Super Solid Sonic -- He May Not Shine As Brightly As Other Superstars Around The NBA, But Ricky Pierce Is A Proven All-Star On The Court And Away From It

Home is that warm and fuzzy feeling, that uncomplicated haven where one finds many things familiar - open arms, sense of belonging and, mostly, one's heart.

A basketball court is home to Ricky Pierce, a little like being back in the Garland, Texas, of his childhood. There, he heard his father's constant encouragement. There, too, everybody knew everybody.

And everybody's business.

A basketball court, see, is one of the few places where everybody knows the largely private Pierce's business. His is the commerce of producing baskets. This, he does prodigiously.

The striking thing is how hard he works at it. He'll take the ball on the wing and, with a powerful couple of steps and dribbles, rumble into a mine field of defenders.

This season with the Seattle SuperSonics, Pierce's perilous excursions have earned him a dislocated finger, two long gashes on his forehead, a couple of ankle sprains, a groin pull, a calf bruise, a thigh bruise, a jammed thumb and numerous other dings no one ever knew about. Still, he has kept taking care of business.

"You have to respect a guy who gets hurt, keeps getting hurt," Sonic teammate Eddie Johnson says, "and still keeps going back for more."

Yet, if the public-address announcers didn't constantly drone, "Ricky Pierce . . . Ricky Pierce . . . Ricky Pierce . . .," his presence might hardly register. His game is so devoid of the flash of the NBA's other luminaries that, except for the defenders he attracts like bugs to a windshield, Pierce rarely calls much attention to himself.

Never did, really.

"Ricky likes to keep to himself," says Carleen Pierce, one of Ricky's eight siblings and probably the closest to him. "He concentrates a lot. It's like he puts his mind to one thing, and goes from that."

All of this begs the question that's befuddled astrologers and sports fans alike: Is a star that doesn't shine really a star?

"There are not many players better than Ricky - period," says Golden State's Don Nelson, who coached Pierce in Milwaukee. "He's one of the stars in our league, though he rarely gets much recognition. It's a shame, but it happens."

Not surprisingly, it happens to people such as Ricky Pierce.

In another incarnation, he might have been a samurai, a prideful, silent but efficient warrior. One who fights through pain and pressure without complaint. One who neither seeks nor receives acclaim.

Twice this season, he has won games for the Sonics with buzzer-beating jump shots and all year has been their go-to guy in tight situations. He similarly charged to the rescue during his career with the Bucks.

With a game on the line, "Ricky Pierce has killer eyes," Sonic Coach George Karl says. "The rest of the team has nervous eyes."

To avoid the windows to his soul is to miss the fire inside. Because so many people make that mistake, he often is easy to underestimate.

Herkie Walls was a Garland High School sprinter who went on to play with Houston and Tampa Bay in the NFL and set a national record in the 60-yard dash while at the University of Texas. Walls was slightly faster in the 60 than Pierce, according to Homer Johnson, then the athletic director at Garland. But only under the right circumstances.

"You put a dollar in each hand," Johnson says, "and ol' Rick would beat Herkie every time."

Pierce and Walls were part of a group of athletes whom Johnson worked out every weekend. The day before one of those workouts, Freddy Page had won the Texas Relays in the long jump. Urging congratulations, Johnson paraded Page before the group, declaring him, "the best long-jumper in the state of Texas."

"No he's not," Johnson recalls Pierce saying. "I can beat him."

And, over at the Garland long-jump pit, Pierce did exactly that.

Earlier this season, before a game at the Clippers, assistant coach Bob Kloppenburg wrote starting matchups on a blackboard in the Sonic locker room. He assigned Nate McMillan, the team's defensive stopper, to Los Angeles' mercurial but ever-dangerous Ron Harper. Spying this, Pierce asked if that was the way he really meant it.

"No, Ricky," Kloppenburg fibbed. "My mistake."

The assignment was switched, and Pierce helped hold Harper to just two points in the first half of an important 104-96 Sonic victory.

"Ricky always wants the other team's best player," Kloppenburg says.

While working on a 1984 deal that would send Harvey Catchings, Marques Johnson, Junior Bridgeman and cash to the Clippers, Nelson, then the Milwaukee coach, was trying to decide on a player, in addition to Terry Cummings and Craig Hodges, that the Bucks would receive in return.

