After Lob City Letdown, Chris Paul Seizes Second Shot at Superstar Marriage
Paul adored those 2008 Hornets, the rollicking team dinners at his condo downtown and the heated game nights at Tyson Chandler's house in the suburbs. They traveled in packs a dozen deep, like on one Saturday night in Toronto, when they rolled into a popular club called Muzik. At midnight, early by T Dot standards, small forward Bonzi Wells noticed Paul paying the bill and calling the cars. "O.K.," Wells sighed, "I guess it's time to leave." The Hornets solemnly filed out of the club, then throttled the Raptors the next day for their 50th win. They hung together and scrapped together. Before practices, backup point guard Mike James would tell Paul, "I'm going at your neck!" Afterward, he'd leave muttering, "Little s---." Paul mastered the pick-and-roll with power forward David West, cash from 17 feet, but he could not persuade the sweet-shooting big man to step out to the three-point line. "Peezy," West cooed, "that's fool's gold."
In six seasons with the Clippers, Paul always made the playoffs, always had a shot. But something was missing. The Clips did not roll a dozen deep. Group dinners were rare, and movie-night attendance waned. Says former Clippers forward Luc Mbah a Moute, "Guys just did their own thing." The Clippers were older than the Hornets and L.A. more sprawling than New Orleans. "Some of it could have had to do with me," says Paul. "You make time for what you want to make time for. But I do think the off-court stuff matters." Before Golden State faced the resurgent Clips two years ago, coach Steve Kerr told his Dubs, "They don't really love each other."
Paul comes from a close family and craves the kinship of a team. After the Hornets drafted him with the fourth pick in 2005, he grew homesick for Wake Forest's cafeteria and study hall, until point guard Speedy Claxton and his daughter started inviting him over after practice. But there is another, more pragmatic reason Paul yearns to keep running mates close: He is a demanding leader, and when you drop the hammer, it helps to also bring the glue. "If a guy is having real conversations with you, and then he comes at you during a game, you know it's not personal," Paul explains. "You know, if he goes nuts, it's just because he's trying to win."
Paul refers to many of the 2008 Hornets as "VCR friends," because they can pause communication for six months and pick up where they left off. He made some VCR friends with the Clippers. "There were moments Chris and I hated each other," recalls guard J.J. Redikk, now with the 76ers, "but there wasn't one time I had to go to him after a game and say, 'Yo, man, we're cool, right?' I knew we were always cool." Lob City—presided over by Paul, power forward Blake Griffin and center DeAndre Jordan—was a viable NBA municipality. But Paul sensed, from his bayou days, it could be more. Last April, in the 81st game of the season, L.A. obliterated the Rockets. During a dead ball, Houston star James Harden turned to Paul. "So," Harden said, "what are you going to do?"
There would be pickup games at UCLA and Loyola Marymount, a bachelor party and a Caribbean retreat, a Kendrick Lamar concert and an Astros playoff game. "I didn't even get booed," Paul laughs, in contrast to his Dodger Stadium visits, surrounded by Lakers loyalists. The Rockets scheduled bowling nights, and on the road, college-football-watch parties. After Christmas, players took their wives to Boston, and for New Year's, Jada threw a bash, as the Hornets used to do. "You need the relationships if you want to be great," says Mbah a Moute, who signed with the Rockets in July. "Otherwise, somebody gets caught in the heat of the moment and says something someone else doesn't like. But if you go to dinner after, and talk it out, you can squash it." Paul and Griffin were productive coworkers, but the NBA is not Microsoft, and a lot of glittery partnerships have withered without a personal touch. "I'm not telling you every night in Houston we're sitting around a campfire," Paul says. "I'm just telling you the biggest thing I've learned in this league is the importance of communication."
