For Tim Cone, head coach of the Barangay Ginebra in the PBA, a simple practice turned into a basketball nerd's wet dream. Invited to a casual dinner by fellow PBA coach Chot Reyes, Cone walked into a scene straight out of a hoops fan fiction. At the table, a veritable Who's Who of NBA royalty: Spoelstra, Kerr, Van Gundy, Few, Hill. It was enough to make any coach, from Manila to Memphis, weak in the knees.
But for Cone, this wasn't just stargazing. It was a chance to delve into the minds of his coaching idols, a masterclass disguised as a friendly catch-up. And his chosen subject? None other than the holy grail of offensive systems: the triangle.
"That's when I got to talk with Jeff Van Gundy," Cone recounts, still giddy with the memory. "We played under the same coach, Tex Winter!" This shared history became an icebreaker, leading to a 25-minute impromptu clinic in the middle of the restaurant. "Bucket list was done," Cone says, still stunned by the casual brilliance of it all.
But the conversation with Kerr was arguably the pièce de résistance. As Cone describes, "Chip Engelland had told Steve about me, that I have a long time coach here and that I run the triangle." Suddenly, Kerr materialized behind him, eager to dissect the system that once ruled his own coaching aspirations.
"He told me his first thought was to bring the triangle to the Warriors," Cone reveals. "I told him that I was there in your first summer league and I saw you trying to run the Triangle." Kerr laughs, remembering the "disaster" that ensued. His Warriors, he admits, were "the worst passing team," ranking dead last in assists. His initial goal? 300 passes per game, a light year away from their free-flowing, three-happy reality.
This is where the conversation gets fascinating. "He told me that in his days, the triangle is designed for 15-18 jumpshots," Cone explains. "It was not designed to spread 20-24 footers." In Steph Curry's era, the game had morphed, demanding a three-point-infused triangle. Kerr's solution? Embrace the shot, but with "selective" precision. Ginebra, he notes, exemplifies this balance, consistently ranking high in three-point percentage despite not chasing threes blindly.
For Cone, these exchanges weren't just anecdotes; they were basketball gold. Witnessing Kerr's evolution with the triangle, learning from Van Gundy's defensive wisdom, it was a masterclass in real-time. It reaffirmed his faith in the system he himself champions, showing how it could adapt and thrive in the modern NBA landscape.
And for us, the basketball geeks glued to Cone's words, it's a rare glimpse into the minds of giants. We get to eavesdrop on basketball nirvana, a dinner where triangles, three-pointers, and championship dreams danced on the tablecloth. In the end, Coach Cone's courtside chronicles are more than just a coach's tale; they're a reminder that basketball, at its core, is a shared language, spoken by legends and nerds alike, over plates of food and a passion for the game.
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