ESPN on Darko and Ognjen Askrabic

[AleksandarN]

Face to face with Darko

Mon: Out of the Darko

Chat: Chad & Tony transcript

BELGRADE, Yugoslavia -- Nothing can top the sheer exhilaration of the first few days in Belgrade. The sounds and smells are now becoming familiar. More Americans, including NBA scouts from the Lakers and Clippers, have joined us, and the quest to find Darko Milicic is basically over. He is as good as advertised, but reality quickly sets in for most of the NBA people I talked to. There will be no draft day surprises in June. If he's in the draft, still a big if, he will go No. 2. For the team that picks third, the journey has just begun.

DEC. 15: THE FEAST

10 a.m. After destroying Budocnast last night, Milicic is waiting for me in the morning in the lobby of my hotel, content to sit in his sweats sipping orange juice. Again, there is no pageantry surrounding the kid who many feel is the greatest young player ever to come out of Yugoslavia.

Milicic, who stands 7-feet and carries a solid 245 pounds, is quick to brush off any comparisons. He's still too young to play for the national team, so he hasn't had much opportunity to work with Vlade Divac or Peja Stojakovic. He knows them, respects them, but doesn't try to be them. He is his own player. Comparisons quickly escape him. Is he Pau Gasol? No, he's much stronger. Is he Dirk Nowitzki? Again, he's stronger and a much more physical player. Maybe Arvydas Sabonis? He laughs and puts his head in his hands.


So who exactly are you, Darko Milicic?

"I like Kevin Garnett," Milicic begins. "He plays like Yugoslavian players play, with heart."

The Garnett reference isn't surprising if you spend much time with any of the young European bigs. Vlade is the great grandfather. Peja is the father. They have paved the way. But Yugoslavians today don't just watch Kings games. They like the ferocity and versatility that Garnett displays on a nightly basis. They love a guy who scores 20 points, grabs 13 boards and still has time to dish out six assists.

European players, like most African American players, are stuck with stereotypes. You know the code words. Skills, fundamentals, great feel for the game. Milicic is all of these things, but not only these things. He's fast, athletic and will dunk it in your face -- if it's OK with his coach.

Right now, the NBA is still far from Milicic's mind. He's just trying to keep his demanding coach happy. The restrictions on him clearly frustrate him. His coach has told him to quit shooting from beyond the arc. His team doesn't run any plays for him. And if he gets out of line, he'll find himself on the end of the bench.

Darko isn't complaining. "The coach is trying to make me a better player. He's trying to establish me as an inside player. He tells me the shots there are easier. He's right."

Darko says he actually prefers to play in the paint, a rarity for Yugoslavians who usually thrive on the perimeter. He likes the contact, the jockeying for position and the footwork drills. But most of all, he likes to be a team player. Asked whether he preferred to shoot 3s or dunk, Milicic chooses neither.

"I like the assist," he says. "When I make a good assist, my coach is proud. He tells me that I see the floor very good. I want to help my teammates win."

I believe him, but of course, he has to say that. In Yugoslavia, team always comes before the individual. Sonics forward Vladimir Radmanovic was kicked off the Yugoslavian national team this summer after his coach felt that the "me" in the NBA had polluted his game.

Milicic recently ran afoul of his coach when Insider, in a story on ESPN.com, reported his salary and spoke of his questionable living conditions at Hemofarm. Darko hadn't revealed the information himself, but when the article was translated into Serbian and word spread, a major taboo had been broken.

"We don't speak of such things," Milicic said, clearly embarrassed. "I am happy here."

Yes, but he's even happier on the court. Milicic trains between five and six hours every day. He shoots for at least an hour, works on his ball handling and lifts before he goes to bed each night. When he's in the game his competitiveness stands out. So many big men in the U.S. are expected, even forced, to play basketball. No one is holding a gun to Darko's head. He wants to be the best.