"Everyone I talked to said Derek Smith was the one to get," Nelson recalls. "But the more film I watched, the more obvious it was to me that Ricky Pierce was the best player. Still, everyone said, `Not Ricky Pierce, Derek Smith is the guy to get.' So we tried to get Smith. They said they wouldn't do that. So we settled on Ricky Pierce, which was fine with me."

More than fine, actually. Pierce went on to win the NBA's Sixth Man award twice, becoming the first (and still only) guard to do so, and was named to the Eastern Conference All-Star team in 1991. Haughty accomplishments, even if few noticed.

"When things get rough, keep pushing and try to smile." - Carl Pierce to his son, Ricky.

A startling thing often happens to people when they charge into adulthood: All that parental advice summarily dismissed during childhood suddenly becomes gospel. All the apparent blather Carl Pierce used to heap on his third son, for example, seems now like so many gems of wisdom.

Don't let yourself get down; things could be worse. Don't disrespect people because it always comes back on you. Keep your options open.

During any discussion of consequence, Ricky Pierce will recite these like a mantra. Joyce Pierce even has heard her husband utter them to their children - Christian, 2 1/2, and Rachel, 15 months.

"I think a lot about the things he used to tell me," he says. "I remember them like it was yesterday."

Carl Pierce - father, provider, adviser, friend - died of leukemia nearly three years ago. The death pulsed through Ricky Pierce like an electrical current, shocking him and recharging him at the same time.

Carl died two weeks after Christian's birth. The developments seemed an omen, part of God's plan. Out of death came new life.

Pierce dedicated the 1989-90 season to his father, then re-dedicated himself to his game. That season was Pierce's finest in the NBA. With a 23-point average, he became the first reserve ever to lead Milwaukee in scoring and the highest scoring guard in team history. He also won his second NBA Sixth Man Award, a feat matched only by Boston's Kevin McHale.

The next season, also dedicated to Carl Pierce - as is each subsequent season - Ricky was named to the All-Star team.

Carl Pierce's death not only added urgency to his son's physical pursuits, but to the way he lived his life.

He'd always been been a hard worker. Early in his first training camp with the Bucks, Pierce injured his knees. As the final cutdowns approached, the Milwaukee organization considered placing Pierce on waivers. Taking exception were Nelson and his assistant, Mike Dunleavy, now the coach of the Lakers.

"He couldn't play or practice, but I kept seeing him, working out, running laps around the gym by himself," Nelson says. "Everyone wanted to cut him. But I thought, this guy works so hard, I have to see what I have. Turns out, he is one of the favorite players I've ever coached."

After his father's death, Pierce re-doubled his training efforts, especially during the off-season. When the Sonics are home, Pierce frequently visits an Eastside health club to work out - often after the marathon practice sessions which have become the norm under Karl.

"It blows my mind, how hard he works," Joyce Pierce says of her husband. "Every summer, he just keeps adding things to his training routine."

His near-obsession with health, extending to a diet she helps monitor, is only partially related to basketball. Carl Pierce was only 56 when he passed. His son, Joyce says, "realized how precious life really is. He wants to be able to see his children - and his grandchildren - grow up and know they're OK."

The concern has extended to the rest of Pierce's family as well. He has been more conscientious about spending part of his summers back home in Garland. His trips there are really for physical reconnection, however. Spiritually, he never left.

"A hard head makes a soft behind." - Carl Pierce to his son, Ricky.

Every Sunday, Carleen Pierce gets a call from her younger brother. It doesn't matter where in the NBA he is, Ricky will phone. He'll ask about his nieces and nephews, how things are back in Garland.

Then he'll faithfully make another inquiry, for which Carleen always has cooked up a delicious response.

"Ricky always wants to know what I'm making for dinner," she says. "I'll tell him, mustard greens, red beans, cornbread - describe everything in detail and make him real hungry. Ricky's always enjoyed eating."

Might say, in fact, that Ricky Pierce's childhood left a strong aftertaste.

Carl and Dorothy Pierce both worked two jobs, so most of the week was hi, bye, eat and run. The weekend provided a reunion between the Pierces and their nine children. First came the family fish fries on Friday, then the multi-course feeds on Sundays and holidays with the extended Pierce clan that abounded in Garland.

