David Adelman grew up in a coaching family. Now leading the Nuggets, ‘this is his time’

When he was 12, David Adelman was sprawled on the floor of the empty Portland Trail Blazers locker room, in pain. He called for his dad, Blazers coach Rick Adelman. Screamed for him. Nobody came.

He had been left alone in the bowels of Memorial Coliseum because as a pre-teen, Adelman practically lived in those halls, and those locker rooms. Not only was he the youngest son of the coach for the region’s most popular basketball team, he was also a ball boy, alternating between the Blazers and visiting teams for the past four years.

As he folded towels and filled coolers with Gatorade, he listened to pregame speeches from the likes of Jerry Sloan and George Karl. As he tidied the locker room, he studied the chalkboard diagrams of Phil Jackson and Don Nelson. Two years earlier, in the 1991 Western Conference finals, Lakers guard Magic Johnson summoned him from the locker room into the trainer’s room and asked him to lie on his knee to help him stretch. At the request of players, he got phone numbers from women in the crowd, fetched hot dogs, and filled coolers with beer. All while hearing jokes, arguments, and absorbing how grown men handled the joy of victory and the agony of defeat.

The locker room was where David Adelman grew up. But now, writhing in pain, the locker room was where his life would begin to change, and set him on a path to where he is today: interim coach of the Denver Nuggets.

Much has gone into shaping Adelman — his father’s Hall of Fame influence and guidance, his brother’s sudden death, and the colorful and memorable experiences of being around basketball royalty — but his trajectory toward leading the Nuggets was launched that day in the locker room 32 years ago.

The 12-year-old Adelman was curious to examine the basketball shoes of Jerome Kersey, but the Nike high tops were out of reach, placed above the hangars and above the shelf in the locker of the Trail Blazer forward.

As Adelman steadied himself atop a stool and began reaching for the shoes, he could hear his dad running on a treadmill in a nearby room, watching Blazers’ game film with the volume on high. As David’s hands neared the shoes, the stool tipped and then flipped. He came crashing down on the stool legs.

“Landed directly on my left side,” Adelman said. “And thank God I fell on that side.”

The ensuing moments were a blur. He crawled to his dad. The fall made him want to use the restroom, and he urinated blood. He was rushed to the hospital. And the luck of it all … the fall revealed a hidden ailment with which he was born — a blockage in his left kidney, which could overwork his right kidney and lead to a rupture. Less than 36 hours after his fall, he was in surgery.

The surgery came with complications and side effects. Doctors cut a hole in his left side and affixed a bag that collected urine. He was given steroids and high-grade painkillers that carried risks of stunted growth and weakened ligaments.

For the next year, Adelman was in and out of Portland’s Doernbecher Children’s Hospital as he battled kidney infections. His appearance changed  — “He was kind of a weird color for a while,” his sister Kathy said — and so did his perspective.

At Doernbecher, he shared rooms with cancer patients and took notice of the emotions as parents and siblings filed through to see his roommates. He could see the internal wrestling match with the families, knowing they were there to comfort, yet fighting what they often knew was a bleak reality, one that he couldn’t help but notice when he would awake to find the bed next to him was suddenly empty. He remembers his dad explaining the gravity of the vacant bed simply, but softly.

“It was such a heavy feeling to be there and to try and ignore that you are in the room at the same time,” Adelman said.

The experience made him keenly aware of how people hide, mask or cope with their feelings.

“You come out of that place with a different view of life,” Adelman said. “And I think it’s helped me with leadership in a way because you feel like you should recognize everybody in the room, because you don’t know what everyone is going through.”

Years later, when he started coaching high school basketball in Portland, he often found himself reflecting on his stays at the children’s hospital. He wouldn’t think back on his illness, but rather his observations of how the strangers in his room dealt with adversity. Some harbored it, some confronted it, and others put on a happy face.

As a coach, he wanted to think about all 15 players, not just the starting five or the guys in the rotation. He was cognizant of the feelings of everybody in the room, not just the patient.

“I think what came from that experience (staying in the children’s hospital) was it made me want to really be there for everybody in a way … not just the main people who are going to play,” Adelman said. “It also made me grow up at a young age. It made me think, ‘Stop complaining about what you don’t have, man. What you have is enough.’”