He recalls a morning commute on Interstate 405 in L.A., when he scrolled through a few dozen unanswered texts. "You know how we all get these messages and we don't respond, and then we see the people who sent them and say, 'Oh, sorry, I didn't get your message.' No. You got it. You got the message. You chose not to respond. I got so tired of avoiding stuff. That's what we're doing. We're avoiding. And I can't do it anymore. I can't have the pink elephant in the room. If somebody is asking for tickets, and I don't have them, I've got to say it. It's the same with relationships. If we have issues, let's get them out there. Let's talk about them. We might disagree. But we won't be doing all this stuff." He punctuates with a convincing side-eye. It is an expression Harden and Dwight Howard would probably recognize. Two years ago the Rockets also had college-football-watch parties, only nobody showed. NBA elites often go separate ways. "I've talked to James about all this," Paul says. "We can't do it."
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Two days after the ruckus, Paul sounded apologetic over the phone from Houston, even though he didn't instigate. "I'm supposed to be the friend who doesn't let anything happen," he said, the friend who calls the cars at midnight. He is attempting to re-create a slice of New Orleans in Houston, with the camaraderie and the edge. Ariza was a fellow Hornet. Forward P.J. Tucker was a childhood foe. On the night in June when the Rockets acquired Paul from the Clippers for a grab bag that included guards Lou Williams and Patrick Beverley, general manager Daryl Morey FaceTimed his newest Hall of Fame ballhandler at 3 a.m. "What do you think about Luc," Morey asked. A free agent, Mbah a Moute could solidify Houston's wing defense, but he could also help Paul apply lessons learned in L.A. "This is our chance," Paul told Mbah a Moute, after hanging up with Morey, "to build what we've been talking about."
Teams involved in physical altercations tend to rationalize them as bonding exercises. When Paul jawed on the floor with Griffin on MLK Day, he was actually defending D'Antoni over a prior run-in, and when Ariza scuffled with Griffin he was really defending Paul. Such is life in a locker room when the locker room is unified. But this was not a trust fall. In the days after the game players spent much time on the phone, debriefing each other. Some Rockets chatted amiably with some Clippers. Paul called Rivers but did not hear back. The NBA issued two-game suspensions for Ariza and Houston guard Gerald Green, clearing Paul and Harden.
Mute
CP3 seizes his second shot at superstar marriage
Paul adored those 2008 Hornets, the rollicking team dinners at his condo downtown and the heated game nights at Tyson Chandler's house in the suburbs. They traveled in packs a dozen deep, like on one Saturday night in Toronto, when they rolled into a popular club called Muzik. At midnight, early by T Dot standards, small forward Bonzi Wells noticed Paul paying the bill and calling the cars. "O.K.," Wells sighed, "I guess it's time to leave." The Hornets solemnly filed out of the club, then throttled the Raptors the next day for their 50th win. They hung together and scrapped together. Before practices, backup point guard Mike James would tell Paul, "I'm going at your neck!" Afterward, he'd leave muttering, "Little s---." Paul mastered the pick-and-roll with power forward David West, cash from 17 feet, but he could not persuade the sweet-shooting big man to step out to the three-point line. "Peezy," West cooed, "that's fool's gold."
In six seasons with the Clippers, Paul always made the playoffs, always had a shot. But something was missing. The Clips did not roll a dozen deep. Group dinners were rare, and movie-night attendance waned. Says former Clippers forward Luc Mbah a Moute, "Guys just did their own thing." The Clippers were older than the Hornets and L.A. more sprawling than New Orleans. "Some of it could have had to do with me," says Paul. "You make time for what you want to make time for. But I do think the off-court stuff matters." Before Golden State faced the resurgent Clips two years ago, coach Steve Kerr told his Dubs, "They don't really love each other."
Paul comes from a close family and craves the kinship of a team. After the Hornets drafted him with the fourth pick in 2005, he grew homesick for Wake Forest's cafeteria and study hall, until point guard Speedy Claxton and his daughter started inviting him over after practice. But there is another, more pragmatic reason Paul yearns to keep running mates close: He is a demanding leader, and when you drop the hammer, it helps to also bring the glue. "If a guy is having real conversations with you, and then he comes at you during a game, you know it's not personal," Paul explains. "You know, if he goes nuts, it's just because he's trying to win."
