{"id":80033,"date":"2010-06-21T09:00:03","date_gmt":"2010-06-21T13:00:03","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.slamonline.com\/online\/?p=80033"},"modified":"2010-09-29T14:09:53","modified_gmt":"2010-09-29T18:09:53","slug":"original-old-school-street-moves","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.slamonline.com\/streetball\/original-old-school-street-moves\/","title":{"rendered":"Original Old School: Street Moves"},"content":{"rendered":"

Recently, to get the summer bball season started, we rehashed an Earl “The Goat” Manigault story<\/a> from SLAM 7<\/a>. That story was an oldie <\/em>and a goodie. Today, on the official first day of summer, we bring you a goodie that’s even older, having originally appeared in SLAM 1<\/a>. If you like organized basketball, this is a must-read. If you like streetball, this is a must-read. If you like SLAM, well, you know what to do…–Ed. <\/em><\/p>\n

\"SLAM<\/a><\/p>\n

by Vincent M. Mallozzi<\/em><\/p>\n

Across the street from the Polo Grounds Towers, the looming projects which stand where the New York Giants once roamed, a bent old man dressed in a brown baseball cap, a filthy turtleneck sweater and torn blue jeans hobbles onto the basketball court. Holding a garbage bag filled with video cassettes, he looks more like a beggar than a fallen basketball king returning to his asphalt throne.<\/p>\n

\u201cYo chief, you blind or somethin\u2019?\u201d asks one of the angry players, sticking the basketball beneath his armpit and turning the palms of his hands up to the clear, brisk October sky. \u201cWe playin\u2019 a game, man. Drag your sorry ass outta here!\u201d<\/p>\n

As the other players look on, the stranger, a tall, slender black man, light-skinned, with a short beard, heads for the sidelines and gently drops his garbage bag. But much to their surprise, he whirls the bag around and hobbles back onto the court. He looks to the empty bleachers and seems to draw strength from the memories of standing ovations and chants of \u2018We want Joe, we want Joe.\u2019\u00a0 \u201cI need some dollars,\u201d he says softly. \u201cWho wants to play me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYo motherfucker, stop wastin\u2019 our time,\u201d says one of the youngsters. \u201cGo do your bummin\u2019 somewhere else,\u201d says another.<\/p>\n

But the stranger, his tired eyes measuring the dimensions of the court the way a pool hustler measures the angles of his favorite table, breaks into a scam he\u2019s been rehearsing for years before they were born.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t nobody here want to take my money,\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s see some money,\u201d demands one of the young men.<\/p>\n

\u201cLosers show money \u2018cause losers got to pay,\u201d says the stranger.<\/p>\n

\u201cStop all of the bullshit man,\u201d says the young man holding the basketball. \u201cYou want me to take your money, I\u2019ll take your money.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTwenty dollars O.K.?\u201d asks the stranger.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, let\u2019s get it on,\u201d says the young man.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour rock,\u201d says the stranger, ripping the ball from the young man\u2019s hands, palming it, waving it in his face as if he were trying to hypnotize him, and sticking it back in his chest. \u201cBelieve me little brother, I still have the home court advantage.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cC\u2019mon Rob, bust his ass says one of the young man\u2019s friends.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, c\u2019mon Rob, show me something,\u201d says the stranger. He leans in over the foul line and plays his man tightly. Now it\u2019s his turn to flip his palms toward the sky, but not in anger. He\u2019s simply playing good defense.<\/p>\n

As the other players gather around the perimeter, the trash talking heats up, and the game begins. The young man, a lanky six-footer with a Jordan-era bald head and baggy shorts, fakes a jumper then explodes rightside toward the rim. He seems to have an easy layup, but just as he releases the ball, the stranger, with the same Afro he wore back in the days when he battled Julius Erving on this very court, gets a piece of it. The ball hits the side of the rim and pops back out. The stranger leaps high again to grab it along the right baseline and momentarily holds up. On offense for the first time, the stranger pushes his head forward as if he intends to drive for a layup, sending the young man off his feet and out of position. Free to shoot, the stranger glances at his opponent, smiles, and lets loose a soft 10-foot jumper that sees to hang cold air for two, maybe three generations before it finally falls through the cords.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, shit,\u201d says one of the young boys.<\/p>\n

