Finding Neverland

Is trying so hard to stay the big kid costing Gilbert Arenas a shot at being the man?

Sitting in a row of folding chairs in Las Vegas' Cox Pavilion after a USA Basketball practice, with Dwyane Wade on his right and LeBron James on his left, Gilbert Arenas recounts the details of the lively bourré tournament that went down the night before in his hotel room. The two flanking superstars already know the facts, of course; they were there. But that won't stop Arenas from restating that he'd have won if Carmelo Anthony's amateurish play and laughing fits hadn't stolen his concentration. On cue, Anthony slides in next to James: "You talking about me, Gil?"

"You should have seen Melo," continues Arenas, feigning disgust. "He couldn't keep a straight face. You're not supposed to show your cards, man."

Bored with the topic, he's on to another. Turning to Wade, he tells the Finals MVP that he has to loosen up. Wade doesn't disagree, and he knows just what he needs to do. "I'm hangin' with you from now on," he says. "Maybe I can learn something."

Every 30 seconds or so, the laughter of this All-Star-laden crew rolls like thunder. It soon attracts Chris Paul, who sits down beside Wade. When he leans in, his bright eyes are also trained on Arenas. "We had CP hold the money because he's just a rookie," says Arenas, back to the card game again. Paul smiles. He's been noticed, if misidentified. Adam Morrison, who really is a rook, is next to be pulled into Arenas' sphere. As he walks up shyly, Arenas is reminded of the new Bobcat's recent killing spree in the online bloodfest Halo 2. He announces that Morrison would make a fine gaming prodigy, if only he learned from the master. Now it's James' turn to drop some bait: "What is online?"

Cue the thunder.

This is what Gilbert Arenas brings. He's basketball's Tasmanian Devil, its resident Peter Pan. Need someone to keep things free and easy? Call Gil. Of course, as cool as it is to be the Biggest Kid in the NBA, reality lurks beyond the bubble. "I know that even if I'm on their level skillswise, which I am," Arenas says of his more famous peers, "no one will recognize it unless I win a championship."

He's been trading on his youthful exuberance since a rookie season in Golden State in which he averaged his double-double in points and practical jokes. And it's what makes him the darling of DC today, in a sports town sadly devoid of sports stars.

But the stakes are higher these days. "This town needs a hero," says Wizards coach Eddie Jordan. "And he's made leaps and bounds in his maturation process to show he can be that guy."

Wait, is the Biggest Kid in the NBA growing up?

THERE IS an innocence in his eyes. And you wouldn't believe what peels them open. While most of his hip-hop-loving peers obsess over Scarface or Goodfellas , Arenas' favorite movie is … Bambi . "It's so sad when the mother dies," he says. "I just got Bambi II on DVD—finally. But I'm waiting for a special day to watch it."

While you're chewing on that, Arenas is off, rushing through a new to-do list. There's the private home gym he wants to build, with jerseys of his best friends adorning the walls. There's the next Halo 2 tournament, for which he's been practicing. And he's thinning the air throughout his 10-bedroom, 10-bathroom manse to mimic the endurance-building altitude of the Rockies.

Arenas' everyman accessibility and childlike naïveté bounce off each other like kooky sitcom protagonists. Part of his wardrobe looks like it could be on loan from Andre 3000. A more stylish man without the skills to knot a tie—he owns about 100—there has never been. He's been labeled quirky and eccentric. "What's eccentric?" he asks with a straight face. After a definition and several examples, Arenas is silent. Then come a sly smile and a burst of laughter. It's hard to know for sure if he's messing with you, but his track record suggests he is. "People call me all kinds of things, I guess, because I'm a little different," he says. "I'm never what they expect. I'm just a kid inside, and I never want to grow up."

In the film Finding Neverland , Johnny Depp, as Peter Pan creator J.M. Barrie, says, "Young boys should never be sent to bed. They always wake up a day older." Because his customary three hours of shut-eye can hardly be considered a good night's sleep, Arenas hasn't aged a day in the past 10 years. Pick any random day to check him out and you'll see that the math is about right. His playful streak rivals that of any of the Lost Boys. He's been known to play poker online at halftime. Leave your PDA lying around, and everyone in your address book might get an e-mail from "you" announcing that you've come out of the closet, like the one ex-Warrior Chris Mills' friends got. Every day after practice last season, Arenas provoked teammate Awvee Storey to chase him through the Verizon Center halls by punching him in the chest. Teammates' car keys, watches and cells often turn up missing, as Arenas snickers at his corner locker like a cat with feathers sticking out of his mouth.

He lives alone in his $2.7 million estate 20 minutes northwest of DC, a place he admits would be perfect for settling down. But don't hold your breath, ladies. Even when he meets The One, she should be forewarned: It's not likely to be forever. "I don't want to get married unless they change the marriage laws," Arenas says. "You should have to sign a marriage contract for no more than five years, with an option to opt out."

Anyway, the empty house suits him just fine. For the first two months, he confined himself to one room, anyway. He has since realized that the long hallways are great for wandering. "My mind races, and I can't sleep," says Arenas. "I'm bouncing off the walls."

