It was some time in the early '80s, who remembers years by their numbers anyway? We were still listening to Rick James screaming urgently for his Super Freak, and Prince & the Revolution had just released an album called Purple Rain. LSU was the home team, full of talent led by "Hi-C" (Howard Carter) and Ice Reynolds but they couldn't pull it out against that incredible Houston team (Akeem Olajuwon, Clyde Drexler, Benny Anders). I still don't know how anyone beat that Houston team.

None of that mattered all that much on our court, it was just something to talk about while waiting for our game. It must have been my sophomore or junior year at LSU and I was living in the Government Street projects, a few miles east of the state capital downtown. I'd been leading scorer on my high school team, but there was never any question of my playing for the Tigers. Too short, too slow. Nice outside shot though.

Hell, the truth is I was below average for the project playground league. Since I was in school, enrolled anyway and would show up for tests, I was playing about every day. Some of the best guys, with families, worked and would show up when they could.

It was out there down Government Street, on a concrete court with pebbles all over it, next to an abandoned junior high school and maybe two hundred feet from the teeter-totters, that I had the distinct honor to meet Lawrence.

Lawrence is, without any doubt whatsoever, the greatest basketball player that I've ever been on the court with. He stood maybe 5'10" without his 'fro, and I swear he must have had a standing vertical jump of five feet. Man emoted casual with every move, and all I can remember about the way he dressed is that he usually wore a white airbrushed t-shirt with some kind of beach scene and "Lawrence" emblazoned across the top of the back.

Often times he would play with a joint in one hand, literally smoking us with moves that defy description. He'd go right, spin back into the middle and slam. Or he'd have the joint in the other hand and go left, spin to the middle and slam. If you cheated towards the middle he'd stop and sink it from wherever he was.

He was so quick to the hoop it was unbelievable. I never covered him, that most undesirable assignment went to the best guy on the court, not to me. No one much ever wanted to do it, but some guys put on big shows of bravado.

The great thing about being on the same team as Lawrence was that he made everybody around him think they were better. One day I spent an entire afternoon hitting unmolested 15-footers because Lawrence would drive deep dragging the entire defense with him, then flip it back out to me. He played solid D, high risk-high return like Walt Frazier.

When he put the joint in his mouth it was all over. We'd all just kick back and laugh at whoever was trying to cover him. The crossovers were closer to dematerializing than anything else. He'd put the joint in his mouth, bob his head, go both ways at once and reappear hovering high over the rim.

The best was watching him as the sun went down and the married guys had headed off to dinner. Showtime, when everybody transmogrifies into a ball hog and needs one more memory to take home for the night. No one bothers passing, it's basketball Darwinism.

Lawrence would get the ball and everyone on the court knew he wasn't going for assists. If you were on his team you'd clear out of the lane, which is what you always did anyway because an artist needs a broad palette. If you were against him you'd rush him. By that time of night he'd already put it in everyone's face about fifty times, so there was a great enthusiasm for ganging up on him when you knew he wouldn't baffle you with a pass.

It was no good. He'd just go through them all, over guys a foot taller, he'd jump up and stay there while everyone else jumped around like spawning salmon. I'd almost say that he'd levitate and take a hit off that joint while the rest of us jumped three times, but that can't be right. There's a fair bit of poetic truth to it though. Anyway, he'd do some unbelievably unique and creative move that we'd never seen before, load the bucket, and just keep going. No one asked Lawrence to stay for another few points until we'd got our shot or the game was over, or whatever. It was Lawrence' kingdom, and we were proud just to get our asses kicked in it.

When I told my wife that I was going to write something about Lawrence, try to do him as much justice as I can, she asked me "Didn't he end up in the NBA?"

She had him confused with Steffond Johnson, whom I knew socially at the time, and who stopped some guy name Michael Jordan cold in Chapel Hill one afternoon.

"Nah, Lawrence never played the NBA, I'm not sure why, maybe they wouldn't let him bring his joint."

this feature originally appeared in Hoop Nation

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