DEC. 12-13: THE TRIP

Twenty-four hours. That's exactly how long it takes to get to my hotel in Belgrade from my doorstep in Bristol, Conn. Now you understand why NBA GMs are so reluctant to make the trip to Belgrade. It is a hike, no matter where you're coming from. The U.S. is still haggling with Yugoslavia over sanctions and doesn't have any direct flights into Belgrade. Most people fly into Frankfurt and hop on Yugoslavia's own airline, JAT. Considering there's only one flight a day, you become intimately familiar with Frankfurt International.

If that doesn't deter travelers, Belgrade's dangerous reputation normally does. It hasn't been that long since the U.S., along with NATO, was dropping bombs on Yugoslavia's capital in an attempt to end the Kosovo crisis. Serbs have long memories, and Ronzone relates that until recently Americans haven't been welcome here. Ronzone once snuck into the country without a visa just to see some players. That's crazy.

The signs of a war are scattered like leaves throughout the city. I can look out the window from my hotel and see the country's main communications tower still in rubble. It was among the first buildings we bombed in the campaign. Serbs took deep offense at the action, since the building is in the heart of a city populated by almost three million people. The exoskeleton of the building still stands. I ask my driver about it. Is there no money to rebuild it?

"No," he responds. "We have rebuilt it."

Then why do the remains of the building still stand in the heart of Belgrade?

"To remember," he says. "Serbs always remember."

I shut up after that. But, I really had no reason to fear. Mention the NBA or ESPN to Yugoslavians and their eyes brighten up. They are among the most avid basketball fans in the world.

By the time Ronzone and I arrived, word already had spread through town, thanks to a local newspaper writer who was waiting for us at the airport, that Tony and I were coming to Belgrade. Ronzone is a legend in these parts, and teams and agents line up for the chance to escort him through the country. We were met at the airport by Djordje Matic, a basketball writer for Glas Javnosti, a leading paper and sports information web site in Belgrade. Matic had read in Insider last week that I was coming with Ronzone, and word spread fast. According to Matic, who had come to the airport hoping for an interview, many of the basketball people in Yugoslavia are fanatical readers of Insider. Local sportswriters translate my column into Serbian each day. American sportswriters don't really come to Yugoslavia, so apparently the trip was a big deal to the people there. I couldn't believe how many people here knew who we were.

The first night, Ronzone and I wandered the streets next to the Danube river. River boats filled with young Serbs pulsated with a surreal combination of techno beats and traditional "gypsy" music (their word, not mine). Despite the troubles over the last 15 years, the Serbian youth are remarkably resilient. They love life and appear to be living it to the fullest. The party was still going at 4 a.m. On the way home, I begin noticing the young people. They are huge. The men, the women and the children. I'm 6-foot-2, and many of the young women I saw that night were looking me square in the eye. Most of the young men were much taller. You wonder why Eastern European countries keep producing these 7-foot phenoms when all we can produce is Eddy Curry and Chris Marcus? The proof is in the genetics. One scout tells me later that Montenegro, part of the Yugoslavian republic, has, statistically, the tallest people in the world. Tomorrow I'm going to find out why.

The play is unbelievable. The kids, all 15, 16 and 17 years old, are huge. There are 6-4 point guards dishing to 6-11 three-men. Seven-footers are jockeying for position in the post. The kids are too big to play there. They look like NBA greats playing on an elementary school gym. None of them is old enough to grow facial hair. All of them have games far beyond what we see from U.S. teenagers. Ronzone jokes that nine out of the starting 10 could earn scholarships to any Division I college in the country.

The 7-foot-1 kid we've heard about, Pedja Samardziski, is dominating on both ends of the court. He rebounds in traffic, makes precision passes out of the double teams, shows footwork that would put most NBA big men to shame and then spots up for a 3 when the game is winding down and his team is trailing. Most impressive is the kid's body. He isn't thin as a rail, like Nikoloz Tskitishvili. His shoulders are huge, and he has a nice center of gravity that allows him to wear down his defender in the post. It's hard to believe that if this kid lived in the U.S., he'd be only a sophomore in high school right now.

On the same Partizan team is another kid who recently signed with Marc Cornstein, Milicic's agent. His name is Vladimir Mijovic, a 17-year-old small forward who is 6-9 with a 7-foot-2 wing span and a polished perimeter game. Mijovic, like so many European big men, likes to bring the ball up the court, is aggressive putting it on the floor and is a dead eye from beyond the arc.

