9302050889
DETROIT FREE PRESS
931003
Sunday, October 03, 1993
METRO FINAL
1F
MITCH ALBOM
Copyright (c) 1993, Detroit Free Press
MAYBE RODMAN CAN FIND HIS WAY
Dennis Rodman was on the phone in a funeral parlor telling his agent it was
OK to trade him. This is all you need to know about his confused world.
He had been in San Diego earlier, with a girlfriend, but now he was in
Sacramento, with Annie, his ex-wife, or estranged wife, no one is really sure.
Annie's mother had died, and Annie had reached out for Dennis, even though
most of the time she is screaming for his head on a stick. And Dennis came to
Annie, never mind that she is suing him for both alimony and palimony, or
something like that (even in California, she is making legal history). And
along with this miserable/loving couple was their young daughter, Alexis,
whom Dennis yearns to see so desperately he had her face tattooed on his arm.
And yet, when he had a chance to be traded to Sacramento and be near her all
the time, he nixed the deal.
Now he was telling his agent, from the funeral parlor office telephone,
that it was OK to go from the Pistons to the Spurs, from Canadian border to
Mexican border. This, after he had said yes to the deal the day before, then
awoke the next morning and said, "Can we get more money?" This, from a guy
who says, "I don't need money." This, from a guy who spent much of the summer
in Las Vegas, throwing wads of money away.
You can listen to Dennis Rodman's whole sad mess -- and remember this is
only the last few months, never mind the 32 years that came before it -- and
you can say, "Good riddance, I'm glad we're rid of that head case."
Or you can look a little deeper.
And see a man ruined by success.
Miscast as an adult
Like Michael Jackson, the pop singer, Dennis Rodman is living a child's
life in an adult body with a tycoon's money. His lakefront home in Birmingham
is a most desirable real estate investment -- yet is decorated with big
screen TVs, a drum set and bean bag chairs.
He earns enough to sleep in silk suits, but wears baseball caps and
flannel shirts.
He is 32, a successful black man, yet most of his friends are young white
teenagers.
The happiest I ever saw him was when he was playing drums, the music
blasting, his eyes wide at the noise he was making. Or when he spoke about
his excavation company. "I could stay all day on that tractor!" he gushed.
"I can't wait to get back!" He said this the day before the Pistons' second
title.
Dennis Rodman is a guy who should never have been this successful. Should
never have made this much money, or become this famous. It has not been good
for him. It has thrown him off his axis. He is a kind-hearted but confused
soul who never really had a father, seems only marginally connected to his
mother and sisters, and moved in with a white family in Oklahoma after their
11-year-old son invited him home for dinner one day. Dennis was 20 at the
time.
Had he never made it to the NBA, he might have wandered from place to
place, taking odd jobs, maybe finding a woman who loved him for who he was, a
guy looking for direction. That is a simple life. It would have been better
than the alternative.
The alternative was a little trick that fate played on him. Gave him this
incredible body, unaccountable leaping ability, and a fearless drive in the
heat of battle. Fate also made him 6 feet 8, and the NBA found him, turned
him into a star, handed him ridiculous paychecks.
He has been lost ever since.
Victim of success
We live in a country where "making it" is the primary goal. But are there
cases where making it is more a curse than a blessing? Dennis Rodman is
surrounded by people telling him yes, or by teenagers who don't know any
better. There are always fans to slap his back, always reporters assuring him
that, for whatever reason, he is interesting.
What happens when the basketball ends and the money runs out? He has
gotten used to perks of the famous life, and will crave them when they're
gone. But he was never mature enough to understand them, they have ruled him,
spun him around. He is their victim now.
The day Rodman was drafted, the Pistons flew him and John Salley -- their
No. 1 pick -- into Detroit. Salley was already slick, nice clothes, talking
about a car deal. Dennis came in tennis shoes and a T-shirt. They all went
out to dinner, Chuck Daly, his staff, the two players. And all night, Rodman,
who was terribly shy, kept coughing and wheezing. Salley said: "You better not
room me with this guy. I don't wanna get sick."
As it turned out, Rodman had asthma and didn't even know it.
Or maybe he was choking on his new life.
He still is. He did a lot of crazy things, but he was never a bad person,
only a dizzy one. In a better world, his jersey would hang from the rafters as
one of the greatest players to ever grace the Pistons franchise. Instead he
goes to far left corner of Texas.
There is no joy in saying good riddance. Only good-bye, good luck, and a
hope that he breathes easier one day.
DENNIS RODMAN; SPT