NEW YORK -- Last time Zach Randolph checked in with me late in his rookie year was also the only time . . . until we spoke by phone a few weeks ago.

It was sometime in 2002, and I was standing outside the Blazers' locker room, waiting to do a halftime NBC report. Suddenly, this big, round, frustrated face was in mine.

"How's a young guy supposed to get any burn in this league?" Randolph respectfully wondered. "Every practice I outplay Shawn Kemp and every game he starts."

"It's all about being G-ed up," I told him. "Management has a mega-bucks commitment in Kemp. Every effort is being made to justify that in order to save face and job."

"Understood. But you would think it would be more important to win," reasoned a mere 20-year-old.

How could I not like Randolph after that exchange?

I've kept a long-distance eye peeled on him since:

Watched his inexorable offensive and rebounding game rapidly mature into star status; two seasons following our brief chat he averaged 20.1 and 10.5.

I recoiled when Randolph came to the aid of Qyntel Woods and blindsided Ruben Patterson during a workout!

I winced when the Blazers signed him to a six-year, $84 million deal; it was frightening to think such an investment had been made in someone so on the edge. I later learned his payout is over 16 years; 30 percent is deferred and that money doesn't kick in until after the sixth season, distributed over an additional 10.

Celebrated his successful recovery from micro (more like atomic) -fracture knee surgery. He's one of the precious few who have been able to make an authoritative comeback (about 10 percent to go) within a year (April 2005), if ever, after having holes drilled through cartilage in hopes of stimulating new growth.

Researched Randolph's numerous jousts last season with coach Nate McMillan. "We're cool now. He's the boss and I do as I'm told."

Investigated several brushes with the law. Paramount was an accusation of sexual assault in a Portland hotel room, a charge the D.A. didn't consider worthy of taking to the grand jury before dismissing it, but damaging to his reputation and the organization's challenge to expunge its stained image, nonetheless.

My greatest grimace was exhaled hours before our phone conversation. I woke up to read the aforementioned woman had filed a civil suit against Randolph.

Though it may be nothing more than a shakedown of a high-profile athlete, it was bad timing for a player on a statistical tear and a columnist looking to do an uncommon positive piece on a Portland player.

Several days later I put the column on temporary lockdown when a reputed snitch sued Randolph for supposedly menacing him after he had fingered Woods for purportedly staging dog fights on his exclusive Portland property.

I'm assured the charge has been examined by Blazer attorneys and is judged to be unfounded.

For that reason (his mother's name is Mae, my mother's name is May; so already there's a persuasive bond), I'm giving Randolph the benefit of the doubt until proven guilty, a habitual policy of Hoop du Jour.

For at least the time being, I'm Paul Simon-izing the incidents and accidents . . . the hints and allegations . . . and accentuating the affirmative, starting with his platinum plateau as the league's sole player averaging 25 points and 10 rebounds or more.

Randolph's glossies are 25.9 and 10.2. Dirk Nowitzki (24.5 & 9.8) and Yao Ming (24.8 and 9.4) are his stiffest competition.

Yes, so far, such excellence has translated into a mere seven wins in 21 outings. But it's probably three or four more than any expert observer expected.

The most recent one broke the Pistons' eight-game win streak, at the Palace, in which Randolph's freaky, cash-no-change banker over Tayshaun Prince settled the stalemate.

Under Randolph's supervision Portland has been conscientiously combative almost every game. That's worth mentioning considering the team's infancy (second youngest to the Hawks), radical roster renovation (eight fresh faces) and unavailability, for the most part, of (future franchise fable) Brandon Roy (Zach compares him to Carmelo Anthony), Joel Przybilla, Raef LaFrentz and 211-cm rookie LaMarcus Aldridge.

Now that Portland has "weeded out" the malcontents -- Rasheed Wallace, Bonzi Wells, Jeff McInnis, Dale Davis, Derek Anderson, Damon Stoudamire, Patterson and Darius Miles (knee operation), the positive influence of McMillan and some of the more grown-up tadpoles (Jarrett Jack, for sure) could help propel Randolph to All-Star status.

He's well aware that won't happen until the Blazers win more than they lose.

"Zach's a decent kid," attests someone on the scene. He loves to play, tries to play hurt, and knows he's good. He's from a gang-infested, poverty-stricken environment (Marion, Ind.; his mom raised four kids on welfare) and has not distanced himself from it.

"My one concern is he's a follower, not a leader. And he tends to follow the wrong people. I worry about him not having enough self discipline to walk away from a bad scene."

It's a widely-held perception. "Not true!" Randolph fumed. "It bleeps me off! It shows they don't know me. I'm my own man. I'm not a follower. Nobody leads me astray."

Money, so I'm told, does not buy happiness.

Last year was so bad -- surgery, adjusting to McMillan's demanding style, losing at an alarming rate -- Randolph went into depression.

"I've struggled all my life. Been through some tough times," he allows. "But God has blessed me. I'm able to take care of my mom, grandma, sisters, brother, son and daughter. As long as they're OK, it makes me happy. I'm not stressed about anything."