On the Mark: I'm sorry, Mrs. Alston. I was wrong

by Mark Kriegel

Updated: March 18, 2008, 7:30 PM EST 164 comments

Yao Ming was that guy until he went down 10 games ago. Tracy McGrady, a perennial All-Star who possesses a singular talent, is now the obvious choice. But let me throw out another name: Rafer Alston. Any team that wins 22 straight has one hell of a point guard. In this case, he's an erstwhile playground legend, still known as Skip to My Lou.

Rafer Alston was famous, or something like it, before he had even played a game of organized ball. Skip, so named because of his distinctive, skipping step with the ball, was a darling at Harlem's Rucker Park. He was only a teenager and a chronic truant, but already a ballhandler unlike any other. He played but 10 games in two years at Cardozo High School in Queens. Then again, what need had he for high school? Skip had already gone national, the star of the first AND1 Mixtape. He was the city game's postmodern trickster.

Then he was off to Jerry Tarkanian's Academy for Wayward Ballers, otherwise known as Fresno State. I wrote a line about him then, something about the Knicks needing help at point guard and how they should get Skip in a sign and trade with the Fresno County Jail. Skip's a thug, get it?

His mother called me after she read that. This was nine years ago. Geraldine Alston was a nurse at a junior high school in Harlem. You could hear the kids in the background, trying to be cute — Mrs. Alston, I don't feel so good — trying to get out of school. Mrs. Alston wasn't an easy mark, though. Even Tarkanian — whom she invariably referred to as "Uncle Fester" — couldn't con her.

"I'm the first to tell Rafer when he's been a knucklehead," she told me. "But you're wrong about my boy."

We talked for a while, and I thanked her for the call. She didn't change my mind, though — at least not as it concerned the ultimate prospects for her son's success as a ballplayer. We both knew the mortality rate for playground legends — even those who make it off the streets often find their virtuoso skills a liability in college and the pros. These asphalt allegories have made for some great movies like "Hoop Dreams," and some fine books, going back to Pete Axthelm's classic, The City Game. But they've never been much cause for optimism, even after Rafer Alston had been drafted in the second round by the Milwaukee Bucks.

Mrs. Alston kept calling every month or two. She'd tell me if a line in the column had made her laugh, or if I had mentioned a song she liked. Inevitably, she'd tell me that Rafer was doing well.

She called me in 2001 when Rafer tallied eight assists without a turnover in 16 minutes for the Bucks.

Rafer Alston has come a long way since his Fresno State days. (Todd War / Getty Images)

A nice night, I thought, but not a career. I didn't want to tell her I knew better. The kid called Skip was just too light and too unschooled to really make it in the NBA. Ultimately, his pro career would be recalled as a novelty act.

Of course, Rafer Alston got better every season. He's long since made the transition from sub to starter, from fable to fact. The other day, as the Rockets beat the Lakers for their 22nd straight win, Alston's talents could be seen in full on national television. Alston had 31 points, including eight threes. But he only shot those because McGrady was having a tough day.

During this streak he has shown himself to be everything you'd want in a point guard — six assists and almost 15 points a night (17.3 since Yao went down.) More than that, though, is the way he plays defense and controls the tempo. He does all the things playground legends are not supposed to do.

I looked through all my phone numbers. But the one I had was no good anymore.

So I hope you read this, Mrs. Alston. I was wrong about your boy.

On the Mark

The Celtics are having a great year and all, but let's not forget: the Knicks are killing their RPI.

Can't wait to see Stanford-Cornell in the first round of the tournament. Heard they're going to have a dynamite science fair at halftime.

For all the geniuses who just had a chuckle, let me give you a heads up: within two years Bracketology will be a major at the University of Miami.

Seamheads love to say that hitting a baseball is the most difficult feat in sports.

But how tough can it really be if Billy Crystal made contact?

Personally, I would've thrown at him.

Then again, give the guy his due: Crystal's had a better spring than Carlos Delgado.

How did I not pick Rick Adelman for Coach of the Year?

And how about the Nuggets putting up 168 points on the Sonics? That's exactly what the Cavs scored in last year's Finals.

John Daly drinks a lot? Shocker. (Jeff Gross / Getty Images)

Then there's the golf coach saying John Daly likes to get drunk more than play golf.

Gee, I didn't see that one coming.

Been following the Eliot Spitzer story and I think it's safe to say there's more action in one night at the Mayflower Hotel than there is in an entire season of Major League Soccer.

Tell you what, though, this girl Kristen has that Jersey Shore hottie look down. Matter of fact, the more I think about it, Spitzer warrants consideration as one of the Empire State's more fiscally responsible chief executives.

More on the political front: Dr. Kevorkian is going ahead with plans to run for Congress in Michigan. I'm not impressed at all. If he really cared for the greater good, he'd go to a place where his services were needed.

Like Madison Square Garden.

This just in: Isiah Thomas is telling James Dolan that all they need to do is win the conference tournament.

This year's Naismith Award for Outstanding Contribution to basketball — an honor previously bestowed upon to men like Dean Smith, Red Auerbach and Frank McGuire — went to Dick Vitale.

"I don't belong on that list," said Vitale.

For once, the guy's got a point.

Best sporting event of the weekend? Was it Tiger's win? Was it Georgia? UCLA?

No, no and no.

Get excited, Georgetown fans. Mark Kriegel thinks you can go all the way. (Jim McIsaac / Getty Images)

It was Pacquaio-Marquez.

You know you've passed into premature degenerate-hood if you find yourself studying the UCLA cheerleaders, the small of one's back in particular, as if it were a miracle on the order of the Shroud of Turin.

I knew Bo Pelini would get results at Nebraska, just not this fast. Cornhusker offensive lineman Andy Christensen was released on bail after being charged with suspicion of first degree sexual assault. Yup, it's like a return to the Lawrence Phillips-Christian Peter glory days down in Lincoln.

Tom Osborne must be proud.

Still looking for a team that really got screwed? Go with Arizona State.

A pick to win-it-all? Take Georgetown.

Took my daughter to see this new Martin Lawrence picture. Not much of a movie, but it did afford me an opportunity to utter 11 words I never thought I'd say to advance the cause of fatherhood:

"Gimme a ho if you got your funky bus fare.

"Ho."