We Will Rise

by Steve Beaven

  The first four games of the season would be a gauntlet. After opening with Western Kentucky at home, UE flew to Chicago to play DePaul, returned to Roberts Stadium to face Pittsburgh, and headed to Terre Haute for Indiana State. The two road games were especially daunting. DePaul had been mediocre the previous season. But with the bruising center Dave Corzine (nickname: Lumber), the Blue Demons were poised for a Top 5 finish.

  Indiana State, meanwhile, was still trying to win over skeptics who argued that their weak schedule (Tulsa, Drake, etc.) left them untested against the best teams. What was undeniable, however, was the emergence of Larry Bird. A taciturn kid with bad skin and a mop of untamed blond hair, Bird had grown up in poverty in French Lick, Indiana. After an exceptional high school career, he accepted a scholarship from Bob Knight, pleasing everyone in his hometown but himself. Committing to Indiana was a terrible mistake and Bird realized it immediately. The IU campus was huge and grand, and he couldn’t figure out which building was which. Some of his classes had more than one hundred students. He was scared to ask questions. He didn’t like Knight’s authoritarian style. He didn’t like his new teammates, who treated him like he didn’t belong. He also felt intensely self-conscious about money: his roommate had plenty and Bird had little more than the clothes he wore. Larry begged his mom to come pick him up, but she refused. Finally, after less than a month, Bird gathered his meager belongings, left town without telling Knight, and hitchhiked home. He took a job with the French Lick street department, mowing grass and fixing roads for $150 a week. He was perfectly content, back home with a steady paycheck. But when the college coaches came calling again, Larry enrolled at Indiana State and moved to Terre Haute. He found its campus much more to his liking and carried the Sycamores to a 25–3 record in 1977, averaging thirty-three points a game. UE would face Indiana State on December 10.

  But before Watson and his coaches turned their attention to Bird, they had to choose five starters for the opener against Western Kentucky. Duff—of course—would join three teammates who’d started on Arad McCutchan’s final team: John Ed Washington, Steve Miller, and Bryan Taylor.

  Taylor was the quintessential UE basketball player. A small-town Indiana kid, he’d been a star in the state high school basketball tournament and spurned a national powerhouse to play for Evansville. Taylor was TV-star handsome, like a genial street cop in a crime drama, 6'5", with thick dark hair and a matching mustache. He grew up in Tell City, a river town about an hour east of Evansville. He’d originally turned down an offer to play for McCutchan and accepted a scholarship to Louisville, which had played in the Final Four in 1975. But Jennifer Kuster—the prettiest cheerleader in Tell City, Bryan’s high school sweetheart, the girl he planned to marry—had decided to study nursing at the University of Evansville. Almost as soon as classes started in the fall of 1975, Taylor escaped Louisville every chance he got, making the two-hour drive to meet Kuster in Evansville. He realized after a few weeks that he’d made a mistake. Like Jerry Sloan before him, Taylor called McCutchan to ask whether he still had a scholarship available. Then he cleared out of his dorm room and moved to Evansville. He’d finished the ’77 season averaging thirteen points and impressed Watson with his quiet leadership.

  Miller was 6'8" and slender, a junior center. He was Taylor’s best friend and former roommate. Like Taylor, Miller had a steady girlfriend from high school. When he married Vicky Hendrix in August 1977, Bobby and Deidra Watson were among the guests. While the rest of the team lived together in a university-owned apartment building across from campus, Vicky and Steve lived in married student housing.

  With four starters set, the only mystery that remained was who’d play point guard.

  Tony Winburn was a whippet-quick senior listed at 5'8" who bragged that he played like he was 6'2". Winburn transferred to Evansville as a sophomore, but rarely played in his first season with the Aces. He didn’t even travel with the team for two of UE’s most important games, against Providence and Ohio State. He’d wanted to quit. But he also wanted a degree. Tony worked for a hometown bank every summer in Jeffersonville, across the Ohio River from Louisville, and planned on a career in finance. So he stayed at UE and played twenty-six games as a junior. His top competition for the starting point guard spot his senior year was Mark Siegel. But Mark had missed so much time in the first weeks of practice and still hadn’t fully recovered from colon surgery. Winburn would start against Western Kentucky. But he still had to prove himself.

