Athlete Run-Ins: The Angry Tim Duncan. Grrr!

In today's second installment of athlete run-in stories, we present a portrayal of Spurs all-world star Tim Duncan, from the olden days, back before he became the Mr. Nice Guy Stud that he is today. We find this story immensely fun just because it's the exact opposite of what pretty much everyone has always thought about Duncan. It comes to us from someone named "Johnny Lazz." Here's an excerpt, with the full story after the jump.

I round the corner to see Tim Duncan forcibly holding a girl around the waist with one arm to sit on his lap and is wiggling her around like a grinding lap-dance motion.

Yeah. It gets worse. Enjoy the rest after the jump.

I attended UNC-Chapel Hill. During the 1996-97 hoops season, I was a bouncer in a bar on Franklin Street called Papagayos, which sadly no longer exists. This particular evening the Heels had lost at home to Tim Duncan and Wake Forest. After the game, UNC center and dorky german 7 footer Serge Zwikker made an appearance at the bar. After a few quick drinks, Zwikker and friends left due the amount of jeers and rebukes. On his way out, some Heels fans pelted him with balled-up bar napkins.

Shortly after he leaves, in rolls Tim Duncan with some nondescript non-basketball player. Instantly the bar starts buzzing, as Duncan was dominating the ACC and NCAA at this point, a clear lottery pick. The very same dickhead frat boy UNC students that were harassing Serge immediately fall all over themselves to kiss his ass and buy him drinks. Tim takes it all in stride, happily obliging the sycophants, all dudes. I was working the door, and it wasn't that crowded (slow tues or wed night) so I just stayed at my post, happily zoned out. About an hour later a girl (hot petite blond sorority type; at UNC, they are a dime a dozen) in a panic and tells me someone is molesting her friend at a corner table. As the only bouncer, it is my job to keep order, and I was always quick to eject anyone I heard using racial slurs, homophobes, or harassing women.

(Full disclosure: I am six-foot, 220, an avid martial artist and enjoyed opening the door with people's faces when they had it coming.)

I round the corner to see Tim Duncan forcibly holding a girl around the waist with one arm to sit on his lap and is wiggling her around like a grinding lap-dance motion. She is yelling, "stop it, let go of me," and he is using his other hand to clasp her shoulder and grope her breasts. Now, keep in mind, there are like 4-5 UNC frat type guys AT THE TABLE watching him do this, and not saying shit, some even laughing (cuz apparently date rape is funny), because these were the very same fuckheads who were kissing Duncan's ass, asking him where he wanted to play NBA ball and buying him drinks when he got there. Tim Duncan's back is to me, so I tap him on the shoulder and calmly and quietly tell him to let go of her. He tells me to fuck off, without even turning around.

So I say sternly but calmly something along the lines of, "Well, you are going have to let go of her and get out because you are not welcome here anymore." (I always started things assertive but mellow and zen-like, so as to avoid inflaming drunken macho reactions. If you can control things by keeping calm, things go easier in these situations.) So he lets go, she darts up and runs to the ladies room, he stands up slowly and turns to face me. Now, I am not scared of too many people, but the fact remains: He is way taller, faster, stronger; in every way he will totally dominate me. Martial arts training aside, if I can't take him down fast, like by sweeping his leg and hopefully breaking a knee, I am fucked, because he could've picked me up by my ankles and swung me around like a club against the closest wall.

He looks down at me with total contempt and says, "Fuck off before I kick your ass. Don't you know who I am?" Now, inside I am crapping my pants, but fighting is all about controlling your fear, so on the outside I am (or am trying to be) John Wayne, Clint Eastwood and Bruce Lee all rolled into one. I look him dead in the eye (as best I am able given the height difference) and say, word for word (I will never forget, and I still don't know where I came up with this): "Look TIM, you ain't in the NBA yet. Now if you don't get the fuck out of here right now I am gonna call ESPN, Sports Illustrated, and Coach Odom as soon as I get done breaking your knee and ruining your fucking career." He is stunned by my audacity, like the lion regarding the mouse that roared.

Then he gets this weird look on his face, like he is mulling over what a bad idea it would be to get in a fight over this kind of thing at a Chapel Hill bar so publicly. Then he says "Fuck you. This place sucks. I am OUTTA HERE!" like it was his idea, like I had pissed in his margarita or something. I hollered at his back "Good! Get the fuck out, that's all I asked!" to the applause of the few patrons at the bar. I ended up going home with the pretty brunette he had been harassing, having played her Knight-in-shining flannel.

The weird thing is, he goes on to get drafted by the Spurs, spends his rookie offseason living with David Robinson and getting counseled on how to conduct yourself in the pros, craft the perfect media-friendly role-model image... to think this guy could have just as easily become the next Rasheed Wallace without the wise council of the Admiral.

The more rings Tim gets, and the longer he goes on as a NBA role model, the less likely people are to believe this, but I was there, and I had plenty of witnesses. Yes, it was a long time ago and people change, but that night that fucker was way out of line.


(Ed. Note: We're still a LITTLE skeptical ... but this guy didn't seem like he was bull-shitting to us.)

Athlete Run-Ins: When Shaq Wants Your Girl [Deadspin]