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Adapted from KG: A to Z: An Uncensored Encyclopedia of Life, Basketball, and Everything in Between, by Kevin Garnett and David Ritz, published by Simon & Schuster.
When I was a kid, at first the only sneakers I could afford were fake Jordans from Payless. When I wore those joints to school, the kids nearly laughed me out. “Oh shit, look at those lame-ass kicks Kevin be wearing.”
“They ain’t all that bad,” said my friend Bug. Bug always had my back. “I think they’re pretty slick.”
They weren’t. They were lame-ass.
When you’re young, status counts. When you get older, status counts even more. Friend told me about a record executive who had his shoes handmade in England at $1,200 a pop. His closet was lined with 125 pairs. Another cat is into cowboy boots. Alligator skin, ostrich skin, buffalo, calf, cowhide, elephant—you name it. I’m gonna guess his collection is worth seven figures. His whole identity—his self-worth—is tied up in boots. When you get some wisdom—and that takes forever—you realize status don’t mean shit. But you’re probably only able to say that when you get some status. Took forever to get to where I could rock sneakers with some status.
British Knights were the first brand-name shoes I got, though they weren’t much cooler than those Payless joints. They were more than uncool; they marked me as being poor. I hated being marked. Eventually, when I got good enough to get on teams, that mark went away. Or maybe not. Maybe that mark, because it’s so deep, never goes away. Maybe we just cover it up.
I gotta believe that cool sneakers did cover some pain. Or at the very least they made me feel good. I also gotta believe that’s true for millions of kids. What’s interesting is that this phenomenon of worldwide shoe culture is built specifically on basketball shoes. Running shoes are big, and so are just plain casual shoes, but the driving force is basketball. Basketball shoes give you a bounce. A bop. A cool elevation. Basketball shoes also invite style. The best of them mirror the style of the player attached to the shoe.
This all crystalized in 1989 when I was thirteen. Word swept through the hood like a tornado. A kid had been killed for his Air Jordans. The red-and-black Air Jordans.
That was the moment. That’s when the alarm rang. That’s when one world stopped and another started. That turned out to be the number one selling shoe in the world, for any sport, for any athlete. Over a fuckin’ million pairs sold.
Listen to me good: As a grown-ass man, I look back in horror at the violence. I look back in horror that a kid lost his life over a pair of sneakers. But that’s me speaking now. Let me slip into the mindset I had as a kid hearing the news. That’s the reality I need to share with you.
What! What shoe is so bad that it’s causing a killing?
So me and my boys run down to the store, and there it is at Foot Locker, sitting high atop a plexiglass case, a beam of light shining on it.
It’s the Holy Grail.
Then we ask what all kids ask, “How much is it?”
One hundred twenty dollars!
Ain’t never heard of no shoe costing no $120. Back then sneakers cost $30, $40, maybe $50. The price only added to the lure and legend.
Growing up in Greenville, South Carolina, Eldrick Leamon was the first young brotha I knew who had real bread. He worked the streets. For a while, we were on the same AAU team. Big man. Six feet four, over 200 pounds. Some of the kids called him “Uncle El,” cause he looked older than his age. In Greenville, when Southside High won the state championship in 1992, Eldrick was just a sophomore. My cousin Shammond Williams, a junior—who’d later join me in the league—played on that same team. He had a big heart. Mr. Generosity. When his business was good, he’d go around the hood helping folks with their rent; he gave out everything from food to sneakers.
When he made a big street score, he bought Air Jordans for everyone in the hood. We were all wearing those joints, our hearts beating out of our chests, looking down at those bitches, walking slowly at first, then a little faster, then running, but no, not hooping, not about to take a chance of smudging those bad boys. (When he was eighteen, Eldrick was killed in a motorcycle accident, just two weeks after graduating high school. When I got to the league and signed with the T-Wolves, I made it my duty to remember him. Before pregame introductions at the Target Center, I made sure that the seat to my left was empty. That was Eldrick’s seat. I wanted him with me at every game.)