  Greg Smith, another point guard, knew he wouldn’t get much playing time. But he didn’t mind. He felt grateful each day when he pulled the purple practice jersey over his head, slipped on the purple shorts, laced up his shoes, and stepped onto the court at Carson Center. Greg was a late addition to the team, a 6'1" guard from West Frankfort, Illinois. Watson hadn’t scouted him. But Bob Brown, Mike Duff’s old coach, knew Greg’s game and his family. Brown grew up in West Frankfort and had known Art and Carolyn Smith for years. Art owned a radio station—WFRX—that had broadcast Bob’s games when Brown was a high school hotshot. Now Brown’s mother lived near Art and Carolyn and their three kids, and sometimes Greg’s younger sister babysat for Bob’s children. So when Bob Brown called to recommend Greg, Watson invited the young man to try out. Greg hit the weight room that fall, added some muscle to his 165-pound frame, and impressed the coaching staff with his work ethic and enthusiasm. He earned a roster spot and a scholarship after Mark Siegel got sick. Greg was elated, so pleased to make his parents happy.

  “I’ve gone on a full ride lately,” he wrote a friend that fall. “My parents were tremendously happy. My father seems to be really proud. It’s a good feeling inside.”

  The older fellow with the heavy black glasses took his seat at Roberts Stadium in section E, row 5, seat 6. Legs crossed, he watched impassively in a suit and tie as the crowd around him welcomed Bobby Watson for his Evansville debut, November 30, UE against Western Kentucky. The seating arrangement—with Arad McCutchan in the southwest corner of the stadium and Watson on the bench—drew little attention from the fans that night. But it represented a tectonic shift, from one generation to the next, for Evansville and the university. In a town resistant to change and outsiders, the sixty-five-year-old homegrown coach with five national championships had stepped away to make room for an ambitious newcomer three decades younger. No longer was UE a Division II behemoth, routing small schools and big basketball factories the way it had in McCutchan’s prime. The certainties of the past three decades had changed. Nothing made all of this clearer than McCutchan’s presence in section E.

  He still taught math and a basketball fundamentals class and coached the golf team. He was supportive of Watson and his staff and looked forward to seeing the players, the ones he’d coached as well as the freshmen the new coach had recruited. But McCutchan kept his distance. He hadn’t visited practice or come to the scrimmages. He didn’t make appearances with Watson or offer his thoughts on the players he’d recruited before he retired. Mac didn’t want anyone laboring in his long shadow.

  “It’s something I thought about and planned for,” McCutchan said. “I’m still very interested in the players and the school, but I want to stay in the background, out of the picture. That’s the way it should be. That’s where I belong.”

  McCutchan didn’t regret his decision to retire. But he admitted that it felt odd, watching the game amid UE fans instead of from the bench. He caught himself thinking about strategy, then remembered that was no longer his job. Nor did he have to endure the road trips, practices, and questions from reporters who wanted to know why, exactly, the Purple Aces had lost. When the game ended, after Western Kentucky had spoiled Watson’s big moment with an 82–72 victory, McCutchan was happy to leave Roberts Stadium with no regrets.

  “It hurts to lose,” he said. “But not nearly as much as it would have hurt last year.”

  The first few weeks of the season seesawed back and forth, from a promising stretch of play one night to a ghas
tly whipping the next. After losing to Western Kentucky, UE traveled to Chicago, where the Aces were dismantled by Dave Corzine and the Blue Demons. No surprise there. But three days later, Bryan Taylor and Steve Miller carried Evansville to a 90–83 win over Pittsburgh at Roberts Stadium. It was UE’s first victory in Division I, and it was particularly meaningful for Watson. Pitt was his hometown team, and he’d known Panthers coach Tim Grgurich since they’d played against each other as high school kids.

  “I’ve been involved in a lot of wins,” Watson said afterward, uncharacteristically gleeful in the locker room, “but few sweeter than that one.”

  The victory was a hopeful sign. Maybe Division I wouldn’t be so difficult after all. Maybe this brutal stretch to open the season wouldn’t leave the Aces broken and defeated. A few days later, when the UE bus pulled onto Highway 41 for the two-hour trip north to Terre Haute to face Bird and the Sycamores, Watson’s players felt quite pleased with themselves.

