Unguarded

by Lenny Wilkens

  Some people wondered how I could leave Seattle. Between 1968 and 1986, I had spent all but two years playing or coaching in that city. Marilyn and I had a wonderful home there, plenty of friends, and we felt entrenched in the community. We never did sell our home in Seattle, because Seattle will always be just that to us—home. But I had come to the end of the line with the Sonics. And I wanted to coach.

  I believe there are times in all our lives when God opens up a door for us, when an opportunity beckons. This was it. When I looked at the 1986 Cavs roster, I thought, “We could do the same things here we did in Seattle.”

  The Cavs had a rookie center in Brad Daugherty with great passing skills and a soft touch near the basket. He was seven feet tall and still growing—because he was only twenty years old. I heard that he was a little immature and not real serious about basketball, but that wasn’t the case; he was just twenty, and all of us at twenty have some growing up to do, physically and mentally. Brad wasn’t afraid of hard work. He played at North Carolina for Dean Smith, and really was team-oriented. If anything, he sometimes was too unselfish, because he was a gifted scorer who didn’t shoot as much as he should. He wasn’t a leaper and he didn’t block many shots, but he was a decent rebounder and a skilled pivotman, which was rare back then and is nearly extinct today.

  We had a power forward in John Williams, who had long arms and a knack for blocking shots, and who would have been a lottery pick in 1985 had it not been for the point-shaving accusations that caused him to sit out a year.

  We had a shooting guard in Ron Harper, who was a pure athlete at six-foot-six with long arms, pogo sticks for legs, and a knack for getting to the basket. This is not to put him in the same class as Julius Erving, but Harper grew up watching videos of Doctor J. and he had more than a few of Erving’s superb moves to the basket. Ron also had charisma. He acted as if he was too cool to listen to you, but he heard everything you said. Because Ron had a stuttering problem, some people assumed he wasn’t very smart. Just the opposite: He knew where every player on the court was to be on every play, not just where he was supposed to go. The same was true of John Williams.

  We had a point guard in Mark Price, although no one knew it at the time. Price was a second-round pick out of Georgia Tech, where most scouts saw him as a shooting guard in a six-foot point guard’s body. Some scouts said he was too slow to be anything more than a role player, a Kyle Macy type, but they typecast Mark instead of really watching him play. I remember arguing with a few scouts, saying Mark would be a good point guard because he had a great cross-over dribble. Maybe he didn’t have tremendous sprinter’s speed running in a straight line, but he was just as fast dribbling the ball as when he ran without it—a key to judging the real speed of any point guard. He was always very shifty, able to move quickly from side to side, which enabled him to fake and shake the defense, to get open for his shot or to drive to the basket. I knew if I could teach him to split the double-team on the pick-and-roll play, to dribble through the two defenders who try to squeeze him, Mark could team up with Brad to become the key to our offense. That’s eventually what happened.

  But when we went to camp in October 1986, we were young. Daugherty, Price, Williams, Harper, and a reserve named Johnny Newman were all rookies. Price held out and didn’t report until two weeks after camp started, and then he wasn’t in top shape.

  As for veterans, we only had a few who could help us. Most Cavs fans don’t remember, but that year it was John Bagley who started at point guard, with Price as the backup. Our small forward was Phil Hubbard, one of my all-time favorite players because of his relentless work ethic and his dedication to putting the team first. But Hubbard was not a classic small forward. He was six-foot-seven, but had some major knee injuries early in his career and was nearing the end of his time in the NBA. He really couldn’t jump, but his best moves were to post-up inside and make this odd righthanded layup from the left side of the basket. Usually you want your small forward to be a scorer, a sky-walker who plays above the rim or a deadly jump shooter from the perimeter. Hubbard was neither. He was a classic, feet-on-the-floor small forward who scored 10 points a game, grabbed 5 rebounds, and set countless picks and played gritty defense. Larry Bird once listed Hubbard as one of the five toughest players ever to guard him. I respected Phil so much that I later hired him as my assistant when I coached in Atlanta.

