Advantage vs. Adversity: What Makes a Man?
It’s good to see you again. Funny how it’s still just you and me — though we’re not the same you and me as last time.
Have a drink. Let me tell you about two men. Different times, different places, but yoked by the same belief: the game was their way forward. One was cultivated, manicured like a vineyard heirloom. The other was heated raw, a scrap of iron thrown into the forge to see if he’d bend or break.
What makes a man? You won’t find it in trophies, or in the box score. But if we pour slow, if we look far enough down into this glass, we might catch a reflection worth keeping.
2019, Nokomis Regional High School Gym, Newport, Maine
The gym in Newport, Maine, shook like it was too small for the noise inside. Cooper Flagg, fourteen and already brushing six-foot-seven, leaned into the baseline corner as a rival guard muttered, “Make him go right, he’s just a kid.” The whistle blew, and in one sharp motion Cooper was past him, driving left, long strides too much for his man to contain. The ball kissed the glass and fell.
On the sideline, his mother — head coach for Nokomis — clapped once, sharp, like she’d seen it coming. His twin brother Ace shouted, “Same move, Coop! He can’t stop it!” The crowd fed off it, chanting his name.
That night’s line — 18 points, 9 rebounds — was just another entry in the steady climb, but what lingered was his frame: rangy, coordinated, already stronger than most juniors. At home, he had film study waiting, and the luxury of a family who could shuttle him between AAU tournaments, nutrition programs, and shooting trainers. Every advantage, baked into the schedule.
1981, Hamburg High School Gym, Hamburg, Arkansas
In Hamburg, Arkansas, the gym was hotter, quieter, and the bleachers thinner. Scottie Pippen, barely six feet tall and narrow through the shoulders, tugged nervously at the hem of his too-long jersey as the tip-off went skyward. He wasn’t a star yet; he wasn’t even starting most nights. His frame looked unfinished, all elbows and angles.
“Come on, Scottie, box out!” his coach barked after a rebound slipped through his fingers. The boy guarding him grinned, whispering, “Too skinny. Easy work.”
But Pippen ran the floor anyway, long strides chewing up space. When the ball found him on a broken play, he hit a pull-up jumper that startled even himself. From the stands, his brother Antron — twenty-two years older, his own NBA hopes long extinguished by asthma — clapped slowly. It was both encouragement and reminder: dreams here came with expiration dates.
His father was there too, leaning forward with hands cupped around his mouth: “That’s it, Scottie! Keep shooting!” At home, the family’s reality pressed harder — brother Ronnie already confined to a wheelchair after a freak accident, the household adjusting daily. No travel coaches, no specialized trainers. Just Scottie, an unfinished body, and a hoop out back, the ball echoing through the Arkansas night.
2024, Montverde Academy Arena, Montverde, Florida
The gym is thick with NBA scouts and shoe-company reps, the hum of a coronation already in the air. Montverde is up against Prolific Prep, a lineup of future D-I talent, but this is Cooper’s show. The rhythm feels inevitable. He catches on the wing, jab-steps, drives baseline — thunk — and a left-handed dunk shakes the rim.
“Another one for the lottery,” a scout mutters into his phone.
Cooper’s mom, Kelly, is in her usual place, not just cheering but tracking every possession like a coach. She leans over to his twin brother Ace. “He’s reading the help defense earlier now. See that?” Ace nods. Ace is good, but here he’s a mirror reminding Cooper of the standard, not the ceiling.
By halftime Cooper’s line is already swollen — 15 points, 6 rebounds, 3 blocks. But more than the numbers, it’s the way the gym bends toward him. Every rotation, every Prolific Prep timeout, is an attempt to solve the problem of one 17-year-old high school senior from Maine who already looks like he belongs in the Association.
1982, Hamburg High School Gym, Hamburg, Arkansas
It’s a smaller stage, but no less charged. Crossett is the powerhouse, the team people actually pay to see, and Hamburg is expected to fold. But Scottie, long and wiry at 6’1” in his senior year and still stretching into his frame, won’t let it go that way.
“Stay with him, stay with him!” Crossett’s coach yells as Scottie pushes the ball up the court. The defender bites on a hesitation, and Scottie glides into the lane for a soft layup. Two points. Hamburg’s bench erupts like they just stole something.
In the stands, Scottie’s father Preston watches from a wheelchair, the aftershock of his stroke heavy in the silence around him. Once the booming voice in Scottie’s ear, now he can only nod encouragement. The weight is clear: Scottie is the last healthy son who can carry the family’s dream forward.
