In Detroit for the NBA Draft, one local reporter asked me what attracted me to Rashad Phillips as a story. That was easy: his father. The first person you see at any Rashad Phillips game is his father, Virgil.

No, check that. The first person you hear at any Phillips game is Virgil. I first met Virgil Phillips in Portsmouth. Intense as any Little League dad, he was wearing a Detroit Tigers baseball cap, his last name stitched across the back. The Portsmouth Invitational is played in a high school gym and you could hear the man outside. "Stay low, stay low," he growled as his son attacked on offense. "Come on, Shad," he'd shout. "Feel it. Feel it." He even had a few for some other players as well. When Virginia's Donald Hand, a teammate of Rashad, missed a wide-open three, he said, "Aw, Hand you gotta give us one."

Once we got to Phoenix, the mouth kept moving. Perhaps the best was when Virgil assailed Arizona's Eugene Edgerson. "Class is out teacher," he said to the education major. In Chicago, only the press and NBA personnel were allowed in the Moody Bible Institute gym, but V was not at a loss for words when I caught up with him on the phone one night. Speaking of his son, he sounded like Ali. "He's got some AI, some Mike, some Kobe, some show me," he said. "The best is yet to come. He's the exciting one."

The people in Detroit know how much Virgil loves his son. While at UDM, Virgil had t-shirts made up with a Tupac twist that read "All Eyes on Three," in reference to Rashad's number. For home games he sat courtside across from the Titan bench. The word "vociferous" does not do him justice.

And sometimes he rubbed people the wrong way. Detroit coach Perry Watson was never a big fan of Virgil and said so publicly. And you could make the argument that the strained relationship between the Phillips family and Watson did not help Shad's chances of getting drafted. Hey, it didn't hurt UCLA's Earl Watson that his coach, Steve Lavin was in both Phoenix and Chicago actively campaigning for a spot for his point guard.

That said, I know how proud the son is of his father. What kid wouldn't want his dad supporting them, pushing him toward his dream at every turn? The night before the draft, I sat with Shad, his brother Jerrell and his cousin in his room playing NBA Live. Then, between contests, Rashad said he wanted to show me a tape of his dad playing ball. The tape of some rec league game was about fifteen years old. Rashad's best friend, Lloyd Lowe, who was murdered this past May, had found it by chance a few years ago.

On the tape, Virgil scores the first four points of the game. After that he proceeds to get his shot blocked, fall flat on his face, and attempt two of the craziest layups you'll ever see, both of which careen of the backboard, failing to draw iron. It was hard not to bust up laughing.

"Check out V, check out V," Shad says, rewinding one of his dad's ill-fated coast-to-coast drives. "People were running out of the house, the first time we watched this." In tears myself, I had no trouble believing that. "That's my boy, though," Shad said. "V's my boy."

The next night, Shad watched the draft from his room. But when he his name wasn't called, the kid did not shy away from the spotlight. Within minutes of the end of the draft, Shad was outside the community center greeting friends, addressing the press, hugging his dad. I was more than impressed. Most kids would have been home crying. But here was Shad, carrying on, keeping this dream his dad and he shared alive. At this moment, it became obvious to me who this kid I had followed for three months really was. He was V's boy.

John Gustafson writes college hoops for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail him at john.gustafson@espnmag.com.