Gary Payton's Aussie Adventure

TOURING AUSTRALIA with other NBA missionaries is opening the eyes of Gary Payton who is adjusting to culture shock and realizing a truth about the natives: They love this game.

SYDNEY, Australia - He thought at least the language would be the same. And the food. He might have to teach a few kids how to dribble, and he wasn't sure any of them would know how to shoot the three, but other than that, how different could Australia be?

Then he looked at a menu. Gary Payton had been in Australia for oh, about three hours, when the strangeness of this strange land hit him like a boomerang. Payton, Jason Kidd, Hakeem Olajuwon and Kenny Smith were at a restaurant in the Rocks, the historic part of the city where the convicts from England used to get flogged. Payton's eyes grew wide as he perused the gourmet selections.

Kangaroo steak? Bugs? Crocodile meat?

"Don't you have any real food, like chicken?" Payton asks the waiter.

"But of course," he is told. "There under chook."

Over the next few days, the visiting NBA stars would digest a completely new vocabulary. Rule No. 1: Aussies shorten everything. Breakfast is "brekky," McDonald's is "Maccers." Why waste energy on words when it's a beautiful `arvo' (afternoon) and the `footy' (football) is on the `telly' (television) and the `rellies' (relatives) have come around for a barbie (barbecue)?

Rule No. 2: Everything rhymes. A basket in Australia is a goal, but instead of complimenting a teammate's shot by saying, "Nice goal," you say "Nice sausage roll." Feet are "plates of meat," a woman's legs are "ham and eggs."

Which leads to rule No. 3: Forget about being politically correct. Females are Sheilas, a word coined by sheep shearers in the outback. And Payton and his American chums are Seppos, an abbreviated version of septic, as in septic tank, which rhymes with Yank, as in Yankee.

"In other words, we're just a bunch of toilets," Payton said, shaking his head.

Yes, but somehow the Aussies make Seppo sound as if it's a compliment, especially when they are referring to Payton and his fellow NBA missionaries, who have come here to beat the drum, loop the hoop, press the flesh and pump up the volume of those all-important retail sales in the promising province of basketball business that is the South Pacific.

Idolized Americans

In the past five years, the NBA in Australia has leap-frogged home-grown sports such as cricket and rugby. A recent international survey found Aussie teens idolize American stars such as Payton and Olajuwon more than Australian athletes. Kids on street corners from Perth to Brisbane wear oversized Seattle jerseys and walk like Shaquille O'Neal and talk like Michael Jordan - when they're not buying NBA videos, reading about it on the Internet and watching games on the telly every weekend.

The invasion of America's hip-hop hoop culture has caused more than a little angst amongst the "wrinklies," or everyone over the age of 30. A Parents and Citizens Association has even gone so far as to ask the Australian government to "develop a policy to bring discipline, respect and cultural values back to the schools," as if banning basketball and "Baywatch" (one of the highest-rated shows this side of the pond) is the answer.

Payton doesn't understand why there's such a fuss. All he knows is everywhere he goes, short white kids follow him, scream at him, paw at him and tell him he's their hero and that someday they are going to be just like him. He conducts a clinic in Sydney and hundreds of school kids, all of whom seem to be wearing baggy shorts and Sonic caps, hang on his every word, as if he's telling them that they, too, can one day earn $87 million for playing a game.

"Stay away from gangs and drugs," he says, and they all nod, even though guns are banned in Australia and gangs are about as prevalent as snow on a Sydney beach.

He goes to an Australian professional basketball game in Melbourne to watch the Magic play the Giants (even the nicknames are Americanized) and the NBA people tell him they have a favor to ask. A man has heard the "Seppo basketballers" are in town, and the man has a 10-year-old son who lives and breathes Gary Payton, and now the man has a terminal illness and is dying, and before he goes he would like nothing more than to make his son's dreams come true.

"Really? He wants to meet me when Hakeem is here?" asks Payton, clearly touched by the request. "Wow."

At halftime, a meeting is arranged. The man and his son have come down from the bush, driving three hours to Melbourne for their last big outing together. When the boy comes in, Payton bear-hugs him and the boy starts sobbing loudly, heartbreakingly.

"C'mon, big fella. There's no reason to cry. It's all right," says Payton, stroking the boy's damp face over and over again until there's not a dry eye to be found. Even Payton is seen brushing away a tear.

Television time warp

The next night, he and Kidd are guests on a popular TV show called "Hey! Hey! It's Saturday." They feel like they're caught in a time warp. The band Herman's Hermits is the opening act. The host wears bell bottoms and wide lapels.

When the host mentions Shane Heal, Payton rolls his eyes in mock horror. Heal is the edgy blond Aussie who has just signed a three-year deal with the Minnesota Timberwolves. The two had what Payton calls "some jaw-jacking" going on in the Olympics, and now everyone wants to know how Payton thinks Heal will do in the NBA.

"It is wonderful for Australia that a short guy can make it to the NBA," Payton says diplomatically. The audience cheers wildly. Then Payton says he can't wait for the Sonics to play Minnesota because he is going to eat Heal for lunch, and the audience goes berserk.

It doesn't take long for Payton to warm to the country that has so embraced him. At an Australian Rules football game in Melbourne, he is told that libel laws prevent journalists from criticizing professional athletes. A player who was described as "slow and fat" in one newspaper was awarded $400,000 in damages. Never mind that the player was bigger and less agile than Refrigerator Perry; in Australia, the truth is no defense.

If a player airballs a free throw, even if his name is Shaq, he isn't inept, he's "unlucky." The L.A. Clippers don't suck; they're "out of form." To call them anything else would be unsportsmanlike and defamatory.

"Damn," says Payton, whistling softly. "Maybe I'll move here. Think I could get a contract with the Melbourne Magic?"

Someone mentions that Australian players are paid an average of $40,000 a year and Payton does a quick rethink. For this trip alone, the NBA is giving each player $20,000 in mad money, as well as picking up the entire first-class tab for Payton and his Seattle-based agents, Eric and Aaron Goodwin.

Missionary work isn't all fun and games, though, and eventually Payton has had enough. The NBA playoffs and Dream Team camp and Olympics and 15-hour flight to Australia and all those clinics and screaming children and TV shows and interviews have taken their toll, and now it is time to relax, finally. He hangs a "Do Not Disturb" sign on his hotel door, takes the phone off the hook and collapses for 15 hours. The NBA people go crazy thinking he's gone on a walkabout or been kidnapped and held for ransom, but it turns out he's just tired.

When Payton wakes, he and Kidd board a flight headed to the aptly named Surfer's Paradise on Australia's Gold Coast. Payton wants to buy some boomerangs and Kidd hopes to see some koalas. They'll catch some waves, learn to surf, maybe even eat some 'roo and some croc.

"The Seppos are going on a bit of a holiday," says Payton.