Ever heard of a parlor game called Three Degrees of Darrick Martin?

If you're in the N.B.A. and the Toronto Raptors point guard hasn't been your teammate, he surely has been one of your teammates' teammates or one of your teammates' teammates' teammates.

"Three Degrees of Darrick Martin, huh?" mutters Martin. "Nobody's ever asked me to play." Then again, he's zero degrees of Darrick Martin.

Pressed to give the number of pro franchises that have employed him, this slight, 5'11" backup's backup holds up seven dubious fingers-then an eighth, a ninth, and a 10th.
    
He stares at his hands in bewilderment and begins ticking off the cities, bending back each finger one by one. "There was Sioux Falls in the Continental Basketball Association," he says. "Then Minnesota, Vancouver, Minnesota again, Los Angeles, Sacramento, Dallas, Yakima in the C.B.A., Sioux Falls again, the Harlem Globetrotters, Yakima again, Minnesota again, Los Angeles again, and now Toronto."
   
It's nine, he guesses. "I must have counted Sioux Falls and Minnesota and Los Angeles and Yakima numerous times," he says. "I know I've played for them numerous times."
   
A reserve for 10 of his 12 N.B.A. seasons, the 37-year-old Martin has reached that enviable state in life in which one can do pretty much as one pleases. Even more happily, what he wants to do has worth-his annual salary is $1,219,590, the league minimum for a 10-year veteran. And perhaps best of all, he's very good at what he does: namely, riding the bench.

Martin has made minimum wage for his entire career. But unlike the average working stiff, his minimum has netted nearly $10 million.

Mr. Minimum has been making a cool million since the 2004-2005 season, the first in which he qualified under the N.B.A. players agreement. The following campaign, he took home $1,138,500; last season, $1,178,358.
   
The recent career of this once-deft defender has been seven seasons of not very much. Since joining the Raptors, in 2005, he has appeared in a little more than a third of their games, 16 this season.
   
That's 16 more N.B.A. games than any of his more exalted former teammates at U.C.L.A., including Don MacLean, Tracy Murray, Gerald Madkins, or Mitchell Butler. Nearly a dozen U.C.L.A. Bruins from Martin's era made the pros, but only Martin is still on an active roster.
   
Curiously, the undrafted Martin didn't play for his first N.B.A. team until three years after finishing college. He toured with Magic Johnson's All-Stars from 1992 to 1994, and after a stint in the C.B.A. at $1,200 a week, signed the first of two 10-day contracts with the Minnesota Timberwolves in 1995. His rookie salary was $350,000.
   
N.B.A. teams carry a minimum of 13 players and a maximum of 15. Only 12 can be active.

"I'm comfortable as the 11th, 12th, or even the 15th man," says Martin. "During my entire career, I've always ridden on the first team bus." For the uninitiated, starters generally arrive at arenas on the second bus.
   
Part of Martin's longevity derives from the fact that he has never really been injured. Though Martin has yet to miss a practice, he is sometimes on injured reserve with ailments ranging from a bruised knee to a pulled groin. The "injuries" allow him to sit on the bench, where he is often the only Raptor whose game-day uniform bears the label of Ross Figliano, a Toronto tailor.
   
"I love suits," says Martin, who has 25 in his N.B.A. wardrobe. "That's my one vice. My dad used to tell me, ‘If you're going to work, dress appropriately.'" If Martin is not the most talented Raptor, he is at least the best tailored.
   
While Toronto's president and general manager, Bryan Colangelo, may not think much of Martin the fashion plate, he has a lot of respect for Martin the bench jockey. He calls him "a great chemistry guy," making Martin sound like the Linus Pauling of the fast break.
   
"Darrick brings experience to our locker room," Colangelo says. "He's a coaching apprentice who can pick up the spirits of other players, whisper encouragement, and advise our younger point guards, particularly José Calderón. His enthusiasm is infectious."
   
The infection is discernible from the nosebleed seats of Air Canada Centre in Toronto. From the opening tip-off to the final buzzer, Martin is a ball of barely contained energy: high-fiving, butt-slapping, and slashing the sideline air in a kung-fu frenzy.
   
Martin credits Magic Johnson with turning him into a sideline presence. "He told me even if I wasn't in the game, I had to keep my eyes on the floor, not in the stands," Martin says.
   
Since then, semper paratus has been Martin's motto. "I've still got game, but I can't always get in it," he says. "But I won't let myself be unprepared. In the N.B.A., if you're not ready, you're lost in the sauce."
   
So he awaits the call. "It might be tomorrow, or next week, or next month."   

Or never.   

"To survive in the N.B.A. as long as Darrick has, you've got to have more than basketball skills," Colangelo says. "You can't put a value on his intangibles."
   
Actually, they're worth a million.