As Mound Slims Down, the Bite Is All Barkley

Everybody needs somebody to hate. Fortunately for fans of the Washington Bullets, they have Charles Barkley.

In college, he was the Round Mound of Rebound. Then, he weighed 280, and for lunch once had a Burger King--the whole thing. Who says no man is an island? Barkley already was bigger than Madagascar. Auburn listed him at 6 feet 6. But that was just his width.

As a rookie, three seasons ago, he was The Clown of Reknown--the loudest, growlingest, scowlingest NBA hot dog.

Last year, he evolved into the Main Line’s Main Man, heir to Julius Erving. With Moses injured, he vaporized the Bullets in the playoffs; all by his lonesome, he brought summer to the Cap Centre.

Now, trimmed to 253 pounds and polished in every way, he’s The Tower of Power--the best all-arounder on earth whose name is not Bird or Magic.

Listen up, Air Jordan and Akeem the Dream, you other esteemed third-year gents--the future is not yours alone.

Recently in Capital Centre, Barkley showed why the Philadelphia 76ers swear by him and Bullets fans swear at him. The 76ers left Erving (Dr. J), Jeff Ruland (Patient J), Andrew Toney, Cliff Robinson and Kenny Green at home. No big deal. Spot ‘em a franchise. We still got Charles and enough bodies to make it legal. Barkley went from Main Man to being, at various times, all five men.

The damages came to 28 points, 17 rebounds, 8 assists and a couple of blocks and steals--a typical night of menace and mayhem. If Barkley hadn’t tuckered himself out getting 40 points and 21 boards the previous night, he might have done something special. Like mistake Michael Adams for an hors d’oeuvre and use Manute Bol as a toothpick to pick him up.

At the buzzer, Barkley heaved one from midcourt. OK, for him, a flick of the wrist. He missed. His one mistake. Final: Bullets 106, Barkleys 105.

Everyone else walked off. Only Barkley didn’t move, bent double where he’d stood, hands on knees, eyes trying to bore through the polished hardwood. The two highest-caliber Bullets--Jeff and Moses Malone--sought him out, double-teamed him, each whispering into an ear. Warriors know valor.

“That was the most disappointing loss I’ve had. I wanted to win this game more than any game I’ve ever played,” said Barkley. “I’m sick and tired of hearing how good the trade was for the Bullets and how bad it’s been for us.

“They’ve beaten us three times this year (since Moses Malone and Terry Catledge were dealt for Ruland and Robinson), but the Bullets are still a mediocre .500 ballclub. They should be embarrassed that we hung in there with ‘em in their own building when we only had eight men.”

Moments later, Barkley muttered, “I promised a win and I couldn’t deliver.” Who had he promised? Just himself.

From a distance, Barkley is as hard to like as most Goliaths. A man who blends the springboard legs of Gus Johnson, the torso of Wes Unseld and the shoulders of Lawrence Taylor shouldn’t need sympathy. Indeed, Barkley gets little--even in Philadelphia. Earlier this year, he was fined for showing up late for a pregame meeting. Barkley explained that 3 p.m. dates were tough on him, because he hated to miss his favorite soap operas. Philadelphians had a hard time showing brotherly love to a man who put his passion for “One Life To Live” ahead of a $650,000 job.

“My job is to play basketball. Otherwise, I’m just Charles,” he said then. “People don’t have to like me. I just want to win once the game begins.”

It’s only up close that Barkley inspires empathy. His shoulders, arms and hands are covered with bruises and scratches--the price a 6-6 forward pays when he lives under the rack and leads the NBA in rebounding (14.0) and shooting percentage (.629). He may dawdle over “General Hospital,” but, after the tap, Barkley’s foes need an emergency ward.

Some say Barkley is still a baby, a massive talent who loses concentration or plays beyond control, his game flying apart in a tornado of turnovers. True, those three-point tries, which he loves to discuss, are mostly showcase; few jumpers ever appear. On the whole, however, what we have is a case of past reputation concealing present reality.

One statistic gives an almost-perfect sense of the NBA’s pecking order: Add up all a player’s plus production--his points, rebounds, assists, steals and blocked shots. Then subtract the bad--each missed shot or free throw, each foul or turnover. If your average score per game is 15, you’re good. (Jeff Malone is 15.4.) A 20 is a star. Get to 25 and you’re Hall of Fame material; Moses Malone is 24.4 this season. If you’re a 30, then you’re Bird, Johnson and nobody else. Or were until recently. The Hard Bark is a 30.9.

Where other stars seem ubiquitous, handling the ball constantly or setting their 7-foot frames in the lane, Barkley tends to be eruptive. He arrives from odd angles and at all times--erratic and unpredictable. Like a frolicsome young elephant with wings, he sprays a wake of furniture before him.

“Charles has a different and unique kind of game,” says Coach Matt Guokas slyly.