John's journey: Stockton's first steps to the Hall of Fame

0 Comments | Deseret News (Salt Lake City), Jun 7, 2003 | by Brad Rock Deseret News sports writer

He came down Boone Avenue in the gathering dusk, along the shady sidewalks toward the Gonzaga University administration building, where ancient pictures of Houston Stockton rest silent and venerable. Ahead loomed St. Aloysius cathedral, its twin steeples silhouetted against the fading light. John Houston Stockton had something on his mind.

The smell of spring was thick and sweet in April 1984, the river running high a half-mile away through downtown Spokane, Wash. Everywhere on that Friday evening there were celebrations. Students celebrating the advent of spring, celebrating the impending end of the school year, celebrating being 21 with the world still ahead.

As Stockton approached Jeff Reinert, a Gonzaga teammate, Reinert could see he Stockton was headed for the gym. Perhaps someday Stockton, too, would celebrate, but not that night. Reinert wondered aloud why Stockton wasn't going to a party, why he wasn't with his girlfriend, Nada Stepovich, who was probably wondering the same.

But Reinert had seen that look in Stockton's brown-gold eyes before. He had seen it in pickup games when there was nothing more on the line than Cokes;, seen it in table tennis, air hockey and anything else that could be turned into a contest. It was always there: the need to win, yes, but even more important, the fear that he might go home that night and discover he hadn't given his best.

So Reinert asked just once what Stockton was thinking, with stars kindling in the twilight and so much promise ahead, why he would go to a gym.

"I have one chance. One chance to maybe make it," said Stockton.

Then he was off, turning south toward the gym. The season was over for the Bulldogs, but for Stockton seasons never really end, they just take a detour. He had his chance to play in the NBA, and if he really knew he could one day become one of basketball's greatest players, he was alone. No one else could have dreamed the dreams Stockton held. Only he could have believed his career would take him through 13 phenomenal NBA seasons before finally coming back to the start, back to a time when he would need to summon that same resolve. Eight weeks he waited on the injured list, knowing with each mile on the treadmill, every hour in the weight room, his time would come. Knowing that while others might be celebrating, he was in the gym. Knowing that once again he had a chance.

The rehabilitation after knee surgery was a trademark Stockton production. No press conferences to update his condition, no progress reports through the public relations people, only a stoic silence. Since before he stepped onto the old Salt Palace court for the first time, before he sent Rickey Green hurtling toward retirement, it was never anyone else's business. There is the game and there is his personal business, and in the world according to Stockton, never the twain should meet.

Although the insistence on privacy is largely a desire to protect his family from prying eyes, there is another reason: Cameras and pens, collectors and fans distract him from the task at hand. That hasn't changed through the years. There was always that certainty of purpose only a handful of athletes ever grasp. In large part it is the reason for his success; the reason a 6-1 guard could compile more assists and steals than any player in history. Yet for every Jazz fan who adores Stockton for his grit and unreproachable character, there is one who resents his being among the most inaccessible of celebrities. He can be standoffish when asked for an autograph. He has little time for the trappings of stardom, no tolerance for anything that might bump him off course. It is the reason there were few weekend nights in Spokane when he was free to just be a college student.

"He is the most focused, driven human being I've seen in my life," says his brother, Steve, four years John's senior. "I mean that as a compliment. I wouldn't trade my college experience for his. He's doing something he loves now, and is getting paid very well. He just zeroed in on it early in college and remained very dedicated. I just had more ability to get sidetracked. He'd spend his Friday and Saturday nights shooting balls in the gym."

His determination is the rarest kind, the kind that would drive him to clean out his locker the day after the final playoff game, and by evening have a pickup game going back home in Spokane. It was a similar game in Spokane this fall that doctors say put him on the sidelines for the first time in his career. He came down awkwardly after a shot and felt a twinge of pain. Not until days later, when an MRI was run on the knee, did he realize he wouldn't be there in the starting lineup on opening night for the first time in a decade.

Determination aside, Stockton may be uniquely suited to recover. From a purely clinical standpoint, he is a marvel even to doctors. His resting heart rate is 35 beats per minute -- half that of a relatively well-conditioned male. That trait alone allows him to recover while standing at the free throw line; other players must take timeouts or sit out to catch their breath. His body fat is four percent, the same as Karl Malone's and similar to that of world class bicycle racers. His cardiovascular system, lung capacity and blood pressure are far superior to an average person, and even superior to that of most athletes.