As the game continues, the stranger begins to pull away. Reverse layup, baby hook, a two handed set shot, three straight jumpers from the foul line. \u201cWho the fuck is this guy?\u201d someone asks from courtside. Soon, its 12-0 and obvious to the young men that something is rotten in the state of West Harlem. Late in the game, the stranger leads 30-6, and needs just one basket to ice the contest. But as he pulls away for a game-ending jumper, a voice cries out from beyond the chain link fence.<\/p>\n

\u201cYo, Joe Hammond, give that boy a break, man, don\u2019t take his money.\u201d<\/p>\n

The young man calls time-out, realizes he\u2019s been had by a ghost with a crossover dribble, drops his head and puts his hands over his knees.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re Joe Hammond?\u201d he asks. He puts his hand in his right sock and pulls out a crumpled $20 bill. \u201cHere\u2019s your money, man.\u201d No disrespect.<\/p>\n

*****<\/p>\n

Standing on the same playground shrine where he immortalized himself in the greatest playground game ever, Joe Hammond, now 42, stares across the street and points his $20 bill in the direction of the Polo Grounds projects. \u201cWillie Mays used to be the big show over there,\u201d he tells me. \u201cAnd Joe Hammond used to be the big show over here.\u201d<\/p>\n

From across the street comes a honk, and another voice cries out, \u201cYo, Joe, what\u2019s up baby?\u201d Hammond looks up and sees a Mike Kookoo in a black jeep, with Mingo Mason riding shotgun. \u201cThey used to come to the games when we were kids,\u201d says Hammond. \u201cI used to look out for them. Now they look out for me.\u201d The two men rush to Hammond\u2019s side. \u201cYou need a lift, Joe?\u201d says Kookoo, with a smile.<\/p>\n

In Harlem, and in many other neighborhoods in New York, the mention of Joe Hammond\u2019s name, or even the sight of him lumbering across his old domain with a grbage bag slung over his shoulder instead of a duffel bag, still brings a smile to the face of anyone who saw him play in the 1970\u2019s, back when he electrified crowds with soaring dunks, precision shooting and whopping scoring totals. Back when he made enough money selling dope and shooting dice to tell the Los Angeles Lakers to take their $50,000 rookie contract and shove itup their purple-and-gold-wrist bands.<\/p>\n

\u201cThose were the glory days,\u201d says Hammond, walking over to pick up his garbage bag. \u201cI had so much shit going my way, I thought it would all last forever. But here I am twenty years later, flat broke and selling bootleg video tapes on the street for a living. I blew my chance, man. I look back now, and I realize that I was just another knucklehead.\u201d<\/p>\n

At the age of 19, without ever having played a minute of high school or college basketball, Hammond , son of a New York City transit worker, born and raised in Harlem, had already achieved professional status with the Allentown Jets of the Eastern Basketball Association, and was touted by NBA scouts as a future star in their league. If you wanted to see the 6\u20194\u201d guard do his thing on the basketball court, you traveled to Rucker Park on 156th Street and Eighth Avenue, where playground stars, college All-Americans and most pro players during the off-season played for some of the most theatrical basketball ever.<\/p>\n

\u201cIn his day, Joe was on a par with guys like Dean Meminger and Tiny Archibald,\u201d says Don Adams, the basketball coach at Taft High School in the Bronx, who was the only coach Hammond ever had at the amateur level. \u201cAnd for his size, he was better than they were. Pound for pound, Joe Hammond was the greatest basketball player ever to come out of Harlem.\u201d<\/p>\n