  Before heading to Indiana State, Watson wrote his players an impassioned letter, typed, double-spaced, and barely more than a single page. He wrote about Einstein, Edison, and Booker T. Washington, great men who were underestimated before taking their rightful places in history. He wrote about 150 Australian and American soldiers who attacked a thousand North Vietnamese troops and prevailed. He wrote about prisoners of war who survived unspeakable torture and deprivation for years but ultimately walked away. All of these men were underdogs, Watson wrote, and they all overcame great odds. The Purple Aces could make their own history against Indiana State.

  With all of us doing our job, we can commit ourselves to beating the odds. If you feel what I feel, we too can UPSET Indiana State University. This will be no easy task, but there again, nothing good comes easily. However, you have worked HARDER to prepare and your desire to succeed is above and beyond any team I have ever been associated with.

  The letter was a rousing call to arms, and typical of Watson’s motivational repertoire. He was realistic about UE’s chances in Terre Haute. But he meant every word he wrote.

  On the day of the game, Mark Siegel’s dad made the eighty-mile drive to Terre Haute. Ed Siegel took a seat along the baseline at the Hulman Center, about six rows from the floor, because he watched every game like a coach, scouting each team as if it was next on the Pike High School schedule. Ed felt good about Mark’s progress in the first three games.

  UE’s point guard play had been awful. Watson wanted his point guards to put teammates in the best position to score, limit turnovers, and play solid defense. Scoring was not their top priority. Still, Tony Winburn was clearly overmatched. He lost the starting job after going scoreless on a total of two shots against Western Kentucky and DePaul. Freshman Kraig Heckendorn started and played well against Pitt, hitting two crucial free throws down the stretch. But to Ed, Mark looked more comfortable and confident with each game. He had fully recovered from his intestinal illness, regained the weight he’d lost, and scored four points against Pitt. It appeared that he and Heckendorn would split time at point guard for the foreseeable future. Ed had also had an intriguing conversation with a coach from Miami University in Ohio, which had recruited Mark in high school. The Miami coach was scouting a kid at a Pike game and told Ed that if Mark wasn’t starting in Evansville, he could always transfer. Ed didn’t think that was necessary. But it was a nice reminder of Mark’s potential.

  Kay and John Barrow, Mike Duff’s parents, sat so high up at the Hulman Center that Kay felt like she could barely see the court. The rows were so narrow and her legs were so long that squeezing into her seat was a tight fit. But Kay wouldn’t miss a chance to watch Mike go head-to-head with Larry Bird. They could have been teammates, two of the best players in the country. Imagine that. The UE scouting report on Indiana State provided a harsh reminder of what exactly Mike could expect of Bird: “Fine passer as well as shooter with 25-foot range; can put ball on the floor to get shot; will penetrate and hit open man; good rebounder. Can and will throw three-quarter-court pass to hit open man off rebound.” But Mike wouldn’t be alone in defending Bird. Watson planned to play Bryan Taylor and John Ed Washington on him as well, to keep him from getting too comfortable. UE’s strategy was simple: if Bird scores thirty, shut down his teammates and hope for the best.

  For Aces fans, the Indiana State arena felt like the white-hot center of college basketball. The Sycamores were 5–0 and ranked eighth in the country. The largest crowd of Indiana State’s season to that point—9,653—had squeezed into the gym. The hostile energy, a top-ranked rival, the best player in the country—this is why the University of Evansville moved up to play in Division I. The players felt it and so did Watson.

  The Aces were clearly rattled, from the moment the two teams walked onto the floor to the sound of the final buzzer. No matter how much they had practiced. No matter how good they felt about that victory over Pitt. None of it mattered.

  Indiana State center DeCarsta Webster was three inches taller than Steve Miller and easily controlled the opening tip. The Aces barely had time to set their defense before Indiana State threw two quick passes, getting the ball into Bird’s hands for an easy drive to the basket. Just like that, after nine seconds, the Sycamores led 2–0. It was Indiana State’s smallest lead of the night. The Sycamores played like the Harlem Globetrotters. The Aces, meanwhile, played like the Washington Generals. In the first few minutes, John Ed Washington dribbled the ball out of bounds. Mike Duff was whistled for a foul. Steve Miller traveled and Bryan Taylor threw the ball away. Indiana State moved effortlessly on offense, whipping the ball around the perimeter and then to the baseline: Jimmy Smith to Harry Morgan and back to Smith, and then to Bird for another easy layup.

