Nick Anderson sounds like a tour guide as he walks through his new house in an upscale part of town, describing the purpose of each room, pointing proudly to pictures and plaques on the walls.
There is a Bentley, a Beamer and a Benz in the garage, a sparkling waterfall pool out back and a pretty girlfriend who lives down the street.
His closet looks like The Men’s Wearhouse. He has a trophy case downstairs overflowing with tributes to his basketball career. He has an investment portfolio in his pocket that should last beyond his lifetime.
He looks like a guy with everything. Yet he sometimes feels like a guy with nothing.
And it eats at him.
For all his possessions, the money, the memories, Anderson spends his days now without a purpose, wandering in search of the big happy family he never had growing up but found and loved with the Orlando Magic.
He wants to go home–desperately.
“It broke my heart, just broke it, when I left Orlando because it felt like my family had traded me away,” Anderson said. “I still have that empty feeling, like something is missing, and I can’t shake it.”
Anderson, now 37 and retired for two years, was the first face of the franchise when he became the team’s first college draft pick out of the University of Illinois in 1989.
He scored 10,650 points in 10 seasons for the Magic, making him its leading career scorer, a distinction he likely will carry for many more years.
He had some wonderful highs in Orlando–a 50-point game against New Jersey in 1993, “The Steal” from Michael Jordan that propelled his team to the 1995 NBA Finals. And he had some unforgettable lows–the four consecutive missed free throws in Game 1 of those NBA Finals, the sexual-assault charge against him in 1996 that later proved bogus.
At times, he was a wonderful asset to the franchise; his work with senior citizens in the community still is unprecedented. Yet he also became a contradiction, turning the franchise’s greatest moment into his personal nightmare.
It was 10 years ago that the Magic roared to the Eastern Conference title and into the NBA Finals, a team of brash young stars Shaquille O’Neal and Penny Hardaway led and Anderson stabilized on the wing.
Yet the Houston Rockets ambushed them in a sweep that was triggered when Anderson missed those four free throws in the final 10 seconds of Game 1, any one of which could have changed history.
Although he played another four seasons with the Magic, those four missed free throws haunted him unmercifully, following him on every trip to the line. His scoring began to slide, as did his free-throw percentage and offensive aggressiveness.
By the time the Magic traded him to Sacramento in 1999–the start of their major salary-cap purge–he was a shell of himself.
He never really found a niche with the Kings and, after two seasons, was traded to Memphis. He played one season there before being dealt to Cleveland, where he retired before he played a game.
Former Orlando general manager John Gabriel, who traded Anderson to Sacramento during that salary-cap purge, believes the time might be right to bring Anderson back.
“I think in some form or fashion, there should be a place for Nick Anderson in Orlando,” said Gabriel, now working for the Portland Trail Blazers. “It’s something that can’t be done for everyone, but he was our first and he’s still one of the better players we ever had.”
Throughout his house, there are endless snapshots of his career, at Chicago’s Simeon High, at Illinois and with the Magic. Although he has lived in Atlanta since he retired in 2002, his home is a shrine to his days in Orlando. There are Magic balls, Magic jerseys, Magic colors throughout. There are pictures of him with Shaq, with Penny, with Horace Grant and Dennis Scott. There are team pictures of all 10 seasons he played in Orlando.
His cars still have Florida license plates. His mother and sister still live in Orlando, in homes that Anderson bought.
Now, most of his calls to people in the Magic organization aren’t returned.
“The reason I live in Atlanta is because I just felt like I wasn’t wanted around Orlando anymore, like I wasn’t welcome,” he said. ” . . . But I want to come back to the family.”
Anderson still has the hard hat he was given when he posed for the groundbreaking ceremony pictures at the Magic’s RDV Sportsplex in 1996. “I got that picture of me in the hard hat, but I can’t even get in there to shoot hoops now,” he said. “I’m like the family member who was banished, but I don’t know why.”
Anderson hoped the Magic would retire his jersey, but those hopes are fading. The franchise has been slow to embrace its past, although the rehiring of coach Brian Hill might be the start. Hill was the one who took Anderson and the rest to the Finals in 1995.
“The thing about Nick is that he probably had a better connection with the fans in Orlando than any other Magic player,” said Don Miller, a longtime friend who moved to Orlando with Anderson in 1989 and still lives in the area. “Shaq was larger than life. Penny was just Penny. It always seemed like Nick was one of the fans.”
Magic spokesman Joel Glass was sympathetic over Anderson’s desires, but he didn’t know of any plan to offer him a position in the organization.
Over the years, the Magic have hired a few former players, all guys Anderson once played alongside.
“I have so much to offer, but nobody to offer it to,” Anderson said.
To his credit, Anderson has rediscovered the body that once made him so proud. The 30 pounds and bloated look that engulfed him shortly after retiring is gone.
He played at 235 pounds 10 years ago. He weighs 240 today. Although he has no illusions of playing again, he has high hopes of teaching youngsters who do play in the NBA.
“I’m scared of getting fat,” he said. “When I first got out, all I did was sit around and eat badly. I couldn’t walk up a flight of stairs without gasping for air. Now I’m ready to go. Things have come back together.”
Earlier this spring, at his grandmother’s funeral in Chicago, the loss of his extended Magic family really hit him.
Afterward, he returned to Atlanta and realized how lonely he was, how little he had done to prepare for life after basketball.
The best times of his life weren’t growing up in Chicago, where his parents divorced, where his brothers had brushes with the law, where gangs often terrorized his neighborhood. The best times were in Orlando.
“Four missed free throws didn’t mess me up,” he said. “Leaving Orlando was what really hit me. You know, I have a lot here in Atlanta, but I’d be the first thing smoking if they’d only invite me back.”