By the fourth quarter Scottie posts 10 points and 5 rebounds, but every bucket feels outsized, a flare against the darkness. Hamburg loses, but not without fight. On the way out, one Crossett fan shakes his head and mutters, “That skinny kid from Hamburg — he don’t quit.”
2024 Vegas Showdown, T-Mobile Arena, Las Vegas, Nevada
Las Vegas lights don’t care that you’re 18. Neither does Kansas. Hunter Dickinson at 7’2” and on his fourth year of college basketball, crouches in the paint like he’s seen every freshman dream come through the lane—and has swatted them back out again.
“Make him go left,” Kansas’ guard barks, voice bouncing off the hardwood. “He wants to rise up right every time.”
Cooper catches the ball at the wing, jabs once, and suddenly two Jayhawks are on him. He swings to Tyrese Proctor, cuts through the lane, re-posts. The ball finds him again with six seconds on the shot clock. One dribble, pull-up. Net.
Scouts murmur approval. Not because of the shot, but because of the poise.
1984, Farris Center, Conway, Arkansas
A small Arkansas gym doesn’t shine like Vegas. The bleachers creak when the band stomps out a rhythm. Central Arkansas vs. Arkansas–Pine Bluff isn’t on TV. The people here are local men with dusty boots, moms juggling toddlers, classmates craning to see if the walk-on is really worth the sweat.
Scottie’s wiry frame—now stretched to 6’3” from his high school 6’1”—looks swallowed by the Bears’ jersey. He’s not the star. Not yet.
From the sideline, Coach Don Dyer cups his hands and shouts, voice sharp but steady:
“Move your feet, Pip! Stay with him—make it tough!”
Dyer is the one who let this kid hang around when no scholarship was offered. The one who told boosters it wasn’t a waste of a roster spot. “He’s raw,” Dyer had said privately, “but he’s got touch. He sees the floor.” There was risk—every small-school coach fights to prove his program deserves respect, and handing minutes to an unrecruited walk-on could look like indulgence. But Dyer saw a player who kept showing up, who never stopped moving, even when the ball didn’t find him.
By the second half, something shifts. A rebound ricochets off the rim, and Scottie rises above bigger bodies, secures it, outlets it clean. Next possession, he finds himself open at the baseline. Shot goes in. The bench erupts—not because of the points, but because it’s him.
He’ll finish the season at just 4 points and 4 rebounds a game. Numbers that say “role player.” But to Dyer, watching from the sideline, it was the kind of night you circle in ink. Proof his gamble wasn’t wasted.
2025, Final Four Duke vs. Houston at Lucas Oil Stadium, Indianapolis, Indiana
The scoreboard in Lucas Oil Stadium bleeds red with tension: Duke 65, Houston 64. Less than a minute to go, 70,000 fans pulsing with each dribble. Cooper Flagg sets his feet in the lane, ball swinging back to him after a scramble. One quick shoulder fake, he elevates—a soft jumper from ten feet.
Clang. Off the rim.
The gasp is immediate. J’Wan Roberts of Houston skies for the rebound, but Cooper crashes hard into his back. Whistle. Offensive foul. Roberts staggers forward, arms flailing, as the referee signals two shots.
“Review that! He’s going vertical!” Duke head coach Jon Scheyer is nearly at half court, waving his arms, face flushed. His assistant grips his sleeve, trying to drag him back before a technical compounds the damage.
On the other end, Roberts drains both free throws. The Cougars seize momentum, flipping the score to 66–65.
Flagg’s teammates slap his back on the jog to the huddle, but their eyes betray the truth: this wasn’t how the script was supposed to end. Houston turns defensive stops into transition buckets, widening the gap in the final thirty seconds. Final horn: Houston 70, Duke 67.
Cooper stands in the lane where his jumper rimmed out, hands on his hips, staring at the floor. His mind flickers not to draft boards, but to the seniors around him. Jeremy Roach tugs his jersey, muttering, “We had it, Coop. We had it.”
The camera cuts linger—Flagg’s face blank, as if already imagining the weight of a franchise on his shoulders come June.
He would finish with 13 points, 5 rebounds, and 1 assist. Not spectacular, not a flop. Enough to leave Houston acknowledging in the tunnel afterward: he belongs.
But the box score hides the stress. Flagg fouled out late, trying to body Dickinson under the rim. Houston won, 75–72. The story wasn’t Duke’s loss. The story was that Cooper, a freshman from Maine, didn’t blink.
1987, NAIA District 17 Tournament, Central Arkansas vs. Henderson State, Carrier Fieldhouse, Conway, Arkansas
The gym at Conway feels like it might burst. Wooden bleachers quake, the crowd a wall of noise. The scoreboard: Central Arkansas 85, Henderson State 87. Just seconds left.
