The NBA was in a transitional state when Gregg Popovich was named general manager of the San Antonio Spurs before the 1994–95 season, a transaction that was big news only in Alamo City. The holy triumvirate upon which the NBA had built its brand over the past decade was gone: Michael Jordan to minor league baseball, Larry Bird to the Celtics’ front office, Magic Johnson to a kind of purgatory owing to his HIV-positive condition. With those exits (Jordan returned for five complete seasons, as we all know, and Magic had a comeback for a minute) went much of the foundational underpinning of the league, the dependable Bulls-Celtics-Lakers bulwarks that had won 11 NBA championships over the previous 15 seasons and whose players, coaches and management had come to define NBA excellence.
It’s unlikely that anyone was nominating the Popovich-led Spurs to head the New Elite, if there was to be one. San Antonio did have one of the biggest stars in the league in David “The Admiral” Robinson, then entering his sixth season. But the Spurs, born from the rubble of the old ABA—they began their pro hoops life in 1967 as the Dallas Chaparrals before moving 275 miles south and getting rechristened as the San Antonio Spurs in 1973—were known mostly for two things: the shoot-first-last-and-often chillness of George “Iceman” Gervin, a perfect avatar for the wide-open ABA, and a penchant for postseason failure. In the 27 seasons before Popovich took the job, neither the Chaps nor the Spurs had ever made a championship final and the franchise had competed for the conference title only three times.
And what did we know of Popovich, a lesser limb on the Larry Brown tree? He was not yet the sports world’s best-known oenophile/possible spy/Donald Trump critic. All that would come later. Pop had come up mostly as a “college guy,” an assistant at Air Force (his alma mater), a head coach at Pomona-Pfizer (where he was also an assistant professor) and a volunteer assistant to Brown for one year at Kansas. Brown had brought Popovich into the NBA as an assistant with the Spurs in 1988 and Popovich also had two seasons with Golden State under Don Nelson. Reporters who encountered Pop during that time found an intelligent albeit reticent man, overshadowed by the big personalities of Brown and Nellie. Little did we know that Pop had a big personality himself, the depth and breadth of it not emerging until much later.
Whatever it was that moved Spurs owner Peter Holt to hire Popovich, it turned out to be one of the shrewdest personnel moves in NBA history. With Popovich’s resignation in May, mostly due to the effects of a stroke he suffered last November, the door closes on one of the most remarkable careers in pro sports. It wasn’t just what he did as a coach over 29 seasons—a record 1,422 wins and five championships. It was his establishment of that ineffable thing called “culture” in San Antonio, a franchise ethos that stood in contrast to, say, the Showtime Lakers and the Jordan Bulls. Those were essentially entertainment brands, delightful and successful as they were. Year after year the Republic of Pop (as this reporter came to call the perennially successful franchise in San Antonio) thrummed along as its own distinct organism within the NBA, defined by excellence on both ends of the court, the prevalence of international players, the taciturnity of resident superstar Tim Duncan, and most of all the presence of Pop.
Sometimes sunny but more often splenetic, Popovich ruled his fiefdom like a latter-day Red Auerbach, making virtually all of the franchise decisions that mattered. The Spurs named a general manager in 2002, and R.C. Buford, another Larry Brown limb who is now the franchise’s CEO, was a good one. But even Buford deferred to the only man who mattered. “We all know the buck stops with Pop,” Buford said more than once.
Showing the effects of the stroke, the 76-year-old Popovich spoke slowly but lucidly during a May 5 news conference at which he announced that Mitch Johnson, who had led the Spurs in his absence this past season, will be the San Antonio coach. Pop’s new role was revealed when Spurs immortals Duncan and Manu Ginobili removed his warmup jacket. Underneath was a white T-shirt that read EL JEFE.
Manu Ginobili and Tim Duncan help Gregg Popovich take off a jacket to reveal the “El Jefe” shirt.
Manu Ginobili and Tim Duncan help Gregg Popovich take off a jacket to reveal the “El Jefe” shirt. | Michael Gonzales/NBAE/Getty Images
For his first two seasons as general manager, Popovich reigned quietly (or so it seemed) as the Spurs continued their pattern: Flourish in the regular season (Robinson was the league’s MVP in 1995, Pop’s first GM campaign), founder in the playoffs. San Antonio wasn’t even the best team in Texas; the Houston Rockets won back-to-back championships in ’94 and ’95.