The trademarks of Yugoslavian basketball were all present, even on the junior team. The kids rarely missed an open jumper, and every player on the court could see the floor and make the correct pass.

After the game, men in thick black leather smoked, spoke of the young players they'd seen, and bragged about a 15-year-old, 6-foot-3 point guard, Milos Teodosic, whom they claimed was the top playmaker in Europe. Period.

That was all I needed to hear. "Let's go see him," I tell Ronzone. He smiles and starts talking to some of his contacts. Teodosic plays for the junior national team and was holed away in a small campus about three hours from Beograd. We don't have time to go. In a few hours we're leaving for a small town called Vrsac, where the young Darko Milicic is making a bid to become the highest-drafted European in NBA history.

5:30 p.m. The drive to Vrsac, a small town of 30,000 in the middle of Nowhere, Yugoslavia, is a treacherous hike. A snow storm is moving in, and we decided to leave early to make it in time for warm-ups. The road has a single lane, no lighting and, for most of the trip, shows no signs of noticeable life. Ronzone's cell phone isn't working here, and we wonder aloud, after several close calls, whether ESPN or the Pistons would send a search and rescue team to find us if we disappeared in a ditch.

The weather is icy. Our conversation turns to the medical possibility of reviving people who have been frozen into a block of ice. Needless to say the 50 mile drive takes us two hours, but we arrive just in time to watch Milicic warm up.

Darko Milicic
Milicic
7:30 p.m. We run into Bucks assistant GM Larry Harris as we walk into the arena. Harris, the son of Mavs assistant coach Del Harris, is just finishing up a pretty intensive scouting trip that took him to Turkey, Greece, Poland and Split Croatia. This is his first chance to see Milicic live. A scout from the Sonics and an independent scout who does work for the Hornets, Nets, Pacers, Heat and Magic also are in attendance.

Milicic (7-0, 245 pounds) may be the prize tonight, but his team, KK Hemofarm, is playing BC Buducnost, which also has several major prospects on the roster. In addition to Darko, scouts are watching lithe 6-11 forward Zarko Cabarkapa, and 7-6 big man Slavko Vranes (pronounded Vran-ich).

Milicic quickly is becoming a big name in NBA circles, but he's still a relative unknown in Yugoslavia. Hemofarm doesn't get the same publicity as higher-profile Belgrade teams like Partizan and Red Star. Milicic walks onto the floor and gets a warm reception, but it's clear that most of the fans here don't know just how good he is. His coach doesn't run plays for him, his guards dominate the scoring, and Milicic spends most of his time setting cross screens. The situation isn't that dissimilar to Yao Ming's role on the Chinese national team. Coaches in Yugoslavia love control, and Milicic has been largely a victim of his own success.

Unlike the LeBron James spectacle going on in the U.S., Milicic's presence is severely understated. The media don't follow him or hang on his every word. Like everything else in Yugoslavian basketball, team comes before individual. Milicic's European agent, Dragan Delic, lets Darko know before the game that we're there to scout and do a big story on him. He shrugs and quickly gets about his business.

Milicic blocks a shot on the game's first possession. He then gets out on the break. Point guard Dijorde Djogo finds him in the post, and Milicic spins to the basket for an easy two. The next trip down, Milicic grabs a rebound in traffic on the defensive end, then battles for an offensive board back in the Hemofarm end. Within five minutes its clear why scouts are so enamored.

He's as tough as the Yugoslavian winter in the paint. Every time he touches the ball down low, he lowers his shoulder and takes it at his man. He's not afraid of contact. He has soft hands, understands when to pass the ball out of the double team, has a sweet jump hook, and plays aggressively at the defensive end. He hits several quick spin shots off the block, prompting one scout to proclaim that he hasn't seen that type of footwork out of a young big man since Tim Duncan. Milicic is in the zone.

At the end of the first quarter he has a dream stat line: eight points on 3 of 4 shooting, six boards, four blocks and three assists. And, as two scouts quickly add, zero mistakes. To make things even more enticing, consider this -- his team didn't run one play for him in the first quarter.

Milicic gets his first major challenge at the start of the second quarter. Buducnost subs in Vranes, a 7-foot-6 shot-blocking machine. Milicic tells me later that Vranes is the tallest player he's ever faced. It shows on the first possession when Vranes stuffs a quick Milicic turnaround in the paint. Here is where Darko proves himself. The next time down the floor, Milicic catches the ball in the same position on the block. Instead of trying the jumper, he puts the ball on the floor and blows by Vranes across the lane, sinks the lay-up and gets the foul.

