After the game, Pavalon told Alcindor, “Don’t worry. We’re going to get you some help next year.”
Late that night, Milt Gross phoned in a very small paragraph to his copy desk at the New York Post. Slipping in before the paper’s final deadline, its tiny headline read: “Oscar Robertson headed for Milwaukee.”
Hours later, every sports page in America had the story.
Flynn Robinson was a product of the University of Wyoming. Joining the NBA in 1965, he had originally been a member of the Cincinnati Royals but had missed his rookie season because of a heart murmur. His murmur cleared up, and he backed up Adrian Smith and me. At six feet three, Flynn was fast and could shoot. He averaged 8.8 points in fifteen minutes a game in his first year in the league, before he’d been traded to Chicago for Guy Rodgers. Flynn had become a regular with the Bulls and averaged almost sixteen points a game before Chicago traded him to Milwaukee. During the Bucks’ inaugural season, Flynn had averaged 21.8 points a game and led the league in free-throw shooting. “He tore us up all year,” Cousy said of the first of his two newest players. “It’ll be nice to have him on our side.”
Also coming over to the Royals would be twenty-three-year-old Charlie Paulk. Paulk was six feet nine, a former NAIA All-American at Northeastern State College in Oklahoma. Axelson claimed that he was the key to the trade, the strong power forward the team had always lacked. Cousy claimed Paulk could play the pivot, but also admitted he hadn’t seen Paulk play, because Charlie had been serving in the Marine Corps for two years. In case this gave anyone pause, Joe Axelson then repeated that Paulk was a find and assured the press that Paulk’s tour would be over just in time for preseason practice.
Yes, I was traded for a Marine who hadn’t played ball in two years.
Yes, Bob Cousy was trusting Joe Axelson completely on basketball matters.
And no, Joe didn’t know a basketball from a pumpkin.
I’d come to Cincinnati when I was seventeen years old. I’d spent my entire adult life here, met and married my wife in Cincinnati. My children were born and raised here. It was a lot to leave behind. But I was going anyway.
The following season, Bob Cousy would get the running Royals he started. Amid dwindling crowds, the Royals started losing and kept it up all year. Rookie playmaker and star Nate “Tiny” Archibald would score forty-seven points in an early game in which the Royals would blast the Hawks. That would turn out to be the team’s high point. The Royals would then begin losing. As crowds dwindled, Flynn Robinson barely made it off the bench. Charlie Paulk played a season or so for the Royals and was a modest contributor, at best. By March, the Royals were playing some home games in Kansas City. Charlie Mancuso—who managed the Omaha Civic Center—would be described by Cincy papers as “a sort of consultant for the Royals.” Cincinnati would even play a home game in Las Cruces, New Mexico.
By the spring of 1971, the club’s owner, Max Jacobs, had officially relocated the team’s base of operations to Buffalo, going so far as to take the books with him. The Royals were playing some home games in Kansas City. The Royals had officially crashed, landing at the bottom of the league, finishing 33–49 with no playoff berth, and attendance at the Cincinnati Gardens fell into the toilet.
On March 30, 1971, the Royals traded Flynn Robinson for the number thirty-one pick in the draft. (“He didn’t fit in,” said Axelson.) On October 20, 1972, after a conditional trade to Seattle fell apart, forward Charlie Paulk was placed on waivers by the New York Knicks, ending his brief NBA career. The Royals finished the year 30–52 and missed the playoffs for the fifth straight season.
Before the start of the next season, what had come to be obvious was finally made official. The Royals were sold to a group of ten Kansas City businessmen—one of whom was Joe Axelson—for five million dollars.
The team played their last game in Cincinnati before 2,416 fans on March 12, 1972.
That summer, the Cincinnati Royals became the Kansas City-Omaha Kings. Kansas City’s arena seated more than fifteen thousand people, and the Jacobs family controlled all the concessions there. Years later, Joe Axelson told reporters that before the 1969 season had even started, the team had commissioned a study on the matter. That explained everything. I was put through a year of hell because someone wanted to move a few more hot dogs.
