FOX Sports: Rafer getting some props.

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http://msn.foxsports.com/nba/story/7924872/On-the-Mark:-I'm-sorry,-Mrs.-Alston.-I-was-wrong-?MSNHPHMA


On the Mark: I'm sorry, Mrs. Alston. I was wrong.

by Mark Kriegel

The Houston Rockets seek their 23rd consecutive win tonight at home against the Boston Celtics. As the streak is both unexpected and historic, there has been a rush to credit the most praiseworthy party.

Yao Ming was that guy until he went down 10 games ago. Tracy McGrady, a perennial All-Star who possesses a singular talent, is now the obvious choice. But let me throw out another name: Rafer Alston. Any team that wins 22 straight has one hell of a point guard. In this case, he's an erstwhile playground legend, still known as Skip to My Lou.

Rafer Alston was famous, or something like it, before he had even played a game of organized ball. Skip, so named because of his distinctive, skipping step with the ball, was a darling at Harlem's Rucker Park. He was only a teenager and a chronic truant, but already a ballhandler unlike any other. He played but 10 games in two years at Cardozo High School in Queens. Then again, what need had he for high school? Skip had already gone national, the star of the first AND1 Mixtape. He was the city game's postmodern trickster.

Then he was off to Jerry Tarkanian's Academy for Wayward Ballers, otherwise known as Fresno State. I wrote a line about him then, something about the Knicks needing help at point guard and how they should get Skip in a sign and trade with the Fresno County Jail. Skip's a thug, get it?

His mother called me after she read that. This was nine years ago. Geraldine Alston was a nurse at a junior high school in Harlem. You could hear the kids in the background, trying to be cute — Mrs. Alston, I don't feel so good — trying to get out of school. Mrs. Alston wasn't an easy mark, though. Even Tarkanian — whom she invariably referred to as "Uncle Fester" — couldn't con her.

"I'm the first to tell Rafer when he's been a knucklehead," she told me. "But you're wrong about my boy."

We talked for a while, and I thanked her for the call. She didn't change my mind, though — at least not as it concerned the ultimate prospects for her son's success as a ballplayer. We both knew the mortality rate for playground legends — even those who make it off the streets often find their virtuoso skills a liability in college and the pros. These asphalt allegories have made for some great movies like "Hoop Dreams," and some fine books, going back to Pete Axthelm's classic, The City Game. But they've never been much cause for optimism, even after Rafer Alston had been drafted in the second round by the Milwaukee Bucks.

Mrs. Alston kept calling every month or two. She'd tell me if a line in the column had made her laugh, or if I had mentioned a song she liked. Inevitably, she'd tell me that Rafer was doing well.

She called me in 2001 when Rafer tallied eight assists without a turnover in 16 minutes for the Bucks.

A nice night, I thought, but not a career. I didn't want to tell her I knew better. The kid called Skip was just too light and too unschooled to really make it in the NBA. Ultimately, his pro career would be recalled as a novelty act.

Of course, Rafer Alston got better every season. He's long since made the transition from sub to starter, from fable to fact. The other day, as the Rockets beat the Lakers for their 22nd straight win, Alston's talents could be seen in full on national television. Alston had 31 points, including eight threes. But he only shot those because McGrady was having a tough day.

During this streak he has shown himself to be everything you'd want in a point guard — six assists and almost 15 points a night (17.3 since Yao went down.) More than that, though, is the way he plays defense and controls the tempo. He does all the things playground legends are not supposed to do.

I looked through all my phone numbers. But the one I had was no good anymore.

So I hope you read this, Mrs. Alston. I was wrong about your boy.
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