The manchild staggers backward, nearly upending a stroller and its tow-headed contents before regaining his balance. Once again, Leon Smith has been tripped up by fate. He is at Disneyland, an appropriate destination for an 18-year-old kid whose life has been spent with one size-17 sneaker in Fantasyland, the other in Tomorrowland. Smith is on a much-needed 24-hour furlough from the Dallas Mavericks' summer league team in Long Beach. The Mavs -- via the Spurs -- acquired him with the last pick of the first round of the NBA draft.

You have had a lot of trouble, for which others are largely responsible. But you are now reaching a point when you will be able, by your own efforts, to control your own affairs.

You are not easily understood, as you keep much to yourself. Keep your eyes open to some of your "would be" friends.

Smith gives a seven-foot shiver and looks to flee the weird vibes. "Man, that's huge," says Leon, loping toward the exit. "That's too real. I wish it wasn't, but that's my life."

Actually, Leon, your life has been worse.

It started so well with Kevin and Kobe, high school prodigies arriving with their skills and psyches already developed. Sure, there were growing pains, but these boys were ready to become men. But it couldn't last. There were bound to be flameouts. The lucky ones fester on NBA benches, the less fortunate toil in the CBA or overseas.

Let's face it: The aristocrats who run the NBA and NCAA have been waiting for Leon Smith. Finally, they've got their ideal subject for not jumping straight to the pros. After all, there's one thing his agent, coaches and surrogate fathers agree on: Leon's not ready for the NBA. He has the physical gifts, but not the basics, not the maturity. Want proof? He got tossed from his first pro practice.

But what if the kid really had no other choice but to jump? What if his entire life has been choosing between the lesser of two evils? What if the system has let him down in every conceivable manner? Confronted with the same situation, what would any kid do? What would David Stern do?

By the age of 5, Leon Smith, with his younger brother, Jerry, had become adept at sliding under the gates of convenience stores around Chicago's Rockwell Gardens projects. Not getting fed at home, the brothers lived on the candy they swiped. Eventually, they got caught.

"Where's your mom?" the cop asked.

"Don't know," Leon mumbled.

A funny thing happened at police headquarters. Leon didn't want to leave. "That police station was the cleanest place we'd ever been in our young lives," he recalls. "I didn't know a place could be that clean."

Leon's mom was stripped of custody. His father was already long gone. Leon and Jerry were sent to the Lydia Home Association, a boys' home on the Northwest Side. "Leon was just like a puppy dog always looking for affection," says Carl Bauer, a longtime friend and son of Doris Bauer, the house mother at Lydia Home. "He just wanted love."

Smith never wanted for material possessions at Lydia. Various charitable groups would throw parties at Christmas. Still, he sank deeper inside. Because he was a quiet child, harried social workers would spend more time with the other kids, who were expressing their pain more aggressively. Over the years, a few counselors and psychologists tried to reach him. But there'd be no response. There was talk of adoption for Leon, but that was a thought he abhorred.

"I knew I had a mother, I knew I had a father," Leon recalls with rancor.

"I just didn't know where they were. But I was scared to death to live with anyone else's family."

After eighth grade, Leon was transferred away from Lydia Home -- and Jerry -- to a home that prepares teenagers for adult life. But this was a new institution going through chaotic growing pains. Once again, the quiet kid got lost. Eventually, Leon split, spending nights on park benches.

Carl Bauer found him at a shelter. Pulling some strings, he placed Leon in Sullivan House, another group home on Chicago's South Side. At first, he attended a Catholic high school, but didn't take well to the rules. Leon told Bill Green, a Sullivan House supervisor, he wanted to transfer to Martin Luther King High. As Green recalls, "I looked at this 6-10 kid, knowing King is a basketball factory, and I said, 'Heavens to Betsy, I don't see where that's a problem.'"

He was right. Transferring to King wouldn't be difficult. The problems would begin after Smith got there.

In his first game in the Fila Summer Pro League in Long Beach in late July, it takes Smith exactly 13 seconds to tease that potential. Entering late in the first quarter, Smith elevates and blocks a shot from behind by the Warriors' Adonal Foyle, driving the crowd wild. Then reality sets in. On offense, Leon runs to the wrong side of the court and forgets to set picks. On defense, he's completely lost, a tangle of legs and feet, oblivious to the orange thing whizzing by his ear. Dallas coaches scream: "Find the ball, Leon! Find the ball!" But this has to be considered progress. On July 6, the media had gathered at the Mavs' practice facility to witness the unveiling of the team's No. 1 pick. Things went well until the wind sprints. When a scrub finished too slowly, assistant coach Donnie Nelson, son of head coach Don Nelson, announced that the whole team would run again. Leon had other ideas. "You run it," he shouted at Donnie. Nelson told Smith such insolence had just doubled his sprints. At that point, Leon stripped off his jersey and stalked alone to the locker room.

The scene made for great video. Leon Smith's introduction to the nation was as a crybaby. The next day, Smith semi-apologized, saying, "This is Leon every day. I'm not going to change."

