Inside Man

The parties. The cars. The check-her-out women. Yeah, life in the NBA is good-and Chris Palmer knows you don't have to be a baller to live it

The Magazine's Chris Palmer doesn't just write about NBA players, he lives their life. And that was before he got the okay from five players to follow them through the 2004-05 season for his just-published book, The Sixth Man (ESPN Books). In this excerpt, CPalm spends a typical afternoon hanging with one of his pals.

"I don't see it," I say, turning left off Sunset Boulevard. "Oh, there it is. I'll be right up."

I'm meeting Elton Brand in the West Hollywood offices of his new company. Like everyone else in LA, he's taken a keen interest in entertainment. Unlike most everyone else, though, he's got the money to do something about it. And so together with Steve Marlton, who owns the hot new night club Pearl, he started Gibraltar Entertainment and Production.

I pull up to what I think is the garage entrance, but the gate doesn't rise. Already late, I'm not in the mood for any more aggravation. I'm tempted to floor it. Let security take issue. I can't call Brand back. I don't want to look like an idiot. So I return to Sunset, then eke my way through traffic to another entrance. Must be the right place. Elton's Escalade EXT is parked on the rooftop lot.

EB meets me at the door with his security card. A quick tour of the digs winds up at Marlton's office, which looks out across the street at the Roxy, the legendary rock club. From the looks of things, he just moved in. Against one wall on the floor sits a framed Team USA jersey from Brand's trip to the Goodwill Games.

"Hey, Steve, this is my boy Chris," Brand says. "He's the one who's writing the book."

An enormous man, probably in his late 30s, perhaps an athlete 300 pounds ago, gets up from behind the desk. His navy-blue golf shirt is stretched beyond repair at the neck and sleeves. He gives me a hearty welcome but eyes me suspiciously when he thinks I'm not looking.

Brand and I retreat to an office at the other end of the hallway. He tells me he met Marlton, a huge sports fan, on the club scene, and the two became fast friends. Marlton owns a string of nightclubs, which has earned him entrée into Hollywood. The moment a movie exec sets foot in one of Marlton's establishments, he's treated like a king. According to Marlton, a studio head once flew to Montana for Christmas aboard his private jet. "People remember things like that," he says. "So the next time I need a favor, I know I'll be taken care of."

Marlton and Brand plan to turn Gibraltar into a mini DreamWorks. I'm always skeptical when players try to cross over into business, especially into entertainment. Most athletes have no head for numbers beyond individual stats and inflated bank accounts. Their names give them clout in the boardroom, but their crazy schemes rarely advance past mission statements. Magic Johnson owns a successful chain of movie theaters and Starbucks outlets. But MVP.com, the failed sports merchandise website owned by Michael Jordan, John Elway and Wayne Gretzky, is the more common scenario.

Gibraltar recently wrapped a comedy called Bottom's Up, starring Paris Hilton and Jason Mewes, and will soon set to work on a Vietnam War drama titled Rescue Dawn, with Christian Bale and Steve Zahn. Brand prides himself on the company's versatility, the ability to produce popcorn fare for the mainstream audience and serious stuff for the film crowd.

"Good luck with the book," says Marlton as Brand and I head for the door. I get in my car and follow Brand down Sunset. We're off to the recording studio he owns with Snoop Dogg. Fountain Avenue offers the best route, but Brand passes on that plan. "I know it's faster," he says. "But I like Sunset. I like to see what's going on."

Ten minutes later, we arrive at a nondescript one-story building in Hollywood. There's a
young dude outside wearing an Astros throwback. He's an aspiring artist who just signed with Brand's label. He's got a bottle of Windex in one hand, and the other is scrubbing blacked-out windows to earn studio time. That's the way things work around here. If a young artist isn't behind the mike, he's put to work.

Brand and I snake our way to the control center. A stocky man in his mid-30s greets us at the door, baseball cap cocked to one side. L.T. Hutton has worked with Tupac, Bone Thugsn-Harmony and Snoop. We step inside his lair, and Brand slouches down on a wall-length leather couch. I pull up a chair in front of the soundboard and Hutton gives me a crash course in production, walking me through the dozens of knobs, buttons and slides stretched out before him. He powers up dual G5 towers and scans through scores of files and tracks on two 23-inch flat-screen monitors. "Now we have all this stuff backed up, of course," he says. "It's actually backed up four and five times because I don't take chances." He scoots back in his chair and points to a portable auxiliary hard drive under the soundboard.