Still, his family says there is one subject with which David won’t stop complaining: his height. David didn’t grow like the other Adelman males, likely a result of the medications to fight the kidney infections. While his father is 6-foot-1, and his older brother grew to 6-3, David is 5-foot-9.

“He never grew like my other son did,” Rick said. “He still gives me a bad time about that.”

Added Kathy, his sister: “He still blames my parents that he is short because of that whole situation. We’ve heard about it our whole lives, let me tell you.”

When his height was brought up, David chuckled, then blew raspberries. He tripped over words that couldn’t get out of his mouth fast enough. Finally, he sighed.

“Look, I’m just gonna say this: It doesn’t make much sense,” he said playfully. “I’m pretty sure my parents are my parents, but it doesn’t make sense with what happened there. But you know … whatever. It is what it is. I’m a confident 5-9 (pause) … 5-10.”

On April 8, Adelman awoke, and a rush of panic flowed through him. His phone showed 50 missed calls. He was fighting an illness and had planned to meet the team at the airport for their flight to Sacramento. He wondered if he had missed the flight.

Within minutes, he was filled in with a bombshell that had yet to be reported: head coach Michael Malone, who led the Nuggets to the 2023 NBA title, was being fired with three games left in the regular season. It was a stunning move, both in its timing and on face value: the Nuggets were 47-32 and in the hunt for home-court advantage in the first round of the playoffs.

Adelman’s first call — to his father, who was home in Portland.

“His reaction was soooooo him,” David said.

During his Hall of Fame career, Rick Adelman was beloved by his players. He was a willing listener who was big on empowering his players with freedom to read and react on the court and have a say in what went on off it. But more than anything, he was a stoic and measured man who seldom let emotions rule his actions. He prided himself on never calling out a player publicly, or even in front of the team. If a criticism needed to be levied, he did it in private.

That stable, calming influence was probably why David almost instinctively dialed his father amid the flurry of that chaotic morning. Still, when David delivered the news that he was a head coach for the first time since he led Lincoln High in Portland in 2011, he couldn’t help but pause at his dad’s response.

“So I tell him,” David said. “And I’m not kidding, he goes … ‘Really? Well, that’s a good opportunity.’”

At first, his dad’s response seemed a little … understated. But the more David thought about it, the more he appreciated the tone and the message.

“It’s kind of what I needed to hear,” David said. “I needed someone to be calm, and not go, ‘Oh my God! Oh my God! What’s happening? What’s happening?’ He handled it so well. I’m sure in the back of his mind he was excited, but he nailed it so perfectly.”

David with his father, Rick, who was the head coach for five NBA teams, most notably the Blazers. (Photo courtesy of Kathy Adelman-Naro)

For both Adelmans, the promotion was daunting and unexpected, but as they have reflected, both realize this was a lifetime in the making.

After all, David had been exposed to high-level basketball since he could remember. While growing up on Bull Mountain in the hills of Portland, the streets were lined with Blazers signs and banners, and the dinner table conversation often included talk of the latest plays Rick was inventing for the Blazers, or how he was handling struggling players.

Kathy, the oldest daughter, would later become a renowned high school girls coach in Portland. RJ, his oldest son, would become the Minnesota Timberwolves’ director of player personnel after serving as an assistant under his dad in Houston.

“There were a lot of topics we talked about, but basketball was definitely heavily discussed,” Kathy said. “There was a variety of opinions and challenges and I think we all learned a lot from each other, bouncing ideas off one another, then just watching my dad navigate his journey.”

Said Rick: “If you ask my wife, she will tell you: All we talk about is basketball … but the kids were into it, all the time.”

David’s experience went deeper than dinner table talk. As a ball boy, he was in the locker room, and even at ages 10, 11, 12, he was processing the scenes he was soaking in. He heard his dad’s speeches. He listened to the players gripe to each other, he heard their anxieties, their aspirations. He saw what made good teammates, and what made teams fall apart.