Fathers still tell their sons about the Rucker League\u2019s most famous game in 1970, when Hammond\u2019s Milbank squad played against a team called the Westsiders. Milbank, a neighborhood team, was composed mainly of playground phenoms like Hammond, Pee Wee Kirkland, Eric Cobb (the Elevator Man), Joe Thomas and Jake Ford. The Westsiders, a group of professional players, were led by the Doctor himself, Julius Erving. Their roster sparkled with names like Charlie Scott, Billy Paultz, Mike Riordan and Brian Taylor.<\/p>\n

On that day, thousands streamed into tiny Rucker Park for the highly anticipated showdown. Those who couldn\u2019t get seats climbed the chain link fence surrounding the park, perched themselves on tree limbs or stood on the hoods of cars to get a glimpse of the action.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was mind-boggling, considering all the great players that were in that park,\u201d says Peter Vecsey, now a basketball columnist for the New York Post<\/em> and an NBC analyst, who coached the Westsiders. \u201cStuff like that, with pros and playground athletes competing in tournaments, would never happen today because teams have too much money invested in their players. It was a once in a lifetime thing, nothing like I\u2019ve ever seen before.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\"SLAM<\/a><\/p>\n

According to Kookoo and other fans in attendance that day, Hammond was nowhere to be found as the other players warmed up. Milbank stalled as long as possible, but the referees insisted the game go on as scheduled. With chants of \u201cWe want Joe, we want Joe\u201d cascading down from the tree limbs and the bleachers, the game started anyway. Without Hammond, the first half was cruel to Milbank, as the Westsiders controlled the tempo, dominating on both sides of the ball. Erving, an acrobatic scorer with a prolific Afrom\u2014the Jordan of the bell-bottoms generation\u2014delighted the crowd with his extraordinary moves to the basket. But the fans wanted their local hero, and as the first half came to a close with Milbank trailing the Westsiders by double digits, it seemed as if Erving vs. Hammond, rising star vs. rising star, super pro vs. super playground, would not happen.<\/p>\n

\u201cI remember everyone being really upset because Joe didn\u2019t show,\u201d says Kookoo, who was eight years old when his father took him to that game. \u201cBut all of a sudden, just before the start of the second half, you hear this roar go through the stands and people started clapping and stomping their feet. It felt like an earthquake or something. My father put me on his shoulders so I could see what all the commotion was about.\u201d<\/p>\n

Across Eighth Avenue, Joe Hammond was getting out of a limousine. Before he could get both feet out of the car, he was swarmed by kids seeking his autograph, friends wishing him well, women simply trying to make eye contact, and reporters from The Amsterdam News<\/em> and other newspapers inquiring as to why he had missed the first half. With police holding back the crowd, Hammond seemed more like a movie star heading into an Academy Awards ceremony than a basketball player 24 minutes late for a pickup game.<\/p>\n

With the crowd at a deafening roar, Hammond ran toward his bench, pulling off his street clothes and yelling, \u201cI\u2019m here, coach, I\u2019m here!\u201d<\/p>\n

The Westsiders began the second half with Scott guarding Hammond, but it was to no avail. On his first trip down the court, the ball quickly found Hammond\u2019s hands and whap\u2014he hit a jumper. Scott looked at him and shook his head. The Westsiders got the ball but Kirkland made a steal and shoveled it behind his back to Joe, who broke away and wham<\/em>\u2014he dunked the ball so hard, people started dancing in the stands and spilling out onto the court. Order was restored, then it was Dr. J\u2019s turn. He took a pass at the top of the key, burst across the foul line through traffic and with long, graceful strides, ball held high above his Afro, swept down on the basket, slamming it into the hole as if to say to the Harlem faithful, \u201cTake that!\u201d<\/p>\n