  The one thing we never had in my time with the Cavs was a small forward who fit the usual NBA job description. Most of the guys who played there after Hubbard, among them Mike Sanders and Winston Bennett, were guys who sacrificed their bodies to play team defense and set picks in Hubbard’s tradition. You hear about blue-collar players, but usually at power forward. Not with us. We had Williams and later Larry Nance at power forward, and they could score. Nance also developed a very accurate fifteen-foot jumper. So we had to alter our offense, make the small forward into the guy doing the grunt work while the power forward did some shooting. Because of unselfish players such as Hubbard, Bennett, and Sanders, we made it work.

  That first year with the Cavs, we started three rookies in Harper, Daugherty, and Williams. Price came off the bench, often as the sixth man. When four of your top six players are rookies, you lose. That was especially true when some of the veterans were Melvin Turpin and Keith Lee: Turpin had weight problems, Lee had horrible knees, and neither had a notable NBA career.

  In the middle of that season, Price had an appendix attack and we needed another guard. That was when Wayne Embry and Gary Fitzsimmons, our player personnel director, made what appeared to be a little move that turned out to be crucial for us. They found Craig Ehlo playing for the Mississippi Jets of the Continental Basketball Association. Ehlo was signed to a ten-day contract while Price recovered from his surgery, and he ended up becoming a starter for us after the Ron Harper trade in 1989.

  I didn’t mind taking a beating that first year because I knew we’d get better, that all our players needed was experience. Some coaches believe they have to win every game no matter what, so they’ll play a veteran over a young player even when it’s in the best interest of the franchise to make sure the kid plays and matures. Sometimes the coach is worried that if he loses today he won’t be around for that better tomorrow. But some coaches just can’t take the losing. Listen, I hate losing as much as anyone, but I also understand development. You can’t improve sitting on the bench. I also was fortunate because Wayne Embry and Gordon Gund wanted our young players on the floor; if we lost some games because of that, so be it. Actually, we had a 31-51 record in 1986-87, which wasn’t bad given the youth on the roster. That season showed us the players’ strengths and weaknesses, and it revealed what we needed to do to improve the roster.

  The only thing we didn’t find out about that first season in Cleveland was Price. We could see that Daugherty and Harper had star potential, and that Williams would be a very good pro. But Price never could get on track as a rookie. He had a couple of nice games, but between his holdout and his appendix problem, it was pretty much a lost year. So when the 1987 draft came along and we had a chance to pick a top point guard in Kevin Johnson from the University of California, we didn’t hesitate. I was still positive about Mark; if everything went right, we’d have two good point guards, and at least one of them was bound to come through. Well, that summer after his rookie year, Price worked extremely hard on his shooting, conditioning, and ballhandling. Like most rookies, Kevin Johnson didn’t understand the kind of physical shape a player needs to be in to compete at his peak level in training camp. Mark just dominated Kevin, winning the job easily. But that was fine. We had Kevin Johnson to back up Price. Furthermore, we were adding assets for possible trades.

  But that created a problem—a nice problem, but still a problem. We had two young point guards, both good enough to start. This was a much different situation than in my final years with the Cavs, when Price was a veteran and we had a young Terrell Brandon playing behind him. It was clear that in a few ye
ars, Brandon would be ready to take over as the starter because Price was coming to the end of his career. But back in 1987, we had Price and Johnson, both in their early twenties, and neither wanting to be the backup. Furthermore, Price had dominated Johnson that year. I loved Mark’s outside shooting, his quickness, and his growth as a ballhandler. Meanwhile, Wayne Embry was looking to acquire a veteran small forward. Phil Hubbard’s knees were aching and he was coming to the end of his career. We wanted to trade Kevin Johnson for Eddie Johnson, a small forward for Phoenix who would have been perfect for us. He could really shoot, and that was exactly what we needed.

