Quentin Richardson is one mean joker.

Last year, as hype spread that he might go pro after his freshman season, Q, as everyone calls him, sauntered into DePaul's locker room clutching SUV brochures. He took a seat, big grin on his baby face, and started flipping through the pages. Teammates went slack-jawed. Fellow Chicago homey and teammate Lance Williams, a blue-chip wisenheimer himself, went quiet. "Q, what you looking at those for? You're not going ... " Richardson split a gut. "What? Ah, man, can't a dude go to the auto show?"

A little later in his Conference USA Player of the Year season, Richardson popped in on assistant coach Larry Harrison.

"Hey, Q, how are you doing?"

"Fine, Coach. Did I tell you Master P called? Talking about representing me." For a second, Harrison's heart flat-lined. Richardson, not knowing CPR, rushed over. "Relax, Coach, I'm just playing with you."

But there are times when even a clown has to keep a straight face. In April, while all of Chicago awaited his stay-or-go decision, Richardson and some buddies were dribbling a basketball outside his dad's South Side home. There was buzz on the street, but Richardson didn't think much of it. Then a kid came up to him.

"Hey, are you Quentin?"

"Yeah," replied Richardson.

"Jordan wants to meet you."

Jordan?!

"I thought somebody was messin' with me," Richardson says. Still, Q and his pals walked over. And there He was. Seems MJ's in-laws live nearby. Sometimes Jordan drops by, shoots some hoops and blocks traffic. Richardson pushed his way through the throng. The conversation between Basketball Yesterday and Basketball Tomorrow was brief.

"So, you coming back next year?" Jordan asked.

"Yeah, I'm coming back," Richardson mumbled.

MJ didn't say anything. Just gave an approving, paternal nod of the chocolate skull. Q floated home.

"Man, I thought, 'Jordan knows who I am,'" Richardson recalls, still amazed. "I thought I must be pretty good if Jordan is asking about me."

That's no joke.

***

Back in an uncouth era when some Chicagoans still thought MJ was just another conscience-free ball hog, a pudgy, squeaky-voiced boy on 115th Street waited for his big brothers to get done shooting around at the house hoop. That's when Q and his mama would play. Emma, who dominated her gym class games long before Title IX, taught him the basics. Afterward, they would go inside and watch Georgetown or the Celtics, Emma's favorite teams.

Lee Richardson, Q's dad, wasn't a big sports fan. He was too busy rebuilding cars for his kids and putting in 33 years with the Chicago Transit Authority, where he still works the early shift as a motorman on the Red Line, cruising by DePaul three or four times a day. So it was Emma and grandma Ada who went to Richardson's elementary school games.

But then they were gone. In a harrowing eight-month period between October 1991 and June 1992, Ada died of old age, brother Bernard was shot outside a public housing complex and Emma was lost to breast cancer at 47. "I didn't want to play for a long time," says Richardson. "I didn't want to go to games and not see anybody up in the crowd. But after a while, I didn't want to do anything but play basketball. That was the only time I felt good."

Shortly after his mom's death, Richardson hooked up with Larry Butler, who was building an AAU empire in Chicago. Butler kept an eye on Richardson, watching for the blue moods that would sweep over him as he sat silent on long van trips. On the court, the prepubescent Q couldn't jump or run. But he could score and board, like a Mini-Me Adrian Dantley.

"I remember yelling at him, 'Q, can you just get up the floor?'" says Butler. "It wasn't that he wasn't trying -- he was just slow. But I wanted to teach him how important it was to be in position and want the ball more."

Butler's team, the Illinois Warriors, won the national 15-and-under championship. Q was the seventh man, which isn't as bad as it sounds. Corey Maggette was one of the starters, and all 10 players landed Division I scholarships.

At Whitney Young High, Q's baby fat melted away and his vertical shot way up. By his senior year, he and Maggette were mentioned in the same breath.

In an epic battle between Young and Fenwick High, they played to a standstill: Richardson had 28 points and 19 rebounds while Maggette went for 28 and 14. Q's team won the game. Young took the city and state championships, too.

Colleges came calling. Q's sister Rochelle, an MBA student at Northwestern, took charge. Syracuse arrived late for an appointment and was scratched. If you called after hours and woke Lee Richardson, well, that didn't help. Things got crazy: Roy Williams in the family room, Lute Olson chilling in the kitchen. But Q chose home. He's not fond of leaving folks behind. With every free throw, he whispers the names of his mom, grandma and brother. "They never got to see me when I was good," he says. "This way, it's like they're still watching."