The Westsiders, watching ther lead disappear, made one defensive switch after another, finally putting Erving on Hammond, and sending the crowd into the outer limits of hysteria. \u201cIt was a little different when Doc got on Joe,\u201d says Kookoo, patting Hammond on the back for positive reinforcement. \u201cBelieve me,, Doc was getting his, and Joe had a tough time stopping him. But when Joe got the ball, Doc couldn\u2019t stop him either. It was all offense. Doc would throw it down on Joe and then Joe would come right back and slam it in Doc\u2019s face. It was like a \u2018Gunfight at the O.K. Corral.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hammond, who says he scored 50 points to Erving\u2019s 39 though Vecsey says it was more like 40 points apiece), won the tournament\u2019s Most Valuable Player award, but the Westsiders pulled out the victory in double overtime. Despite the loss, Joe Hammond had taken his respective place in the heart of Harlem folklore. Twenty-two years later, the game is still remembered as the best basketball Harlem has ever seen.<\/p>\n

\u201cAfter the game, the Doctor made his way through the crowd and came right over to me,\u201d says Hammond, who grabs Kookoo\u2019s hand to reenact the scene. \u201cHe shakes my hand and says \u2018Joe, everything I heard about you is true.\u2019 It was the greatest shootout in the history of Harlem.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJoe was an outstanding player who could have easily been a pro, but he wasn\u2019t in Erving\u2019s class,\u201d says Vecsey. \u201cBut it was a phenomenal game, more exciting than anyone could possibly imagine. You think trash talking is an issue today? You should have seen and heard the taunting that went on in those games.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hammond, Kookoo and Mingo climb into the jeep and speed down the FDR Drive, on their way to East Harlem, where Hammond is living with his Uncle Willie, who is eight years his senior, and for whom he once ran drugs. \u201cMe and Willie did a lot of shit together and got ourselves in a lot of trouble, says Hammond, \u201cbut he\u2019s good people. And these days, he\u2019s the only people I got.\u201d<\/p>\n

*****<\/p>\n

A few months after he performed hoop surgery against Dr. J. and the Westsiders, Hammond earned a spot in the Eastern League\u2019s all-star game (\u201cThe 6\u20194\u201d, 180 pounder is one of the most exciting payers in the game,\u201d reads the media guide). The legend of Joe \u201cThe Destroyer\u201d Hammond, renowned for the ability to destroy any opposing defense, had traveled clear across the continent.<\/p>\n

He was pursued by the Los Angeles Lakers: the Lakers of Wilt Chamberlain and Jerry West; the Lakers of a league record 69 wins, of 33 straight wins\u2019 the World Championship 1971-72 Lakers. They selected Hammond in the NBA hardship draft of 1971, held for a handful of top players who didn\u2019t finish college.<\/p>\n

Jack Kent Cooke, then the owner of the Lakers, offered Hammond $50,000 to play for his team. In fact, Laker coach Bill Sharman, whose team was in town to play the Knicks, assembled his players on an off day at Pace University to hold a special tryout for Hammond\u2014the mountain came to Muhammad.<\/p>\n

\u201cTo the very best of my knowledge, that has never happened before,\u201d says Vecsey. \u201cThat\u2019s how talented a player Joe was. The Lakers actually came to him. But Joe didn\u2019t care about basketball or the Lakers or anything else because he was too busy making money on the streets.<\/p>\n

Indeed, there was more than just a contract dispute that prevented Hammond from signing with Los Angeles. He was also a star player in another league, an all-star league of drug dealers led by his Uncle Willie that mad a mint in a lucrative business on the Harlem Streets.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey thought they were offering the world to this poor kid from the ghetto, but I didn\u2019t need the money,\u201d says Hammond. \u201cI was dealing drugs and shooting dice on the street from the age of 10 and by the time I was 15 I had my father hiding $50,000 for me in his bank account. By the time the Lakers made their offer, I had over $200,000 stashed in my apartment. I was making thousands of dollars a year selling marijuana and heroin. What was I going to do with $50,000?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI was making guys like Dr. J. look silly,\u201d Hammond adds. \u201cAnd some of them were making big money, $200,000 or $250,000 a year. I told the Lakers that I deserved what those guys were making because I was better than most of them, but they refused to pay me. Then I asked them for a no-cut, guaranteed contract, and they refused me again. They couldn\u2019t understand how this poor boy from the slums could be playing hardball with them. And of course, I couldn\u2019t tell them why.\u201d<\/p>\n

