There is no time for an interview, a Minnesota Timberwolves PR person says as she whisks Karl-Anthony Towns through the crowd at the Thomas and Mack Center. Towns is in Las Vegas for the 2019 NBA Summer League, where he’s in high demand and in a serious hurry to meet with Wolves coach Ryan Saunders. Even NBA commissioner Adam Silver merits nothing but a brief pause and a handshake.
Towns, yet another lottery pick from Kentucky, was the 2016 NBA Rookie of the Year and is a two-time All-Star for the Timberwolves at the age of 23. Wearing dark sunglasses inside a basketball arena, he projects every bit of the superstar he is.
So, here goes nothing: “Hey, Karl, this story is about Kenny Payne!”
The magic words. Towns stops in his tracks, spins around, flips up his shades and flashes a wide smile brighter than any neon on the Strip.
“I always got time for KP!” he says to the reporter.
Practically unprompted, Towns launches into a lengthy explanation of how Payne taught him every skill necessary to chase greatness at the next level. Then he boils down the role Payne has filled for the last nine years on John Calipari’s staff at Kentucky.
“KP is one of the best development coaches in the world,” Towns says. “KP is the horse beneath the jockey driving Kentucky basketball.”
During his nine seasons in Lexington, Payne has guided nine Kentucky big men to become NBA lottery picks, including No. 1 overall picks Towns and Anthony Davis.
“When I got to Kentucky, I couldn’t do a post move. I was very, very raw,” says Davis, who’s listed as “Baby Giraffe” in Payne’s phone. “I was like a baby giraffe that just came out of the womb — the way they walk, wobbling around on their skinny legs.”
Payne, who at 6-foot-8 still cuts an imposing figure, got busy building both Davis’ body and confidence in the paint, sharing basic principles and a go-to move: Create a wide base, hold your ground, secure the ball and dribble once, spin back into an unblockable right-handed jump hook.
“It became my thing, and it all came from him,” says Davis, a six-time all-star who’s now with the Lakers. “We would work it and work it. He’d push me around with these big pads and we’d drill it all day and all night until I got it right. KP is why I’m able to play so well in the paint now.”
“Kenny is the backbone,” adds Warriors center Willie Cauley-Stein. “He keeps that shyt tight.”
Hell, even the guards love him.
“He’s a hidden gem in Kentucky basketball,” says Suns star Devin Booker. “When people talk about the program, maybe you don’t hear about KP. But if you know, you know.”
Such universal love from his former players says a lot about just how valuable Payne is to Kentucky, but it also raises questions for both the program and its prized assistant: How much longer can the Wildcats keep him? What happens to Kentucky when he’s gone? And why hasn’t another high-level program made him a head coach?
Payne is hesitant, his finger lingering over the button, as he stands just off-court at Kentucky’s practice facility on a summer evening. He winces, as if feeling the victim’s pain before he inflicts it.
“Are you in shape?”
“How are your knees?”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
The visitor nods. He’s here this night to see what all the fuss is about, why five-star recruits flock to this gym to be molded by Payne’s famous workouts and why millionaire alumni return for tune-ups even years after they’ve become NBA stars. Big Henry, the mechanical monster lurking in a corner just off the court, holds some of those answers. It is legendary: a super-sized treadmill that Payne has given a human name so it can take on a life of its own.
“Ohhhhhhh, God, yes,” says Davis, the first pick in the 2012 NBA Draft. “I remember Big Henry. Gruesome. Very gruesome.”
Henry damn near killed James Young a couple of summers ago when the 2014 first-rounder came to Lexington looking to rejuvenate his career. Young lasted 20 minutes before his eyes rolled back in his head and Henry spit him 10 feet off the back of the conveyor belt, witnesses say.
Julius Randle, a five-year NBA veteran who just signed a $63 million contract with the Knicks, called his mother recently to brag he had finally completed Payne’s treadmill workout. He first tried in the summer of 2013.
Payne makes it sound simple enough: two-minute jog, one-minute sprint, repeat. Only, his jog is most people’s sprint: 8 mph. His sprint is most people’s run for their life: 11 mph. And there is no walking. Just this rigorous rotation of fast and faster, over and over, for … wait, how long does this go on?
“Forty-five minutes and then we start the basketball workout,” Payne says, his wince turning to a devilish grin.
