Renowned for blocking all comers on the court, Dikembe Mutombo welcomed and helped all he could off it.

He was of course best known for the finger wag. The no-no-no — the gesture that became his trademark — set him apart. It was delivered as a firm warning to opposing shooters to never challenge him by trying to score, especially not in his restricted space, in the shadow of Mt. Mutombo.

He wagged that index finger part-playfully, part-sternly, like a scolding parent, right after blocking a shot and sending the basketball into orbit, often toward the fifth row. This instantly had fans wagging their finger in response. It happened often, a stark scene caused by one of the greatest defensive players in NBA history.

… which presented a strange contrast, really. Dikembe Mutombo the professional embraced and perfected the art of rejection, while Dikembe Mutombo the person was all about acceptance.

He lived much of his life in the middle of that pendulum, a sweet spot that endeared him to so many. For 18 seasons Mutombo was among the most popular players in the sport, rarified space for a 7-foot-2 center who didn’t play above the rim, gyrate in the air, score points in bunches or sell sneakers.

But by blocking shots, rebounding and unifying the teams he played for, Mutombo forged a connection with fans anyway. They witnessed the joy and determination he showed on the defensive side of the court, how he protected the rim, how he sacrificed for the goal of winning, and it endeared him to them.

This was best captured in 1994 by John Elway, the great NFL quarterback of the Denver Broncos, who played hype man before Game 3 of the Nuggets’ first-round playoff series against the Seattle SuperSonics and announced over the McNichols Arena public address: “So let’s get ready to … Mu-tom-bo!”

The Nuggets and Mutombo, their young center, rallied to win that series, becoming the first No. 8 seed to beat a No. 1, punctuated immortally at the Game 5 buzzer by the image of Mutombo on his back, clutching the ball while releasing an uncontrollable laugh and yell.

That distinctive voice came with the finger wag, the deep, resonating and authentic bass spiced with a dialect from the Democratic Republic of the Congo, which captured and held your attention for as long as you were in his company. Which, if you were fortunate, was a good bit of time, all of it well spent.

That’s because Mutombo the person, the friend, the tireless NBA ambassador and the devoted teammate, was pure. He couldn’t be compromised or spoiled. His character was impenetrable. In this personal life, Mutombo was not a center. He was a point guard, wanting to know how he could be of some assistance.

I once told his wife, Rose, that while the planet is comprised of zero perfect people, there is something she should know about her husband, who was 1-of-1 in a certain regard:

“Everyone loves Dikembe,” I said.

This was no exaggeration. This was truth to power. Those who came across Mutombo came away feeling sublime about the experience, about the man and his purpose in life. He moved people, even strangers, that much. His spirit and his warmth, made unforgettable by that voice, tattooed itself to your day.

And this wasn’t confined to any single team, city or even country: Mutombo’s impact rippled across borders. His devotion to his homeland was fierce, a country that, like many in Africa, endured hardship caused partly by governmental shifts and, in this particular case, a name change from Zaire.

Dikembe Mutombo is welcomed during the “Basketball Without Borders” African camp in 2005 in Soweto, Johannesburg, South Africa.

Mutombo returned often after he achieved fame and enormous wealth, desperate to help the less fortunate. Already one of 10 children, he took many family members — even distant ones — into his own home in the U.S. and gave them a better life.

Then he soon adopted a project on a much more gargantuan scale: Building a hospital, named after his late mother, on the outskirts of Kinshasa where medical attention was lacking. Mutombo initially wanted to become a doctor — he attended Georgetown on an academic scholarship — before his height pointed him into another direction … but eventually made a hospital possible from a financial standpoint.

He spent millions of his own money and successfully raised the rest because donors rightfully trusted him, saw his hope, his dream. The 170-bed Biamba Marie Mutombo Hospital and Research Center was the first medical facility of any kind built in over 40 years in that area. It saved lives, perhaps thousands.

He didn’t confine himself to the Congo. He adopted all of Africa, making trips to war-torn South Sudan, to Senegal, to wherever he was needed, often at his own expense. Mutombo was always on a plane, on a first-name basis to pilots and flight attendants. Soon enough, the NBA noticed, and Mutombo became the league’s first Global Ambassador, the man on the front line for aid and growing the game of basketball.

Soon enough, everyone noticed. Mutombo was honored by dozens of global organizations, the Special Olympics, the United Nations, any with a humanitarian goal and a mission of peace.

He inspired the great wave of basketball talent from all parts of Africa, including Toronto Raptors president Masai Ujiri (the two partnered on countless basketball missions over the years), Philadelphia 76ers center Joel Embiid and Milwaukee Bucks forward Giannis Antetokounmpo, whose roots are from Nigeria.

I last saw him at the 2022 NBA All-Star Weekend in Cleveland. The handshake, the hug and the voice, all too familiar. We had a history, the two of us. As a reporter, I followed him to South Africa to report on his goodwill mission some 30 years ago. He was a close friend of Nelson Mandela, of course, both built from the same cloth.

Dikembe Mutombo never finger-wagged anyone who needed help. He should be, must be, remembered for that.

Mutombo was still in the NBA way back then — he played for six teams — before eventually settling in Atlanta, where he starred for the Hawks, then retired and raised his children.

By chance, a relocation sent me there, too. Our daughters became high school basketball teammates. We sat in the stands together in the gym, proud fathers bonded once more by the game, this time on a more personal level. At a Halloween party for our daughters’ classmates at my place, Dikembe came along, stealing candy when they weren’t looking.

After the Lovett School won the Georgia state girls’ basketball championship, Mutombo held a celebration party at his house and was the perfect host, completely down-home in his own home.

Not long after that Cleveland All-Star reconnection, he fell ill and developed brain cancer, which froze everyone who knew him. The ailment ultimately took his life Monday at a far-too-young 58 years old. This is a staggering and tough loss, for Georgetown, his former NBA teams and teammates, the NBA family and, mostly, Rose and their three children.

He is a Hall of Famer, second only to Hakeem Olajuwon in career blocked shots. His jersey hangs in retirement in Denver and Atlanta, his place as a premier defender is cemented. Yet all of that is secondary.

There’s a reason why the tributes to Mutombo are thick, emotional and numerous. It reflects the life he lived, the number of communities he touched both here and abroad and the impression he left all of us.

There are labels often applied — generous, giving, thoughtful, caring — to a certain segment of the wealthy and the famous, sometimes prematurely so. In my entire four-decade career in sports journalism, encountering tons of athletes who justified all such descriptions, one towers above the rest, and not because of his height.

Dikembe Mutombo never finger-wagged anyone who needed help. He should be, must be, remembered for that.

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Shaun Powell has covered the NBA for more than 25 years. You can e-mail him here, find his archive here and follow him on X.

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