The Air Jordans were far more than sneakers; they were a crazed obsession. Interesting—and important—that the shoes had no white on ’em. Just red and black. After the killing that made national news, Nike backed off and started making other versions. A white pair, a red pair, a black pair. But fuck those other versions. Nothing would replace the originals. The Holy Grail was sacred, sacred because blood had been spilt for it, sacred because it inspired a million worshippers.
This was when Nike was piggybacking and betting on that piggybacking. They were fixin’ to jump on Jordan’s back. They were taking him to Paris. They were turning his game highlights into commercials. They were putting him on soundstages and telling him, “Put on these shoes and then dunk. Put on these shoes and hit a three. Put on these shoes and just jump.”
Who was dunking the ball like that before Jordan? Dr. J, that’s who. But Jordan was a better Dr. J. Dr. J had a good jump shot, but it wasn’t no Jordan jump shot. Jordan was the script that all of us had to follow. He was the avatar. Mike was the mantra. And Nike was the corporate monster making it all happen.
When I entered the league as a nineteen-year-old, I went with Nike. I wanna say I ran to Nike, but the truth is that Nike ran to me. Naturally, I loved that. I quickly found myself wearing all sorts of Nike joints.
My first meeting with Nike was a signing event. But the second meeting, during my second NBA season, when the T-Wolves had a game in Portland, was about design. Ric Wilson, a true brotha, was my corporate contact. Loved Ric. Just one step out of the league, he worked under two other dudes: Steve Riggins and Howard White. Howard was the brotha who brought in Jordan. All these men were about Black excellence in business.
They took me on a tour of the Nike campus. A beautiful landscape of buildings. Then came the statement that blew me away:
“We’re giving you your own shoe. Naming it Garnett 1.”
Bug was with me during that meeting. Never will forget the look on his face. The look said, “Holy shit!”
Before this, I had premiered the Nike Jumpman. But the Jumpman was part of the Jordan brand. It was marketed under MJ’s umbrella, a second tier to see if other players could sell sneakers. I was the first, but then came Eddie Jones, Jim Jackson, Jason Kidd, and Jamal Mashburn. I was down with the Jumpman and played in those joints for a long time. At the same time, like every other brotha who’s ever hooped, I wanted my own shoe. Far as I was concerned, the Garnett 1 was a milestone.
Another thing about sneakers that make ’em so attractive: they’re fun. When you lace up your joints—whether you’re four years old or forty—you’re about to head out and have some fun. Which brings me to another reason I liked Nike. They put me on the Fun Police. The Fun Police was a series of commercials that helped launch my brand, even when the shoe wasn’t mentioned. The Fun Police helped introduce me as a TV personality and, in some ways, something of an actor.
I might have been the main member of the Fun Police, but I wasn’t the only one. My guys Tim Hardaway, Gary Payton, Jason Kidd, and Alonzo Mourning were on the force with me. The Fun Police had hoopers in the role of plainclothes cops making sure folks had a good time. But there’s always a twist. In one commercial, for example, the Fun Police—me, Zo, and Hardaway—are showing people to their seats at a game. When a fancy rich couple shows us their courtside tickets, we send them to the nosebleed section. And then when three young Black boys show us their nosebleed tickets, we send them courtside. Justice prevails.
These little mini dramas became part of the pop culture. Hoopers as make-believe good guy cops having fun; hoopers being heroes without even touching a basketball.
Downloading Nike culture was eye-opening. I saw the way they threw shit around. Try these Bo Jackson shoes. Try these Deion Sanders joints. Lace up them Agassis. It’s all up and crackin’, a merchandising machine that’s running 24/7, a worldwide industry tapping into branding in a way I got to see up close and personal.
Enter Vince Carter. Vince was looking to get out of his Puma deal. This was happening in 2000 while we were on the Olympic team that won the gold medal. After our victory over France, Nike threw a party on a boat. Vince was there, and so was his agent. I could see that business was going down. Later, I saw that Vince didn’t understand that as the first bigtime athlete on Puma, Puma could take him global. Vince wanted Nike. Vince got Nike, but Nike never quite got Vince. They didn’t do countless commercials on him. They didn’t pump his brand like it could have been pumped.
