Double Clutch

They drive Detroit in opposite ways, but in the end, Rasheed Wallace and Tayshaun Prince are two of a kind

In a crowded Pistons locker room after a lateseason win over the Suns, reporters gather for a dose of Sheedisms. As several notepad-tugging writers move in, one clumsily steps into Sheed's space. Suddenly, everyone is a target. "Y'all better back up, or you gonna be close to a whole lot of naked skin," Rasheed Wallace says. "Hell, y'all know the rules by now."

A writer from a website Wallace has never heard of tries to get in his bunch of questions. "Come on, man, hurry up," scoffs Wallace, clearly irked. Three questions later, he shakes his head and makes for the door.

Across the room, Tayshaun Prince takes a different approach to another horde of reporters. As pens and notepads raise, he turns and dresses with his back to the bunch, the only noise the rustling of his jeans and the clinking of his belt buckle. Only after he squirts a final dab of cologne does he face forward and, with a quiet "I'm ready," proceed to field questions. All of them. No matter how routine or obvious, he responds with a care you might use to pick out a get-well card. He nods at each inquiry, makes eye contact and doesn't stop until the last tape recorder clicks off.

One is a prickly, nearly seven-foot sound-bite machine, the other a soft-spoken, baby-face introvert. Both are lauded for their length and versatility on the floor. But it's their differences that mix at the heart of the Pistons' unflappable team chemistry.

Those differences were subtly on display again as Detroit teetered precariously on the brink of elimination at the hands of LeBron and the Cavaliers. Hours before the biggest game of the season, Game 7 of the Eastern Conference semis, Wallace walked into the locker room, his trademark silver headphones hanging half off his head. A homemade flyer taped to a cooler caught his eye. It pictured a pudgy, hairy-chested man with Antonio McDyess' head pasted on the body under the words "The Legends of Sex."

Wallace bent over and let out a cackle. "This is classic," he said. "I need to talk to Dice. I didn't know he had it like that." Then he sauntered over to his locker and playfully fussed at rookie Amir Johnson for lounging around.

A few minutes later, Prince walked in and glanced at the artwork. As he shook his head, his small snicker was just above an amused sigh. Sure, it was funny, but his mind was on stopping LeBron.

THE RECORD number of techs. The scrapes with the law. Rasheed Wallace still has the rep of the incorrigible malcontent. But when his story is recounted by teammates, it includes some lesserknown facts. He plays video games for hours with his son Nazir in his lap. He makes his daughter, Rashida, smile whenever they play tea party and he has to curl those prodigious fingers around those teensy pink teacups. You hear words like loyalty and passion and soul. And ¼ "Misunderstood," offers Ben Wallace. "But not by us. When he came here, he was just another misfit to add to the pile."

Rasheed's crackling, raspy tone is the voice of the Pistons. Prince, on the other hand, is their inner monologue, a constant, quiet guide in the back of their minds. The one who tells Ben or Rip to turn and walk away when they don't get a call. The one who tells reserves to shoot extra free throws after practice. The one who says over and over that it's okay to be overshadowed as long as you do your job. "It's all about what you can do for your team," he says.

Prince's library voice stands no chance against Wallace's rat-a-tat banter. And that's just fine. "I'm not one to yell and scream," he says. "Even if it's Game 7 of the Finals and something doesn't go my way, I'll take it in stride."

Usually, it is what Prince doesn't do that is most important. There's scarcely a player whose name is less likely to be followed by the words "conduct detrimental to the team." Gripes over playing time or number of shots may be as much a part of the game as road trips and ankle tape, but not for Prince. "Tayshaun has always been about actions, not words," says Rip Hamilton.

And it's not like he hasn't had the opportunity to whine. Prince was the only Pistons starter who wasn't selected to the All-Star Game. Despite being assigned the opponent's best scorer every night, he has yet to receive the accolades for his defense that Ben Wallace gets as a matter of course. He's never even been named firstteam All-Defense. Despite a three-year All-America career at Kentucky, he wasn't taken in the 2002 draft until the 23rd pick. And his rookie season was all garbage minutes until the playoffs, when his reach and dogged position D helped to shut down Tracy McGrady and dig Detroit out of a 3-1 hole against the Magic. "I always felt my time would come," says Prince. "So I never got worked up when I'd get overlooked."

Wallace could use some of his teammate's temperament. Once he steps on the court, he's a target for mouthy fans and a lightning rod for prickly refs. More times than not, though, it's actually an unabashed loyalty toward his 'mates that gets Rasheed into trouble. On closer inspection, many of his leagueleading 17 techs this season were the result of his defending one Piston or another in plays that didn't even involve him.

In a late-March game against the Bucks at the Palace, for example, Chauncey Billups was locked in an escalating tiff with an official after he felt he should have gotten a call. Wallace marched over, gave the ref an earful and was promptly issued a T. He walked toward the bench, cracked a smile and corralled his teammates for an impromptu players-only huddle. The Pistons went on to win, erasing an 18-point deficit in a seven-point victory.

