Thomas Pletzinger - The Great Nowitzki: Basketball and the Meaning of Life

THE

GREAT

NOWITZKI

Basketball and the Meaning of Life

THOMAS PLETZINGER

translated by Shane Anderson

with photographs by Tobias Zielony

For my team:

Martha, Fritzi, Anna, and Bine

Singin they dont make em like this anymore.

DAVID BAZAN,

The Ballad of Pedro y Blanco

THE

GREAT

NOWITZKI

I ALWAYS KNEW THIS DAY would come. Ive followed Dirk Nowitzkis career for half of my lifefirst as a player, then as a remote enthusiast, later as a sportswriter, and finally as the author of this book. Its April 9, 2019, and almost seven years have passed since I first wrote about Dirk Nowitzki, seven years that Ive been watching him work.

Nowitzki and I have sat in countless hotel rooms and cars, on locker room benches, terraces, film sets, and in a pasture in the Slovenian Alps. Weve also sat in doctors offices, his daughters bedroom in Preston Hollow, and arenas and dusty gyms. Weve been in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Kranjska Gora, Warsaw, Randersacker, and Shanghai. Weve talked about basketball and about everything elseour parents, the children, books, and our aging bones. We even worked out together once. Ive witnessed a number of his milestones with my own eyes, and Ive had the other ones described to me. Ive watched when the bright lights were switched off and Dirk Nowitzki continued to do what he does: play basketball.

When he scored his 30,000th career point, I was sitting in the stands next to Holger GeschwindnerDirks mentor, coach, and friendand I was deeply moved. By his achievements and accomplishments, by the love Dirk has attracted. I was moved because I sat there and sensed what it must have cost Dirk to get to where he was. I sat there, knowing I would write about this moment. But I also knew my words would always be a step behind Dirk Nowitzkis presence of mind, his absolute mastery of craft. Just like his helpless defenders, my sentences would always be a tenth of a second too late.

Nowitzkis world is a black box, a closed system with its own language and way of thinking. His inner circle is reserved and discreet, but once you get to know his people, they stay with you for good. Dirks calendar was always packed, every year booked down to the last minute. Whenever he was unavailable, I talked to the people he cares about and to the countless others who care about him. Ive tried to understand what makes him different from other basketball players, from every other athlete. What makes him unique.

Ive never asked for an autograph, and weve never taken a selfie. But Ive sat with Dirk at restaurant tables and ordered wine while he stuck with water. Together, weve been on planes, in cars, on walks. Once, in Oklahoma City, I even ended up in a fistfight because of Dirk. To understand the Nowitzki system, Ive given up my journalistic independence. My daughters were born while I was researching this book, and whenever someone asks them what their father does for a living, their answer is: Dirk Nowitzki.

For years, I had imagined driving with Dirk to his final home game. I had sketched out the details of this scene over and over. We had often talked in cars. Whenever I pictured the day of this last game, I pictured Dirk Nowitzki and Holger Geschwindner sitting together in the front. Id be in the back seat, in the blind spot, notebook on my knees. But on April 9, 2019, the two of them are driving alone. This moment isnt meant to be observed. Im taking a regular taxi to the arena.

The southbound traffic flows slowly, past all the familiar buildings and billboards, including one of Nowitzki. Theres the skyline of downtown Dallas in the distance, the snow-white arches over the Trinity River. The Reunion Tower. At some point, the car gets off the highway. I note the artificial waterfall above the street, the ad for Coors Light.

Approaching the American Airlines Center, I realize that this hope to go unobserved is exactly what has made Dirk Nowitzki so successful: he and Geschwindner never set out to fulfill the desires and aspirations of othersand today is no different.

The taxi passes under the battered bridge at the dip at North Houston Street, along Harry Hines Boulevard, then turns onto Olive Street. The American Airlines Center. The house that Dirk built. Everything is exactly how it should be, I note. Sometimes doors have to stay closed, sometimes the back seat has to be empty.

As I get out of the taxi, melancholy and ceremony hang in the spring air. The Dallas Mavericks season has been over for weeksor for months, if were honest. Today, theyre playing their final home game, against the Phoenix Suns, the worst team in the league. Theres nothing at stake for either of these teams tonight, but three hours before tip-off, there are fans gathered on the plaza in front of the arena.

Dirk Nowitzki hasnt officially announced his retirement, but everything down to the finest details has been prepared for it. There are flags hanging from streetlamps, flags that have his face on them, flags displaying his lifes work in numbers and pictures: 2011 world champion, sixth on the career scoring list, 14-time All-Star, and so on and so forth. The first player in league history to play for the same team for 21 years. His Dallas Mavericks. A huge, multi-story banner of Nowitzki is hanging on the front of the building, bearing todays slogan at the bottom: 41.21.1.

Dirk Nowitzki: Number 41 on his jersey.

21 years under his belt.

1 team.

Fans have come a long way to be herefrom Germany and China and Argentina. Theyre carrying hand-painted signs and wearing costumes. Some are here for their first and perhaps last time. Many in Dallas only know their city with Dirk in it, many have grown up with him, and only the older people remember what it was like before: Clinton was the president. There were no smartphones. Aerosmiths I Dont Want to Miss a Thing topped the charts. This arena didnt even exist.

I survey the plaza in front of the arena. Fans line the streets waiting for Dirks arrival, but they dont know what car he is in or which route he is takingVictory Avenue? Olive Street? Almost everyone is wearing Dirk jerseys, Dirk T-shirts, both recent and vintage. Theyve painted signs of gratitude and respect; a few are bearing flowers. When his car finally turns the corner, people recognize him immediately and start to sing his song, a melancholic cheer, a jumble of emotions.

Dirk doesnt stop. I watch the Range Rover roll slowly into the belly of the arena. Silver garage. Everything will be the same as it always is: Dirk will follow regulations and turn off the engine, like always. A bomb-sniffing dog will check the car, the security guard will silently stick out his fist to Dirk, and the old lady at the gate will blow him a kiss. Thats the way its always been, for all these years. Thanks, my boy, shell say, as if Dirk were her beloved grandson. Thank you for winning tonight!

Everything is ready to go. Theres a peculiar ceremonial air, at the press entrance, the security check, and the elevator to the catacombs. The lady operating the elevators is wearing a number 41 T-shirt. When Nowitzki and Geschwindner park the car, Mavericks communications guy Scott Tomlin and several hundred arena employees are waiting for Dirk. Security guards, food vendors, cleaners, technicians. Dirk has known many of these faces for years; their cheering touches him. Geschwindner remains in his seat and watches Dirk slowly work his way through the rows of people. High fives, fist bumps.