All the while, deep inside the Spurs’ organization (and Popovich generally kept things deep inside), the GM had another vision for the team, one in which he was making the calls not just in the front office but also on the sideline. And 18 games into the 1996–97 season, with the team’s record at 3–15, he fired Bob Hill and installed himself as coach.
The reaction within the NBA was shock, or at least surprise. While Popovich was still a relative unknown, Hill was a popular figure who had guided the Spurs to 62- and 59-win seasons in his first two years. And wasn’t that abysmal start attributable mostly to injuries to Robinson and Sean Elliott, the team’s second-best player? Hill never let loose with full-throated invective after the firing, but his feelings, and those of his supporters, circulated throughout the league.
Pop started “getting nosy” around his second year.
Pop always wanted to be the coach.
Pop seized the opportunity [of the bad start] to take over the team.
All of those things might’ve been true. But there was never a moment that Pop doubted he could coach.
Manu Ginobili and Gregg Popovich talk on the sideline during a Spurs game.
Manu Ginobili was one of Gregg Popovich’s standout international picks. | Greg Nelson/Sports Illustrated
The injury difficulties didn’t abate after Pop took over, as the Spurs finished at 20–62. But then things began to change, the San Antonio atmosphere suddenly charged with Pop’s edgy energy. Ask him (what he) considered a good question and you’d get a reasoned and nuanced reply; ask him something (that he) considered stupid and you’d get something else. He might ignore you with a disdainful look, administer a stern disquisition on Basketball 101, lecture you on the ethics of journalism or stupidity in general, or “go Serbian” on you, his phrase (taken from his ancestral background) for losing it, getting hotter than the chiles at La Fonda on Main, a San Antonio institution.
The Serbian word for luck—sreća—was in the air at the 1997 NBA draft lottery. With only a 21% chance of getting the top pick, the Ping-Pong balls broke San Antonio’s way, and they plucked Duncan out of Wake Forest, one of those no-chance-he-won’t-be-great picks along the lines of Jordan and LeBron James. Thus was the foundation of the Spurs cemented for the next two decades. Pop and Tim. Tim and Pop. They were made for each other, not jigsawed into place like other coach-superstar relationships (Magic and Pat Riley, Jordan and Phil Jackson to name two). Duncan’s I’m-just-one-of-the-guys attitude played well with Popovich, and Pop’s no-frills mentorship played well with Duncan. In practice, and even after some games, Pop went at Duncan as hard as he did everybody else. But when pressed behind the scenes, Popovich would talk about Duncan’s specialness as a player and a quiet leader, and, on occasion, particularly when he would be getting praised, Pop would offer up some version of this: “Of course, my most brilliant move was getting lucky enough to draft Tim.” Auerbach coached Bill Russell much the same way: I treat Russ like everybody else. Wink, wink.
Behind Duncan, Robinson and Elliott, the Spurs won their first championship in the lockout-shortened season of 1998–99. They ran into the Lakers’ Kobe-Shaq buzz saw at the beginning of the century, but for the rest of the aughts the Spurs were the class of the NBA, their culture compared to that of the New England Patriots, Popovich in the role of (a more interesting) Belichick, Duncan as Brady. They didn’t play one way on offense—the backcourt presence of speedy point guard Tony Parker and the indefatigable Ginobili made them unpredictable, sometimes even to themselves—but they always played unselfishly, largely because that’s how Duncan played. And the Spurs always played tough defense, anchored by Duncan, who could defend high pick-and-rolls and still get back to lock up the interior.
David Robinson and Tim Duncan grab a rebound together against the Lakers in 2002.
Gregg Popovich was the through line of San Antonio’s dynasty, but he always deferred credit to bedrock stars, including David Robinson (50) and Tim Duncan (21). | John W. McDonough/Sports Illustrated
The Admiral retired after the 2002–03 season, but Duncan just kept getting better, earning the nickname of the Big Fundamental. This reporter once set out, semi-humorously, to impel Duncan’s teammates to list his weaknesses. Steve Kerr suggested that he “could improve a little with his left hand.” Robinson, then in his final season, wondered if Duncan could “improve his jumping ability,” before adding: “But ultimately what’s the difference? He gets every rebound.” Malik Rose drew a blank before snapping his fingers. “I got it,” he said. “He can’t shoot his bank shot as well from the right side as he can from the left.” Duncan listed his own weaknesses as free throw shooting (he averaged 70% for his career) and a hesitancy to shoot “outside of my comfort zone, which is about 18 feet.” Five seasons after that story appeared, during the Western Conference playoffs against the Suns, Duncan would hit a clutch three-pointer to send the game into double overtime, where the Spurs would prevail.
