The following is an excerpt from "DRAZEN: The Remarkable Life & Legacy of the Mozart of Basketball," by Australian author Todd Spehr, a new book about the late, great former Portland Trail Blazers and New Jersey Nets guard Drazen Petrovic that hits bookshelves today, Monday, March 30. It's available for order here and here.
What set Petrovic apart, besides his phenomenal shooting stroke and scoring prowess, was his ruthlessness as a competitor. In particular, he relished going against a player of remarkably similar qualities — Indiana Pacers star Reggie Miller.
Please note: The following excerpt contains edited, but still sensitive, language.
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In late February 1992, there was a game with Indiana that took on extra importance because of the standings. The Pacers were a game-and-a-half ahead of New Jersey in the race for a playoff spot and the Nets viewed it as a game that they had to have. That morning at the shootaround, Tom Newell, Bill Fitch’s lead assistant and defensive specialist, went over with Petrovic the assignment of guarding Reggie Miller, Indiana’s top shooting guard. Since Petrovic arrived in New Jersey, his duels with Miller provided fascinating theatre. As offensive players they were quite similar: hard workers off the ball, good at getting space from the opponent, and superb shooters with an ability to get their shot off quickly and with great accuracy. But perhaps above all else each were competitors of the highest order, which usually fueled a mutual mouthing-off, Miller in English, Petrovic in something Miller knew only as a language other than English. Miller came to dislike Petrovic, irked by both his ability as an offensive player and his fearlessness as a trash talker. In time, it appeared Miller was most disturbed by the similarities. “Maybe it was because I was jealous of the way he shot the ball,” Miller would later write in his autobiography. “Quickest release in the game. One shooter to the other, I envied his ability.”
Because Miller was indefatigable as an offensive player and the Pacers offense was structured to cater to his constant movement, the assignment of guarding him was always emphasized in preparation by the opponent. Miller was the type of offensive player who could move as easily in the fourth quarter as he did in the first. An opponent could not afford even a possession where Miller was left open, for a string of distance shots could be especially demoralizing. Rick Carlisle, the team’s other assistant, went over the film with Petrovic, indicating that he was to chase Miller through every screen. Under no circumstances was Petrovic to switch defensively as a result of being screened off. Out on the practice floor, Newell showed Petrovic how to guard him.
“When Reggie comes through the lane, Draz,” Newell began, “you’ve got to dance with him.” Newell started pitta-patting his feet, a technique that would allow Petrovic to commit to whichever route Miller chose. “Put a hand in the lane and usher him through,” Newell continued, “just like you’re in a slow dance.”
A slow dance, Newell said, sure that Petrovic would understand his concept.
“You’ve got to dance with that motherf***** now, Draz. Just dance with that motherf*****.”
The game was tight throughout, and Petrovic unlocked a tie on a jumper with 30 seconds to go. His 19 points ultimately helped New Jersey win by four. More importantly, he defended Miller better than the coaching staff had expected, holding him to just one point as Miller missed all eight of his field goal attempts in 28 minutes. Newell and Carlisle were at once shocked and delighted.
Can you believe Draz? they said to each other as they walked the corridor to the locker room, stat sheet in hand. Together they shared genuine shock that such a maligned defensive player had held Miller so well. When they entered the locker room, there was Petrovic sitting at his locker stall beaming. He derived a great deal of satisfaction in having a measure of success against Miller. A loud voice caught the attention of both Newell and Carlisle as they entered the locker room.
“Dance, motherf*****, dance!”
It was Petrovic. The room erupted in laughter. It was, to those in the inner sanctum, a seminal Petrovic moment, one that was to not be forgotten. Even in the years that followed, whenever Newell and Carlisle would leave each other phone messages, they would invariably end with "Dance, motherf*****, dance!" before hanging up.
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