He also took special trips with the team. In 1990, when he was 9, Rick took him out of school so he could tag along on a four-game swing through New York, Boston, Philadelphia and Washington. By day, he was touring the Freedom Trail in Boston or the White House in D.C., and by night, he was listening to the banter from a Blazers team that was in the middle of a 10-game win streak.

“I remember that trip because on the team plane coming home, he fell asleep in the bathroom,” Rick said. “He was wiped out.”

These trips cemented a realization within Adelman. He began seeing players less as mythical heroes, and more as regular people with the same questions, uncertainties and doubts as the rest of us.

“I think being in those locker rooms shaped him in huge ways,” Kathy said. “He got to see that these people who seem bigger than life, they are just human beings. And he learned how the ups and downs of sports could make people question who they are. I think it just gave him tremendous insight into the wide spectrum of what happens in sports.”

As he coaches today, David said he can’t recall specific plays that were diagrammed in the locker room by the likes of Sloan, Jackson and Karl, and he doesn’t remember many memorable speeches from his dad. But he carries with him today the emotions he witnessed in those locker rooms and watching his dad cope with disappointment.

After losing the NBA Finals in Game 6 at Chicago, David was in the Blazers locker room, and he remembers the ceiling shaking from the celebration of Bulls fans. But another image is seared into his memory: As the players were lost in emotion, his dad escaped to a small corner to be with himself. He found his dad’s need to be alone moving and powerful.

And later, after his dad’s Sacramento Kings lost in Game 7 to the Lakers in the 2002 Western Conference finals, he remembers watching his dad and general manager Geoff Petrie weep over how close they had come.

Those experiences have helped form a style that is very similar to his father’s: a blend of sharp offensive ideas with a sensitive and caring approach.

“First and foremost, the most important thing in coaching is, how do you reach a player as a human being?” David said. “And how can you make them understand this is pure honesty that’s coming from you? If you are a good coach, you want what is best for them, because it’s best for the group.”

Every game Adelman coaches comes with a moment of grief. During every national anthem, he thinks of his best friend and older brother, R.J.

In 2018, at the age of 44, R.J. was crossing a street in the middle of the day in downtown Houston when he was hit by a minivan and killed.

“It still affects me. You just don’t get over that stuff, I don’t care what anybody says,” David said. “There are stages of grief, and you get better at getting through your day, but there’s not a day that goes by where I think about not being able to text him, or laugh with him or ask him his take, or talk about a band we saw … that just never goes away.”

R.J. was eight years older and the two were inseparable. David was his roommate for nearly two years after R.J. got his law degree from the University of Oregon in 2001. They loved going to concerts, and saw Radiohead at the Gorge, Tom Petty, Ice Cube, the Pixies … and they constantly talked basketball, from plays to philosophy to possibilities.

“I felt like talking to him about basketball was above everybody else. He knew the game so well,” David said. “He was one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.”

The Adelman family. (Photo courtesy of Kathy Adelman-Naro)

It pains him that R.J. couldn’t see him ascend to head coach. And he finds himself wanting to pick up the phone and ask his advice.

“Man, he would have helped in these situations,” David said. “Just like, how I’m handling things … the media, schematically … he had this calmness and he really leaned on thought-forward things. He was big on ‘take your time’ or ‘don’t be in a rush, think things through’ … he just had a great way about how a group should interact together to be successful.”

So, during every national anthem, David says he takes a moment to think about his brother.

“He’s the first person I think about … how he’s not here,” David said. “And that’s heavy. But it’s like I’ve lost a piece of myself … and it’s never really going to grow back.”

Thursday, as the Nuggets play Oklahoma City in Game 6, needing a win to keep their season alive, David Adelman will turn 44, the same age R.J. was when he died.

After the smoke had cleared from the Malone firing, and Adelman and the Nuggets won their final three games to secure the fourth seed and first-round matchup with the Clippers, Adelman booked two trips from Portland to Denver.

He wanted his sister, Kathy, and his high school coach, Gene Potter, to spend a week with him as he prepared for the playoffs. He also wanted to fly out Dan Burke, a former assistant under his dad, but Burke had family obligations.

For a week, his sister and Potter observed practices, meetings, film sessions.

“I know them so well, I knew they would be brutally honest with me at the end of the day,” Adelman said.