Great posts Martin,thats an interesting article.If Darko is another
kid worth the hype than we wont have too much to be sorry about if
we landed him instead of James,the more players like this that I hear about in next year's draft the more optimistic I get.

who's down for more Darko info:

Face to face with Darko
by Chad Ford
Tuesday, December 17 Updated 1:33 PM EST

BELGRADE, Yugoslavia -- Nothing can top the sheer exhilaration of the first few days in Belgrade. The sounds and smells are now becoming familiar. More Americans, including NBA scouts from the Lakers and Clippers, have joined us, and the quest to find Darko Milicic is basically over. He is as good as advertised, but reality quickly sets in for most of the NBA people I talked to. There will be no draft day surprises in June. If he's in the draft, still a big if, he will go No. 2. For the team that picks third, the journey has just begun.

Then comes the dunk. After Partizan scores, the team inbounds the ball to Milicic just a bit before mid court. Milicic puts the ball on the floor and brings it up against pressure to around the 3-point line. There he takes Kristic off the dribble, penetrates into the lane and throws down a thunderous dunk over a helpless Partizan defender. The crowd goes wild. I stop the tape and rewind it. Play. Rewind. Play. Rewind. One more time. Well, maybe one more.

Assists are good. But the dunk will do just fine too.

3:00 p.m. Traveling with Tony Ronzone is a lot like hanging out with Rod Serling in the Twilight Zone. You're never sure what will happen next.

Ronzone is a success because of a keen eye for basketball talent. But that's only part of the story. He has a natural way with people. He's outgoing, friendly and generous. Everywhere he goes he has a contact or two who greets us with open arms.

Other scouts spend much of their time holed up in hotels when they're on the road. Not Ronzone. One minute he is wandering the streets, getting to know the people, the next he's on his way to the home of Partizan's coach to drink, eat and discuss Xs and Os.

Ronzone's believes his job is really about building relationships. The people he meets become life-long friends. At some point, he'll be able to use that friendship to get a tip, inside access to a player or just a good meal away from home.

After spending the early afternoon with Milicic, Ronzone and I are starving and take a cab into old Belgrade looking for some authentic Serbian food. We were looking for a restaurant called Seshij Moi. Ronzone is friends with a Yugoslavian kid in the states. His uncle owns the restaurant and has been e-mailing Ronzone to drop by and say hi.

The cab driver drops us off on a back street at the entrance to a cobbled alley way and disappears before we can figure out where we are. Turn back the clock 100 years, picture ancient brick buildings and storefronts, add a few staggering lovers playfully walking down the street and take away all recognition of the English language, and you can begin to picture where Ronzone and I stood.

We are in the middle of nowhere again. It takes us some time to decipher the Cyrillic script on the storefronts before we wander into what we thought was Seshij Moi. The restaurant is dark. Just one family sits at a table in the corner. We're greeted by a woman who rummages through decades worth of menus to find us some tattered photo copies of their dining selections with the English translations written in ink. All that's missing is Marlon Brando in a pinstripe suit mumbling about canoli in Serbian.

Ronzone tries to explain to the waitress who we were. She doesn't understand us, and we don't understand her. Tony pulls out his business card and asks her to give it to a man named Vlado.

3:45 p.m. A portly man with a white beard comes out and immediately moves us to a different table. He shakes our hands and then disappears. We think this is Vlado.

4:00 p.m. The same woman reappears with a large plate of food -- ham, deviled eggs, all sorts of cheeses and a bowl of red jelly mixed with meat. We haven't actually ordered anything, but this will do. Soon she's followed by more waiters brining wine and about every pickled vegetable you can imagine.

4:10 p.m. We have no idea what is happening but know it would be fruitless to ask. Obviously we are in the right place, and Vlado has decided to throw us a little feast. It was about then that Ronzone and I make a little deal that will almost kill both of us. I don't drink, and Ronzone isn't big on strange-looking food. We both know we would horribly offend these people if we don't eat and drink everything they give us, so the deal was this: He drinks all of the wine that they pour for me, and I'll eat all of the mystery food for the both of us. It sounded like a good deal at the time. It wasn't.

4:30 p.m. The ham is delicious, the cheeses are exquisite, but I'm having a hard time downing some spicy peppers sautéed in something like napalm. By now I've downed my fifth glass of sparkling water, but the waiter just keeps bringing out more wine.