But that damned potential. At the next day's game, Leon gathers a long rebound, flies backboard-high and jams it down. Donnie Nelson mutters to no one in particular, "Someday, someday."

Donnie remains high on Leon. "I don't know when he's going to have his coming-out party, but there's going to be one," the assistant coach predicts. "He's got a 7-6 wingspan and runs the floor like a doggone deer. He reminds me of a young Shawn Kemp -- not that he's a great player yet, but he has the ability. He needs to be taught the basics of the game."

Leon laughs. It's the only emotion he shows at dinner. Attempts at conversation are met with silence, eyes fixed on the table. The wall only begins to crumble when the talk turns to the recent draft. Someone mentions that Knicks fans ripped the selection of Frenchman Frederic Weis over Ron Artest. Leon chuckles. "Where would Artest have played?" he says. "They're stacked at that position." Leon's NBA knowledge is Einstein-like. He can recite the strengths and weaknesses of nearly every player drafted. But on the subject of himself, sentries are posted. Too many disappointments, too many betrayals.

But there are other, nonverbal signs. Such as the new tattoo on his right forearm. In big black cursive letters, the name CAPPIE is spelled out. He got it in Santa Monica a few days ago. "That's my girlfriend," says Leon proudly. "Cappie Pondexter. She's a junior at Marshall High, and a great player."

That's an understatement. The 16-year-old Pondexter, who plays with two of Leon's sisters, is considered one of the top prep prospects in the nation. Later, Shaun is asked how long Leon and Cappie had been dating. He sheepishly grins.

Occasionally, Leon will speak to other young kids at group homes. What he tells them isn't romantic. Not after the childhood he had. "I'm not gonna sit there and tell anybody not to sell drugs," says Smith. "Everybody is gonna choose their own path. I can't judge them. If you're going to be the best bank robber, rob the bank the best you can without hurting anybody. You got to make your own decisions whether for good or for bad."

Smith began making a series of bad decisions after he enrolled at King in 1995. For two decades, King's program has been led by Landon "Sonny" Cox, a Mercedes-driving head coach repeatedly accused of poaching players from across the city. Under Cox, the Jaguars have won three state titles and produced prep All-Americas Jamie Brandon, Rashard Griffith and Thomas Hamilton. But none truly prospered after leaving King: Brandon vanished, Griffith washed out of Wisconsin and toils in Turkey, and Hamilton, saddled with chronic weight problems, ate himself out of three NBA tryouts.

Leon arrived at King during a particularly chaotic time, enduring three principals in four years. Not that the academic workload for Smith ever seemed too tough. "If Leon didn't like a teacher, he didn't go to class, so they switched a few classes for him," says Sullivan House's Bill Green. "A number of teachers would always let him have extra assignments, and he seemed to do well with that." Another Smith confidant is more blunt: "They gave him his grades. They know it. Leon knows it."

"That is not true," says King's principal, Dr. Pamela Dyson. As for reports of Leon's class-switching, Dyson, in her second year at King, says, "I would not condone that. We are here to create students, not basketball stars."

(Coach Cox, asked about Smith, issued a string of no comments, and ended the brief interview by declaring, "Everyone knows Leon's story.")

Soon, Smith's attention switches to other matters. Once he warms up to someone, Leon can be downright adorable, cracking jokes and singing along with Joan Osborne's "One of Us." He turns the charm toward Irvin, his guy Friday.

After all, he's just a kid. With potential.

Smith didn't return to Sullivan House. Instead, he moved into Brown's apartment. Bauer soon learned that Brown had ties to Professional Sports Planning, a sports agency run by Carl and Kevin Poston, who represent Penny Hardaway and other NBA players. (The Postons did not return several phone calls. Brown could not be reached for comment.) "I told Steve, if you're such a good friend of Leon's, why don't you quit PSP?" recalls Bauer. "He wouldn't do it."

"He told me he wanted to go pro," says Vaccaro. "I asked him how he did on the college tests. He said, 'I never took them.' Remember, this is April. That night I told him, 'I'm gonna help you. We'll get you drafted.'" Asked how he could make such a promise, Vaccaro replied, "I have a lot of contacts, people who trust and believe me. They know I won't go to war with a bad kid."

Vaccaro has signed high schoolers-turned-pros Kobe Bryant and Tracy McGrady to adidas, making the shoe company hipper with young, urban kids. However, he insists his involvement with Leon is purely benevolent. He hooked Smith up with Dan Fegan, a Santa Monica-based agent, but Smith didn't attend any of the big draft camps. Many of his individual workouts were dismal, lacking in fundamentals and intensity.

The journey finally ended on draft night. None of the prognosticators had Smith going in the first round. Leon watched at Shaun's house, but left around pick No. 25. Then, in a prearranged deal, the Spurs, picking 29th, took Smith for the Mavs, despite the fact that neither of the Nelsons had ever talked to Leon or seen him play in person. Carl Bauer was the one who gave Smith the happy news. "I told him, 'You got lucky. Next time you see Sonny Vaccaro, you better kiss his feet.' Leon said, 'I understand.'" Then, Smith went to the one safe place he knew. He went to Sullivan House.