The Feel-Good Z-Bo Story's Sad New Snag   I've never known
exactly what becomes of all of our bad memories as fans.
Granted, in the case of Zach Randolph, these were at one time
entirely warranted. After all that early promise, Randolph
morphed into a goon in Portland. With the Knicks, he was second
only to Stephon Marbury and his bunga bunga SUV as a symbol of
Isiah Thomas-era excess. He put up numbers, sure, but even Eddy
Curry managed that kind of mirage—one partly a function of the
New York tabloid sports press, whose vitriol can, at times, be
seen as self-loathing blowback for the pointless hope they
inspire.  Randolph found trouble, packed on pounds, became a
running joke, and one day woke up in Memphis, a franchise that
couldn't figure out how to sell itself. NBA teams don't usually
have this problem. But then something peculiar happened. Maybe
it was the low-profile market of Memphis (though Portland
certainly had that), lessons finally learned, or a locale
appealed to Randolph. He flourished, picking