On the street, they call them dimes. And they’re the currency of the playground. From Rucker to the Cage, when they talk about handle, they’re talking about the not-so-secret language of ballin’.

Before the lights, before the Yellow Jackets, before the feuds with KG, with Van Horn, even with cousin Bassy, he was Stephon from Coney Island, and he mastered the language.

He was a streetball legend. The way he used to handle the pill? It was astonishing. In New York City, you don’t need a sneaker deal to be a superstar. You don’t even need to play D-I ball. All you need is handle.

Stephon grew up among the legends, heard about the legends, played against the legends, beat the legends…Kenny Anderson…Booger Smith…Conrad McNasty…Sweetpea Daniels…and the king of the hill, Earl Manigault.

The Goat.

The G.O.A.T.

And then there was Stephon, obsessed with Run TMC, developing that wicked crossover, breaking ankles at Lincoln High. He was so good he didn’t need a nickname. Later on observers would see that scowl, label him a malcontent, and call him “Starbury.”

But they didn’t know. Nobody knew.

Yeah, he would scowl. He used to twist up his face out there in New Jersey. He wasn’t happy, and he didn’t hide it. And as he bounced around the league, putting together stats that made him seem like the heir apparent to Oscar Robertson, you would have thought he was Oscar the Grouch.

And then he got traded to the Knicks. And all of a sudden, it wasn’t about the money anymore. Madison Square Garden? Forget about it. This was the guy who wrote “All Alone” on his sneakers. Back at home, surrounded by his fam? Jersey ain’t home. But Stephon would have played in New York for a dollar.

For a dime.

And you could hear it, from Stapleton to Gun Hill, when Stephon finally stepped onto the Garden court as a Knick. #3 jerseys flew out of Modell’s. Rappers enthused about being “happier than Marbury home.” Regular guys on the grind laced up their janky-ass And1 kicks from ten years back and wore them with pride. Everybody knew Stephon was the truth.

But the Knicks are another story. The hate runs thick in New York, where the sellout streak is a thing of the past, right up there with Patrick Ewing’s jump shot, John Starks’ dunk, and Bernard King’s knees. But this mess in New York isn’t Marbury’s fault.

No less an icon than Walt “Clyde” Frazier says Marbury needs to keep his grill shut when he talks about wanting to play the two. But isn’t this the same Stephon who called himself the greatest point guard in the league just last year? What does it say when a guy like that is willing to switch positions for the good of his team?

Because yesterday, trading baskets with Sebastian Telfair and the Blazers, the Garden didn’t look so much like the World’s Most Famous Arena as the other Garden – the one off Ocean Avenue in Coney Island, the rusty cage where Marbury and Telfair learned their games growing up. Jawing back and forth, throwing elbows, doing the old clear-out move and driving on each other as their teammates stood by and watched, Steph and cousin Bassy displayed their baller genetics and scored 27 each. And the Knicks won.

Stephon Marbury led his team to victory. He even dished out eight assists. So if Larry Brown knows what’s good for him, he’ll do what Marbury says. Think Stephon doesn’t feed off the motivation of being criticized, second-guessed, and hated on? Think again. Remember a little guy in Philly named A.I. with the same scowl, the same ink, the same coach, and the same problem? Remember when he made the Finals?

If the Knicks are going to do it, they’re going to do it for one reason: because Marbury is a playa. And there might as well be a neon sign in Penn Station that says it:

Playas Only.

Scoop Jackson is an award-winning journalist who has covered sports and culture for more than 15 years. He is a former editor of Slam, XXL, Hoop and Inside Stuff magazines and the author of “Nike: Sweatshop Hustlin'” and “LeBron James: the Chambers of Fear.” He resides in Chicago with his wife and two kids.