"I had so much fun on those weekends," says Pierce, the seventh of Carl and Dorothy's children. "There were good times as well as tough times." When unloosed from the security of his family, Pierce sometimes found new environments to be hostile.

Two weeks after Goree Johnson was hired as Garland High's basketball coach, Pierce, then a sophomore, was suspended for the rest of the semester for striking a classmate with a teacher's paper weight. But by his senior year, he was a model citizen, and a high-school All-American pursued by every basketball power in the region.

The pressures grew, too. The locals lobbied Pierce to sign with Coach Eddie Sutton and Arkansas. Garland High was a big football school, and the feeling was that Pierce would grease the skids to Arkansas.

Pierce had other plans. He wanted to get out and see the world and Washington State seemed almost to be in another galaxy. Also, he felt comfortable with then-Cougar Coach George Raveling, now at Southern Cal.

At the height of the recruiting season, Pierce's options seemed limitless. Garland High officials told Pierce and his coach that his grade-point average was 2.5, well above the NCAA minimum of 2.0. He could go anywhere, they said; no problem getting into Arkansas, they said.

Nudge, nudge.

When Pierce announced his intention to sign with WSU, he was informed that - cough, cough - a mistake had been made. His grade-point average really was 1.9. Raveling and Goree Johnsonscrambled to enroll Pierce at Walla Walla Community College, where he'd fix his academics and then transfer to Washington State.

Carleen Pierce read the letters home from Walla Walla, and knew her brother wasn't going to last.

"He was homesick because he was so far away and that was the first time he was away from home," she recalls. "He was always saying how much he hated it there."

The harsh Eastern Washington winter hastened Pierce's decision. He played a season at Walla Walla, averaging 19 points. After two semesters, he left for the warmth and security of Texas.

He was accepted at Houston's Rice University, known to many as "the Harvard of the South." There, playing for future NBA coach Mike Schuler, Pierce was the country's second-leading scorer during his senior season, with a 26.8-point average.

Selected 18th overall in the 1982 NBA draft by Detroit, Pierce was thrown into the Piston backcourt. He had spent the summer working on his ballhandling with Terry Teagle, a former high-school and college rival, but admits, "I was lost." He played 39 games during the 1982-83 season, then was peddled to the Clippers for two second-round picks.

Early in his season with Los Angeles, Pierce injured his left knee while breaking up a fight. He lost his starting assignment to Derek Smith and, even more critical, lost some of quickness and most of his explosive leaping ability. His frustrations mounting, Pierce went in the six-player swap to Milwaukee, where his pro career finally took a positive turn.

"Ricky's more of a relaxed person these days," says Teagle, now with the Lakers. "It shows in his play. Once he got to Milwaukee, he got settled. He got more relaxed, and found his game."

More important than finding his game, Pierce also had found Joyce Wright.

"Ricky, you're doing great." - Carl Pierce to his son, Ricky.

The rendition is so strong and impassioned that the whoops begin before the singer even gets through. All eyes in the Coliseum seemed trained on Joyce Pierce as she belts out the national anthem. All, that is, except a pair belonging to a certain Sonic guard, who happens to be married to her.

Ricky Pierce's gaze is fixed skyward, then to the floor. Everywhere except midcourt. While Joyce moves the crowd, Ricky stands stonelike. When she finishes, the Sonic players excitedly pat down their teammate, momentarily breaking his trance.

For what seems a nanosecond, Pierce allows himself one of his slanted, half-smiles.

Only after he scores 28 points in the Sonics' 112-108 victory does he let down his guard. Pierce gleefully tells the reporters crowded around his locker room stall that his team is undefeated when his wife sings the national anthem.

No one points it out at the time but, fact is, Joyce Pierce sang on opening night - and the Sonics lost 99-95 to Phoenix. No matter.

They met in Honolulu in 1982. Joyce had replaced Marilyn McCoo in the Fifth Dimension. Ricky was playing in the Aloha Classic with Rice.

Invited by a friend to attend one of Rice's games, Joyce decided at the last minute to accept. Not expecting to be exposed, she threw on a simple top and pair of jeans. Having just had a wisdom tooth extracted, her face, she says, "was puffed up like a chipmunk's."

To Joyce's surprise, the Fifth Dimension performers were introduced to the players. One look, and Ricky was smitten. He was so thunderstruck, he thought Joyce sang with the Supremes.

