Phil (Flip) Saunders was uniquely charming, and was always quick with a wry joke.Stephen Dunn/Getty Images
Andrew Wiggins was bouncing. Last November, 10 games into his NBA career, Wiggins clutched a basketball with both hands after practice, hopping like a pogo stick under the hoop, laying the ball in after five hops, dunking it after another five. The drill, and variations thereof, was among the favourites of Flip Saunders, coach and president of the Minnesota Timberwolves.
Saunders strolled over, an old basketball sage, the stubble on his face a grizzled grey and white. "Can I get a snap of the rim?" he asked. Wiggins delivered, hanging up there for a while.
The drill began again, this time with a medicine ball. Wiggins's athletic potential, lightning quickness and ability to leap, was on full display. Saunders, excited and encouraging, loved it: "Slam it down! Oh! There we go!"
Saunders died of cancer on Sunday, only eight months past his 60th birthday. In what became his final act, he bet on Wiggins and became the young Canadian's defining influence as the prodigy arrived in the NBA a year ago. By the spring, he was rookie of the year.
The coach was initially diagnosed with Hodgkin's lymphoma in June and it was made public in August. The prognosis was good – Saunders wasn't even planning to take time off – but his health deteriorated quickly. He was a basketball lifer who grew up in Cleveland and was a starter on powerhouse University of Minnesota teams in the mid-1970s. He coached for two decades in the lower rungs of basketball before his break in 1995, when he became head coach of the Timberwolves. He also coached in Detroit and Washington before returning to Minnesota. His 654 wins ranks 20th all-time among NBA coaches.
Wiggins, on Instagram, described Saunders as "one of the most kind hearted and caring" people he'd ever met. A picture showed Saunders and Wiggins in a moment of in-game instruction. "You believed in me so much," Wiggins wrote Sunday night, "especially when you brought me over to Minnesota and saw my potential to be special in this league, for that I am forever grateful." Wiggins punctuated the posting: "I love you."
In June, 2014, Wiggins had been drafted No. 1 by Cleveland but, soon after, when LeBron James moved back to Cleveland, the game's best player wanted Minnesota's Kevin Love alongside him. When the deal eventually got done, Saunders extracted Wiggins from Cleveland as Minnesota's primary return.
Saunders saw Wiggins's enticing potential and worked him hard before, during and after practices. He devised what he called the Wiggins drill, a five-man fast break, no defenders, that demanded Wiggins score each time up and down the floor. In games, Saunders early on thrust Wiggin into the centre of Minnesota offence.
Two decades before Wiggins, Saunders coached another teenage prodigy, Kevin Garnett. Coach and player were both rookies, their first NBA season. "He's got to be selfish," Saunders said of Wiggins in a postpractice interview with The Globe and Mail last November. "It's something he's going to learn. We'll be able to teach him, just like KG. KG was very unselfish. You do things to stimulate them and push them along."
Granted, Saunders had little choice, as a spate of injuries waylaid his team, and he put more on Wiggins than he might have. From Dec. 1 on, Wiggins played more minutes – almost 200 more – than anybody in the NBA. The heavy load sparked the rookie. He defended the game's stars from the start and by midseason was an offensive force, a nightly one-man highlight reel.
Family was at the heart of the lesson. Wiggins has five siblings; Saunders's son Ryan is among the assistant coaches in Minnesota. Each year Saunders has players and their families over to his home for a relaxed dinner. "We are family," said Saunders. "You can say something to your brother that no one else can. Family can be critical with each other. That brings that bond."
Saunders brought charm, too. He was always quick with a wry joke. When The Globe noted he and Wiggins shared a birthday, Feb. 23, Wiggins to turn 20, Saunders to hit 60, Saunders chuckled and joked: "Great people are born on the same day."
Most of all, Saunders loved the game. Last November, before Minnesota faced San Antonio, he lingered on the floor before the game with a couple reporters. He leaned against the scorer's table and jawed. "He likes holding court," said a Minnesota public-relations man. When it was pointed out that Minnesota's makeshift starting lineup had fewer NBA games played, combined, than Tim Duncan alone, the coach smiled. "If there's another injury, I'm just walking out," he said, pointing to the exit. "Elvis has left the building."
Now Saunders is gone. His legacy lasts.