Finally, on November 22, 1973, when the Kings had lost the fourteenth of twenty home games, Bob Cousy broke down and cried in the locker room as he announced his retirement. Later he admitted to a team executive that he was sorry he did things the way he did. He’d lost all control of the team. The Kings would remain in Kansas City until 1985, when crowd apathy and ownership problems spurred a move to the franchise’s current home, Sacramento, California.
In April 1970, while my trade was being negotiated, Maurice Stokes struggled with pneumonia. His heart weakened from illness, he passed away. He was thirty-six. Shortly before his death, he dictated the following:
There are aspects of life that everyone seems to take for granted. When the sun peeks over the horizon, it is the signal for the beginning of a new day. The beauty that the sun creates is something that words cannot describe. To me, one of the great satisfactions of living in the country is that you can get the real beauty of the sun, without the obstruction of the smoke.
Being carried by my teammates, 1958.
©AP/Wide World Photos
Playing through an injury at the height of my career in Cincinnati.
Jerry West of the Lakers and I in 1961.
©AP/Wide World Photos
Five of basketballs greatest stars in one corner: Wilt Chamberlain, me, Lew Alcindor, Jerry West, and Elgin Baylor.
©AP/Wide World Photos
Lew Alcindor and I teaming up to get the basket against With Chamberlain and Jerry West.
Turning the corner past the long legs of Lew Alcindor, versus Clem Haskins, 1971.
©AP/Wide World Photos
In action against the Knicks, 1973.
©AP/Wide World Photos
Being honored at my retirement celebration with my family looking on.
From left, Yvonne, Mrs. Jackie Robinson, and me.
At the dedication of the statue of me in Cincinnati, endowed by J. W. Brown.
Courtesy of Jon Hughes/photopresse. © Jon Hughes
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Milwaukee, Lew Alcindor, and the Championship
1970–1971
PROFESSIONAL BASKETBALL had officially entered the arms race. During the second half of the 1960s, as the NBA was expanding from nine to seventeen teams—and NBA owners received a large entry fee every time a new franchise joined the league—the ABA was fighting an uphill battle to establish itself as a viable rival. Cities weren’t willing or able to support two pro basketball teams, so the leagues raced and struggled for footholds in the most desirable markets. Whenever a talented player did become available, bidding wars ensued. To the delight of players and the chagrin of owners, salaries rose to unprecedented levels.
By the end of the decade, guys were switching leagues without a second thought; underclassmen regularly abandoned the college circuit. Critics started complaining that the overall quality of play was diluted because there weren’t enough good players to fill up two leagues’ worth of rosters. The NBA’s television ratings were down. The ABA couldn’t even secure a national deal. Finally, merger talks began. During one negotiation, the reserve clause was raised. New York Knicks owner Ned Irish announced he would never give up the reserve clause. Ned had huge amounts of clout with the league—some said that the commissioner’s office consulted him before making any major decisions. The moment he stormed out, negotiations were over.
When Joe Axelson and the Royals tried to trade me without so much as having read my contract, it reinforced everything I believed about owner arrogance, the need for players’ rights, and the importance of getting rid of Ned Irish’s beloved reserve clause. Since the Royals team I was on wasn’t going to the playoffs and my professi
onal basketball life in Cincinnati was coming to an end, I had time to concentrate on other issues. While the public venom between Cincinnati’s front office and myself had settled into a cold war, I was working with Larry Fleisher, John Havlicek, Paul Silas, and Dave DeBusschere on a plan.
On April 16, 1970—four days before I was traded to the Milwaukee Bucks—the National Basketball Players Association and its president filed a class-action suit in New York District Court. We filed on behalf of fourteen players. As union president, my name headed the list.
In what became forever known as the Oscar Robertson suit, we claimed that any proposed merger between the National and American Basketball Associations would restrict player mobility and make pro basketball a monopoly. Our suit therefore claimed that any proposed merger constituted a violation of the Sherman Antitrust Act.