"I didn't know what was going on," he says.

She did.

"I thought, if this guy loves me at my all-time worst - which that was - I'm going to have to investigate this situation." They were married five years later.

She's big city; he's country. She's an extrovert; he's an introvert. She says his down-home gentility reminds her of Robert Wright, her father. He loves her honesty and the way she attracts attention so effortlessly. Both say they've struck a balance.

"People say opposites attract," Carleen Pierce says. "I guess that's true."

Yeah, sort of like Ricky Pierce and stardom.

Pierce's path there began with a revelation. While others avoid the so-called "in-between" players, lamenting their inability to play either of two positions, Don Nelson loves collecting them, then employing them all over the floor. Nelson also spied in Pierce the ability to play an "in-between game" - a collection of stop-and-pop maneuvers designed to wreak damage from mid- to short-range.

"Ricky has the best in-between game in the NBA," says Sonic teammate Tony Brown, who played with Pierce for two seasons in Milwaukee. "It's hard hitting those short shots, especially with guys flying in your face. And guys are always flying in Ricky's."

Now 32, Pierce flourished under Nelson at Milwaukee. In spite of the chilly Midwestern winters, he loved the franchise's cozy kinship and the professionalism of his teammates. They called him the Deuces, as much for his ability to rain two's on opposing defenses as for his jersey number, 22.

The good times began to fade, however, when Nelson left for Golden State in 1987. In an effort to have his contract rewritten, Pierce held out the first 42 games of the 1987-88 season. He now says he was misguided by agent Lance Luchnik, who since has been decertified by the NBA Players Association for a variety of transgressions.

Pierce also claims that Del Harris, who'd taken over for Nelson as the Bucks' head coach, advised him the previous season to seek a contract renegotiation. Harris says Pierce misunderstood, that he only suggested that Pierce take his contract demands directly to Bucks ownership.

Whatever the case, Pierce says that, from then on, he "disrespected Harris forever, because he wasn't a man of his word." Also at that point, stung by Pierce's holdout, the Bucks decided to trade him, and began offering him to every team in the NBA.

The money issue came to a head again last season. Dismayed over a take-it-or-leave it offer from Milwaukee, Pierce boycotted a Bucks practice just two days before he was shipped to Seattle for the equally disgruntled Dale Ellis.

"The only way Ricky was going to get the money was if he was traded, and his new team gave it to him," says Harris, who recently left the Bucks.

Shortly after Pierce arrived in Seattle, the Sonics extended his contract three years for an estimated $5.85 million. He responded by carrying the team on his back during this season's turbulent first half. But the joy didn't really return to his game until Karl took over for K.C. Jones on Jan. 23.

Pierce loved playing for Jones, whose laissez-faire approach was tailor-made for his self-starting star. But, under Karl, the Sonics started winning and the players, especially the younger ones, began adopting a more professional attitude.

Mostly, instead of being the only one, Pierce was back to being one of many. Just as he'd been at the beginning of his Bucks career. And as he'd been in Garland.

Pierce has been turning to his roots a lot these days. He recently purchased a 10-acre spread in Sugarland, Texas, just outside of Houston. He plans to move his two horses there. Last Christmas, he gave Joyce a saddle and bought himself a tractor.

No more sneaking over to a neighbor's for the occasional joy ride, as he did as a child.

After basketball, Pierce will consider the construction and trucking businesses, two previous occupations of his father. He promised his mother he'll finish his degree at Rice. He'd also like to start up a daycare center in Garland, where he became an avid fisherman. This summer, he'll try his hand at the fast-food business, wedging jumpers and wind sprints between sessions of a management training program with Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Just as he has maintained contact with his past, Pierce has rarely lost sight of the future. Coming up, he'd seen too many people make that mistake. Guys who had talent and luck, but took them for granted and lost everything.

Along the way, Pierce also has suffered losses - his father and his innocence among them. He emerged from each with a determination to hold onto what was left. Work hard, be respectful, leave your options open.

The way of the warrior. Carl Pierce's way. Now, Ricky Pierce's.

"I understand that one day you have it and one day you don't," Pierce says. "I play basketball because it's what I do best. This is the way I make my living. I understand that. I also understand that this is temporary, that it's just a stepping stone to the rest of my life."