  But as Wayne talked to the Suns, the trade changed. Phoenix was in the midst of a massive rebuilding movement, and they wanted to trade Larry Nance—not because they had anything against Nance, but because Nance would bring them the most back in a deal. Phoenix needed a lot of young players.

  Wayne called me and said, “We can get Larry Nance.”

  I said, “What happened to Eddie Johnson?”

  Wayne said, “Larry is a great player. It’s not often you can get a guy like this.”

  In that respect, Wayne was right. Nance was six-foot-ten, with long arms and tremendous leaping ability, and was a magnificent shot blocker. He averaged 20 points and a little over 8 rebounds per game for Phoenix.

  “I know Nance can really play,” I said, “but Wayne, he’s not a small forward.”

  “What do you mean he’s not a small forward?” he asked.

  “Wayne, I’ve coached in the Western Conference,” I said. “I’ve watched the guy for years. He’s a power forward. He’s a great player, but a power forward.”

  “I think he can play small forward,” he said.

  “Wayne, I don’t know,” I said. “He’s always been a power forward.”

  “He’s athletic enough to cover the smaller forwards away from the basket, and he’s tall enough so they won’t be able to defend him inside,” Embry said.

  I wasn’t sure if that was true, but I knew that Larry Nance would make us a better team regardless of where he played. My only reservation was that I had six-foot-eleven John Williams at power forward, and I really needed a small forward.

  Anyway, the trade was made. We sent Kevin Johnson, Tyrone Corbin, and Mark West to Phoenix for Nance and Mike Sanders, who was the Suns’ backup small forward. What I didn’t find out until later was that we also agreed to flop number one draft picks. At the time, it didn’t sound like a major sticking point, but it turned out to be a big deal to the Suns: With that pick (which originally belonged to us), the Suns drafted Dan Majerle, who became an All-Star. With the Suns’ pick, we took Randolph Keys, another in the long line of guys we tried at small forward who never worked out. Majerle would have made us a much better team, because he was capable of playing either small forward or shooting guard. But I have a hard time being overly critical of the trade, even though we probably gave up too much. Larry Nance became a very important part of our team. He brought us instant credibility because his shot-blocking just shut down the lane. He was a great defensive player. He also developed a very good medium-range jump shot. He was a delight in the dressing room, the kind of veteran who’d take young players out to dinner on the road, or invite them to his home to fish in his pond. Larry supported me in everything I wanted to do with the team.

  But he wasn’t a small forward.

  I tried to start a front line of Daugherty at center, with John Williams at power forward and Nance at small forward. From a physical standpoint it was impressive, with Nance the smallest at six-foot-ten, but we had trouble defensively. Both Nance and Williams liked to block shots, but to do that you need to be near the basket. When either of them were called upon to defend a small forward such as Dominique Wilkins, Scottie Pippen, or Eddie Johnson, they were fifteen to twenty feet away from the rim. Yes, they were taller than those players, but not as quick. So either Wilkins would drive past our small forwards or Nance would have to leave him open—play soft defense to protect against the drive—and surrender a jump shot.

  That’s when I realized I had to do something. I was not going to keep trying to pound a square peg into a round hole, forcing Nance to play small forward. So I asked myself, “Who is the better player, Williams or Nance? And who would be more suited to come off the bench?”

  Nance was the superior player, but not by a lot. Williams had been our starting power forward in 1986-87 and made the all-rookie team as he averaged nearly 15 points and 8 rebounds. It’s not easy to tell a player with those statistics that you want him to become the sixth man, but Williams was not an ordinary player. Hot Rod and I had become very close. He never had a father, and he almost looked at me that way. He called me “Coach Lenny,” and it was a term of respect. He talked to me when he was going to buy a new house, and then showed me the blueprints. Hot Rod grew up very poor in Sorrento, Louisiana. He was abandoned before his first birthday and raised by a neighbor woman who just took him in: She heard the infant crying on a front porch, went over to offer some comfort, and ended up raising Hot Rod. She also was the one who gave him the “Hot Rod” nickname because he loved to play on the floor with toy cars, making motor sounds with his mouth.