I looked at all this. I reflected. I saw that when it comes to the shoe business, you gotta tread carefully.
I had big love for two Nikes in particular: the Garnett Air Flightposite 2, for which I wrote a script on the sole that gives thanks to South Carolina and Chicago. That meant a lot to me. Also was crazy for the see-through iridescent air bubble bottom and the contrasting colors of peacock blue and black. The Nike Air 3 Garnett was also dope, especially the one in Minnie green and a swath of snow white.
It wasn’t all fun and games with Nike, especially when they introduced Shox, a new technology. Shox didn’t work for me. Didn’t like the way they felt on the floor. I also didn’t like the way the sneaker looked. The shoe sample I saw looked dumb as hell. Things came to a head at the 2003 All-Star Game in Atlanta. Nike threw a big party back in the dressing room. Cameras everywhere. Media going crazy. That’s where Nike wanted to reveal the Garnett 4 Shox. But when they showed it to me, I couldn’t fake my reaction. The shoe didn’t excite me. So the Nike execs got on my agent about making me act like I loved the shit when I didn’t.
When they kicked out the media, there was a shit show between Nike and my agent. The Nike suits were screaming that I gotta show love for the product, my agent was killing ’em with sarcasm, saying, “Oh yeah, my man’s really gonna say he’s loving the worst-looking shoe you ever turned out.”
A lot of bread was involved, and I could have faked it. But to me a sneaker is like a painting. You start with a blank canvas. Then you pour your heart into it. It has to reflect your rhythm and sense of style. The Garnett 4 was clunky.
Sneakers are also like rap. They need a flow. The baddest rappers have their own flow. Same with the baddest shoes. In the beginning, Nike had me in on the creative process. But as time went by, they thought they knew my taste and went ahead with a model that didn’t even begin to mirror me. So I busted a move.
I left Nike with major respect for their engineering. Nike engineering is over the moon. Can’t say they always used the best materials, but they taught me about materials. That helped when I made my next move.
I signed with AND1. That shocked a lot of folks. I did it for three reasons. AND1 was open to my creative ideas. That came first. AND1 was also open to giving me what I considered a righteous equity deal. Back then, not even Jordan was getting more than 2 percent of sales. I thought that formula sucked. AND1 agreed. They paid me 20 percent. Because they were also building a brand, AND1 was open to my insistence that they use top-grade materials.
I took everything I learned from Nike and applied it to AND1. Nike product might not be the best, but their marketing is in a class all its own. With some exceptions, like Shox, they employ a beautiful aesthetic, almost like Apple, where the shit is smoothed out with a futuristic look. When it comes to sneakers, futurism is everything.
The sneaker sea is filled with sharks. But AND1 didn’t have that vibe. They heard me out. At first, they were a little hesitant. The AND1 crew was made up of a bunch of Harvard boys wanting to be niggas. Even though I find that attitude annoying, I can’t complain all that much ‘cause that’s the same attitude that’s helped bring crazy wealth both to hoop and hip-hop. White kids feeling the creative energy of brothas. White kids responding to that energy and wanting to bite it off for themselves. That’s the traditional American crossover, taking a Black product, whether it be music or sports, and crossing it over to mass market.
Sometimes the AND1 meetings could get testy.
They said, “We do street ball.”
“I come from street ball,” I said. “I know street ball, but I’m in the league and y’all gotta make shoes for the league.”
They listened. They followed my suggestions about putting in air bubbles, implementing a zigzag feel, a zipped-up accent, shit I had learned from the Nike lab and could now remix to where it reflected who I was.
At the same time, when I’m in a conference room with a group of cats who wanna be something they ain’t, I’m uncomfortable. When white folks have to prove they’re really down with Black folks, I back off. After a couple of years, I backed off AND1.
Next stop, Adidas. Fell in love with Adidas. Saw them like the Mediterranean. You pull up, jump into the warm water and the water’s fine. Wasn’t worried about no sharks. Adidas had their cool, but they lacked Nike’s elegance. Adidas wanted to create what had already been proven. Wasn’t interested in stepping out of the box. I was. I wanted next-level shit. But Adidas did have that hustle. Meanwhile, Nike was stepping on everyone and owning everything. Nike was the Roman Empire. Nike wasn’t happy till they conquered the world.
