A passing fancy?

By Ailene Voisin -- Bee Sports Columnist Published 2:15 a.m. PDT Saturday, April 27, 2002 SALT LAKE CITY

Hardly Sure, John Stockton is a relic; all he does, at age 40, is produce. Short shorts. Saddle shoes. Old school. Just plain old. So what is it about this 40-year-old superhero who refuses to grow up and stop playing games? Who looks like a basketball player while most men his age can't even buckle their belts? Who still does his job better than almost anyone else in the league? Forget it. The man is a marvel, if a bit of a mystery.

While 28 teams and twice as many point guards shudder at the mere sight of John Stockton -- and he is all of 6-foot-1 and 175 pounds -- even his victims appreciate what he is accomplishing at his advanced age. In the first two games of the Kings-Utah Jazz playoff series, for instance, the veteran dictated a methodical tempo, averaged 12.5 assists, set lethal screens, dived for loose balls, drilled critical jumpers, connected with Karl Malone and averaged a whopping 37.5 minutes, up from 30 minutes in the season. All this after playing all 82 games for the 16th time in 18 seasons ... and missing a minuscule 22 games throughout his entire career.

Amazing. Astonishing. Almost miraculous. While cheating the clock and beating up on opponents, Stockton, who remains noncommittal about retirement plans, rolls along as the league's all-time leader in steals and assists, having passed Maurice Cheeks and Magic Johnson years ago. His career field-goal percentage of 51.7 also ranks him fourth all-time among NBA guards, while also jamming the Jazz phone lines and causing coach Jerry Sloan considerable angst. "I got a call from a lady the other day telling me I have to let John shoot more," said Sloan, with a wry grin. "People are always getting on me about that. I try to tell them that John is more interested in passing the ball and keeping his teammates happy and involved, but they don't listen." Stockton remains the master, the classic playmaker who runs the fast break flawlessly, sticks the pull-up jumper, scoots into the lane, into openings that few others see, and then finds teammates with efficient but invariably fundamental passes.

Indeed, what is scribble to some is Picasso to others. Sloan, for one. The coach can actually count the times he has seen Stockton dribble between his legs or attempt no-look passes -- zero -- and yet this excites him. Still, there was that crafty pass that wrapped around Vlade Divac's waist the other night, catching Malone in stride on the other side of the lane; the series of one-bounce tosses to the Mailman during that fourth-quarter rally; the baseball pass on the break to Andrei Kirilenko; the floater to Donyell Marshall in the low post; and the repeated, fearless forays into the lane, bodies often colliding and occasionally crumbling to the floor. "Sometimes I go to grab John," says Malone, smiling softly, "and I forget how little he is." Yes and no. Stockton, one of only four guards to play in the league at age 40, is both small and mighty. His exceptionally large, powerful hands enable him to caress the ball and whip one-handed passes that change speeds, almost like a pitcher throwing a changeup, and he is notorious for slapping down on the ball or yanking it loose from an opponent. He has thick, muscular arms and thighs, and despite a loss of lateral quickness, he possesses the stamina of a much younger man -- the result of 18 years of a rigid conditioning regimen that includes sessions with a chiropractor and a habitually early bed check.

Then there are the eyes. Always the eyes. As he moves around the court, his piercing blue eyes follow the action intently, intuitively shifting from present to future as he anticipates each play. He is an eagle studying his prey, waiting to pounce. Yet his eyes work like reflectors; he gives away nothing. Stockton, who stores information on opposing players on an internal computer disc, to be called up on demand, is so secretive, so zealously guards his knowledge, that he avoids in-depth interviews, particularly with journalists he has known for years. "I don't want to slip up," he explains, laughing, while shooting baskets the other day. "I might get comfortable and say something that I shouldn't." He relinquishes even fewer concessions to age. He is older and undoubtedly wiser. He has a wife (Nada) and six children; that alone should account for a few gray hairs. Yet the look is almost strikingly familiar. Dark brown hair still frames his face, and a shock of bangs dips across his forehead. The sideburns are short and trim. And those short shorts ... what's up with that? The man indeed is a relic, never to be replicated.

The only obvious sign of aging is a handful of lines and wrinkles that crease his boyish features, becoming most noticeable when he smiles. And he does smile. While most within the league would characterize Stockton as the serious, studious type with a cold-blooded, ruthless nature -- one NBA coach refers to him as "that little assassin" -- he can be quite the prankster. In the locker room. On the bus. In his father's pub during the offseasons. Once, while strolling along Las Ramblas with a few of his Olympic teammates during the 1992 Barcelona Games, Stockton was asked by one oblivious fan to take a photo of Charles Barkley. He snapped the photo and laughed about it for days afterward.

Four years later, while touring with the 1996 USA team in Chicago, he yanked a baseball cap tightly onto his head -- the full extent of his disguise -- and mingled with a crowd of several thousand at the annual food festival near the lake. "No one recognized me," a delighted Stockton said upon returning to the hotel. "It was great." In many respects, this Stockton/Jazz marriage has been ideal, delaying the inevitable. Or, given the setting, the scene of ideal multiple marriages: Stockton and his alter ego with the extroverted but similarly old-fashioned Malone. Stockton and Sloan, the no-frills, no-nonsense coach. Stockton, a small-town product (Spokane, Wash.), and Salt Lake, a small-town NBA market. Stockton and owner Larry Miller. Now there's a pairing for you. What other owner would risk ridicule by retrieving balls during warmups, slapping palms with his players and participating in the pregame huddle? The atmosphere at the Delta Center is so family-friendly, in fact, that Stockton's oldest children dominate the court while he showers and changes clothes after games. They think what their dad does is cool, which is one reason he continues to play, along with the fact that he loves the game and craves competition. They probably even think their dad is cool. And not to rock their world or anything, but Stockton is more than a passing fancy, so much more enduring than any trend. Enjoy him now, because when he takes his ball and goes home? When he finally grows up and goes away? Boy, will he be missed.