It's not that numbers lie -- it's that they don't always tell the whole story. Richardson is listed at 6'6", but even he admits he's only 6'5". So how was he able to set a C-USA single-season rebounding record with 10.5 boards per game? Sure, with its commuter schools, ersatz rivalries and American and National divisions, the C-USA sounds more MISL than ACC. But over half of Q's rebounds came on the offensive glass. Could it be because of the chub he carried as a kid? With no air under his feet, he had to figure out how to get there first. He seems to know where the ball is going before it leaves the shooter's hands. He might as well be answering calls on the Psychic Rebounders Network.

"It's impossible to keep him off the offensive boards," says South Florida coach Seth Greenberg. "He has a knack for getting to the right spot. You have to devote one guy to face-guarding him and blocking him out. Then you have to give that guy help. In this MTV age, he's kind of a throwback, just effective and efficient. You know he's not going to take any plays off."

Even more maddening is that his 19 ppg as an 18-year-old came almost as an afterthought. That's second among the conference's returning players, behind only Houston's Gee Gervin, The Iceman's kid. The total package led to monster nights like 31 points and 18 boards against Cal, 29 and 20 against UAB. "The night he got 20 rebounds," says coach Pat Kennedy, the Bob Vila of DePaul's decrepit hoops program, "I never would have guessed it. It was a quiet 20."

The first time you watch Q play, it's hard not to say, what's the big deal?

A classic 'tweener, he doesn't have tremendous size or blazing speed. He doesn't even have a patented scoring move yet. But on the court, he is relentless. Trap him, double-team him, zone him: Q keeps coming. Take last year's Cal game. There's Q tapping a rebound three times to himself. Bouncing around a player for a free throw tip-in. Blowing by his defender off the dribble. Hitting a three on a broken play. Running down a last-second board to seal a 75-72 victory.

"Q just wants it badder," says Butler. "You can't go coach that."

***

In a way, all this was Mark Aguirre's fault. In 1979, DePaul, coached by hoops Methuselah Ray Meyer, made it to the Final Four on the pudgy shoulders of Aguirre, a product of Westinghouse, one of the powers of the Chicago Public League. For years, Meyer got his horses from the West and South Sides of Chicago. But then the Blue Demons went big-time. There were multiple NCAA appearances. WGN started blasting their games coast to coast on cable. By the mid-'80s, DePaul's roster was a national one, peppered with kids from Philadelphia and California, not Cabrini Green or Rockwell Gardens.

This didn't amuse Chicago Public Leagues coaches. The roundball equivalent of Windy City ward bosses, they guard their fiefdoms ferociously. One dis can last a lifetime. When DePaul hit hard times in the '90s and tried to get back into local recruiting, the coaches didn't forget or forgive past snubs.

In 1997, Joey Meyer, Ray's boy, was shown the door after a 3–23 season, tumbling the House of Meyer after 55 years. At the top of AD Bill Bradshaw's list was then-Florida State coach Pat Kennedy. It seemed a long shot. Why would Kennedy, a ruddy 47-year-old who could sell Gandhi a switchblade, trade the ACC for the worst D-1 program this side of Chicago State?

"I took the Florida State program as far as I could," says Kennedy, who still has a picture of Seminole alum Burt Reynolds on his wall. "It's tough to be at a football school. Other schools are always telling your recruit, 'Why do you want to play at a football school?'"

So Kennedy compiled A, B and C lists of schools. Always brutally honest, he says DePaul was high on the B list. When the job came open in 1997, Kennedy made a few calls. "I called people from the networks and said, 'If I went there, and we got good again, would you have an interest in DePaul?' They said, 'Oh, yeah, we love the Chicago market.'"

After getting assurances from DePaul about facilities upgrades (a new training complex opens next year) and checking the coming crop of Chicago players, Kennedy took the job and started mending fences with Public League coaches. He hired Tracy Dildy and Larry Harrison, guys with strong ties to the city. Their pitch? Send your kids here, and we'll build a national powerhouse -- and this time we'll keep it local.

Sounded good. But Kennedy went 7–23 his first season. He still needed at least one Chicago stud willing to take a chance on a flaccid program. Cue Q.

