HAMED HADDADI: 1st & Only Persian in the NBA!

I had lunch with Haddadi the afternoon of the game. Cramming his 7-2, 265-pound frame into a small San Francisco taxi – sharing the backseat with his manager and one of his buddies while I sat shotgun – we rode from the team’s hotel near the Museum of Modern Art to a meticulous Persian restaurant in Pacific Heights.

There we met an older man who was identified to me as a former Iranian basketball star, but who preferred not to give his name or to be quoted. In Iran, paranoia has a long tradition. He had an elegant manner that reminded me of a Southern gentleman.

“A lot of places I would go to last year, people would approach me and say ‘where are you from?’ I would say, ‘Iran,’ and they wouldn’t know where it was, they hadn’t even heard of it,” he told me. “Now, they ask the same question but because of the elections and its ramifications being in the news, I don’t have to say where Iran is. I don’t have to repeat myself or explain.”

That’s the closest we came to discussing the situation in Iran. His manager (and translator for the day), Mayar Zokaei, had me on strict instructions not to discuss politics. Haddadi showed up for the team’s media day photo sessions wearing green wristbands and has been wearing them ever since, and together with Zokaei put together the Warriors event, but doesn’t want to be quoted talking about it.

To gain some perspective on this, I called up Reza Aslan. Aslan is an internationally known religious scholar, and when the major news networks need someone to analyze events in Iran, he’s the go-to guy. Aslan was born in Iran but came of age in the Bay Area. He understands Haddadi’s caution, but also thinks he’s crossed the Rubicon.

“Just think back to what happened in June to the veteran players of the Iranian national soccer team, including the team captain, who is arguably much more famous in Iran (than Haddadi),” Aslan said. “They wore green armbands during a match, and when they returned (to Iran), they were forced to retire. By no means is Hamed safe. When he goes back to Iran, associating himself so explicitly with the green movement could not only be dangerous to his career, it could quite possibly be dangerous to his life.”

Haddadi answered my questions thoughtfully, but he also has a funny side – he’s the type of guy who doesn’t care who the joke is on as long as everyone is laughing. At one point (with the older gentleman not there), Haddadi and his friends started speaking in louder and louder voices to each other, and burst out laughing every half minute or so.

Zokaei, a faithful translator, turned to me and explained with a straight face, “We’re talking about each other’s mothers’ cooking.”

When the food arrived it seemed good to my palate, but I haven’t eaten much Persian food. There was lots of rice and large helpings of meat, cooked in sauces that were flavorful without being spicy. Haddadi seemed to like it just fine, working his way through the family-style meal in between copious swigs of Coca-Cola.

Haddadi didn’t know yet that he would be deactivated for the game – he was told when the team arrived at the arena. His legion of fans didn’t seem to mind.

“He’s the first Iranian in the game, so it opens doors for us,” said Nima Jamnani, 17, who I met in the stands before the game. “It’s not about being a soccer fan or a basketball fan, it’s about backing up a fellow Iranian.”

Aslan told me this level of loyalty is typical of the Iranian community. “I experience it all the time,” he said. “I do readings of my books sometimes, and my views on Iran are not exactly in alignment with a lot of Iranian-Americans, particularly the older generation. Yet my readings are filled with Iranians who will tell me to my face they disagree with everything I say, and then proceed to buy 10 books for their families. There’s something innate about the Iranian identity. It’s a 2,500-year-old national identity that Iranians take very seriously.”

Over lunch, I asked Haddadi if he felt the pressure of the entire Iranian-American community turning its eyes to him. The first word of his answer came back in clear English.

“Yes,” he said, before continuing in Farsi. “One-hundred percent I do. It’s kind of my civic duty to make these people who come support me happy, my countrymen. I do feel a pressure to play well because they’re there supporting me.”

I asked his closest friend on the team, point guard Mike Conley, what kind of potential Haddadi has. “He’s a very crafty big man with a lot of talent,” said Conley, who played college ball with Greg Oden. “You don’t see too many seven footers who can handle the ball the way that he does, and who can shoot and pass. He’s developing into a good player.”

When Haddadi first arrived in the States, it was Conley who drove him to practice and helped teach him English. Haddadi also took time to teach Conley. “He’s taught me some of his language,” Conley said, adding, “I know some bad words, too.”

Haddadi seemed conscious of his potential on the court and otherwise, but not arrogant about it. He said an infamous interview with an Iranian news agency, in which he was quoted as saying he was a star player, was a “misunderstanding.” Zokaei told me the agency asked Haddadi what it was like to be a star, and he self-effacingly replied, “Yeah, I’m the all-star who sits on the bench.” What was printed was very different.

As our lunch ended, Haddadi ordered some Persian tea. It was a black tea mixed with saffron and other spices I couldn’t name, and had a sweet, yet sophisticated smell. Haddadi lowered his head just over his glass, closed his eyes, and slowly filled his lungs with the aroma. He paused for a moment afterward and the rest of the table became quiet. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking of at that moment, but it seemed like too personal a question to ask.

I was left to imagine life in a faraway place with rich, ancient traditions, but where nothing can be taken for granted.