Person of Interest: Rasheed Wallace

Over two years in Chapel Hill and 15 more in the NBA, Rasheed Wallace was a study in negative space. His histrionics provided fans and media with a very sports-talkable, “polarizing” figure, but the fascination with Rasheed, especially in his later years, usually didn’t come from what he did on the court, his various “off-the-court troubles,” or even what police officers might have found in his car. Because there was such a profound, seemingly meaningful distance between the “Ball Don’t Lie” Rasheed — a gregarious, hysterical guy who probably cared about basketball the exact right amount — and his reputation as a technical-fouling, weed-smoking, Game 7 of the Western Conference Finals-choking, towel-throwing malcontent, his fans sought him out in the chatter accidentally picked up by courtside microphones, in the appliances he put in his bathroom, in the glowing testimonials from teammates about the intelligence of Rasheed Wallace. His image, perhaps more than any other athlete of his generation, was fueled by wild speculation. “Both teams played hard, my man,” Rasheed’s go-to response to ward off reporters, brought his fans closer, and, for those with perhaps too much faith, cast a skeptical eye on just how much beat reporters and columnists could actually tell you about a basketball player. But outside of those video snippets and the occasional funny anecdote, Rasheed never really gave you much more than the wink, the nod, and the “both teams played hard.”

And yet, he gave just enough to become one of the most beloved players of the past 20 years. His in-your-face humanity takes most of the credit for that feat, but the fact that all it took was a couple jokes, one championship, and a whole lot of technical fouls shows the wariness and outright contempt the NBA’s younger fans felt toward the traditional sports-talky model of the athlete as role model and ambassador for all bland, generic virtues of sportsmanship and dignity.

You can’t be an NBA fan without building up a straw man or two. Just as the SABR nerds shake their fists at something called “Murray Chass,” which, in truth, may or may not exist, the generation of basketball fans who grew up with Iverson and the Fab Five have built their own golem: the crusty old sportswriter who hates hip-hop, only lionizes white players, talks mostly in racial euphemisms, and truly believes, in his heart, that four years in college is God’s greatest gift to mankind. Rasheed, even more than Iverson, became the hero for young NBA fans who wanted their players to stonewall the golem with, “Both teams played hard, my man.” He was the liberated, talking man in a league obsessed with the creation of relatable, worldwide brands.

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