4:45 p.m. Vlado reappears with a shot glass, says "Cheers!" and looks to Tony and I to do the same. I grab my water glass, but Vlado's not buying it. He yells something in Serbian at me and then disappears again. I'm sure the worst is behind us.

5:00 p.m. A burly waiter walks out the door carrying a giant platter of roasted meats. Now let me define giant. There had to be 25 pounds of shish kebabs on the platter. Chicken, pork, veal, sausages, and several mystery meats that remain a mystery to this day. Obviously, Vlado saw Tony's Pistons card and thought we were bringing the entire team to the restaurant.

5:45 p.m. We should have caused a distraction and left, but by now we are hopelessly entangled in this thing. I have personally consumed about 10 pounds of meat wrapped in bacon. It's all very delicious, but it's tough to breathe when three of your arteries are blocked.

6:00 p.m. I've failed to mention that several of Vlado's relatives have arrived at the restaurant. Of course, none of them speaks English either, and the conversation borders on the absurd. I know two words in Serbian, and the mother knows three words in English. Apparently that's enough to make us the official translators for the group. The scene is like a bad game of charades on crack. I'm flailing my arms and adding a bad Eastern European accent to my English, hoping the combination would pass for Serbian. The mother is less ambitious. She's just speaking Serbian -- very loudly.

6:15 p.m. Is it possible for a human being actually to explode? I've never seriously pondered this question before. But by now, I've eaten half my body weight.

6:30 p.m. Apparently, Tony and I learn that most of the conversation that night was centering on who Ronzone looked like. Frustrated with my translation skills, Vlado heads to the back to talk to the chef.

9:30 p.m. The party is slowing down. Dinner can only last so long. Especially when no one has a clue what is going on. It's clear they are ready for us to leave, but we have no idea exactly how to get home.

My mind wanders back to a history lesson in college. Captain Cook, when he discovered the Hawaiian Islands, was greeted in a similar fashion. The Hawaiians, a giving people, just like the Serbs, roasted pigs, threw their entire catch of fish in the imu and treated Cook and his crew like kings. Unfortunately for Cook, he didn't know when to say when. His crew literally devoured just about everything they had. When there was no food left, Cook decided to leave and boarded his ship back to England. A short time later Cook experienced trouble with his boat and had to return to the island. The people, upon seeing Cook return, were angry. He came ashore and an argument ensued. In the end, Cook was killed. The crew fled the island, and the Hawaiians cooked Cook for supper.

9:35 p.m. Luckily there is no water boiling on the stove.

10:00 p.m. Mama yells Hyatt.

10:15 p.m. Seven hours and 15 minutes later we return from the twilight zone, 20 pounds heavier and convinced that there isn't a more hospitable people in all the world.

DEC. 16: PRACTICE MAKES DRAFT PICKS

10:00 a.m. I meet Ronzone in the lobby. We're off to watch FMP Zeleznik, the top team in Yugoslavia, practice. The trip is a short one but will take us through one of the toughest parts of Belgrade.

Along the way we wind through a part of town unlike anything I've ever seen. The houses can only be described as neo-hobo -- cardboard walls, tin roofs with large satellite dishes perched on top. Those Serbs love their basketball. Our driver typifies the symbolic meeting of old and new Europe. One minute, traditional Serbian music is blasting from his radio. The next, he's rapping to Eminem.

FMP Zeleznik is perhaps the most progressive club in all of Yugoslavia. Its gym is actually part of a larger campus dedicated to teaching proper basketball skills to kids.

The club searches out the top young players in the country and offers to house them, educate them and teach them how to play basketball. Kids come as young as 12 years old. They practice hoops with top coaches between five and six hours a day. It isn't uncommon for these kids to get instruction along with the senior team. In fact, toward the end of practice, a bunch of kids file into the stands wearing Nikes and carrying gym bags. They have next.

Maybe it's time for David Stern to take a trip to Yugoslavia. He has been the NBA's most vocal critic of teams drafting young players. The rules have become so strict, Cavs coach John Lucas was suspended this summer when LeBron James showed up at an informal Cavs workout. Lucas let him play and later paid the price. The philosophy here is different. They want their young players to develop relationships with the top players and coaches in the country. It gives them an anchor that many U.S. players sorely lack. How does it hurt LeBron, or anyone for that matter, to spend as much time as possible learning from the best?