Darko gets his size from his mother (she was a 6-3 basketball player in Yugoslavia) and his brawn from his father, a 6-7 police officer who is as wide as he is tall. By the age of 14, when Darko really burst onto the scene, he was 6-7 and playing point guard for the Hemofarm junior team. Within the next year he sprang up to nearly 7-feet tall. He was such a dominant ball handler that his coach never thought about moving him off the point. Darko was so dominant in the junior league that his team took the unprecedented step of moving him onto the senior team just before his 16th birthday.

The rest, as he says, was history. Since that time, he's added another inch, gained 15 pounds and his wingspan has grown to an impressive 7-foot-6. He has no history of serious injuries, despite rumors to the contrary. Milicic does have a scar that runs up one side of his knee. On first glance it looks like surgery. But upon a close inspection, Milicic's story stands up -- he cut his knee on a piece of glass as a kid. End of rumor.

Milicic isn't satisfied that he has won me over. He brings with him tape of a game in October against Partizan. We head up to my room to put in the tape, with Milicic giving the play-by-play. Milicic is playing against the Nets' first-round pick, Nenad Kristic. It's clear why he brought the tape. Kristic, who many scouts have compared to Divac, can't keep up with Milicic. Darko is scoring at will on one end and shutting Kristic down on the other.

“ I like the assist. When I make a good assist, my coach is proud. He tells me that I see the floor very good. I want to help my teammates win. ”
— Darko Milicic
Then comes the dunk. After Partizan scores, the team inbounds the ball to Milicic just a bit before mid court. Milicic puts the ball on the floor and brings it up against pressure to around the 3-point line. There he takes Kristic off the dribble, penetrates into the lane and throws down a thunderous dunk over a helpless Partizan defender. The crowd goes wild. I stop the tape and rewind it. Play. Rewind. Play. Rewind. One more time. Well, maybe one more.

Assists are good. But the dunk will do just fine too.

3:00 p.m. Traveling with Tony Ronzone is a lot like hanging out with Rod Serling in the Twilight Zone. You're never sure what will happen next.

Ronzone is a success because of a keen eye for basketball talent. But that's only part of the story. He has a natural way with people. He's outgoing, friendly and generous. Everywhere he goes he has a contact or two who greets us with open arms.

Other scouts spend much of their time holed up in hotels when they're on the road. Not Ronzone. One minute he is wandering the streets, getting to know the people, the next he's on his way to the home of Partizan's coach to drink, eat and discuss Xs and Os.

Ronzone's believes his job is really about building relationships. The people he meets become life-long friends. At some point, he'll be able to use that friendship to get a tip, inside access to a player or just a good meal away from home.

After spending the early afternoon with Milicic, Ronzone and I are starving and take a cab into old Belgrade looking for some authentic Serbian food. We were looking for a restaurant called Seshij Moi. Ronzone is friends with a Yugoslavian kid in the states. His uncle owns the restaurant and has been e-mailing Ronzone to drop by and say hi.

The cab driver drops us off on a back street at the entrance to a cobbled alley way and disappears before we can figure out where we are. Turn back the clock 100 years, picture ancient brick buildings and storefronts, add a few staggering lovers playfully walking down the street and take away all recognition of the English language, and you can begin to picture where Ronzone and I stood.

We are in the middle of nowhere again. It takes us some time to decipher the Cyrillic script on the storefronts before we wander into what we thought was Seshij Moi. The restaurant is dark. Just one family sits at a table in the corner. We're greeted by a woman who rummages through decades worth of menus to find us some tattered photo copies of their dining selections with the English translations written in ink. All that's missing is Marlon Brando in a pinstripe suit mumbling about canoli in Serbian.

Ronzone tries to explain to the waitress who we were. She doesn't understand us, and we don't understand her. Tony pulls out his business card and asks her to give it to a man named Vlado.

3:45 p.m. A portly man with a white beard comes out and immediately moves us to a different table. He shakes our hands and then disappears. We think this is Vlado.