Aside from the Big Fundamental, Popovich got the max out of players who might’ve had little value on other teams. Undersized point guard Avery Johnson quarterbacked the Spurs for six seasons to pave the way for Parker. Rose, also undersized as a post-up scorer, was a solid bench player for seven seasons. In the 2003 Finals against the Nets, Pop depended heavily on Parker’s point guard backup, Speedy Claxton, who was around for only that one season, as well as Stephen Jackson, a talented swingman who had a reputation as a troublemaker. They helped bring the Spurs their second championship.
Respected veterans from other championship teams stopped by late in their careers to help, the most prominent being Kerr (who learned many of his future coaching chops from Pop) and Robert “Big Shot” Horry, whose clutch marksmanship helped the Spurs beat the Pistons in 2005 and win their third title.
Perhaps no player capsulized the Spurs’ uniqueness more than Bruce Bowen, who played small forward, normally a scoring position, without being much of a scorer. Bowen never averaged more than 8.2 points yet started almost every game from 2001–02 through 2007–08 and earned three championship rings as a lockdown defender with a reputation for being overly physical, even dirty. Bowen, an intelligent man who dressed in conservative coat and tie, always smilingly deflected the criticism of with a huh?-me? wave of his hand. For eight straight seasons he was on the NBA All-Defensive first or second team.
Pop, Buford and the Spurs’ scouting department looked at the draft differently than most teams, too. International players had begun to slowly populate NBA rosters by the turn of the century, but San Antonio went all in on a United Nations approach. Over the years of Pop’s tenure, the Spurs drafted players from—among other places—Argentina, Brazil, Canada, the Central African Republic, England, France, Greece, Haiti, Hungary, Lithuania, Serbia and Slovenia and signed several international free agents along the way. (And that’s not to include Duncan, who was born in the U.S. Virgin Islands.) The drafting-without-borders philosophy fit Popovich’s world view. He had majored in Soviet Studies at the Air Force Academy, traveled widely as a player for several seasons as captain of the Armed Forces team and spoke passable Russian and Serbian. He was entirely comfortable coaching in a Tower of Babel.
Aerial view of Spurs coach Gregg Popovich in huddle with his team during a timeout.
Under Gregg Popovich, the Spurs could be creative, versatile and even unpredictable on offense, but a commitment to tough D was nonnegotiable. | Greg Nelson/Sports Illustrated
It mattered, of course, that the Spurs often made the correct international picks, two of them being the Argentinian Ginobili in 1999 and the Frenchman Parker in 2001. No-brainers now but not then. Ginobili, a southpaw who seemed positionless, was still on the board when the Spurs got him at No. 57, one pick before the draft was over. And Parker, who was only 17 but looked 14 when the Spurs first got interested in him, was the 28th pick of his draft, selected after other guards such as Joe Forte, Jeryl Sasser and Raül López.
Ergo, when in the Republic of Pop, the atmosphere just felt and sounded different from other NBA teams. And underpinning this fusional franchise was, of course, the mystery of Pop’s background as a military man. Journalists pecked away at the truth—Texas-based writer Jan Hubbard was particularly good at it—as Pop demurred, sometimes coyly, sometimes forcibly. I showed up in San Antonio near the end of the 2012–13 season, which would result in a Finals loss to Miami, the only time Pop made it to the championship series and didn’t emerge with a ring. Upon meeting me in the practice lot of the Spurs’ facility, Pop offered a warm bro-hug greeting. “Great to see you,” he said, “and please get the f--- out of San Antonio.” He had related through the public relations department that he didn’t want to talk about himself, which was the subject of the proposed piece. Pop eventually agreed to a long fact-checking session before a game, knowing full well it was a reasonable facsimile of an interview. “I know what you’re doing,” he said as we sat down to talk. “I’m a coach, so I know what it means to bulls---.”