After Hammond spurned the Lakers, ex-St. Johns coach Lou Carneseca, then with the New York Nets of the American Basketball Association that year, came calling. \u201cJoe had tremendous skills, all of which he learned on the streets, and had a great, great future,\u201d says Carneseca. \u201cHe was a precursor to Magic Johnson and guys like that. I offered him a three-year, no-cut contract, and he wouldn\u2019t sign. The ABA was a vagabond league at the time, so I guess he felt he could do better, and that maybe the situation wasn\u2019t right for him.\u201d<\/p>\n

Meminger, the former Knick who grew up in New York and competed against Hammond in the Rucker League, echoes Carnesecca\u2019s praise for Hammond. \u201cJoe was as talented a player at the ages of 18, 19, and 20 as anybody in the city or the country at that time,\u201d says Meminger. \u201cBut Joe didn\u2019t go through the system, and that hurt his marketability. It\u2019s often very difficult to gauge how good someone is based on his performance on the playgrounds.\u201d<\/p>\n

But the Destroyer\u2019s game never got any farther than the playground. Regardless of the league, the team or the type of contract, it never seemed right to Joe Hammond, who was using his time and celebrity to sell dope. While amassing his fortune, he continued to be the shiniest star in the Rucker League\u2019s galaxy of talented athletes. In the neighborhood, his legend still grew. Everyone wanted to come see the kid who turned down the Los Angeles Lakers and the New York Nets. In the streets, everyone wanted to buy his drugs.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy nephew had a chance,\u201d says Willie Hammond, sitting on a car in front of the project building on 114th Street and Lexington Avenue, where he and Joe now live. \u201cBut it\u2019s difficult to see straight with a stack of hundreds piled in front of your face every night and a woman hanging off each arm to spend it on.\u201d<\/p>\n

Back in the glory days, Willie Hammond was the ringleader, hauling in hundreds of thousands of dollars a year selling drugs. He\u2019s spent thirty of his 50 years behind bars, and still has an awful lot of gangster left in his voice.<\/p>\n

\u201cJoe was young and confused, and I guess I was too busy making money to stop and help clear things up for him,\u201d says Willie, looking up at his fourth-floor window and waving to Michael Jordan, the black alley cat named after Joe\u2019s favorite player. \u201cJoe was such an outstanding basketball player, it makes me want to cry just thinking about it. But every time something positive would come up, like the Lakers or the Nets, something negative would come up. Joe would say, \u201cFuck it, maybe I\u2019ll sign with the Lakers.\u2019 And some wise guy in our crew, who was probably jealous of him anyway, would say something like, \u2018Yo, man, we got a big score coming our way. Fuck the Lakers.\u2019 He was always being pulled in opposite directions.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hammond kept drifting in the wrong direction, further from the sanctuary of the courts and closer to the evils of the streets, making the easy money and living the good life.<\/p>\n

\u201cPeople would ask me how I could refuse to get down with star players like Wilt and Jerry West,\u201d says Hammond. \u201cBut I owned a nightclub, two apartments and a house. You want to know how fucking rich I was? I owned two fancy cars\u2014and I couldn\u2019t even drive.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\"SLAM<\/a><\/p>\n

Eventually\u2014inevitably\u2014Hammond got hooked on the drugs he was selling, and became an addict. His slick drug dealing got sloppy and in 1984 he was busted for conspiring o sell narcotics. He\u2019s been in and out of jail ever since, serving three prison terms: from 1985-88, he split time between Camp Gabriels prison in Lake Placid and the Clinton Penitentiary in Dannemora, NY. \u201cI damn near froze to death in Lake Placid,\u201d he says. \u201cIt got so cold up there, your spit turned to ice before it ever hit the ground.\u201d But the chill wasn\u2019t enough to scare him straight\u2014in 1991 he spent 6 months on Rikers Island.<\/p>\n