We called for the abolition of the player draft and the option clause that bound players to teams. From the lawsuit: “There can be no merger until issues such as free agency and ‘freedom of movement’ are settled.”
At the time, the suit did not receive much attention. The playoffs were in full gear, and New York was abuzz with the Knicks, who were methodically grinding down the many talents of seven-two rookie Lew Alcindor and his Milwaukee Bucks.
We had bumped into one another at a Kutsher’s summer benefit game a couple of years earlier. At that point, Lew was a college superstar and in the midst of his celebrated run of three straight national championships. So there would be no stain on his senior year of eligibility, he paid his way to Kutsher’s like everybody else, and we took the court on the same team. “Once Oscar drove down the middle,” Lew remembered in an interview, “I came in behind him. He got the ball and drove, and I cut the wrong way. Man, he yelled at me. He said, ‘Listen, you’ve got to do it this way.’”
Alcindor continued. “What’d I do? I listened, man, that’s what I did. When Oscar Robertson talks, you listen. And it helped me. The next time he drove, I cut his way. I didn’t think I was open at all—and then the ball was in my hand, like magic. I said to myself, ‘Well, well. You just met Oscar Robertson, and already he’s taught you something.’”
The day after the Knicks eliminated the Bucks, Lew was getting ready to board a plane to Los Angeles. He glanced at a newspaper and saw a headline announcing that I’d been traded to Milwaukee.
In 1970, Wes Pavalon’s life was crumbling around him. His American Stock Exchange ticker symbol RRR was in the middle of a plummet from a price of fifty dollars a share down to one dollar, marking one of the biggest disasters in recent ASE memory. The empire was in shambles. And, as if this wasn’t bad enough, his marriage was on the rocks. “The Bucks are my release,” he liked to tell reporters. “They are my dreams come true. I’m not the Establishment guy in this town, and I don’t go to opera and culture things like that. But I have given this city a performing art. I have given them the ultimate in basketball. Yes, a performing art.”
Herman Cowan helped find me a home on Kenboern Drive, a cul-de-sac on the northeastern side of Glendale. It was a brick multi-level home, with cathedral ceilings and a fountain in the front foyer. When news came that I had purchased a home on Kenboern and was moving in, the neighborhood held a meeting and passed around a petition of complaint, arguing that I would adversely affect the property values.
Eventually, this petition reached George and Jane Preister, the family who would become my neighbors. George was an executive at the Falk Steel Company; Jane, a schoolteacher. Rather than sign the petition, Jane took a cherry pie over to Yvonne and welcomed her to Milwaukee. I was unpacking crates when I heard the doorbell ring. I wandered in to see what was going on, casually said hello, then left Yvonne and Jane to talk. Maybe a week later, I was mowing the lawn, and George Preister came over. We exchanged hellos. George and I would become dear friends and still are today.
It was an uncertain time all around; the majority of the neighborhood was worried about having me move in. I was unaware of this situation until George Preister and I had become very good friends. Then he told me the true story about the neighborhood.
Lew Alcindor was just a young colt at the time, seven two and 235 pounds, all of twenty-three years old, showcasing an Afro and mutton-chop sideburns, and throwing those beautiful, graceful skyhooks in from well above the rim. Lew could score, rebound, pass, play defense, and block shots—pretty much combining the individual talents in which Bill Russell and Wilt Chamberlain had specialized. His offensive repertoire was unstoppable, to the point that many people felt that he had surpassed Wilt (who admittedly was getting on in years) and become the best basketball player on the planet. By contrast, I was going to turn thirty-two in November.
