He may have settled down from his heyday as the NBA’s most colorful bad boy, but you’ll still find Dennis Rodman at the center of the party - usually enjoying a good cigar.

By Rick Shaw
Photos by Eric Williams

When my editor called and asked me to hang out with Dennis Rodman for a few days in pursuit of a cover story, I immediately sprang into journalistic action. In rapid succession, I placed calls to my personal trainer, my lawyer, and my doctor (my stamina for debauchery, after all, isn’t quite what it used to be).

Hang out with Dennis Rodman? Party with the Worm? Oh, man, wait’ll the guys hear about this! Lurid tales of hot women, cold drinks, wild parties. Damn, I thought - why couldn’t I snag this assignment when I was younger, single, and capable of staying up all night without worrying about hangovers and social consequences?

(By the way, I was only kidding before about the personal trainer and the lawyer. But I did call the doctor just in case.)

As a serious hoops fan and chronicler of contemporary culture, I am well acquainted with Rodman - an undersized overachiever who, despite limited skills and less than menacing bulk distinguished himself as, pound for pound, the greatest rebounder in NBA history and, perhaps, the premier defensive player of his generation. Rodman earned each one of his five championship rings with the Detroit Pistons and Chicago Bulls between 1989 and 1996. In the process he became a five-time All-Star, two-time Defensive Player of the Year and seven-time rebounding champ who averaged an astonishing 16 boards per game through almost the entire 1990s.

I’m also acquainted with aspects of his life and career that are more notorious than glorious. I know all about the record-setting suspensions, the fines, the temper tantrums, the erratic behavior, the kicking of a cameraman. I know about the crazy hair, the melange of tattoos and so many piercings it’s amazing he doesn’t spring a leak with each Diet Coke. I know about the rock-star persona, fast-lane lifestyle, and prodigious partying proclivities.

Then there are the Wrestlemanias with Hulk Hogan and Karl Malone, and the wedding gowns and the boas. That sex enhancer product he was endorsing, the strip club videos with Jenna Jameson, and the tales of legendary sexual exploits. The whacked-out TV appearances and the bad movies - although the one with Jean-Claude Van-Damme was actually kind of good.

Who could forget the Las Vegas marriage to Carmen Electra and the hot-but-not-kinky relationship with Madonna? The drinking, fighting, and frequent run-ins with various and sundry law enforcement agencies in various and sundry luxury communities across the country?

I know about his difficult upbringing, late introduction to basketball, and getting drafted in the 2nd round out of some small college in Oklahoma.

I’m even semi-familiar with Bad As I Wanna Be, Dennis’ best-selling memoir. You know, the one about the championships, the suspensions, the hair, the partying, the sex, the run-ins with various and sundry law enforcement agencies, the relationship with Madonna, et cetera. And now there’s his deal with goldenpalace.com (that crazy online gaming site that just bought a grilled cheese sandwich on Ebay for $28,000, because the owner swore she saw the face of the Virgin Mary in it).

But, hey, who among us hasn’t been widely regarded as the weirdest dude on the planet at least once or twice? Or even on a regular basis?

Hoping for just a taste of that kind of wild and crazy hedonism, you can imagine my profound disappointment to learn the latest-edition Dennis Rodman is soft-spoken and rather shy, generous and gentlemanly, sober, and married to a normal woman. He’s also resolutely determined to make it back to the NBA at the ripe old age of 43. Don’t get me wrong; I’m sure the guy can still raise hell. He just doesn’t do it nightly anymore. There would be no strip clubs. Or backstage passes to Mötley Crüe. Or naked motorcycle riding. Or Newport Beach indecency and excessive noise complaints. Oh, well. Maybe I’ll get the assignment when Smoke puts Robert Downey Jr. on the cover.

I met Dennis at Beverly Hills’ posh Grand Havana Room. As testimony to the fact this is no longer your father’s Rodman, I was on time and he was already there. Holding court on a spacious burnished leather couch in the cavernous mahogany- and rosewood-paneled restaurant-bar-cigar lounge, Rodman was as friendly and down-to-earth as they come. Along with his consigliere, Thaer Mustafa, a bulky Jordanian with tattoos to rival Rodman’s, we enjoyed a few Cubans, several plates of unbelievable sashimi and languidly shot the shit for about three hours about cigars, sports and women - not necessarily in that order.

Even in star-studded L.A., Rodman is still serious celebrity. Don Johnson, Dennis Franz, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar Jr. and Grand Havana club owner Stan Shulman, come by to trade a few innocuous words. Dennis is the constant target of autograph-seekers, egomaniacs, and shysters who are drawn to him like he’s a free sample at Costco, and he patiently entertains every one. In fairness, a 6-foot-7 black man with orange-spotted hair, studs through his nose, and a ring around his lip is tough to miss.

Rodman’s a dedicated cigar smoker; he smokes three or four a day, and good ones. Given his penchant for shoving them in the mouths of friends, and his upscale tastes, his cigar budget runs in the neighborhood of half-a-dozen boxes a month and - he claims - 30 grand-plus a year. His preferences (mostly Cuban) run in cycles between Cohiba Limiteds, Partagas Serie D’s, Montecristo A’s and Hoyo de Monterrey Double Coronas (also his pal Michael Jordan’s favorite), two of which he was kind enough to share with me at the Grand Havana....

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