I May Be Wrong But I Doubt It - Charles Barkley [9]
Take Robert Horry. He’s a great role player with the Lakers, and he was a great role player in Houston. But in between, he was traded to Phoenix where they wanted to make him a star. And he fought with the coaches and staff. And that doesn’t mean Robert Horry wasn’t a good player, because he is. But you can’t learn to be a star. You either are or you aren’t. I heard Robert Horry say after he hit that three-point shot at the buzzer to win Game 4 of the Western Conference finals against Sacramento that one reason he’s able to be so calm about taking those shots is that if he misses and his team loses, Shaq and Kobe are going to receive all the blame anyway, so why worry about it. See, Robert Horry understands the importance of stars in the league and how role players are supposed to feed off them. A star has to have extra toughness, that special sense of the moment. When everybody in the building knows you’re going to get the ball on all the big possessions, that’s athletic pressure. The pressure of being a star should be fun, even the part where you get all the credit or all the blame for what happens with your team.
The fans and the media may be fooled sometimes. They’ll think somebody is a star, but he’s not really up to the biggest moment. You can never fool the players. We know who’s a star.
In high school I don’t remember when I felt I’d become a really good player, and I don’t remember a specific point in college either. But I do remember in the pros. I was in my room one night—we had just played the Knicks in Madison Square Garden, and I had put on a show. Rick Pitino was their coach, and it was the 1988–89 season. I was watching SportsCenter after the game when a reporter asked Rick, “Is it possible Barkley is getting to the point where he can take over a game like Magic, Michael and Larry Bird? Is he knocking on that door?” And Rick said, “If you saw what I’ve seen lately, he’s kicking in the door.” I’m sitting in my room, watching the 2:00 a.m. SportsCenter and I thought, “Damn, I can play with anybody in the world?” I sat there and thought about it for an hour or so. I went to bed, and the next morning I woke up and said, “You know what, Rick is right, I can play with anybody in the world.” And from that point on, I just said, “There might be two or three guys as good as me but nobody’s better than me.” And that was the turning point for me; it came in my fifth year. Of course you need the talent to do it, but talent isn’t the only ingredient. If you don’t feel that way, if you don’t think you’re better than everybody else, you can’t be better. People sitting at home listening to guys when they say that just figure, “He’s too cocky.” But it’s absolutely necessary to have that attitude. When you realize it and can back it up, at that point you just have to get out of your own way.
The year I thought it would all come together was 1993, my first season in Phoenix. I thought we could beat Michael Jordan and the Bulls that year. But we had such a hard time getting to the Finals. We were the No. 1 seed, had the best record in the entire league, but lost the first two games at home to the Lakers. But we won Games 3 and 4 on the road in L.A., then came back and won Game 5 at home, in overtime. The next series was San Antonio, and I hit the shot at the buzzer to eliminate them in Game 6 and close out the HemisFair Arena. I was so nervous about getting to the Finals. We were up three games to two in the Western Conference finals against Seattle and got our asses kicked real good. I remember sitting on the plane coming back and everybody was scared shitless and nervous. People can talk all the shit they want to, but those deciding Game 5s in the first round and those Game 7s, you ain’t eatin’ and you ain’t sleepin’. You’re nervous and hyper. I remember walking around trying to cheer up