If you played in the NBA in the 1990s or 2000s, at some point you got your shit wrecked by Dikembe Mutombo. Shaquille O’Neal, Michael Jordan, Steve Nash, Hakeem Olajuwon, LeBron James, Allen Iverson, Scottie Pippen, Kobe Bryant, Charles Barkley, Dwyane Wade, Karl Malone, Tim Duncan, and hundreds beyond—you could fill a Hall of Fame with just the fraternity of players blocked by Mutombo, telling the story of multiple eras through those he turned away. In total, Mutombo blocked more shots during his NBA career than anyone but Olajuwon, a feat that—on its own—would have made him a legend in the sport.
But Mutombo stood so much taller. With thousands of swats came thousands of finger wags, often accompanied by the unforgettable boom of his voice—with all its bass and gravel struggling to contain the taunting laughter underneath. In basketball, playing defense is inherently reactive, but it’s also confrontational. It is a means to exert your will, to revel in destruction. Mutombo could revel with the best of them. He terrorized opponents with that wagging finger, racking up fines and technicals and retributions until former commissioner David Stern implored Mutombo to put it away. The towering center eventually complied. But years later, in a 2004 game against the Nets, Mutombo rejected so many shots that he was left with no choice. He raised a hand in the air and—much to the delight of the Madison Square Garden crowd—let his finger do the talking.
Dikembe Mutombo knew how to celebrate, which is to say he knew how to live. His death this week—at age 58, from brain cancer—is unmistakably tragic. Mutombo gave so much of himself; he is treasured in the basketball world as much for his generosity of spirit as for his years patrolling the paint. He was an ambassador, a sportsman, a humanitarian. A record four-time Defensive Player of the Year, an eight-time All-Star, and one of the very few to have their jersey retired by multiple franchises. There’s no one quite like Dikembe. There’s no one who laughed quite like Dikembe, who never took himself too seriously and never let his pride get in the way of a good time. That’s what made him one of the best defenders ever. You can’t protect the rim if you’re not willing to laugh at yourself when things go sideways. And when Mutombo laughed, the world laughed with him.
You can see his impact in the outpouring of goodwill this week, with friends and players and entire international organizations speaking to the power of Mutombo’s legacy. He made it his life’s work to better his community, and after almost two decades in the NBA, Mutombo dedicated himself to growing the game and providing for others. As one of the patron saints of Basketball Without Borders, he was instrumental in improving access to courts and coaching for kids across Africa. Mutombo, who grew up in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, came to the game late; he prioritized his studies and focused on other sports until well into his teenage years, when a growth spurt made him look at basketball in a different way. Still, it was a hobby. Mutombo came to America to attend Georgetown and prepare for medical school. When he left campus a few years later, he was one of the top picks in the NBA draft. Basketball found him. Mutombo then invested years of his life into ensuring that kids around the world—and on his home continent, in particular—would have that same opportunity and more.
Mutombo built a tuition-free school in the DRC to honor his father, a career educator. In memory of his mother—who died in 1998 of a stroke, but really of poor access to health care—he built a hospital. Countless professional athletes dabble in philanthropy, lending their name and celebrity to whatever cause moves them. But Mutombo was always a dedicated son of the DRC who just happened to be one of the best basketball players of his era. Everything became a means to give back. The game, the finger wags, the commercials—all of it raised Mutombo’s profile and helped fund his next project. He was, and is, a giant. In 2009, the NBA named Mutombo its first global ambassador, though he hardly needed the title; Dikembe had already been doing the job for years.
There is a generation of kids who know Mutombo as the man with the wide smile and the big, bellowing laugh who showed up to their first clinic, or their new court, or that one event at the Boys and Girls Club. There are others who first met him as the ham from that GEICO commercial, gleefully swatting away paper balls and rejecting loads of laundry. Those who saw him play might remember Mutombo best as a Nugget pulling off one of the biggest upsets in history, a Hawk spiking every shot in sight, a defensive anchor for the Allen Iverson Sixers, or even a vital contributor off the bench for a Rockets team that won 22 straight games. Mutombo was 58 years young when he died, but he lived so many lifetimes in and around the game.
History will remember a man like Mutombo. The finger wag alone was iconic—so much so that it couldn’t be denied, even by Stern. Mutombo simply stopped waving his finger at his opponents and started waving it up high, for everyone else. The message, of course, was still exactly the same: not here, not now, and sure as hell not in Mutombo’s house. His sense of charity did not extend to opponents bringing that weak shit in the paint. You could legislate every taunt out of the game, but Mutombo, ever the joyful agitator, would find some smiling workaround. What a beautiful legacy he leaves behind—of so much opportunity created around the world and so many shots utterly destroyed.
