Peter Kerasotis
Sports

ORLANDO -- There is no pain involved.

Only pleasure.

Penny Hardaway is sitting on the bench for the Phoenix Suns, and almost a whole first quarter passes before he enters Wednesday night's game against the Orlando Magic. He is healthy, which is not a typo. So an injury -- real or imagined -- is not the problem. No, the only reason Penny isn't starting for the mediocre Suns is because Penny, too, is mediocre.

The guy who once was the second coming of Michael Jordan is now second string.

Delicious, isn't it?

Magic fans boo Penny's entrance onto the court. They boo him every time he touches the ball. But it is not a bitter boo. It is mocking. Derisive. Gloating.

It is like your girlfriend breaking up with you and then seeing her a year later, 50 pounds overweight and dating some schmo with bad body odor, a beer gut and no front teeth.

Back in 1999, after Penny spurned Orlando owner Rich DeVos and bad-mouthed Magic fans, he landed in Phoenix, wooed by Suns owner Jerry Colangelo. DeVos and Colangelo, in case you didn't know, are polar opposites when it comes to class.

Three years later, we find Penny now isn't worth a plug nickel in the NBA. Though they've tried, the Suns can't unload him and his obscene contract (seven years at $86.6 million). It restores your faith in justice.

Of course, it isn't always this way when a so-called franchise player leaves via free agency. Magic fans know this well enough. Every time the Los Angeles Lakers come to town, Shaquille O'Neal leads the way. Not only is Shaq the game's most dominant player, he now has two world championships on his growing resume.

It hurts.

Shaq is not only good, he is fun, marketable, charismatic. He is difficult to dislike, even when he snubs you. Just the sight of Shaq launches a thousand daydreams. What if he had stayed in Orlando? What if he were playing alongside Tracy McGrady? Would there be a dynasty now? Would there be a new arena?

Then you ask the same questions about Penny, who is so devoid of charisma that Nike once had to invent Lil' Penny as an alter-ego. What if he had stayed in Orlando? Would McGrady be here now? Would DeVos have pulled the team off the market? Would the Magic be on the fast track out of O-town?

Shaq's departure was the worst thing that ever happened to this franchise.

Penny's departure was the best.

So there is no pain now, seeing Penny coming off the bench like a common scrub, his current team losing to his former one, 119-114. And it's not like Penny's act ever changes, either. Penny complains now that there is too much pressure on him in Phoenix, that Suns fans pick on his every mistake, that he still believes he's an elite player.

"I don't feel like I have to prove anything because I know I can still play," he says. He intimates he'd like a trade, a new start to get away from what he perceives to be a bad situation. But he stops short of making a concrete demand. "I don't want to put my foot in my mouth," he says.

Since when?

The soundtrack on Penny's NBA career has a skip in it. Same song. Same refrain. Same nonsense. No matter what happens, no matter what failure there is, it is never Penny's fault.

Last night, when his one-time understudy, Tracy McGrady, burned him on a dunk, Penny glared at teammate Stephon Marbury. Even if there was a cross-up in signals and Marbury was to blame, you don't do that. You don't show up a teammate. But that's Penny.

Seconds later, at the other end of the court, T-Mac stuffed Penny, setting up a fast-break basket for Orlando. With nobody to blame, Penny hung his head. The crowd cheered.

It felt good. Real good. The way it ought to feel.