In the wee hours of the morning, he's dreaming up commercial ideas for his soon-to-be-released Adidas signature shoe. Here's his favorite: After a big win, he tosses his shoes into the stands, sparking a mob scene. As people dive from the 400 level, a little girl emerges from the rabble with the shoes. She takes off dreamily for the exit. Bam! She's clotheslined by a kid in a wheelchair. Impossible Is Nothing. It's more YouTube than Madison Avenue. But what do you expect from a guy who stays up 'til dawn?

THE WELL-WORN CliffsNotes of Arenas' upbringing read this way: raised mostly by his dad, Gilbert Sr., a struggling bit actor; the pair briefly lived out of a car before Junior, a high-scoring mutt of a guard, took his game to Arizona, where he donned "0" on his back because folks said that's how many minutes he'd play. After an All-Pac-10 sophomore season, he was spurned by everyone with a first-round pick, only to survive a doubt-plagued rookie season to become one of the top players in the game.

On the cavernous set of Arenas' new Adidas commercial in Marina del Rey this summer, in which he appears as his own video game likeness, Arenas and his dad show no signs of the lean years. Something closer to brothers, they verbally spar all afternoon, making each the constant butt of the other's jokes. "I hope I'm not going to be bald like you," Arenas busts on his barrel-chested, scraggly-bearded dad.

During a break in the shoot, Arenas plops down on a cooler. Talk turns to his arrest (the charge—resisting arrest without violence—was later dropped as part of a court agreement in which Arenas donated $250 to the Police Officer's Assistance Trust) in Miami in May. Police alleged that Arenas declared, "You can't arrest me. I'm a basketball player. I play for the Washington Wizards … " Arenas swears he never said that, but the press had a field day. So did his dad.

"Hey, you can't arrest me, I'm important," he begs now, parodying his son. His wheezy laugh blows by Gil's ears. "If I'd have been there," he continues, "I'd have been dying." But what he means is: Don't get caught like that again.

As the commercial's director signals everyone to take his place, Gilbert Sr. explains his philosophy on parenting. Growing pensive, he lets out a half sigh. "My own father never had time for me," he says. "He was too busy chasing skirts." Gilbert pops up off the cooler. "Sounds like a good idea to me," he says mockingly.

Another thoughtful moment blindsided by the Big Kid. Gilbert Sr. can't get too worked up; he knows he's partly to blame: "I created Gilbert in my own image, a little version of me. And I never want him to be unhappy." If that means sacrificing virtually every Hallmark moment, so be it.

After several takes, Gil lifts up his shirt to reveal an elaborate, stunning tattoo of a tiger's head that stretches from pecs to navel. A touch of swelling announces it was done just the night before. It stops Gilbert Sr. in his tracks. For the first time this day, he is speechless. Finally, he musters a disapproving, "What the hell is that?"

"That's the eye of the tiger," says Gilbert.

"Eye, my ass! Is it permanent?" His expression is one of pure dismay as he comes closer to inspect the artwork.

"Look of disappointment on your father's face," Gilbert says, not missing a beat. "Priceless."

The elder Arenas decides it's better to turn and walk away. But after taking two steps toward his trailer, he swivels abruptly, clearly hoping the cat has scampered off his son's torso. "What are you going to do when you take your jersey off after games?" he asks.

"I'll have a shirt on underneath so no one will see it," his son insists. Unconvinced, Dad walks off. And as he does, he delivers his parting shot: "Dwyane Wade would never do that."

IN HIS first couple of seasons in DC, it was vogue for Arenas to say he wasn't one of the top players in the league. Part motivation, part false modesty, it was a holdover from his underdog days.

Then last season happened. He averaged 29.3 ppg, 6.1 apg and 2.01 spg in one of the finest seasons in franchise history. The breakout has led to off-court success, too. Adidas plans to market his shoe—the Gil Zero—alongside Tracy McGrady's and Tim Duncan's, and PR maven Ken Sunshine, who reps the likes of Ben Affleck and Justin Timberlake, recently flew to DC to recruit Arenas for his stable.

The Kid has begun to get comfortable with the notion that he is among the NBA's elite. And he's willing to do what it takes to stay there. A couple summers ago, Allen Iverson pulled him aside and said, "You have the total package, but you let people off the hook by shooting jumpers. Attack the basket." Over the past three seasons, his free throw attempts per game has jumped from 5.8 to 8 to 10. This season's goal: become an elite defender.

"He knows there's still work," says Jordan. "That's why he's my leader in the gym. I'd never prevent Gilbert from being himself, but he's got to understand when and where to walk the line."

In fact, signs abound that Arenas is slowly converting from "Gilbertology" to the team-oriented Jordan Doctrine. Arenas has stopped short of adopting the slogan "What Would D-Wade Do?" But he knows the Wizards' title hopes hang just as much on his maturity level as on his dribble penetration.

"I can still be me," says Arenas, "but my job comes before the funny stuff. This is about sacrifices. This season, people will see how serious I am." A USA Basketball trainer tries to usher the players out of the gym and onto a team bus. One by one, Melo, LeBron and D-Wade depart, leaving Arenas sitting alone. He searches for deeper meaning in his lack of star power. (He'll say this is the chief reason—not a groin injury—he didn't make the team.)

"I think it's all in a name," he says. "Le-Bron James! Dwyane Wade!" He repeats James' name quickly to himself. LeBron James, LeBron James, LeBron James. Then he realizes the game came before the name. He gets up slowly. "Yeah," he decides, "Gilbert Arenas isn't a bad name either."

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