This is what it's come to-hip-hoppers teaching me about responsibility.

"You want to hear a couple tracks?"

"You bet."

He opens a series of screens, trying to locate some things he put together for Snoop to approve. I see a folder labeled Kayla Pictures.

"What's that?"

"That's our newest R&B artist," he says. "She's gonna be the next biggest thing to hit the music scene."

He clicks on a few of her pictures. What a seductress.

"We're bringing her along slowly. We don't rush our artists here," Hutton says. "She's still got some work to do. We want her to drop at just the right time."

He plays a couple of tracks for me, raising the volume with a lever on the soundboard. I can feel wind coming from the floor-to-ceiling speakers five feet in front of us. I look over at the couch to find Brand dozing to a beat that's jet-engine loud. The door to the studio swings wide open, and Hutton shuts off the music. Snoop has arrived. Hutton gets up to greet the legendary rapper. "What was that you had bumpin' up in here?" Snoop asks. "A pimp could work with that." He turns to me and extends his hand.

"What up, li'l nephew?"

"I'm Chris from ESPN," I say. "What's goin' on?" "Just keepin' things crackin'." Snoop and Brand hug as Snoop's crew files in. Patriots linebacker Willie McGinest-a fellow Long Beach native-is part of the group. The smell of marijuana is thick in the air. Snoop's hair is twisted as usual into two long braids. He's wearing a gold chain with a pendant that features two canines doing it doggy style.

He says he just left the set of the movie The Longest Yard, where he listened to the single Nelly recorded for the soundtrack. "My nephew Nelly was laying that s- down," he says. "I'm looking for a beat like that. What you got for me, L.T.?" Hutton clicks through his files, searching for something to play for Snoop. Brand taps my shoulder.

"This is Kayla," he says, introducing me to the girl from the photos. She's a stunner in person, too. Perhaps I should interview her for the book. Cover all my bases, ya know?

Brand sees right through me.

"She's 15," he says. "The girl can sing. She's gonna be huge."

We listen to tracks for 45 minutes. The window washer enters the studio to ask Hutton where he should put an old couch. One of Snoop's boys lights up and offers me a hit. I decline and ask him about his Nikes. He tells me about a specialty shoe store on Melrose just before La Brea. I look to the couch. Brand is nowhere to be found.

No sweat. Snoop's talking music. Over one bass-heavy track, he and I bob our heads in unison. He reaches out a hand, and I clap him five. I try to picture him back in 1996, laying down "2 of Amerikaz Most Wanted" with Tupac. I think I'm getting a contact high.

Brand eventually returns to fetch me, steering me down the hall to a small soundproof room so we can get on with the interview. I open with a few simple questions, hoping to soften him up just enough to find out how he really feels about returning to the Clippers. He's adept at delivering the company line: "We're gonna turn this thing around & " But I know for a fact that you can repeat that phrase like a mantra without believing it. Quentin Richardson didn't buy it. Keyon Dooling didn't either. And Darius Miles sure as hell didn't.

That's perfectly reasonable when you work for Donald Sterling. In the fall of 2000, Sterling's Clippers had a remarkable roster: Dooling, Miles, Corey Maggette, Lamar Odom, Michael Olowokandi, Richardson. Five seasons later, all but Maggette are gone. In the end, stingy Sterling always has an out. He can argue that the team's talent just didn't develop, that the players-not the organizationsquandered their potential. Miles was shipped to Cleveland, and Olowokandi, Richardson, Odom and Dooling left via free agency.

"Yeah, the losing gets tiring," says Brand. "It's nothing you can get used to. Always missing the playoffs, being on the outside looking in come March, it's not cool. I don't know how much more I can take."

Brand freely admits he has no special insight into the Clippers' front office plans. All summer long, free agents pressed him for info on Sterling's commitment to winning, and Brand could only reply, "I see what you see. You have to decide for yourself."

He's due back at Gibraltar for a 6 o'clock meeting. We emerge from the room and make our rounds, bidding the crew a fond farewell.

"Call me later, C," Brand says. "We'll do something tonight."

"Sure," I reply, heading for the door. On the way out, I peer into a room to find Snoop talking on an old-school telephone. Some ancient rocker probably had it installed.

Drop it like it's 1970.

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