Better Remember A Guy: Randolph Childress
It is true that every professional athlete was, for some larger group of less-remarkable physical specimens, something like a minor god. There are various different ways to tell the story of an encounter with this stripe of deity, from unconvincing fish-tale hero’s journey to self-effacing slapstick, but all of them are pegged to the same basic premise, which is a moment in which you crossed paths with someone who was both as human as you and identifiably not as you each went your respective ways.
So it’s almost too obvious to warrant mentioning that someone who played a handful of games in the NBA over the course of two forgettable seasons on two long-forgotten teams was also, at moments, the greatest basketball player that anyone around him had ever seen. This is always true. But also it is one thing to say that Randolph Childress played in 51 NBA games over two seasons and did nothing much of note in any of them and quite another to say that he was Barely A Guy.
By NBA standards, undoubtedly, Childress was just that. Short and slight for a shooting guard even in the 1990s, he was a second-round pick out of Wake Forest and never cracked the rotation in Portland or Detroit. He struggled to find or make shots in the NBA, although he was notably more successful in professional leagues abroad, where he played effectively into his late thirties. This is a familiar enough story, in its way, and while hoisting threes for a generous salary while living in Italy is no one’s idea of “a raw deal,” it is not the story that ambitious basketball players set out to write. But before he was a Guy, Childress spent some time as The Fucking Man.
Childress was, for pretty much all of his four seasons at Wake Forest, the coolest type of college player. He was not the best NBA prospect, necessarily—he overlapped long enough with Tim Duncan to guarantee as much—or the most well-rounded contributor, although he became a willing passer as the program improved around him. Childress was, first as a freshman reserve and then as a three-year starter and star, an unrepentant and merciless gunner. In an era that still regarded the three-point shot as something of an unseemly gimmick, Childress took more than seven per game. He scored in other ways, too, but the wild confidence that fired all of it—the permanent green light blazing above his head—found its purest expression in the threes he took and the work he did to get them. There is a reason why one of Google’s top suggested searches for Randolph Childress is “Randolph Childress Disrespect.” This moment, against Jeff McInnis in the 1995 ACC Tournament, is the proximate reason for that:
But there was a lot of disrespect to go around in his game, and in that tournament in particular. Childress was still aching from a shoulder subluxation as that tournament began, then ripped off a record 107 points in three games to lead ACC to its first conference title in more than three decades. In a Charlotte Observer story from last year, Childress talks about spending much of that time in a sort of adrenalized competitive blackout. He remembers it in flashes—demanding that his coach take out the four players on the floor with him and replace them with people who would “compete” during a bad stretch, but being equally brash in taking the weight down the stretch. “I told the guys to give me the ball,” Childress remembered of the final, which was the moment in which he shattered McInnis’s ankles, “and get out of the way. If we lose, blame me.” They did not lose.
It is a hell of a thing, if again a retrospectively normal one for members of the Guy community, to walk around knowing that you have done something like that. Childress carried that knowledge with him into and out of the NBA, through leagues around the world, and now brings it to work in his job on Wake Forest’s coaching staff. His son Bradley has come and gone through the program. It has all worked out pretty well for him, if not quite as heroically as his three bulletproof games in March might have suggested. No one starts out trying to make a dignified and decent life in a sport, although the lucky ones can end up there. The idea is to be a legend, and Randolph Childress got to be that, too.
-David Roth