4:00 p.m. The same woman reappears with a large plate of food -- ham, deviled eggs, all sorts of cheeses and a bowl of red jelly mixed with meat. We haven't actually ordered anything, but this will do. Soon she's followed by more waiters brining wine and about every pickled vegetable you can imagine.

4:10 p.m. We have no idea what is happening but know it would be fruitless to ask. Obviously we are in the right place, and Vlado has decided to throw us a little feast. It was about then that Ronzone and I make a little deal that will almost kill both of us. I don't drink, and Ronzone isn't big on strange-looking food. We both know we would horribly offend these people if we don't eat and drink everything they give us, so the deal was this: He drinks all of the wine that they pour for me, and I'll eat all of the mystery food for the both of us. It sounded like a good deal at the time. It wasn't.

4:30 p.m. The ham is delicious, the cheeses are exquisite, but I'm having a hard time downing some spicy peppers sautéed in something like napalm. By now I've downed my fifth glass of sparkling water, but the waiter just keeps bringing out more wine.

4:45 p.m. Vlado reappears with a shot glass, says "Cheers!" and looks to Tony and I to do the same. I grab my water glass, but Vlado's not buying it. He yells something in Serbian at me and then disappears again. I'm sure the worst is behind us.

5:00 p.m. A burly waiter walks out the door carrying a giant platter of roasted meats. Now let me define giant. There had to be 25 pounds of shish kebabs on the platter. Chicken, pork, veal, sausages, and several mystery meats that remain a mystery to this day. Obviously, Vlado saw Tony's Pistons card and thought we were bringing the entire team to the restaurant.

5:45 p.m. We should have caused a distraction and left, but by now we are hopelessly entangled in this thing. I have personally consumed about 10 pounds of meat wrapped in bacon. It's all very delicious, but it's tough to breathe when three of your arteries are blocked.

6:00 p.m. I've failed to mention that several of Vlado's relatives have arrived at the restaurant. Of course, none of them speaks English either, and the conversation borders on the absurd. I know two words in Serbian, and the mother knows three words in English. Apparently that's enough to make us the official translators for the group. The scene is like a bad game of charades on crack. I'm flailing my arms and adding a bad Eastern European accent to my English, hoping the combination would pass for Serbian. The mother is less ambitious. She's just speaking Serbian -- very loudly.

6:15 p.m. Is it possible for a human being actually to explode? I've never seriously pondered this question before. But by now, I've eaten half my body weight.

6:30 p.m. Apparently, Tony and I learn that most of the conversation that night was centering on who Ronzone looked like. Frustrated with my translation skills, Vlado heads to the back to talk to the chef.

6:40 p.m. Vlado re-emerges and with his hands held high screaming "Travolta!" Glad we cleared that up.

6:50 p.m. Obviously we haven't cleared anything up. Vlado disappears again and returns with a six piece gypsy band. They all circle Tony and begin playing a Bee Gees song on their instruments. My friends, you haven't lived until you've heard Staying Alive, in Serbian, played on a banjo, two guitars, a violin and the maracas. At the end of each verse they chant "Travolta!"

7:00 p.m. Tony is dancing, my stomach resembles a woman in the ninth month of pregnancy. Another waiter emerges with another giant tray, this time loaded with desserts. We're dead.

7:05 p.m. I go to the bathroom and contemplate making a run for it.

7:10 p.m. I decide that I'm too full to run and return to find my plate filled with most of the desserts. "If I have to drink all of the wine," Tony says. "You have to eat all of the desserts." I'm quickly taken by a curvy little dessert that looks something like a granola croissant.

7:30 p.m. Now I'm feeling funny. Tony is on a chair, dancing, and Vlado is pulling out a wad of cash and stuffing it into Tony's pants.

7:35 p.m. But that's not why I'm feeling funny.

There is something very strange about the dessert I'm eating. I should have stopped with one of those croissant things. Mama begins laughing and, pointing at the dessert, keeps repeating something in Serbian. The band and the waiters are laughing. Finally she speaks in English. "Viagra!" she says pointing to the dessert. You have got to be kidding.

