. Some teams might be better than others. You gotta do your job, and you gotta trust that the front office is going to do their job. It's hard, though. You know what I'm saying? Because it's like, shit, I want win. Obviously our players aren't as good as, you know, than they were before. But you have to figure it out."
So you can ask him about D.C., about the prospect of coming home, sentimental montages on the JumboTron, he and LeBron defining some new sports era in which powerful athletes work their way back to the courts that birthed them and win championships for their little cousins and their little cousins' friends. Geography becoming destiny. Destiny becoming dollars. But who knows, really? "I just don't know who's gonna be competitive, who's not gonna be, you know? That's why I can't really think too far in my mind. Because you don't know who's going to be where. You know what I'm saying? It's something you can't control."
Control. Another word you hear Kevin Durant say a lot these days. He recently moved, got out of the place he shared with a bunch of his friends. "I simplified everything this last year. It's easier to kind of control now. There's not a lot of crazy parts moving in my life anymore. I'm by myself."
···
And why would D.C. be the promised land, anyway? He was so lonely there. Mom just 21 when she had Kevin. Dad lived in the neighborhood but not there. "I remember we were driving home one day, and I look over out the backseat, and I see him in a car with his homeboys at the light. I wanted to be like, 'Ma, that's Dad, right?' " But he didn't say anything. Mom didn't want to talk about it. Her son tall, shy, good at ball but lost away from the court. "I had no friends at 12 years old, 13 years old." Had God but God didn't give him that talent. "I wasn't born with a jump shot. Because I know! I started shooting my jump shot, like, from the side. Like this." His long arms swim way outside, somewhere far off to the right of his body. "And I worked on it. I don't think people are born with skills. You're born with the ability to tap into your skills. Like humility. Maturity. Work ethic. Just wanting to be better."
Dad came back, eventually: "I was just like, Damn, man, that's tight! My dad here! He would pick me up from school. Me, him, and my brother would just chill and play video games together and go eat before we go in the house. Having a dad around for that year, year and a half, it was just like, Man, this is so tight! I wish we could have had this every single day."
He's that kid again, just talking about it.
Dad left again: "I was like, Damn. I was really hurt. That was the first time I'd ever been hurt by anything. I'm always used to, like, keeping it inside, and it'd go away in a day. But I was like, Damn, man, so we can't play video games together no more? We can't laugh at jokes? We can't wrestle? We would wrestle every day in the living room and shit. It was the coolest thing. And then, like, when he left, it was just like, Damn, we can't do all that stuff no more? It's boring now. Because I'm by myself."
I'm by myself. Those moments bubbling up in the present tense. Even now that he and his dad are square. One of his best friends, in fact. Came back when Kevin was 16 and stayed this time, just in time to help him through all the scary adult things that the second-best high school prospect in the country had to go through. Made him feel safe. Four high schools, college, the draft, Seattle, Oklahoma City. Moving every year. People he loved disappearing around him.
On his stomach, a tattoo of his grandmother's house. Headquarters. The whole family used to hang out there. One Thursday night he watched Aunt Pearl die there. Like, right in front of him. He was just 11 years old. Cancer, though he didn't know that. She started coughing up blood. "Like, pouring water. Blood was coming out of her. You could just see everything leaving. Coughing up blood for like thirty minutes. And she died right in front of me. And when she died, I hopped into bed with her and just sat there and chilled with her. Because I knew. I knew what had happened. That was the first person I really lost. And that was the first time—I was numb to it, I was numb to death, because I didn't think it would happen, but it happened so close to me. And I didn't know what to think. Is this real? Should I cry? What should I do? I don't know what to do. Then my coach died."
Charles Craig, Durant's first AAU coach, shot in the back after breaking up a fight. Dead at 35. Why Kevin Durant wears 35 now.
These days he barely even goes back to D.C. Family reunions, that's about it. Spends most of that time hiding in the hotel. "It gets overwhelming. So many people, man. Everybody wants a piece of you."
···
He's working on being an adult. He's doing it in full view of all of us. He's got to battle the Kevin Durant that all of us already think we know: infinitely obliging, infinitely loyal, nice. And he is nice. But nice like anyone else is nice—decent guys you went to high school with, co-workers you go halves on lunch with, that kind of nice. Not nice like the caricature that used to circulate: some angel of peace sent to the world's basketball courts to put up cruelty-free jump shots. Smiling, taking photos, always, always saying the quote-unquote right thing. "I didn't want to let anybody down. I didn't want to make anybody feel less than what they are."
Growing up where he grew up, playing basketball the way he grew up playing it, certain things got put on hold away from the wood. Self-confidence, self-belief—something as simple as saying no occasionally. "I had to learn that stuff as I grew, you know? I just started really, like, feeling comfortable about three years ago. Like I was smart enough to join a conversation with somebody." Took his first vacation ever, just this past summer. Maui. Zip-lining, scuba diving, volcanoes. Wine! He's been trying to get into wine. One night at dinner, a farm-to-table-type spot in Sacramento, he tries a red, which is new for him—until now it's been sweet whites. Barely touches the glass, but still.
We even trade drinking stories. (Calm down, shareholders in Kevin Durant. Deep breaths.) The one he tells involves a wedding, Don Julio, crutches, and waking up the next morning unable to vomit anywhere but over the side of his bed; mine involves a good friend and an entire bottle of scotch, and he looks at me with big startled eyes and asks: How many shots in a bottle of scotch?
All these unanswered questions, still, like: how to become a man when everyone's watching? Or: What is burrata? What does whale taste like? He's been all over the world trying to figure it all out. "What's the craziest place you've been where you had to taste, like, a piece of their culture?" he asks me. "You been anywhere like that? Like outside of the country, maybe, and you had to really get into their culture? You ever been somewhere like that?"
The waiter comes by, the city of Sacramento teetering on his shoulders. Thunder-Kings game tomorrow night. Kinda clears his throat. "Take it easy on us tomorrow, okay?"
Kevin Durant knows the answer to this one. A sly smile.
"Can't do that, man."
Source: GQ.com
Date Posted: Wednesday, February 18th, 2015 , Total Page Views: 14344
Like what you're reading? Please help us continue providing you with informative and thought provoking stories by becoming a supporter of Moorenews.net