Hammond\u2019s misfortunes have left him virtually penniless. All his belongings, even his hundreds of trophies, were sold while he was in prison. After his first two jail terms were completed, Hammond returned to beg on the streets he once owned, selling stationary cards, stolen clothes and whatever he could get his hand on to support a drug habit he couldn\u2019t kick. \u201cIt hurts to have the people I know see me this way,\u201d he confessed two years ago in East Harlem, after pleading with me for $2. \u201cThis is not the way I want them to remember me. To most of them, I\u2019m still a legend.\u201d But the legend was back behind bars in late 1992, a parole violation having landed him at Wallkill Correctional Facility for nine months.<\/p>\n

Since his release from Wallkill in July, however, Hammond has managed to stay clear of drugs. He says that frequent visits to the Addicts Rehabilitation Center helped get his life on a straighter path. \u201cI got a lot of counseling at ARC,\u201d he says. \u201cIt makes me forget about wanting to do the bad things and it keeps me off the streets. When I leave that building, I go over to Uncle Willie\u2019s and we hang out. We watch TV, mostly sports. When we heard Jordan was retiring, we almost fell off the couch. Another legend\u2014gone.\u201d<\/p>\n

After reminiscing with Willie and the guys for a while, Hammond breaks from the huddle and heads over several blocks to the Wagner Projects to visit his childhood sweetheart, Beverly Seabrook, and their 18-year old daughter, Joy. Hammond, who has never married, has four children (from three separate relationships) and four grandchildren. Still carrying his garbage bag, he shuffles across Pleasant Avenue to the entrance of the housing development. Parents sitting with their children on weather-beaten green benches immediately recognize him.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, Joe, how you doing, baby?\u201d asks one woman.<\/p>\n

\u201cHanging in there, baby doll,\u201d Hammond shoots back. \u201cWanna buy a tape?\u201d<\/p>\n

One father calls his teenage son over and rushes him toward Hammond. \u201cJamaal, this is Joe Hammond, the guy I\u2019m always telling you about, the guy they used to call The \u2018Destroyer\u2019. He scored 50 points on Dr. J. one day.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jamaal shakes Hammond\u2019s hand. \u201cI heard a lot about you,\u201d he says to Hammond.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy father always says that you were the greatest.\u201d Hammond looks at the father and his son gives them a shy smile, says thanks, and scoots into an open elevator and up to Seabrook\u2019s apartment.<\/p>\n

\u201cPeople always talk about me in the past,\u201d says Hammond, gently dropping his garbage bag and banging the elevator door with a clenched fist. \u201cSometimes it\u2019s frustrating. I hear all these stories, and after a while, I get the feeling that people are talking about me like I died or something. I\u2019m still alive. Still trying to survive.\u201d<\/p>\n

Seabrook, who met Hammond at P.S. 45 on East 120th Street when the two were teenagers, rushes into the bedroom to get an old photo album, the pages filled with newspaper clippings and old photos of Hammond, Pee Wee, the Elevator Man, and the rest of the troop that went down in a blaze of glory to the Westsiders two decades before. There\u2019s a picture of Joe with Harthorne Wingo, his friend and former Allentown Jets teammate who went on to win a World Championship with the New York Knicks before succumbing to drugs himself and fading into oblivion. There\u2019s Herman \u201cHelicopter\u201d Knowings, who died while driving his own cab in April, 1980. \u201cThe Helicopter could really fly,\u201d says Hammond shaking his head. \u201cGoddamn shame.\u201d<\/p>\n