7:36 p.m. I won't be leaving the table for a while.

8:00 p.m. The family officially wants to adopt Tony. More relatives are pouring through the door. Tony gets a tour of the place and comes back with a painting off the wall. Within minutes, I have one, too.

8:30 p.m. Vlado's sister tells us in broken English, "My brother wants to take you home now." It's over. Waiters come out of the kitchen with bags of leftovers, CDs and our paintings. The band serenades us goodnight as we walk out of the restaurant.

8:45 p.m. Vlado drives right past our hotel. It isn't over

8:55 p.m. We arrive at an apartment complex in who knows where. Vlado is taking us home. To his home. Inside the complex, we have to take turns going up the two man elevator to the top. We wander through a dark hallway until Vlado reaches his door. Inside are his wife, her sister, his sister and his baby boy, and another cornucopia of food on the table.

My friends, you haven't lived until you've heard Staying Alive, in Serbian, played on a banjo, two guitars, a violin and the maracas. At the end of each verse they chant "Travolta!"

9:30 p.m. The party is slowing down. Dinner can only last so long. Especially when no one has a clue what is going on. It's clear they are ready for us to leave, but we have no idea exactly how to get home.

My mind wanders back to a history lesson in college. Captain Cook, when he discovered the Hawaiian Islands, was greeted in a similar fashion. The Hawaiians, a giving people, just like the Serbs, roasted pigs, threw their entire catch of fish in the imu and treated Cook and his crew like kings. Unfortunately for Cook, he didn't know when to say when. His crew literally devoured just about everything they had. When there was no food left, Cook decided to leave and boarded his ship back to England. A short time later Cook experienced trouble with his boat and had to return to the island. The people, upon seeing Cook return, were angry. He came ashore and an argument ensued. In the end, Cook was killed. The crew fled the island, and the Hawaiians cooked Cook for supper.

9:35 p.m. Luckily there is no water boiling on the stove.

10:00 p.m. Mama yells Hyatt.

10:15 p.m. Seven hours and 15 minutes later we return from the twilight zone, 20 pounds heavier and convinced that there isn't a more hospitable people in all the world.

DEC. 16: PRACTICE MAKES DRAFT PICKS

10:00 a.m. I meet Ronzone in the lobby. We're off to watch FMP Zeleznik, the top team in Yugoslavia, practice. The trip is a short one but will take us through one of the toughest parts of Belgrade.

Along the way we wind through a part of town unlike anything I've ever seen. The houses can only be described as neo-hobo -- cardboard walls, tin roofs with large satellite dishes perched on top. Those Serbs love their basketball. Our driver typifies the symbolic meeting of old and new Europe. One minute, traditional Serbian music is blasting from his radio. The next, he's rapping to Eminem.

FMP Zeleznik is perhaps the most progressive club in all of Yugoslavia. Its gym is actually part of a larger campus dedicated to teaching proper basketball skills to kids.

The club searches out the top young players in the country and offers to house them, educate them and teach them how to play basketball. Kids come as young as 12 years old. They practice hoops with top coaches between five and six hours a day. It isn't uncommon for these kids to get instruction along with the senior team. In fact, toward the end of practice, a bunch of kids file into the stands wearing Nikes and carrying gym bags. They have next.

Maybe it's time for David Stern to take a trip to Yugoslavia. He has been the NBA's most vocal critic of teams drafting young players. The rules have become so strict, Cavs coach John Lucas was suspended this summer when LeBron James showed up at an informal Cavs workout. Lucas let him play and later paid the price. The philosophy here is different. They want their young players to develop relationships with the top players and coaches in the country. It gives them an anchor that many U.S. players sorely lack. How does it hurt LeBron, or anyone for that matter, to spend as much time as possible learning from the best?

