His website calls him “The Perfect 10 Model” (and even provides a recipe). He’s built like a power forward, shoots and passes like a guard, and can get off the floor when the mood strikes him. He also dresses like an Eastern Bloc Walt Frazier and flashes facial hair skills that would make George Michael blush. (It takes a lot to make George Michael blush). He was kicked off the Serbian national team for responding to a coach’s halftime tirade by flippantly peeling and eating a banana; he spent the second half in the crowd, posing for pictures and signing autographs. The current national team coach offered a TV or a laptop for his phone number. He wears mullets, fauxhawks, and braids equally without a hint of self-consciousness, lies about his height to bachelorette parties and about his snowboarding habits to his employer, evinces the mean ambition of a hot-boxed Breakfast Club, and, for all this, boasts over $15 million in career earnings, with another $18 or so guaranteed. He is Vladimir Radmanovic, a singular figure in the NBA.
Granted, underachievers are not a rarity in a league with guaranteed contracts. And there have been more than a few whose failure to fulfill their promise arose from deeper, decidedly unfunny troubles. (Eddie Griffin was perpetrator of perhaps the funniest drunken car accident in history until he died in another drunken car accident and it became hard to laugh at the first; Similarly, Vin Baker’s bug-eyed, jowly ineptitude was born of his constant suckling at the hooch-tit.) Despite his childhood in the war-torn Balkans, all signs point to Vladi being not a demon-stricken underachiever but rather a flamboyantly dressed, comically disengaged playboy, a combination of The Strokes and Steve Martin and Dan Ackroyd’s ‘Wild and Crazy Guys.’
Though I lament his departure from Seattle (for non-basketball reasons; as a GM, I would never sign him), his decision to sign with the Lakers has been a boon to Vladiphiles everywhere. Now he’s just a channel flip away, wearing grandpa-on-vacation knee-high black socks and improbably poised to add a championship ring to his garish get-up. (Perhaps that will finally discredit the ring as the litmust test of winner-ness). But more importantly, in his crusty coach, Vladi’s found his first worthy NBA foil.
Nate McMillan, a more mild-mannered member of the Scott Skiles/Avery Johnson young tough guy school, was way too no-nonsense for Vladi’s bullshit. Mike Dunleavy was just a quick stop on the contract-year gravy train (look—Vladi even rebounds!). But Phil Jackson is as hopelessly adolescent as Vladi (if possessed of a better attention span). His Zenmaster schtick consists mainly of third-hand mystical pablum and a willingness to insult his players in the press. What better situation, then, for Vladi and the Vladiphiles? We used to have to scour awkward translations of Serbian message boards to find the latest nugget of Vladi apathy, but now it’s front page on ESPN. Phil calls Vladi a space cadet; Vladi separates his shoulder snowboarding. Phil says Vladi should see the team psychologist; Vladi says Phil is like Jack Nicholson in Anger Management. Phil says Vladi is not playing up to his potential; Vladi says they’ll talk about it in the exit interview. And on and on it goes, Mean Girls in men’s clothes playing a child’s game.
Cue up the banana, Vladi. Let’s hope that exit interview doesn’t come for a long time.
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