DON'T GIVE MASTER P BAD RAP FOR HOOP DREAM.

Byline: KAREN CROUSE

Life was going to be a blank check for Percy Miller. Basketball was going to deposit him into the material world of bodyguards and fancy cars, big homes and movie stars.

That was Miller's master plan, anyway, when he was growing up dirt poor in New Orleans. Basketball took him as far as Texas, to the University of Houston, before absconding with his dreams.

Miller blew out a knee early in his freshman year, his collegiate career effectively over before it started. You hear stories all the time of people investing heavily in sports in the hopes of reaping huge financial dividends, getting wiped out and never recovering.

Miller was different. All the resources he had been squirreling away in basketball he transferred to school. He dropped out of Houston, enrolled at Merritt Junior College in Oakland, close to his mother's home in Richmond, and attacked business classes with all the zeal he once did zone defenses.

Education turned out to be a trusty adviser when Miller's grandfather died and left him a $10,000 inheritance. Miller took the money and opened his own record shop, which begat his own record label, ``No Limit.'' A decade later, his decision looks like a slam dunk.

Miller, better known as Master P, has made a fortune in the music industry, more, even, than Michael Jordan has made off basketball.

From his grandfather's ashes, Miller constructed a hip-hop empire encompassing music, film, apparel, video and sports management.

As he did during his days as a point guard, the budding entrepreneur looked for a weakness in the music industry that he could exploit. He found it in the vulgar, violent lyrics that had fallen out of vogue.

They're back again, thanks to Miller. ``Only God Can Judge Me,'' his sixth album, was released last month and stands No. 9 on the latest R&B charts.

It has cracked the top-10 despite minimal promotion by the 29-year-old, who has been busy trying to settle his debt with basketball. Miller figures basketball owes him at least another chance, and so he spent most of October in Toronto's NBA training camp.

After being waived by the Raptors, he was drafted by the San Diego Stingrays for their inaugural International Basketball League season, which tipped off last week.

Miller is not to be confused with Manhattan socialite Sandy Hill Pittman, who scheduled an ascent of Mount Everest around charity balls three years ago, not because she was an avid climber but because, well, it was there and she had $65,000 to spare.

For Miller, basketball is more than a passing fancy, it is a compulsion. He plays basketball for the same reason he eats; there is a basal hunger driving him.

Miller made pick-up games a part of his daily routine long before he decided to address his craving to play professionally. Lakers point guard Derek Fisher, who has played with and against Miller in pick-up games at UCLA, said, ``I don't know if right now he's ready to be on the NBA level. But he has some ability. He has an uncanny way of playing the game and handling the basketball.''

He also has an uncanny way of reaching the public and handling his fame.

Miller's home debut with the Stingrays last Saturday at the Sports Arena drew 9,762 spectators. It definitely wasn't your father's basketball crowd.

The people who could name one of Master P's songs in two notes appeared to outnumber the ones who could identify a two guard.

Everywhere you turned there were squealing girls hugging Master P posters and albums. Three security guards had to wrap themselves around Miller like scarves to get him on and off the court.

During warmups.

It had to have been weird for Miller to be sitting in his own crib and hearing songs by Ricky Martin and Britney Spears blare from the speakers during breaks in the action. One Master P cut did make it into the night's rotation. Suffice it to say it wasn't ``99 Ways to Die'' or ``Ghetto Dope''.

Family entertainment, after all, has its limitations.

So, for that matter, does the IBL. It is the professional basketball equivalent of recording a demo tape in your garage. Some of the players, like Miller, had a shot of espresso in the NBA and got hooked on the feeling. For others, the NBA is so much foam in their lattes.

You can count among the latter former Cal State Northridge player and current Stingray Rico Harris. The 6-foot-9 center/forward played 33 minutes in San Diego's first two games, both against the Las Vegas Silver Bandits, and shot a combined 3 of 9.

When Harris looks at Miller he doesn't see a music icon but another guy struggling to realize his hoop dreams.

``He's just like all of us,'' Harris said of Miller, whose estimated worth ($361 million) clearly sets him apart. ``He loves playing basketball, he got to the NBA and it didn't work out and now he's just trying to get back.''

Say this for Miller: He isn't cutting any corners.

He works like his playing time depends on it. In the Stingrays' first two games, his aim was weak (he missed 17 of 23 shots) but his heart was willing.

The 6-foot-4 guard used his long, ribbony arms to wrest eight rebounds from much taller players. Four of those boards came on the defensive end, a testament to his tenacity.

``Right now I'm just getting the jitters out,'' Miller said. ``I need more on-the-court experience, that's all.''

You get the feeling, listening to comments that sound more whiny than the synthesizers Miller uses in his music, that a few NBA players think he should be on the court only to provide halftime entertainment.

After Miller was waived by Toronto, Raptors forward Charles Oakley, with whom Miller had hung out, said, ``That's life. Who cares? He's going to continue to make records and we're going to continue playing basketball.''

Oakley's words stung Miller. He now knows what it's like to be Shaquille O'Neal in the recording studio.

It's a simple law of human nature: Crossover career moves will not be applauded by the truly territorial. Pride gets in the way of chivalry.

``When you're a master of one field and you step onto another field, you have to know what you're doing,'' O'Neal said, ``because everybody is on you a little harder.''

You don't need to be street-wise to see what's going on. ``I think some people are a little jealous,'' Miller said. ``Of course they want to see me fail. That doesn't bother me. My whole life I've been about proving people wrong.''

Miller plays a game he loves because he can, not because he can't do anything else. He preaches what he practiced, telling young fans, ``If you don't continue your education you can't be the best person you want to be.''

Yeah, you can see why some people see Miller as a menace to the NBA.

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Photo: (color) In the record industry Master P is a superstar, but on the court he's a just a man who loves to play.

Debbie Morello/Associated Press