Following his 1970 graduation from the Air Force Academy, Pop applied for a top-secret government job in Moscow, but he says delayed paperwork kept him from getting it. He did serve as an intelligence officer in eastern Turkey, on the borders of Iran and Syria, but laughs off the idea that he did serious espionage. More important to his future life, he conceded during the “fact-checking” session, was his posting at a Naval Air Station near Napa Valley, which is where his love affair with the grape began. One of the better experiences on the NBA beat was running into Pop and his coaches at a restaurant on the road during the Finals. Once he sent an expensive bottle of wine to a table of sportswriters with the note: “Even though you won’t appreciate it.” On another occasion, our table sent him and his coaches a warm can of the restaurant’s worst beer. You weren’t invited to break bread at the Pop table, but you could stay for a while and trade insults. “I don’t know what you’re doing at this place,” P.J. Carlesimo, a Pop assistant, said during the 2007 Finals in Cleveland. “They don’t have nachos.” Pop is still a partner in the Oregon-based A to Z Wineworks and has an impressive wine cellar in his home.
Assistant coaches Mike Budenholzer and P.J. Carlesimo sit on the bench next to a smiling Gregg Popovich.
Gregg Popovich’s extensive coaching tree includes Mike Budenholzer and P.J. Carlesimo. | Chris Birck/NBAE/Getty Images
In 2016, the Republic of Pop turned overtly political. The election of Donald Trump set Pop off like a mistake on a defensive switch. He called out Trump for “the disgusting tenor and tone and all the comments that have been xenophobic, racist, misogynistic. And I live in that country where half the people ignored all that to elect someone. That’s the scariest part of the whole thing to me.”
There were several more occasions when Popovich spoke his truth to power from the dais, as did Warriors coach Kerr, a close friend. Inevitably, they drew the attention and subsequent rebuke of Trump and MAGA world, and thus did Shut Up and Dribble turn temporarily to Shut Up and Coach.
There is little doubt that Popovich has genuine political/philosophical differences with Trump, but there was something else in play. For many years after he took the job, Popovich realized that he was widely misunderstood, partly because he talked about himself infrequently but also because his military background and curmudgeonly ways branded him as a right-wing conservative. He would no doubt say that he could care less about that, but I hold that he did … and does. When Sean Elliott first met him, he pegged Pop as “a typical jarhead,” which Elliott later amended to “Renaissance man.” (Pop and Elliott did a movie review show for a San Antonio cable station, Pop choosing movies that were, in Elliott’s words, “obscure, had subtitles and nothing happened.”)
Pop always reacted strongly when someone compared the Spurs’ culture—tough and insular—to the military. “They only do that because I was in the service,” he would say. He was firm in his insistence that the Republic of Pop ran on the engine of discipline, not militarism. Discipline was what he was proud of, not the idea that the Spurs were robotic soldiers. Longtime Spurs assistant Mike Budenholzer, who won a championship as the head coach of the Bucks in 2021, once told me: “The one way you will not make it here is to be a yes man.”
Year after year, the Spurs were the Spurs, and the Spurs were, more than anything, Pop. “Whenever I talk to players on other teams about certain situations,” Ginobili once said, “what I end up hearing is, ‘Yeah, but you’re on the Spurs.’ They mean, ‘O.K., you’ll figure it out and go on winning.’ ” Jim Eyen, a Timberwolves scout who was then a Kings assistant, put it this way: “You know you have college teams, Kansas and Duke, that play a certain way? The NBA version is the Spurs. They are as close to a program as you have in the league.”
Victor Wembanyama and Gregg Popovich talk on the side during a Spurs game.
Victor Wembanyama is now the centerpiece of the Spurs, a stark change from their international stars of the past. | Justin Tafoya/Getty Images
Well, the program is different now. The franchise star—a gifted 7' 3" Frenchman named Victor Wembanyama—couldn’t be more different in style than Duncan; Wemby can score inside but this past season attempted almost nine three-pointers per game. The program is run from the bench by Stanford graduate Johnson, the son of former NBA player John Johnson, and from the front office by Brian Wright, who has a master’s degree in sports business management. They are little known, but so was a guy named Popovich when he took over.
It’s impossible to say what program contributions will be forthcoming from El Jefe. In his last public statement, he said that he is improving from his stroke. One can only hope that he emerges from time to time to go a little Serbian, shake his fist, insult a reporter, rage against the dying light or a referee’s call, and remind us of the treasure we once had in that extraordinary place called the Republic of Pop.