The questions were many. Could Oscar Robertson transform the Bucks into a championship team? The answer was yes. How much gas did I have left in my tank? Between Lew’s contract ($1.4 million spread over five years, roughly $280,000 a year) and mine, we accounted for a half a million dollars a year in salaries—far more than the combined salaries of the other three players in the starting lineup. Would player resentment be a problem? And as the Bucks played at the Milwaukee Civic Center—an arena known as the Mecca, but which had limited seating (10,746)—did such huge player salaries create money-flow problems? Could Coach Larry Costello manage to keep the team together? Did I want to coach the team? Were there any black coaches at all?
Bucks management did their best to address these issues at an introductory reception and press conference for me, held at the Pfister Hotel. Team owner Wes Pavalon unveiled my new forest green jersey. Jon McGlocklin already had my old number, fourteen, so Wesley unveiled what he called the appropriate number for me: one.
“I don’t think Oscar realizes exactly how good Lew is,” Wes told reporters. “And I don’t think Lew realizes how good Oscar is. Until they play together, they won’t be able to realize how great this thing can be.”
Added general manager Ray Patterson: “I have to laugh when somebody says Oscar will have trouble working with Lew because he’s used to having the ball all the time. Who would you rather have the ball all the time? The potential with these two guys together? It just scares you.”
I was entering a new phase of my life. I’d played basketball in Cincinnati for the past fourteen years. Other than spending five or ten minutes on the same floor at all-star games, passing to Bill Russell and/or Wilt, I’d never played alongside a great center. Now, after four years of regular-season games that had meant absolutely nothing, I was being brought in for the specific purpose of leading the Bucks to a championship. I was ready for the challenge.
Eventually, I was introduced to the press in Milwaukee.
When they asked me about how I was expecting to adjust to Alcindor, I replied, “It won’t be an adjustment; it’ll be a pleasure.”
Was money the biggest factor in your decision to go to the Bucks? “No,” I said. “Lew is here, and it’s a chance to play with a championship team. I think I can fit in well here. It’s true there are a lot of kids on Milwaukee, but they got some valuable experience in the playoffs against a team like the New York Knicks. I know a little about that. It’s like a fistfight. You learn your way around.”
What about the groin injury that kept you out of twelve games? What about your feud with Bob Cousy? “Water over the dam,” I said. “I’m not connected with the Royals anymore. I don’t want to rehash it. There has to be a wrench, though—I lived and played there for so long. But I figure home is where the heart is.”
The Bucks were coached by a workaholic. During twelve seasons as an NBA guard, Larry Costello had gained a reputation for toughness and thoroughness, and now that reputation had carried over into his coaching. Ever since 1968, when Larry had retired from the game and become the Milwaukee franchise’s first-ever coach, players around the league had joked about his intense practices, with guys on other teams always telling us how happy they were not to have to do them. Larry was a no-nonsense coach on the sidelines, and during
every game and practice, he had this pad at his side. Larry constantly sketched on that damn pad, coming up with this new tactic, that new play.
Lew Alcindor and I were of different generations. Where I had a traditional family life, a wife and three daughters, Lew lived in a luxury apartment complex called Juneau Village and had just a couple of years in the league. Both of us had key things in common, however. We both had reserved personalities, and, I think, we each felt isolated from the mainstream, middle-class world. We weren’t close at first and did not spend time talking, on or off the court. But along with Larry Costello, we shared certain traits. What I think mattered the most was that we agreed that being as efficient as possible cut down our chances for errors. We had professional attitudes and approaches to the game. No nonsense.
“Each regards his game as a business, a complex occupation to be attacked with the precision and coolness with which an accountant surveys a ledger,” wrote a Sports Illustrated reporter. “Both deal in basketball’s essentials only, avoiding wasted motion and creating spectacle only by the uncluttered purity of their styles.” During the season, we were dedicated wholly to basketball and wanted nothing more than to get the job done. This made it easier for everyone. You step on the court, and you know what is demanded of you.
I think this attitude was present from the first day of training camp and set the tone for the course of the season. The Bucks were one of the first teams with a full-time assistant coach who had only minor scouting responsibilities. This allowed Larry to run the most precisely mapped-out practices in the league; they were great workouts, with predetermined time allotments for specific drills.
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