On a late-season day in a hot empty gym, Joe Ingles was doing what he’s good at, one of the things he’s good at. He was talking. And talking. And talking.
When Quin Snyder spotted him from two practice courts over, he yelled to a visitor: “Don’t believe a word he says. Not … a … word.”
The coach grinned, adding: “Joe’s been a catalyst for a lot of the growth our team has had … in ways that aren’t always visible to people from the outside. Even though he’s full of s—-.”
Responded Ingles: “That guy over there is one of the people who believed in me.”
Ingles resumed talking in his familiar soft Australian accent, talking about his life, about his journey through that life, inside and outside of basketball. He was talking about playing for the Jazz, about his fond experience of playing for the Jazz, and his outlook on the future.
“Being here has been one of the best experiences I’ve had in basketball,” he said. “It’s been great. The guys are unselfish and fun and I’ve had a great time. I love Utah and I’d like to come back. I feel like I’ve found the enjoyment of playing the game again here.”
That was seven years ago.
But it could have been Wednesday, when word came down that Ingles had been traded to Portland in a three-team deal that brings Nickeil Alexander-Walker and Juancho Hernangomez to the Jazz.
Asked back then whether his accommodation in Salt Lake City was a stellar one, Ingles said: “Well, I’m still here.”
Not anymore.
Maybe he really will return one day, some day; Ingles is in the midst of extinguishing the final year of a contract as he walks out the door. But his time and presence with the Jazz since arriving here during the 2014-15 season has been as unique and surprising — to him and everyone — as his entire existence has been.
Beating the odds, coming from Adelaide, picking up the game because his friends played it, having never seen an NBA game, playing for a team called the Melbourne South Dragons, playing in multiple Olympics, moving to two stops in the Spanish League and then turning down a guaranteed contract with the Memphis Grizzlies to sign with Maccabi Tel Aviv, getting cut by the Clippers before landing as a 27-year-old rookie in Salt Lake, in a city, as he said, that he grew to love and that reminded him of his home town in South Australia.
Ingles, initially a sort of NBA babysitter for Jazz youngster Dante Exum, transformed himself into much more than that. He became an important part of the Jazz over his time, as one of the league’s best 3-point shooters, and as much of a cohesive force in the locker room as he was an irritant for Jazz opponents.
But you know all of that.
You also know how Ingles connected with the community. Not only did he have the presence to do — and to know the value of doing — a weekly radio show, giving fans access to him and the team, but also revealing his regular Joe demeanor.
Ingles didn’t convey the all-too-common NBA player arrogance, he did the opposite. He was a man of the people, a sort of basketball-playing neighbor. He was the guy who rotated your tires or fixed your furnace or plumbed your pipes or painted your house, and, in addition, drained shots from all over the court.
He was a smartass, too, an affable dude who could get away with that sharp-edged sarcasm in a manner that left you laughing and made you like him all the more for insulting you.
He glued to everyday fans even more when his young son was found to have autism, and he responded the way decent people would hope a caring father would respond — with love, not just for his own, but for others, as well, parents and children alike who faced a similar challenge.
All while balling out, doing what he could to help the Jazz win games. He was nobody’s idea of a great athlete, never a great player, although his dexterity from distance and creative court vision stood out.
Don’t mean to overreact here, spilling into eulogy mode, writing in the past tense. I mean, the man’s not dead. He just blew out a knee and will now finish his contract by hobbling around in street clothes in Portland.
But when characters like Joe Ingles come to and through a town’s pro team the way he has, and then leave, it’s worth noting his contributions, worth reviewing his time here, re-visiting the stories he told and the stories we told about him.
He loved Utah and Utah loved him back.
All good.
“Heeeyyyy, are you still talking over there?” Snyder, on another lap around the court, shouted.
Yeah, Ingles was talking, still.
“I can barely stand to be around Joe for a few minutes in practice. How are you holding up?”
In that hot empty gym on that day all those seasons ago, for the first time, Ingles told the now-infamous story of his stubborn, bespectacled middle-school science teacher/counselor, by the name of Mrs. O’Reilly, who when little Joe informed her of his dream of playing professional basketball one day, she looked at him like he was a mutton-headed dope, and promptly attempted to squash the notion, saying that “wasn’t a realistic career choice.”
“I’ll never forget her,” Ingles said. “I’ll never forget her saying that. Not because it drove me to anything, but just because it made me ask the question: ‘Why can’t I play basketball as a job? Why can’t I live my dream?’”
He did exactly that with the Utah Jazz.
