"Hey, here's another one for you," my friend said. "What?" "Charles Barkley." On the screen in front of us, I watched Clyde the Glide take the ball to the basket. The bucket cut the lead, and the Rockets were racing back downcourt. "What, you mean instead of Clyde?" "No," he told me. "I mean *with* Clyde and Olajuwon." I laughed. We'd already been tossing around the thought of Kemp or Payton, who had been successfully toying with us for quite a while, but for some reason the thought of Barkley seemed even more ridiculous to me. "You've got to be kidding," I said. "It would be all over." "Number 3, huh?" "Hell yeah," I said with confidence. Not too much later, much to my surprise, Barkley was in Houston. <center>* * * * *</center> That was only the second time I had ever associated Barkley with the Rockets. I remember the first time very well. "We're in the butt kicking business," the Suns forward said. "And business is good." What a sorry thing to say, I thought. Gloating already, rubbing it in. You wouldn't hear any of our guys talking like that, hell no, not a Rocket. Not a Rocket. My mistake was made clear a few years later. The word came down, and so did the critiques. Everyone had a comment, and a lot of them were less than favorable. I didn't know what to think. All I knew was he was a great player, had a big mouth, and demanded the ball. How would he work with our team? Would they clash? All our guys are so humble...a Charles Barkley couldn't possibly fit in. It was so hard to associate Barkley with my Rockets. But I waited to really preserve my judgement. Past all the press, past all the commentary. I wanted to see for myself. And so the time came. Alright, I thought, let's see what he can do. For the next two hours, I learned what Charles Barkley was about. Not the pre and post game quotes. Not the extracurricular activities. Not the offseason practices. On the court. In the game. What counts. What we brought him here for. I was loving it. He was a Rocket now. I wasn't just watching the highlights or reading the occasional statline. I was seeing him minute by minute, play by play. I was seeing the intensity. I was seeing him rip down the rebounds. 33. I was seeing him bang with guys who, by rights, should be out muscling him and unconcerned with his 6-4 frame. I was watching him hustle. I was watching the intensity. I was watching a man who, if somehow pure will equaled wins in the NBA, would own more rings than he could wear. For all that time, I forgot everything else I'd heard. I cared only about what I saw on the court. Because here he was, fighting like crazy, playing without reservation, doing what he did best. He had nothing to do with my Rockets before now, this was true, yet here he was trying to help us win like nothing else mattered. And I cheered, because nothing else did matter, at least not for me. <center>* * * * *</center> My friend, again. Right as the trade was hitting the news. Playing a little devil's advocate with me, this time. "We're making one heck of a trade. Blockbuster." "Yeah." "We're giving up quite a lot to get him, you know." I knew. I didn't care. It hurt, last year. It hurt to lose like that. It hurt to see us unable to get past that wall that always seemed to stop us cold. It hurt to see Seattle poping in 3 after 3, taking Game 2. It hurt to get thrown out, 4-0. "Do you think if we'll have to win another championship in order to call the Barkley trade a success?" "I don't know. Who can tell?" I commented. But I was wrong. I knew a short time later. Someone kicked the outlet down the court. Hakeem took it, and dunked it in. He raised his hands in triumph. The basket pretty much sealed the deal, and Dream knew it. The series was over. We'd beaten the Sonics. <center>* * * * *</center> "I'm not a role model," Barkley said. And he was probably right. He said whatever he wanted to say. He did whatever he wanted to do. He was far from a saint, especially when having a night on the town. But you can't help but feel that somewhere, somehow, that brash, in-your-face, tell-it-the-way-I-see-it personality was born from something else. Something deep down inside. Something that made most of us laugh just as much as it made some of us howl in anger. Something that made a man who had just seen his career come to an end with a season-ending injury say 'I've had too many good memories to let this end badly.' Something genuine. <center>* * * * *</center> He'll probably be sitting in the booth one day, you know. We'll get to listen to Charles take 'color commentary' to all new highs, and lows, and we'll be loving every minute of it. And on that day we'll still be talking about our Rockets, and where they stand, and who they should bench and who they should sign and who should be producing and who should be flat out fired. Then, in the background, Charles will say something outrageous on TV and we'll remember him doing that sort of stuff when he was wearing #4. And we'll smile. That, above all else, is what Barkley did. He made us remember. We sat up and paid attention. We were entertained. We laughed when he picked on someone going to the line for a big free throw. We cringed when TNT accidentally left the camera on him when he had a few choice words for the crowd. And we cheered when, by sheer force of will, he put the team on his shoulders and carried us, big rebound after bigger rebound, critical post up after even more critical post up. I raced home tonight, because I had already missed the first half, and I knew Charles was in Philly; I wanted to see what he was going to do tonight. A few days earlier, I had watched him take some of the pressure off young Steve Francis, getting a volatile Vancouver crowd to throw some heavy taunts in his direction. A few moments later, Barkley flashed out and stole the ball, running the length of the court and slamming it home, putting a little hush in the crowd. That's the way it was. I was sure we'd see him rise up for Philly too. I was barely in the door before my brother told me the news. And for the first time in my life, I felt an emotion towards the NBA that I'd never felt before. Not excitement at a win or a run. Not anger at a call or a loss. For the first time ever, I was honestly, truly and personally saddened. I don't have to struggle to associate Charles Barkley with the Houston Rockets anymore. From now on, I always will. Thanks for the ride, Charles. [This message has been edited by Rokkit (edited December 09, 1999).]
