I May Be Wrong But I Doubt It - Charles Barkley [2]
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Every ballplayer who has come along since 1984 has wanted to be like Mike. Nobody wants to be like Charles for the simple reason that it’s too hard, it’s too physically exacting, too punishing. People fantasize about soaring over the competition; nobody dreams of the alternative, the hand-to-hand combat and mauling in the lane. For most of his career, Barkley was listed as 6-foot-6, which is nonsense. He’s 6-foot-43⁄4 inches. That’s at least eight inches shorter than Wilt Chamberlain, the only man to finish a professional basketball career with more points, rebounds and assists than Barkley. Barkley stands 10 inches shorter than Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, yet averaged more rebounds per season in the NBA. Barkley never picked on anybody his own size; usually it was 6-11 Kevin McHale, 6-11 Bill Laimbeer, 6-10 Karl Malone, 6-9 Charles Oakley, 6-10 Horace Grant, 6-10 Rick Mahorn, or 6-8 Buck Williams.
Over time, Barkley’s shooting got better and his range improved, as did his ball handling. But he lived for the mayhem within three feet of the basket, the elbows to the neck and knees to the kidneys, the slam dancing that allows the acrobats to soar unencumbered. Even at thirty-six years old, his back ravaged, he averaged 12.3 rebounds per game, still mastered this unglamorous but true measure of a man’s determination and toughness. Appropriately, Barkley’s playing career ended, for all practical purposes, with him blowing out his leg trying to block the shot of 6-10 Tyrone Hill. A scout who came back to an NBA general manager with the report that a 6-foot-5 guy could score 25 a night and grab 12 rebounds for 16 years would be fired summarily. Inch for inch, Barkley had to be the toughest and most resourceful sonofabitch to ever play in the NBA.
And the notion that his career is somehow flawed because he didn’t lead a team to the championship is one I reject, the way I reject it about the great Ted Williams, who never won a World Series, the way I reject it about the fabulous Gale Sayers, who never even played in an NFL playoff game. Barkley’s great sin was being born three days after Michael Jordan. He suffered the same bad timing as Patrick Ewing, Karl Malone, John Stockton and Reggie Miller: he was born at the wrong time. His fatal athletic flaw, if we accept such a notion, was not being Michael Jordan.
But it’s doubtful anybody, Jordan included, has enjoyed himself more than Barkley. “Mr. Barkley, where would you like to sit?” often draws the answer, “Right here, at the bar will be fine.” Any meal in public with Barkley—100 percent of the ones I’ve had with him—is interrupted by people wanting an autograph, a picture with him, a hug, a debate. The only time in sixteen years of postgame grub that I’ve ever seen him refuse an autograph is when some adult weasel is clearly trying to hoard signatures to sell. The well-known incident where an angry woman tore up his autograph and claimed Barkley was rude to her resulted from her asking him to sign for the seventh or eighth time.
Other than that, rarely if ever does anybody go away unhappy. Hell, people approach him with the intention of venting and go away smiling. Quick story: One night a few years back in a Phoenix restaurant, an ex-marine who was shorter than Barkley is wide and had had too much to drink decided he was going to start a fight. Why? His nuisance of a girlfriend had asked Barkley to pose with her for a picture. Real problem was, two or three of his buddies were poised to jump in. Charles looked at me and asked, “You ever been in a bar fight?” I told him no. He said, “Well, there’s a first time for everything. Now, take off your glasses.”
Perhaps sensing a sportswriter wasn’t the ideal tag-team partner, Barkley did the prudent thing and simply charmed the drunken bums out of their rage and into a picture-taking frenzy.