FMP has historically had some of the best talent in the country. Its coach, Aco Petrovic, coached Marko Jaric and Vladimir Radmanovic when they were young. His latest phenom is a kid named Ognjen Askrabic. Askrabic's name may be familiar to some hard core NBA fans. The Mavs made a strong run at him last season. Because he wasn't drafted by the age of 22, Askrabic is a free agent. Unfortunately for the Mavs, and luckily for the rest of the NBA, Askrabic couldn't get out of his contract in time to sign a contract with Dallas.

Askrabic is widely considered to be the best veteran (he's 23) Yugoslavian player left in the country. He leads the Yugoslavian league in every imaginable category. He's top five in scoring, rebounds, assists, steals and blocks. He's 6-foot-9, has a strong body and resembles Wally Szczerbiak at a distance. Askrabic has all the skills, but his teammates praise his court smarts and clever playing style for the team's success.

Askrabic joins his teammates at midcourt as Petrovic explains that they are to practice a 1-1-3 zone defense today, similar to the one employed by Lute Olson at the University of Arizona. Petrovic has been to the U.S. before to learn coaching strategies. Obviously he was taking notes.

His players on defense are practicing closing out on 3-point shooters. The skill is essential throughout Europe. In fact, the training drill resembles a scene from the movie "Pleasantville" when the perfect 1950s basketball team stepped on the court and immediately began draining outside jumpers. They never missed. Neither does Petrovic's crew.

After a lengthy session working on defense, the coach moves to a light scrimmage, and the players put on a show. The gym was empty except for Tony, myself, several coaches and the 15 players. All you could hear for 20 minutes was the squeak of the player's shoes. The ball rarely, if ever, touched the floor.

"They make things so simple," Ronzone leans over and tells me. "We over-dribble in the NBA. Our guards dominate the ball. Look how everyone is sharing."

Ronzone points out more things. Over an hour of their practice time that morning was dedicated to shooting. NBA teams spend their practice time on the defensive end, usually without the ball. Shooting drills in the NBA typically last 20 minutes. Want to know why the European players are lapping our players in fundamental skill sets? Practice makes perfect.

"Do the numbers man," Ronzone says. "Over time, all that extra shooting will pay off."

The drill goes on for 30 minutes. We never see Askrabic miss a shot.

After the practice is over, I stop former University of Texas star Reggie Freeman. Freeman, like many other top collegiate players, has found a nice life in Europe running teams. Tyus Edney, Scoonie Penn, Charlie Bell and Derrick Dial are among others who have thrived in Europe after being spurned by the league.

Freeman can't say enough good things about his teammates. "This is a team here," he said. "No one is selfish. Everyone is focused on the same goal. There aren't any egos here."

I wander over to Askrabic, who's sitting on the bench icing his knee. He doesn't enjoy star status despite his huge numbers. Like Milicic, Askrabic admires Garnett.

"He plays strong, nasty basketball," he says. "That's how I like to play -- hard basketball." Like Milicic, Askrabic says his favorite thing to do on the court is pass the ball to an open teammate. Unlike Milicic, he isn't in a hurry to join the NBA.

"I wait here to become a better player," Askrabic says when I bring up the NBA. "I don't want to hurry. I want to be as prepared as I can be. Then, when the club tells me I am ready, I will go."

Askrabic has been a popular man lately. In the last month the Nuggets, Raptors, Lakers and Clippers all have been to Belgrade to see him play. Expect a bidding war to erupt this summer once the free-agent period begins. His team has promised to let him out of his contract this summer, and Askrabic's skills outweigh anyone not named James or Milicic in this year's draft.

But all of the attention may be for naught. Sometimes it pays to do your homework early. The Mavs have been courting Askrabic for some time. Unlike many teams, the coaches themselves have been over trying to woo Oji to come to the states. He is comfortable with them and their dedication to making lives better for international players.

"I think I will go to Dallas, or maybe Sacramento," Askrabic mentions later. "They have already treated me very good."

Could Askrabic be the final piece of the puzzle for Dallas?

Relationships. It's all about relationships.

[ÜberDirk]

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