Fortson's life on the rebound with Sonics

He is sometimes sullen and withdrawn because his father never showered him with affection, because his sister shot and killed her boyfriend, and because his mother couldn't cope with an abusive, alcoholic husband and the overwhelming demands of raising three kids.

He is expressive and joyous because his other sister, the one who nicknamed him Snootchie, always laughed and joked with him even when their modest Pennsylvania home was cold and dark because the electricity had been shut off.

Danny Fortson is here and partly responsible for the Sonics' revival because a man named J.O. Stright rescued him from a downtrodden neighborhood in Altoona, Pa., and because Cincinnati coach Bob Huggins, the pied piper of lost causes, provided him discipline and a platform to showcase his brutish basketball skills.

He is here, averaging 9.2 points and 6.5 rebounds a game, because four other NBA teams gave up on him and because Sonics general manager Rick Sund shipped away Calvin Booth believing that Fortson could resurrect the prowess he displayed in Golden State and in Denver, where he averaged double figures in rebounding and scoring.

"Give Danny credit, he hasn't lost heart when a lot of people told him that he was no good and finished," said Garry St. Jean, the former coach of the Warriors. "He's bounced around a lot. A lot of times it's being in the right place at the right time.

"One door closes and another door opens, I believe in that. Danny is that way. He's got his enemies, but he's also got a lot of people rooting for him. I'm rooting for him."

Huggins echoed St. Jean's sentiments, describing Fortson as "a warrior," and "one of my all-time favorite people," on a list that also includes Kenyon Martin and Nick Van Exel.

Fortson keeps all of the people from his past, and all of the stories that he shares with them, tucked deep inside his 6-foot-8, 275-pound body.

He prides himself on being nigh indestructible, but here's a secret: He's not so tough. Not really. That's the thing with many so-called bruisers and bullies. You think they come out of the womb throwing elbows and spewing obscenities?

"I had a lot of problems growing up with my family situation," Fortson said the other day. "I couldn't focus and concentrate. I was constantly thinking of something else.

"I didn't have the same life as a lot of normal kids have, going to school and coming home. You know stuff like that, that was like TV stuff to me. I went home sometimes and I wouldn't have electricity. Or we didn't have anything to eat. That's what I remember."

There's one story that says the whole thing. It was Fortson's junior year at Cincinnati, and he was on his way to winning the Conference USA Player of the Year when his older sister Tammi shot and killed her boyfriend.

She was convicted of manslaughter, and her three infant children were without a home.

And, then quite suddenly, Fortson had to grow up quickly.

Without a real understanding of family and what it truly meant to be a father — because his father, now dead, had been an absentee parent — the big man became a big daddy.

"My sister Tammi, she's found God now, but that was a terrible situation," Fortson said. "She had three kids and I had to take care of them a little bit. That's why I had to leave (college) early.

"There are a lot of things, a lot of people might say I go off of the deep end sometimes, but there are a lot of pressures going on. I'm just trying to stay focused. I got two nephews and a niece staring at me and I'm like, who else is going to take care of them?"

The thought of parceling them off to foster homes never entered his mind. He'd nearly been through that ordeal as teenager and wouldn't allow it.

He thought of Stright, the man he credits with "saving my life."

They met in 1990. Stright was a Pennsylvania businessman who sponsored four AAU age-group teams in the Pittsburgh area. Fortson was 14, and at 6-3 he was the biggest kid on the court.

Over the next two summers, Fortson lived in Stright's home outside of Pittsburgh, worked at his steel-industry companies and played on his AAU teams.

When Fortson's parents were jailed after a domestic dispute, Stright helped Lossie Bridgers, Fortson's maternal grandmother, move into an apartment in the Shaler High School District, near Pittsburgh, and he enrolled in school.

Fortson lived with his grandmother but he also had a bedroom in Stright's home, where he hung a Charles Barkley poster on the wall.

After Fortson scored 31 and 35 points in the first two games of his junior season at Shaler High, he was ruled ineligible because it was determined he had transferred with athletic intent.

"It wasn't easy, trust me," said Fortson, who was one of four African-American students in a class of nearly 600 at the suburban school. "They weren't accepting of us basically because they knew we were there to play basketball. It was definitely an experience."

Fortson returned for his senior season and averaged 29.8 points and 13.6 rebounds. His mother, Deloris Fortson, was hardly in his life at that time because she was dealing with periodic hospitalizations for diabetes and bouts of depression, Fortson said.

His father, Daniel Anthony Fortson Sr., wasn't around, either. The two often clashed when Danny was a teenager, but they restored a semblance of a relationship before the elder died two years ago.

"He was in and out of jail because he had his problems," Fortson said. "He and my mom, they really didn't get along. My mom, she had a nervous breakdown at that time, and ever since she's been dealing with that. Even to this day, she has to go to the mental health institute to get herself together.

"Those are some of the things I'm dealing with."

He is asked, now that things are seemingly going well for him, if he is truly happy.

He shares a downtown apartment with his girlfriend. His mother often visits him at home and on the road, and his sister has been released from prison and raises her teenage children who appear headed toward college.

He is asked now that he's found a team that tolerates his foul-prone behavior if he's found a place to call home after a lifetime of traveling.

"As far as I'm concerned, it's like I'm finally out of a long tunnel," Fortson said. "God has really blessed me. That doesn't mean there won't be more tunnels, but this feels good now."

Percy Allen: 206-464-2278 or pallen@seattletimes.com