Paul refers to many of the 2008 Hornets as "VCR friends," because they can pause communication for six months and pick up where they left off. He made some VCR friends with the Clippers. "There were moments Chris and I hated each other," recalls guard J.J. Redikk, now with the 76ers, "but there wasn't one time I had to go to him after a game and say, 'Yo, man, we're cool, right?' I knew we were always cool." Lob City—presided over by Paul, power forward Blake Griffin and center DeAndre Jordan—was a viable NBA municipality. But Paul sensed, from his bayou days, it could be more. Last April, in the 81st game of the season, L.A. obliterated the Rockets. During a dead ball, Houston star James Harden turned to Paul. "So," Harden said, "what are you going to do?"
There would be pickup games at UCLA and Loyola Marymount, a bachelor party and a Caribbean retreat, a Kendrick Lamar concert and an Astros playoff game. "I didn't even get booed," Paul laughs, in contrast to his Dodger Stadium visits, surrounded by Lakers loyalists. The Rockets scheduled bowling nights, and on the road, college-football-watch parties. After Christmas, players took their wives to Boston, and for New Year's, Jada threw a bash, as the Hornets used to do. "You need the relationships if you want to be great," says Mbah a Moute, who signed with the Rockets in July. "Otherwise, somebody gets caught in the heat of the moment and says something someone else doesn't like. But if you go to dinner after, and talk it out, you can squash it." Paul and Griffin were productive coworkers, but the NBA is not Microsoft, and a lot of glittery partnerships have withered without a personal touch. "I'm not telling you every night in Houston we're sitting around a campfire," Paul says. "I'm just telling you the biggest thing I've learned in this league is the importance of communication."
He recalls a morning commute on Interstate 405 in L.A., when he scrolled through a few dozen unanswered texts. "You know how we all get these messages and we don't respond, and then we see the people who sent them and say, 'Oh, sorry, I didn't get your message.' No. You got it. You got the message. You chose not to respond. I got so tired of avoiding stuff. That's what we're doing. We're avoiding. And I can't do it anymore. I can't have the pink elephant in the room. If somebody is asking for tickets, and I don't have them, I've got to say it. It's the same with relationships. If we have issues, let's get them out there. Let's talk about them. We might disagree. But we won't be doing all this stuff." He punctuates with a convincing side-eye. It is an expression Harden and Dwight Howard would probably recognize. Two years ago the Rockets also had college-football-watch parties, only nobody showed. NBA elites often go separate ways. "I've talked to James about all this," Paul says. "We can't do it."
----------------
Two days after the ruckus, Paul sounded apologetic over the phone from Houston, even though he didn't instigate. "I'm supposed to be the friend who doesn't let anything happen," he said, the friend who calls the cars at midnight. He is attempting to re-create a slice of New Orleans in Houston, with the camaraderie and the edge. Ariza was a fellow Hornet. Forward P.J. Tucker was a childhood foe. On the night in June when the Rockets acquired Paul from the Clippers for a grab bag that included guards Lou Williams and Patrick Beverley, general manager Daryl Morey FaceTimed his newest Hall of Fame ballhandler at 3 a.m. "What do you think about Luc," Morey asked. A free agent, Mbah a Moute could solidify Houston's wing defense, but he could also help Paul apply lessons learned in L.A. "This is our chance," Paul told Mbah a Moute, after hanging up with Morey, "to build what we've been talking about."
Teams involved in physical altercations tend to rationalize them as bonding exercises. When Paul jawed on the floor with Griffin on MLK Day, he was actually defending D'Antoni over a prior run-in, and when Ariza scuffled with Griffin he was really defending Paul. Such is life in a locker room when the locker room is unified. But this was not a trust fall. In the days after the game players spent much time on the phone, debriefing each other. Some Rockets chatted amiably with some Clippers. Paul called Rivers but did not hear back. The NBA issued two-game suspensions for Ariza and Houston guard Gerald Green, clearing Paul and Harden.
Mute
CP3 seizes his second shot at superstar marriage
I'm not a hater 