What Kennedy had to offer Chi-town prodigies was simple yet irresistible: home cooking and big minutes. In 1998, that was enough for Lance Williams, a 6'9", 250-pound forward from Julian High. Then Bobby Simmons, a smooth swingman from Simeon, joined him. Operation Q began when the two new Blue Demons went to work on Richardson, a buddy from the Public League and the AAU. Lance called him all the time. Simmons begged a bit at his announcement news conference. It looked good, but Q kept playing Hamlet. "I was joking with Lance the morning of the press conference," says Richardson. "I was like, 'I don't know, Lance. Kansas looks good.'"

Finally, Q took the plunge, leaving Roy Williams in desperate need of some Tums. Kennedy guaranteed a 25-minute ride down the Dan Ryan Expressway to the 'hood, but Q's decision to stay local wasn't purely because of Pop's pot roast. "We thought, 'Why go to a school like Duke where there's three players just like him already?'" says sis Rochelle. "Why not go somewhere he could make a big impact right away?"

Which he did. Richardson's commitment to DePaul single-handedly raised a program from the dead -- not to mention a town. Chicago, reeling from the retirement of Jordan and a lineup of crummy pro teams, has unearthed a new icon. "You've got kids in the city wearing Blue Demon shirts and caps," marvels Dildy. "The whole inner city roots for us now."

Want proof? By last season's end, DePaul's average attendance had jumped from 3,600 to 8,700, the third-largest gain in the country. Kennedy's move to Chicago suddenly looked like a stroke of genius instead of hubris. That's what one future lottery pick will do for a program. Of course, Richardson made out like a bandit as well. With no incumbent superstar, he has been DePaul's go-to guy from the moment he signed. That was all part of Q's master plan. "I was always up front about going to a school where I could develop my skills for the NBA as quick as possible," he admits. "Coach Kennedy has always known that."

When the trio of Richardson, Williams and Simmons made up 60% of Conference USA's all-frosh team, jealous rivals whispered that the program was dirty. No way you could get three blue-chippers on the up-and-up after going 7–23. Q and his boys ignored it all. Though the team staggered down the stretch, the baby Demons made it to the second round of the NIT. There was talk of preseason Top 20 come 1999-2000. But it all hinged on Q coming back.

Kennedy took the practical approach. The coach told Team Richardson he would check with NBA superscout Marty Blake and other league contacts to get a feel for Q's potential draft position. The answer: middle of the first round. Then Kennedy did an odd thing. He appealed to Q's wallet.

"We went through the numbers," says Kennedy. "We got Quentin a $4.4 million insurance policy sanctioned by the NCAA. He pays back the full premium after he signs an NBA contract. I told him, 'If you go now, you get $3.6 million. We can insure you for $4.4 million. You're going to do better if you stay. Can you wait 10 months, move up and make $7-10 million?' I'm surprised more coaches don't use that approach."

Kennedy's dollars-and-sense strategy won't be featured in this year's NCAA self-promotional brochures, but it worked with Quentin. His name is being dropped as the preseason pick for Player of the Year, but he knows he needs to work on his ballhandling. With DePaul adding frontcourt depth, look for Richardson to showcase his versatility by operating farther from the hoop. "Quentin can now play more at the wing position," says Kennedy. "He has to get better shooting off the dribble, but he can be just as damaging next to the bucket. It's the right thing for Q, and the right thing for the team."

Unlike fellow Chicagoan Maggette, who seemed to pick Duke and then turn pro without doing the math, Richardson finished his homework -- and it's paying off. Maggette went No.13; Q could be top-three next year if his jumper starts falling.

At DePaul, nobody talks about 2001. There's a feeling in the air that one season with Q was a gift, two is a miracle and three ... well, now you're trippin'. The Richardsons don't exactly dispel such talk. While munching pizza at Rochelle's suburban Chicago townhouse with Q's dad and brother, a visitor drops a stupid question: What happens if Q has another monster year?

"Ah, please," says Rochelle, laughing. "What do you think he's going to do?" What about the Bulls? Jerry Krause has been spotted at some of Q's games. Quentin Richardson smiles real wide. "Cool. I could handle that. Stay at home."

This time, he's not joking.

This article appears in the November 29, 1999 issue of ESPN The Magazine.