The pages turn, and there\u2019s James \u201cFly\u201d Williams, net to a smiling Ronnie \u201cThe Terminator\u201d Matthias. There\u2019s Beverly giving Joe a hug after a tournament game in the LaGuardia Memorial House on East 116th Street, where Hammond\u2019s name is still listed on a huge gold wall-of-fame plaque that includes marquee talents like Kevin Williams, Walter Berry, Malik Sealy and Chris Mullin.<\/p>\n

\u201cI knew Walt when he was a baby,\u201d says Hammond. \u201cI got to give him a call and I promised Pee Wee I\u2019d call him, too. I still got all their numbers right here.\u201d Hammond pulls out a tiny Bible with scraps of old paper and business cards scattered throughout the pages. \u201cI got all my real friends, including the good Lord, all here in this book,\u201d he says. \u201cWho needs a wallet?\u201d<\/p>\n

Seabrook smiles fondly and returns to the album. She turns to a picture of \u201cThe Goat,\u201d Earl Manigault, another famed playground hero who allowed heroin to get in the way of a promising NBA career. As a boy, Hammond idolized The Goat, even while The Goat was shooting dope into his veins. Running around Mount Morris Park on 124th Street, playing ball from sunup until well after sundown, young Hammond was known as \u201cDirty Hand Joe.\u201d (\u201cAfter dribbling that ball for hours, he\u2019d come home at night and his hands would be black as tar,\u201d says Willie Hammond.)<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Goat always wanted Joe to learn from his mistakes,\u201d says Seabrook, herself a substance abuser. \u201cWhen Joe was on the way up, Earl used to come stumbling into the parks all strung out with a bottle of booze in his hands. I would be hanging around like always, waiting for Joe to finish, and I\u2019d see Earl go over to him and hear him say \u2018Joe, don\u2019t fuck up like I did. Stay in the game, and you\u2019ll make the money.\u2019 But Joe wanted to do things his way.\u201d<\/p>\n

Seabrook, her voice starting to crack, closed the album and took a deep breath, trying to find the strength to speak without showing emotion.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was the homecoming queen of my school, and he was this big basketball star everyone used to make such a fuss over,\u201d she says, her eyes welling with tears. \u201cIt doesn\u2019t seem so long ago that people were treating Joe like a king. For the two of us, I thought it would all work out like a fairy tale.\u201d<\/p>\n

The king and his queen, still together, got up and held each other tight, and the album of the past fell to the floor. As they embraced, they realized the fairy tale was long over. After all, it has been 22 years since Joe Hammond played basketball in his spare time, turned his back on the Lakers and Nets, made a fortune selling the drugs that would eventually ruin him, and scored 50 points on the Doctor himself\u00a0 while only playing half of a game.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou tell me,\u201d says Hammond, shaking his head in disgust as he watched Seabrook pull video tapes from his garbage bag. \u201cIs that the stuff that legends are made of?\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

SLAM 1: The legend of Joe Hammond and the greatest street game ever played.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":112,"featured_media":80126,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[22],"tags":[1103,4804,3396,740,1133,4679,942,149,4811,4809,2583,2012,13023,3271],"yst_prominent_words":[],"class_list":["post-80033","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-streetball","tag-chris-mullin","tag-dean-meminger","tag-earl-manigault","tag-fly-williams","tag-harlem","tag-joe-hammond","tag-julius-erving","tag-los-angeles-lakers","tag-malik-sealy","tag-new-york-nets","tag-peter-vescey","tag-rucker-park","tag-slam-1","tag-tiny-archibald"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.slamonline.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/80033","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.slamonline.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.slamonline.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.slamonline.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/112"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.slamonline.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=80033"}],"version-history":[{"count":12,"href":"https:\/\/www.slamonline.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/80033\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":92399,"href":"https:\/\/www.slamonline.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/80033\/revisions\/92399"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.slamonline.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/80126"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.slamonline.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=80033"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.slamonline.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=80033"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.slamonline.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=80033"},{"taxonomy":"yst_prominent_words","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.slamonline.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/yst_prominent_words?post=80033"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}