"He's one of the greatest individuals I've ever been associated with," says Prince. "I've never played with someone who cares about his teammates the way he does."

And not just the important guys. Rasheed's love is as long as the bench. After one late-season practice, Johnson and fellow rookie Alex Acker were playing an unsupervised game of one-onone. Johnson and Acker had just returned from a stint in the D-League. The pressure on them was nil, expectations nonexistent.

After 30 minutes, the workout had deteriorated into a glorified game of H-O-R-S-E. Much to their surprise, Wallace emerged from the locker room, busting through the double doors in a Philadelphia Flyers jersey. All that was missing was a puff of smoke. Johnson and Acker stopped in their tracks. Postures straightened. This was their chance to impress.

Johnson, the 6'9" small forward drafted straight out of Westchester High in Los Angeles, pushed up on Acker, a Kidd-size point guard with an explosive step and a deft handle. Johnson's defensive stance was what you'd expect from a prep-star rookie who had played all of 39 minutes in the league: wanting.

Wallace saw it and walked onto the court.

"Whoa," he said, as Acker put his righthand dribble down at the top of the key. "Amir, sit on his right, make him go left," Wallace instructed. Johnson listened and did what he was told. Acker tried to counter by crossing over hard to the left, but Johnson and his seven-foot wingspan beat him to the rim and redirected his shot. With a satisfied smile, the impressionable Johnson turned toward Wallace with hopeful eyes. But Sheed was already showing his back as he walked toward the doors again.

"There you go," Wallace tossed over his shoulder. The rookies smiled and patted each other on the shoulder.

"I learn something from Sheed every day," says Acker. "I'm not where I can hang out with him yet, but I'm working up to that."

Wallace's interest in young players is nothing new. During his years in Portland, he often stayed after practice to hone post moves and footwork with a teenage Jermaine O'Neal. "He constantly told me to be ready, to stay patient," says O'Neal. "He took it upon himself to make me see that my time would come." Before he was traded in February, Darko Milicic had no bigger supporter than Wallace, who hyped the Euro's practice exploits to whomever in the media was at all interested.

After the All-Star snub, Wallace suggested to the Pistons who would be playing in Houston that they put Prince's No. 22 on their shoes, "to let him know he's a part of us even when he's not there." Prince, who spent the weekend in the Bahamas with his wife and didn't watch the game, was touched but not surprised when he learned of the gesture the following day.

The warm feelings don't come just because Prince is a good guy. He's earned them with his play. On swooping, balletic drives, Prince can pick up his dribble at the three-point line and still finish at the rim, leaving mesmerized defenders a step-and-a-half behind. He has turned the comefrom-behind block in transition into an art form. His swat of a wide-open LeBron James in Game 1 put the Chosen One on notice that nothing was going to come easy.

But it was in Game 2 of the 2004 Eastern Conference finals that Prince's defensive stature elevated. In a close battle, Prince raced from halfcourt to deliver a spectacular block on Reggie Miller's potential game-tying layup with 17 seconds remaining. "In those situations, I'm not trying to be flashy," he says. "I'm just trying to make a play on the ball." Remember: Before that game, Wallace had guaranteed a victory. "That's how you get somebody's back," Rasheed says.

Through Wallace, the Pistons have learned that, like hustle or making the extra pass, trust is important. "We know if we get beat on the perimeter, our shotblockers will always be there," says Hamilton. "I never have to ask, 'Where were you?' That's a safe feeling to have out there."

AS THE red, white and blue confetti rains down from the Palace rafters after the season-saving win over the Cavs, Wallace is enveloped by a calm he has not known this season. His swagger abandons him. His lips don't need to move. This is what it must feel like to be Tayshaun Prince.

Wallace is purely relieved, if not humbled, by the moment. After the game clock ticks to zero, he wraps his arms around Cavs guard Larry Hughes and whispers words of encouragement. He then wades through the sea of people crowding the court without so much as a single woo-hoo. His body language doesn't match the situation. His face is somber, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"We haven't done anything we weren't supposed to do," he says later.

Just before he enters the tunnel, Wallace locks eyes with his wife, Fatima. She blows him a kiss, and he disappears.

Several steps behind him, Prince is the last player to leave the court. Nary a seat has been vacated as he sticks his hand out to graze the palms of Pistons fans as he races by. He points to sign-bearers 10 rows up and holds the victory sign over his head. There is a huge smile on his face showing teeth no one knows he has. For a brief moment, he nods several times in that Yeah, that's right! kind of way. It's as if Prince has assumed Wallace's role, if only for a moment.

A few minutes later, back in the locker room, Rasheed holds court on his side, while Prince dresses quietly with his back to the scrum and talks with a voice barely audible amid the rapidfire queries of the eager press corps.

All is right again in Detroit.

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