The common refrain about McCants’ predicament is that it has never been about his game. “He’s a pure talent with a high basketball IQ,” former Wolves GM McHale says of his former shooting guard. “Beautiful stroke, great body, everything. His problem was giving himself up to the team.”

McCants, meanwhile, wonders how a player can “get $25 million for being just a shooter,” or why guys with criminal records — McCants has never been arrested or suspended — somehow get more consideration than he does. “I’m out of the league because of facial expressions?” he asks. “Players get arrested or demand trades, and I’m the one they call difficult?”

Tar Heel blood brothers Larry Brown and George Karl barely give him the time of day. Some GMs won’t even get on a conference call with him. “Everybody said I wasn’t a good fit,” he says with genuine sadness. “It felt like I had nowhere to turn. It felt like I died.”

In his first two seasons McCants earned an on-court rep that didn’t exactly sync up to the profile either: a quick-trigger shooting guard physical enough to defend small forwards. He bonded with the team’s superstar, Kevin Garnett, the two frequently working out together after practice. When McCants awoke from knee surgery in 2006, KG was sitting at the foot of the bed. In 2007-08, under first-year coach Randy Wittman, McCants began to blossom, selected by his peers as a team captain.

In New York he was often a guest of Jay-Z’s at 40/40. He stood onstage with Lil Wayne, texted with Chris Paul, partied in Miami with Shaq and D-Wade. His exterior, once Velcro, was suddenly Teflon, all the negatives no longer sticking. Or so he thought.

By training camp in September 2008, the mood had shifted. McCants and Wittman were now on very different pages, and with the coach looking to put his stamp on the team, McCants’ star quickly faded. He couldn’t move without Wittman getting annoyed… The situation quickly spiraled. Wittman stripped McCants of his captaincy at a team meeting, bestowing the duties on Jefferson, Mike Miller and Randy Foye. “A couple of those guys didn’t even want the responsibility,” says McCants, who thought Wittman was trying to break him. Stunned and embarrassed gave way to depressed and confused. “Nobody would talk to me,” McCants says. “I didn’t know what was going on.” (Wittman says he doesn’t remember the incident. “I don’t even recall his being captain,” he says. But several players, including Jefferson and Love, say they remember it distinctly.)

And don’t get his father, James, started. James, who, with his wife, Brenda, raised Rashad and his two younger sisters in a tidy, middle-class neighborhood in Asheville, N.C., strictly enforced evening curfews and made sure his son did his chores and homework before hitting the blacktop. “He had it together as a kid,” James says, “because he knew if he didn’t he had to deal with me.” James says people often misread his son initially but warm up once they get to know him.

Love turns to his locker neighbor, Brian Cardinal. “Why do you think Rashad is out of the league?” he asks. “I’m not touching that,” Cardinal says before walking away. Another player, who declined to be named, walks up and slaps his own arms. “Because of these right here,” he says referring to McCants’ tattoos. “He lives by those.” On their old teammate’s right biceps is written BORN TO BE HATED, on the left DYING TO BE LOVED.

As he begins shooting drills one thing fast becomes evident: This game does not belong on this floor. The near flawless mechanics — squared shoulders, high release, perfect follow-through — are designed for an NBA arena. Nowhere in the change-of-direction dribbles and stepbacks is movement wasted. With each feathery shot, his presence here becomes all the more strange. “When I met him I asked what he did to piss everybody off,” says Abunassar. “I said, ‘You must have been a real ass. Did you blow up somebody’s house?’” GMs may not love McCants, but they’re all over Abunassar. “They don’t ask about his game,” he says. “They ask about his head. I tell them all he needs is the chance.”

McCants takes matters into his own hands. He calls GMs himself. He tells them he wants to look them in the eye. He knows he has to sell himself. He really does care about what people think. And instead of waiting for a camp invite, he’s accepted an offer to play summer league with the Cavs — for around $100 a day. At least it’ll give him more time to prove his worth.

Yeah, humility stings like a son of a bitch. There are no more calls from Lil Wayne or Jay-Z. Chris Paul is harder to reach, too. It’s what happens when you’re on the outside looking in.

McCants dreams of carving out a niche as a sixth man. It’s a good living, he thinks, and he knows he’s up to the task. “There isn’t a 2-guard in the league who can guard me,” he says. "Not one.