At Adidas, the push-pull started all over again. Just like Ric Wilson was my man at Nike, Chris Persinger was my go-to guy at Adidas. I had to pound Chris to get more creative, more daring, and finally he did. I credit myself for making an opening that led to the Yeezys. It took a while, but I was also able to convince Chris to mix and match different athletes from different sports. Timmy Duncan and Tracy McGrady partnered with me at the start of the Adidas journey. I liked having Timmy, Tracy, Chaunce, Josh Smith, Derrick Rose, Dwight Howard, and myself in the same commercial. I liked how Adidas jumped on the team joint of having a gang of superstars jammin’ together. But I still clung to the notion about crisscrossing different currents of the culture.
Adidas finally heard me and put James Harden, soccer player Lionel Messi, Pusha T, and some others around a bigass table, chopping it up. They put me in a commercial with David Beckham where Kate Moss and Young Jeezy show up. Under the slogan “Celebrate Originality,” we’re having a blast.
When our contract was up in 2010, a cold wind hit me in the face. In the negotiations, Adidas got boisterous and assertive. They also came to me with half-assed promotional materials. Rather than looking fresh, the ads featuring me looked tired. I didn’t appreciate that. I thought I had helped redefine their culture. I knew my worth. They tried to diminish my worth with little intangibles that bugged me. Previously, I’d seen how my commercials had become stagnated. I now saw that they did that to improve their bargaining position. All that pissed me off. I was over Adidas.
I moved on. Found me an Asian company. They had bought a lot of the Nike factories in China, kicked out Nike, and started turning out sneakers for consumers in that part of the world. That mainly meant small sizes. They’d never signed a player of any status, which gave me big leverage. I had the know-how and sophistication to help them design and manufacture for professional athletes. Aesthetically we hit it off. I had some dope designs they were able to bring to life. The problem was the materials. They weren’t up to par. They made more hires to better the quality. The sneakers improved. And I was feeling good about being heard. But even with those improvements, the shoes were killing my feet. I couldn’t run up and down the court without feeling that something was wrong. Even though this firm did wonders for spreading my brand across Asia, once again I had to back off. I couldn’t sell something I didn’t believe in.
Final shoe chapter comes only a few years back, after my retirement from the league, when I returned to AND1. I signed on as a creative director and brand ambassador.
A few months after AND1 gave me the gig, Jay-Z got named a creative director of Puma. I like to think I set a precedent.
AND1 was gonna roll out their Attack 2.0, Tai Chi, and Tai Chi Mixtape editions. I became their upper-tier representative. Part of my job was to glam up their shoe and also make sure the engineering was right. By then I had deep knowledge of the whole shoe process—from design concept to manufacturing to branding to marketing. I was also tasked with recruiting players to wear AND1.
That’s a tricky process. Sometimes I went to a player and asked, “Do you care about the quality of the shoes?”
“I don’t give a fuck. I just want my own shoe.”
Might ask someone else the same question who’d answer, “I just wanna lot of money.”
But some players did care about the integrity of the product and wouldn’t stand for no class B sneaker.
At the time I had my own TV show on TNT, Area 21, where I got to interview everyone from WNBA players Sue Bird and Candace Parker to Ludacris and D-Wade. AND1 got to overreaching, telling me what I could and could not wear on the show. One day I’d hear, “We want you in a gray hoodie, Ticket.” Next day I’d hear, “Wear a white hoodie, Ticket.” Since it was my show, and I had my own sponsorship that had nothing to do with AND1, I told the shoe execs, “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.” I moved on.
That was the end of my shoe career. At the same time, I see it starting again—and soon. Never have and never will lose my passion for sneakers. The shit separating you from the street, the leather or rubber or latex or whatever that lets you move on cold concrete or hard wood or wet grass or mud or brick is something more than a shoe. It’s a statement.