At night, over dinner, the three debated about versions of zone defense, a wrinkle that was a factor in the Game 5 win against the Clippers and has become a major element of their defensive looks against Shai Gilgeous-Alexander and the Thunder.

Adelman was named interim head coach of the Nuggets with just three games left in the regular season. The team has since advanced to the Western Conference semifinals. (Matthew Stockman/Getty Images)

But more than anything, they helped provide a status check on how the system was running and who needed a checkup.

It was as if he were back in his room at Doernbecher Children’s Hospital, worried more about the room than himself.

“Here you are preparing for the playoffs, and there is a new coach, new GM … there’s a lot of people in limbo, and that brings a lot of anxiety for everybody. So it was nice to have them say, ‘Hey you know that person? You should check in tomorrow with them, I can tell they are going through it,” he said.

“That was good for me, because I’m trying to prepare the team, but I’m also newly in charge of a million people. And here’s two people who have been in charge of programs their entire lives and could see the group while I was trying to just deal with the person in front of me.”

Kathy, who won a state title as a player and advanced to two state final appearances as a coach, said David didn’t need much help. After the first day of observing practice and meetings, she called home to speak to her father. She told him that David displayed a confidence and a humility with the team that was effective.

“I called dad,” Kathy said, “and I told him: ‘David is ready.’”

Rick Adelman says he would like to attend a game where his son is head coach, but right now is not the time.

“This is his time,” Rick said.

So, Rick sends David text messages before each game, then again after the game. And if David wants to talk, he’s there to listen.

“I probably talked to him more when he was an assistant,” Rick said. “But now, when he does call, it’s a long, long conversation. I don’t give him much advice; he more just kind of gets things off his chest.”

David says he’s been carrying a lot with him through this experience. He is mindful of how much Malone empowered him and helped prepare him for this moment. Under Malone, Adelman ran the Nuggets offense, delivered the pregame address and ran the offensive drills in practice.

“He really trusted me and gave me leeway and freedom to do what I wanted to do,” Adelman said. “I owe him so much, man. I give him so much credit.”

He also carries with him the levity of his ascension. He says he can’t help but think about other assistants around the league. As a kid, he remembers all of his father’s assistants, and he remembers his peers while working on the bench in Minnesota and Orlando.

David (left) with Dan Shimensky, who is now the Nuggets head athletic trainer. Dan’s father Mike Shimensky was the Blazers trainer when the two were children and David’s father was the Blazers coach. Now David is the coach and Dan is the trainer with Denver. (Photo courtesy of Kathy Adelman-Naro)

“When we beat Sacramento in the first game, the first thing I thought of when it was over was all the great assistant coaches who never got a chance to do this,” Adelman said. “It’s an honor. There’s 30 of these jobs, so I’m just trying to honor that as best I can. And if I end up getting this job, or another job down the road, I want to make sure that is in my head all the time, every day I do it.”

In the meantime, his brother will be in his mind tonight and every game after. Last summer, Adelman came home to Portland and brought his 11-year-old son, LJ, and 9-year-old daughter Lennan. He brought them to R.J.’s gravesite.

“I didn’t realize how heavy it was going to be,” David said. “I just wanted them to see it and be like, ‘This is where uncle R.J. is’ … and it just hit me really hard. He held my son the day he was born, but they never met him. It dawns on me how much they are going to miss out not knowing him.”

So he soaks up the moments, knowing there is no guarantee how long these moments will last. It seems like yesterday that he was at Summer League in Salt Lake City in 1990, watching Utah’s Blue Edwards brawl with Portland’s Cliff Robinson. His dad and Jerry Sloan got into an argument on the court. The next thing David knew, he was waking up from a nap in a bar, looking up at his dad with Sloan and assistant Phil Johnson. They were slinging back beers and eating wings, talking basketball.

Now, he is the one making the stories.

“Just to say I’ve done this, down the road when I’m older, is a really cool honor,” David. “I have plenty of friends and family who make fun of me and call me out when we lose, so I’m humble.

“But I’m also very aware of the honor of doing it.”

(Top photo: Harry How / Getty Images)

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