  So I approached Hot Rod about giving up his starting spot to Nance. Hot Rod was a shrewd player. He could see that our big front line wasn’t working, that someone else had to be the small forward. We talked about it for a long time. I didn’t just say, “Hot Rod, I want you to come off the bench,” then end the conversation. That’s not how you coach in the modern NBA. You have to treat players with respect, explain to them what you have in mind, then ask them what they think. And, most of all, you have to listen to them. As a coach, you want them to have a part in a decision that has a direct impact on them and their career.

  “Hot Rod, the one thing we need is more energy and scoring off the bench,” I said. “When I was in Seattle, I had Fred Brown do that. It turned out to be great for him, and great for the team.”

  Hot Rod was not an explosive scorer like Fred Brown, but he began to understand how he could help us.

  “When I go to the bench, I don’t want us just to tread water, to keep the score what it is,” I said. “I want to develop a bench that helps us increase our lead when we substitute. To do that, we have to have someone coming off the bench who is good enough to start.”

  Hot Rod would have preferred to start, but he agreed to become the sixth man. At small forward, I started Mike Sanders, who had played that position in Phoenix with Nance. Sanders wasn’t a big scorer, but he was a very physical defender, the kind of guy who defended you so close it was like he was your shirt. He also blocked out well, hit the floor for loose balls, and if you left Sanders open from fifteen feet he could drop in his jumper.

  On most teams, the power forward is the guy whose speciality is physical defense and rebounding. Think of Charles Oakley, Horace Grant, or even Dennis Rodman. But with this Cavs team, our power forward was more of a scorer—like the conventional small forward. And the small forward played the role of the power forward.

  Furthermore, Hot Rod became so versatile I could play him at all three frontcourt spots—both forwards and center. Yes, the Larry Nance trade took us from a .500 team to a team that won 57 games in 1988-89, but we never could have gotten there unless Hot Rod decided to sacrifice his own ego to come off the bench. Making it even better is that Hot Rod and Nance became very close friends. Both grew up in the rural South. Both had the same unselfish view of the game. Both were family men who didn’t like the NBA party scene.

  By my third season in Cleveland (1988-89), our young team was maturing. We probably had the best young backcourt in the league with Price and Harper, or at least the best that didn’t have Magic Johnson or Michael Jordan. Daugherty was growing into a center who could put 20 points and 10 rebounds next to his name every night. We had Nance, Williams, Sanders, and Craig Ehlo, who came off the bench as a backup guard.

  That season, we had a 57-25 record. Our ballhandl
ing, spacing, and understanding of offense was beautiful. We had four players—Daugherty, Nance, Price, and Harper—who averaged between 17 and 19 points, and all of them shot at least 51 percent from the field. Hot Rod was our sixth man, and he scored 12 points a game. Magic Johnson predicted that the Cavs would become “the team of the 1990s.” That may have been a bit of stretch as long as Magic, Michael, and Larry Bird were still playing, but it was an indication of the kind of respect we were gaining around the league. That season, only Detroit (63-19) won more games than we did.

  We faced the Bulls in the first round of the playoffs, a five-game series. What most fans didn’t realize was that we had a couple of injuries that worried me. Price was bothered by a hamstring, and Nance had something wrong with his ankle. All everyone saw was we had won 57 games, and we beat the Bulls all six times in the regular season. I thought we’d win, but any time you play a team with Jordan, you worry. And this was before Jordan had won his first ring, back when some people were wondering if Jordan would ever be the kind of player who’d lead his team to a title, or if he’d just be a great scorer. I had no doubts: Michael Jordan was both, a great scorer and a champion. It was just a matter of time. But on April 28, 1989, it seemed much closer to our time than Michael’s. We opened that series at the Richfield Coliseum, which had become an enormous home-court advantage for us. Its critics could drone on about it being stuck in the middle of nowhere, but our fans loved it. They packed the Big House on the Prairie, and we had a 37-4 record there, the best home mark in the NBA.