A Love Letter To Jason Williams, J-Will, White Chocolate
Because when someone breaks stereotypes, piss doubters off, and on top of all gets the gold, one has to let him know
DEAR JASON WILLIAMS,
I am glad you made it. You were never supposed to, but you beat the odds. You were a trailblazer, for one. Nobody from Belle, West Virginia, had ever made it to the Association before you, and no one has ever since. I guess what I mean is that it is not an easy task to go from such a low-key place with a census barely over 1,500 warm bodies by the time you were born to the brightest of basketball stages. More than ten percent of the population of the place you call home is now sitting below the poverty line, and even more than 15 percent of them under 18 bulk up that number.
I don’t think you could have ended up much better.
How incredible is the fact that stars aligned to give birth to two phenoms and put them together in the same high school, at the same time, on the same court over Dupont High? I’m talking about your friend Randy, the soon-to-be professional wide receiver.
Randy Moss was always going to be a star, though. You, Jason, far from it. While Moss was packing his trophy case full with yearly awards even before hitting college, you were honing your craft in Belle’s street courts. The work can’t be denied as you’d later prove.
Such was your bond, that you both attended Marshall early on. But let the truth be told. You didn’t pick Marshall because of pure love, but rather because recruiting was not going your way.
Your pops denied you from attending St. John’s in New York, and VTech and Providence never were of your consideration, right? Plus Billy Donovan was leading Marshall and even though you hated that college— and West Virginia, let’s confess— you finally surrendered. You showed your cards later when after one year playing for the Thundering Herd and by the end of 1996, Billy threw his stuff in the bag and moved to Florida to coach the Gators. No wonder you followed, offering those you once left eating dirt the main reason you picked Marshall.
The NCAA is an embarrassing organization I will never defend. They put your career on pause for a year, no salvation, I guess it’s part of its roots and foundation.
Jason, you were still far from becoming a mixtape sensation but no matter what you kept exploring the boundaries of basketball and by the time you hit the Gainesville hall you were already expected to lead the Gators. To the title. Or at least to contention. You didn’t reach those heights, but who could blame you? Florida had sucked for a while, so it was always going to be hard to complete the ascension.
There isn’t much data available (we only have numbers from 1993 onwards) but there you were, among a select group of 19 cats to drop at least 17 points and dish out 6 dimes in a single collegiate season. You found your name next to those of early heavyweights like Penny, Damon, and Nash, and became the only Junior to average a 17–6–3 line by the end of ‘98.
You needed no mixtapes. Your numbers spoke for themselves about your game. No reason to pass on you on draft day.
DEAR J-WILL,
There they were, naming names. Not yours, that is. One, two, three, four, five, and up to six. Led by Michael Olowokandi of all men. Some things I will never understand. God bless Sacto and its brass, making you the seventh pick of the 1998 NBA draft.
Screw Dirk, Paul Pierce, Cuttino, and Rashard Lewis. You were the chosen one. The man about to elevate basketball in Northern Cali. The point-guard to lead a team that couldn’t catch a break. The great white hope and the second coming of Jerry Lucas, only now on the west coast.
Most folks didn’t get you nor your game, only you proved them wrong over and over again. You hit the L at the same time as Rafer Alston aka Skip 2 My Lou. Alson brought his And1 fame to the pros, but it can’t be negated that you actually brought the And1 game.
Critics were loud — and dumb — but reasonable at that time. To a certain extent, it made sense. You didn’t look J-Will, but rather Boring Jason. Your game should be all about fundamentals. About shooting, and scoring. About no flashes, all focused on just exploiting mismatches. About just sitting on the corner and hitting treys cutting the slashes to the rim and the ghetto bling-bling.
But you were out there pulling off no-look passes on a per-play basis. Reverse layups, alley-oops, behind-the-back-let-me-fool-you’s. You name it. How many dudes had your handles? How many players could even reach the levels of your thinking process?
Somehow, you were able to make a team featuring the likes of Vlade Divac and Peja Stojakovic — the prototypic white basketball players: one a big zone-roaming burly, and the other a pinpoint sniper — fun.
Don’t get me wrong, Jay. That’s how most bleach-skin players are seen, no matter if they’re Euros or Americans, and what probably killed part of your appeal around some NBA circles. Even the ones in your very own team, which flipped you from another snowflake with that Mike Bibby trade. And raising the floor was all Bibby made to the Kings those days. He did, yes, but Sacramento stopped witnessing your walking mixtape.
DEAR WHITE CHOCOLATE,
When you were freed from Sacramento, everything changed.
You weren’t the reason that caused the move weeks later, but the Grizzlies leaving Vancouver for Memphis was how things developed. You weren’t the reason that caused the hiring a season later, but the Grizz getting Hubie Brown back from the retirement house did you wonders.
You started as Williams in Marshall, showed enough to become J-Will in your sunny Cali days, and by the time you stepped onto Memphis’ soil White Chocolate was already a household name covered with blacktop-hoops glaze.
Truth be told, I missed the early days. When you became a bear and later bathed in the crystal-clear waters of South Beach your best moves were more part of the lore than the actual on-court experience. Your stats went up, sure, and that pleased — and at the same time shut the mouths of — those that once doubted your abilities and deemed them too hood, too underground.
You never became a great shooter, not even a great assister. The only time you ranked inside the top five players in dimes was back in 2003 five seasons into your career. You didn’t even become part of the 20–20 club, those who at least once dropped 20 points and got 20 dimes to their name in the same game. Not a shame, though. Only 35 players did so.
But you’re one of just 87 folks to dish 19 assists out at least once on a single night, and you did it without benefitting from overtime, defeating the Warriors 99–105. If only had Rodney Buford hit just one of the ten field goals he missed…
There is no reason to be sad, Choc. You stayed true to your talents and your game and never changed. Something you must be doing well when the very own Dwayne Wade came calling before the start of year-eight. The Heat were loaded as hell, but they had failed. Shaq wasn’t enough, yet you went there to help. And in doing so you became part of the largest history’s trade.
I’m sure you’re glad how things turned out, even having to move places for the third time in eight seasons, made an outcast yet again. Southeast Division champ, nothing of great remark. Then, the postseason, leading a 52–30 team from the point. You ousted The Glove. Shared the court with Hall of Famers. Raised them to greatness. Chicago, New Jersey, and Detroit paid their dues on the road. Dallas was the final boss until it was no more.
Chip secured. Ring on finger. Legacy sealed.
Your story went on for some more years, I know, but I’m running out of ink and it is not that we can leave on a much higher note.
You beat the odds, broke the mold, created a blend of circus and hoops never heard of before, dominated, and ultimately won.
A white kid from Belle, West Virginia, blowing basketball a kiss it couldn’t resist.
