Photo by Ken Blaze-USA TODAY Sports
Advertisement
Kendrick Perkins, circa 2010, had a big blockish body, with a big blockish head set atop it. Officially listed at 6-10 and 280 pounds, he seemed even heavier than that, not due to any obvious pudge or muscle but because his motions suggested an almost molecular heaviness. He rebounded desperately, his toes maybe eight inches off the floor and his hands reaching up as if for a rope that might save him from dropping into a canyon. He set hard screens, and sent even harder stares in the direction of officials who whistled them illegal. He looked, running up and down the court, as if that running were the most difficult and painful thing he had ever done, and as if he would take out the frustration that difficulty and pain had produced on the next person to so much as dip a sneaker into the lane. Superficially, in size and scowl, Perkins resembled those athletes who mourners of boxing say might have made a great champion—the best heavyweight in America is actually Ray Lewis—but he wasn't, and they didn't.
Advertisement
Advertisement