  Indiana State led 4–0 and then 6–0 and then 8–0.

  Bird seemed to be in the middle of every play. When Duff drove on Bird, Mike was called for charging. When Leroy Staley took a pass from Bird, he knocked down a jumper from fifteen feet. When Bird grabbed a Heckendorn miss, he passed the ball but got it back on the other end for a sweet baby hook. Now it was 10–0 and Bobby Watson quickly called time-out.

  The respite didn’t stop the free fall. It did, however, give Mike and his teammates a moment to consider the facts: Yes, the first few minutes were humiliating. Yes, Bird was wily and brilliant. But all was not lost. More than thirty-seven minutes remained, plenty of time to save face. And it certainly couldn’t get any uglier. So the Aces returned to the court with a new resolve, led by an emboldened Mike Duff.

  His first basket came on a fifteen-foot jumper with 16:36 to play. That’s when he started feeling comfortable, the muscle memory kicking in. A few minutes later, he dropped one from the baseline. He’d found a rhythm. Back on the baseline, he sank his third basket from eighteen feet. Only Bird could interrupt this reverie, and that’s what he did, over and over and over, all night. A layup. An eighteen-foot jumper. Another layin. A dunk. Two free throws. Bird had twenty at halftime, and Evansville trailed by twenty-one.

  The opening minutes of the second half were just as brutal as the opening minutes of the first. Bird started with a twenty-foot jumper, a dunk, a layup, and another dunk. Eight points in a row, a scoring binge to finish off the Aces and another middle finger to anyone who ever doubted him. Final score: Indiana State 102, Evansville 76.

  In a somber locker room afterward, Watson searched for a silver lining.

  Mike scored twenty-three, with eight rebounds, and Watson offered an unusually generous assessment of his potential. “By the time he’s a junior,” Watson told reporters, “Duff will be as good as Bird.”

  It sounded like wishful thinking. Bird finished with thirty-five that night, and demonstrated what the rest of the country would soon see for itself: a mean streak born of humiliating poverty, the same seething anger that drove Jerry Sloan, the same grit and resilience that drove Lieutenant Robert Watson in Vietnam. This was the attitude Watson wanted to see in the Aces.

  “All I can say,” he told reporters, “is that
two years from now, we’ll have the courage to knock people around.”

  The players gathered for practice at Carson Center on a pale gray Monday afternoon, less than forty-eight hours after the debacle in Terre Haute. Watson was in a sour mood. The bus trip home after the Indiana State game had been solemn and quiet, a promising sign after a twenty-six-point loss. Now he hoped to see a renewed sense of passion and purpose. The following afternoon—December 13—UE would fly to Nashville for a game against Middle Tennessee State, and Watson wanted his boys in the right frame of mind.

  But once practice started, it was obvious they weren’t and Watson did little to hide his irritation. Early on, he tested his team’s commitment to transition defense. He split the Aces into two squads and ran them—hard—from one end of the gym to the other. One squad pushed the ball up the court while the other, backpedaling, tried to stop them. Then Watson blew his whistle. The squad with the ball dropped it beneath the basket, and the other team picked it up. It was a simple drill, but it required fresh legs and maniacal commitment to defense. It was like a pop quiz with only one question: How bad do you want to play Division I basketball?

  Watson stood off to the side, evaluating each kid. He didn’t like what he saw: sloppy fast breaks, no hustle, one mistake after another.

  Finally, after ten minutes, he blew the whistle one last time and called an early end to a dismal practice.

  “Go take a shower,” he said. “I don’t even want to see you. We’re wasting time here. Yours and mine.”

  Thus ended Bobby Watson’s final practice.

  SEVEN

  Air Indiana Flight 216

  THE PURPLE ACES ARRIVED at Dress Regional Airport on December 13, a foggy, drizzly afternoon, with the temperature hovering near fifty degrees. Recent rains had left the hilly and remote landscape surrounding the airport a muddy mess, and bad weather in Indianapolis had delayed UE’s flight, leaving the team to wait in the lounge at Tri-State Aero, a charter company at Evansville’s shoebox of an airport. The Aces had been scheduled for a 4:00 p.m. flight to Nashville, followed by a forty-minute bus ride to Murfreesboro. Now it was approaching 7:00 p.m., and UE had already called the Middle Tennessee athletic department twice to explain the delay.