Coach Don Dyer squats low on the sideline, voice hoarse. “Find Scottie! He’s got the length to finish this!”
The inbound comes quick, a blur of bodies colliding. Scottie Pippen, wiry at 6’7” and maybe 180 pounds, threads across the lane. A teammate rifles the ball in. Two hard dribbles, a gather through traffic, and Pippen goes up strong. Contact. He muscles the layup home. Whistle. The gym explodes.
“Atta boy, Scottie!” Dyer slaps the scorer’s table so hard his palm stings.
Pippen sinks the free throw. 88–87, Bears. Henderson’s desperation heave misses at the horn, and Central Arkansas storms the court.
In that moment, Pippen isn’t the overlooked kid who needed a late growth spurt just to get a scholarship. He’s the player Dyer risked a roster spot on, the one teammates now mob in the middle of the floor.
Up in the bleachers, his father watches quietly, cane propped against the railing, his face registering relief that the family’s dream still has a flame that burns brightly and will move forward. And tonight, in this gym, his son shouldered it with every ounce of his frame.
2025 NBA Draft, Barclays Center, Brooklyn, NY
Flashbulbs paint the arena white. Cooper Flagg hardly has a second to breathe—interviews stacked, photo ops endless, handlers tugging him from chair to chair. Everyone already knows the script. He is the number one pick. The only question is how fast Adam Silver will get the words out.
“With the first pick in the 2025 NBA Draft, the Dallas Mavericks select… Cooper Flagg, from Duke University.”
A roar follows. Cooper stands, hugs his parents, shakes Silver’s hand. Smile ready for the cameras, suit tailored sharp, he looks every bit the heir apparent. But inside, the calculus is already running.
Dallas means Anthony Davis, a legend with balky knees. It means Dwight Powell, steady and unflashy, willing to slide between the four and five. It means Caleb Martin and Naji Marshall, rotation wings who’ll test him in practice but won’t block his path.
In other words, if AD stays upright, Cooper might grow slowly into the role. If not? The lights will hit him sooner than anyone thinks.
As the cameras click, his mom leans in, voice low enough for only him: “The cameras can love you, but the locker room has to trust you. Win them first.”
He nods, breathing in the moment. His first jersey already feels heavier than the fabric it’s stitched from.
1987 NBA Draft, Madison Square Garden, New York, NY
The draft floor hums with velvet tension. Scottie Pippen, small-college kid from Hamburg, Arkansas, sits in a borrowed suit, trying not to fidget.
The first two picks go as expected—David Robinson to San Antonio, Armen Gilliam to Phoenix. Pippen nods. No surprise. He’d been projected anywhere from eighth to twelfth. No shame in waiting.
At three, the New Jersey Nets call Dennis Hopson. At four, the Clippers take Reggie Williams. Polished. Safe.
Then comes five. Seattle Supersonics. “With the fifth pick in the 1987 NBA Draft, the Seattle Supersonics select… Scottie Pippen, from the University of Central Arkansas.”
Scottie blinks. His family erupts. In minutes, his rights are shipped to Chicago—a franchise that has never won a title, anchored by a gravity-bending shooting guard named Michael Jordan.
A team with no rings. A city starving. A superstar who will either eclipse me or elevate me. All of us and the city of Chicago trying to prove we belong.
His brother Antron, watching from the row behind, squeezes Scottie’s shoulder. “You’re carrying both of us now. Make it count.”
Coach Dyer leans in, voice low: “You’re not here to blend in, Scottie. You’re here to tilt the floor.”
Scottie lets the words settle, already feeling the weight of a city pressing onto his narrow shoulders.
Back at the Bar
So here we are again. Funny how it’s still just you and me — though we’re not the same you and me as last time. That’s what stories do if you sit with them long enough: they get inside, and they change you.
Have a drink. Let’s see if we can figure out what makes a man.
Scottie had his tests: could he scrap for minutes, master the triangle, play Robin to Jordan’s Batman? Six rings later, the answer is etched in the record.
Pedigree only gets you drafted. What keeps you on the floor is proving you belong — every night, against grown men.
On paper, Cooper will be younger than Pippen when he plays his first NBA game, longer, stronger, and farther along on polishing his skills. But paper is just paper.
Cooper’s test hasn’t come in yet.
So tell me — what do you think? What makes a man: the pressure of expectation, or the way he bends it into something that’s his own?
Author’s note: Some of Pippen’s early game details are reconstructed from scraps of reporting and memory — the official records just aren’t there. But let’s be real: if you’re trusting 120 Proof Ball as your academic source, we’ve both made bad life choices.
Todd / 120 Proof Ball
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