David Lee Rumors

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David Lee
David Lee
Position: -
Born: 04/29/83
Height: 6-9 / 2.06
Weight:249 lbs. / 113 kg.
Earnings: $94,282,468 ($105,400,567*)
“David Lee was in front of me — David Lee was a great vet to me by the way, I love D-Lee to this day. But when we’re in practice, I’m trying to take David Lee’s head off,” Draymond told Champion. ” ‘You’re an All-Star. I’m sorry — but you’re in my way. I need that spot.’ “And I’m never gonna go about it in a way of trying to hurt you. Or I’m on the bench and I’m not cheering for you. I would never do that. But to me, it just felt like he was in my way. What do I have to do to move you out of my way? That was always my mindset.”
“I get back to Virginia and I’m supposed to go to Florida with my sister. My parents weren’t even going with me. It was their Midnight Madness. David Lee and I were friends. He was coming down from St. Louis. This weekend is going to be awesome. And then by like Tuesday night, I was like ‘man I don’t even want to go.’ The Duke thing was so heavy on me. So I was like ‘I’m just going to commit.’ I wanted to get the commitment out of the way and just enjoy the last two seasons of my high-school career so I committed that Wednesday to Duke. I got on the phone with Coach K and told him I was coming. If I had went to Gainesville, who knows?”
Nellie? After leaving the Warriors in 2010, he headed back to his home in Maui and fell off the basketball map. In 2013, I visited him at his home in Paia. He greeted me in flip flops, looking trim and tan, and led the way to the patio to smoke stogies—he’d cut out beer—and watch the waves, his two dogs lounging nearby. Later, once he figured out the DVR, we watched a Warriors-Grizzlies game. He cackled a lot, praised Andrew Bogut, and cursed David Lee. He took life at its own pace. Long afternoons. Shuffleboard out back of the bistro he owned. And, best of all, poker games in his upstairs man cave. There, he and his buddies—including Woody Harrelson, Owen Wilson, and Willie Nelson—would get magnificently stoned and play deep into the night. Once, he told me, a beloved regular, Greg Booth, passed away right there during the game, his aorta giving out. The coroner was late arriving, and the group looked to Nellie, who said, “”He’d want you to play on.” So they’d finished the game that night, stepping around Booth’s body to get to the veranda for a smoke. “Poor bastard,” Nellie told me, “but he went out doing what he loved.”