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After Farragut won the city championship that spring, the 6-foot-11 Garnett probably saw more scouts than birds. Then fate intervened again. His ACT scores were too low for NCAA eligibility. (The current college system is so venal it's hard to believe that there are minimum academic requirements for athletes. There are.) Any college he entered would not be allowed to play him on its team. Garnett declined to retake the exam and committed instead to the NBA draft.

Kevin McHale and "Flip" Saunders came down from Minneapolis to take a look. The two were friends from their days as teammates for the University of Minnesota. Both have been in basketball ever since, though on wildly divergent paths. After graduation, McHale spent 13 seasons with the Boston Celtics, and was a key player on their championship '80s squads. Saunders' path was far less glamorous. He coached at several colleges before moving to the CBA, the minor professional league.

When McHale retired from playing he took a broadcasting and special coaching position with the Timberwolves. A year later, as the team's fortunes stagnated, he accepted the job of assistant general manager. The following season, McHale was made VP, Saunders came on as general manager, and the two conspired to rebuild the team.

They first considered using Garnett to sandbag the four teams with first-round draft picks ahead of them. "We were gonna say how much we liked him after we watched him work out," Saunders says, hoping one of the other teams would take him first, leaving another, putatively better, player for the Wolves to nab. But, after the two saw Garnett drill for five minutes, "I turned to McHale and said, 'We ain't tellin' anybody anything."

In his first pro season, Garnett seemed to blossom further with each game, guarding small opponents, running the court, blocking shots, inciting the crowd, sending down roaring, jaw-dropping jams while exhibiting a refreshing youthfulness. Once, angry at a call, he threw a wad of chewing gum at the scorer's table. He came into another game having forgotten he wasn't wearing a jersey under his warm-up jacket. Mad about missing foul shots, he would pound the ball vigorously several times against his forehead, something he still does occasionally. Minnesota's quiet, introverted fans -- who to this day are reluctant to distract rival players at the free-throw line -- fell madly in love. Teammates quickly nicknamed him "Da Kid."

To imply that Garnett's accomplishments, as this story has done so far, are single-handed is to slight his work and disrespect the game. Basketball is a team sport, and Garnett's genius has revealed itself at each level alongside as well as against other excellent players. At Farragut he paired-up with Ronnie Fields, a dazzling 6-3 guard with a 47-inch vertical leap who now plays in the CBA. In Mauldin, it was Eldrick Leamon, a left-handed power forward and Amateur Athletic Union teammate, who died in a traffic accident and was buried with a basketball six years ago.

Garnett still honors Leamon before every game. As the team is introduced in the darkened arena, he sits to the right of an empty chair at the end of the team's bench. At the center of the cheering crowd, he keeps his elbows on his knees, with his hands clasped and head bowed, remembering, he says, his late friend. "I always envision him sitting right there next to me. That's why I keep the last seat open," Garnett told the Star Tribune. "I get into this mode that I can't even explain because when I get into it, I don't see anything. I'm in my own little world. The only time I come out of it is when the game is over."

Standing next to him is Sam Mitchell, a no-nonsense 36-year-old NBA vet, hired to act as a steadying influence on the young man. On Garnett's right lounges his junior high idol, Malik Sealy, who joined the team last year. And just before the announcer calls Garnett's name, before every game, coach Saunders comes over and gently pats him on the back.

Next page | "That's a legend, boy"