FMP has historically had some of the best talent in the country. Its coach, Aco Petrovic, coached Marko Jaric and Vladimir Radmanovic when they were young. His latest phenom is a kid named Ognjen Askrabic. Askrabic's name may be familiar to some hard core NBA fans. The Mavs made a strong run at him last season. Because he wasn't drafted by the age of 22, Askrabic is a free agent. Unfortunately for the Mavs, and luckily for the rest of the NBA, Askrabic couldn't get out of his contract in time to sign a contract with Dallas.

Askrabic is widely considered to be the best veteran (he's 23) Yugoslavian player left in the country. He leads the Yugoslavian league in every imaginable category. He's top five in scoring, rebounds, assists, steals and blocks. He's 6-foot-9, has a strong body and resembles Wally Szczerbiak at a distance. Askrabic has all the skills, but his teammates praise his court smarts and clever playing style for the team's success.

Askrabic joins his teammates at midcourt as Petrovic explains that they are to practice a 1-1-3 zone defense today, similar to the one employed by Lute Olson at the University of Arizona. Petrovic has been to the U.S. before to learn coaching strategies. Obviously he was taking notes.

His players on defense are practicing closing out on 3-point shooters. The skill is essential throughout Europe. In fact, the training drill resembles a scene from the movie "Pleasantville" when the perfect 1950s basketball team stepped on the court and immediately began draining outside jumpers. They never missed. Neither does Petrovic's crew.

After a lengthy session working on defense, the coach moves to a light scrimmage, and the players put on a show. The gym was empty except for Tony, myself, several coaches and the 15 players. All you could hear for 20 minutes was the squeak of the player's shoes. The ball rarely, if ever, touched the floor.

"They make things so simple," Ronzone leans over and tells me. "We over-dribble in the NBA. Our guards dominate the ball. Look how everyone is sharing."

Ronzone points out more things. Over an hour of their practice time that morning was dedicated to shooting. NBA teams spend their practice time on the defensive end, usually without the ball. Shooting drills in the NBA typically last 20 minutes. Want to know why the European players are lapping our players in fundamental skill sets? Practice makes perfect.

"Do the numbers man," Ronzone says. "Over time, all that extra shooting will pay off."

The drill goes on for 30 minutes. We never see Askrabic miss a shot.

After the practice is over, I stop former University of Texas star Reggie Freeman. Freeman, like many other top collegiate players, has found a nice life in Europe running teams. Tyus Edney, Scoonie Penn, Charlie Bell and Derrick Dial are among others who have thrived in Europe after being spurned by the league.

Freeman can't say enough good things about his teammates. "This is a team here," he said. "No one is selfish. Everyone is focused on the same goal. There aren't any egos here."

I wander over to Askrabic, who's sitting on the bench icing his knee. He doesn't enjoy star status despite his huge numbers. Like Milicic, Askrabic admires Garnett.

"He plays strong, nasty basketball," he says. "That's how I like to play -- hard basketball." Like Milicic, Askrabic says his favorite thing to do on the court is pass the ball to an open teammate. Unlike Milicic, he isn't in a hurry to join the NBA.

"I wait here to become a better player," Askrabic says when I bring up the NBA. "I don't want to hurry. I want to be as prepared as I can be. Then, when the club tells me I am ready, I will go."

Askrabic has been a popular man lately. In the last month the Nuggets, Raptors, Lakers and Clippers all have been to Belgrade to see him play. Expect a bidding war to erupt this summer once the free-agent period begins. His team has promised to let him out of his contract this summer, and Askrabic's skills outweigh anyone not named James or Milicic in this year's draft.

But all of the attention may be for naught. Sometimes it pays to do your homework early. The Mavs have been courting Askrabic for some time. Unlike many teams, the coaches themselves have been over trying to woo Oji to come to the states. He is comfortable with them and their dedication to making lives better for international players.

"I think I will go to Dallas, or maybe Sacramento," Askrabic mentions later. "They have already treated me very good."

Could Askrabic be the final piece of the puzzle for Dallas?

Relationships. It's all about relationships.

Milicic is probably the second pick in the draft, but you never know, we could get him. Bringing in him and Vujanic would give us some home grown, euro talent, and for once we would actually have some white guys on the team who aren't labled as stiffs. Adding these two players to a core of McDyess, Sprewell, Houston, Thomas, and even Nailon and Williams would be the smartest thing our team could do.

Posted by rain:

If we traded Spree and eisley for Pippen, we'd tank the year and be on the way to some cap relief. Have Vujanic, get lucky and have a shot at Milic (who sounds like a nice Lebron consolation prize).

i'd do spree and eisley for pip in an instant.