The Big O

by Oscar P Robertson

  Anyone could see that we were loaded that season. Between Lew and me, the team had two giant pillars on the same court, pairing skills and abilities that, in contrast to many superstar pairings, actually complimented one another. I’d never played with a dominant center, and Lew now had an outside threat to take pressure off him, make defenses play him more honestly, and make sure he was both fed and protected down low. Just the two of us would have been too tough for almost anyone in the league. But we also had Bob Dandridge, the athletic six-foot-seven forward who had a sweet jumper, ran the court all day, and showed all the skills of a future all-star. (Bob was coming off a rookie season where he’d averaged thirteen points and 7.7 rebounds. He’d go on to play in four all-star games.) Greg Smith, our other starting forward, had been around some and was a tenacious hustler. I knew if I set him up well enough he could provide some scoring for us. In the backcourt, Jon McGlocklin had been an all-star for the Bucks before Alcindor’s arrival, and his rainbow jumpers were worth a solid seventeen or so points a game. On paper, it was the makings of an unstoppable offense—for the first time in fourteen years, there was no need for me to score twenty or thirty points a night.

  On September 17, a few weeks before everyone left for training camp in Honolulu, Hawaii, we also made a trade with Seattle to get an athletic young guard named Lucius Allen, who had won NCAA championships with Lew at UCLA. We were also graced with height and rebounds and defense off the bench in Dick Cunningham, and, just as importantly, a friendly face in the form of Bob Boozer, who, in the sunset of his career, had been bouncing around the league. We also traded for McCoy McLemore.

  Immediately, our defensive potential became apparent. Bob Dandridge, Greg Smith, and I were all about the same height. We were equally athletic, and we could switch any picks set on the perimeter without giving the offense any advantages. Lew had spent a good part of his rookie season adjusting to the pro game, but now he was prepared and knew what to expect. He was such a tremendous offensive player, so fluid and quick and long, that unless you did something to disrupt his rhythm, he could not be stopped. Our other offensive players used to forget what they were supposed to be doing sometimes and just stand around and watch him.

  For the most part, I concerned myself with learning the plays and finding my own role. My philosophy had always been to make the weakest link stronger, and I noticed that if Greg didn’t get enough touches or have someone setting him up, he disappeared from the offensive end. At the same time, when Greg and Bob got out on the fast break and provided us with scoring from the wings, you had to play them honest. The by-product was that it became harder to double-down on Lew. It also became impossible to run at me with a second defender—for the first time in my career, defenses would have to try to stop me one-on-one. If our offense hit on all cylinders, the sky was the limit.

  “We’re going to win it all,” I told the guys. Over and over during practices, I said it.

  “How do you know?” Bob Dandridge would ask.

  “We just will. Watch.”

  Lew and I were named co-captains before the exhibition season began. Preseason games have specific purposes in the NBA; they provide time to work out the kinks and use your offense and defensive sets against live action, and they also give the guys at the end of the bench a chance to keep or lose their jobs. Not much stock goes into winning or losing these games. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but be a little encouraged when we beat Los Angeles and San Diego on consecutive nights and won our first five or six games by easy margins. Even playing limited minutes, all five of our starters were scoring in double figures.

  Still, before our next game, Larry took me aside.

  “I want you to take the ball to Lew more.”

  “What about the other guys? They’re doing a great job. We’ve got balanced scoring and—”

  “Never mind them. Get the ball to Lew more. I don’t care about the others. Get it to Lew.” This disturbed me. The other guys didn’t like it. It didn’t matter to me about the scoring, but we needed to develop a team concept and compete together. I told Larry to let me run things on the court. And that was it.

  A few nights later, we played an exhibition game in Denver. Bobby Dandridge was having real problems with Costello’s constant histrionics and browbeating. Wayne Embry had recently been hired as the Bucks community relations director. He and Larry called me for a meeting. They asked if I could step in and help control the team. I could see tension was simmering between the guys and Larry, and there was the possibility for serious trouble. At the same time, I was the president of the Players Association. There were all kinds of ways that getting involved with the problems between another player and the front office could adversely affect me. “Under no circumstances will I do that,” I said. “You’re coaching and directing this team, Larry. I play for you. You coach and direct this team. I’m one of the team.”

  I realized, though, that something had to be done. I learned the offense like the back of my hand and became comfortable with my teammates. Basketball is basketball. You play the right way, and good things will happen. We ended up winning all ten of our exhibition games. Lew averaged twenty-five points a game, which was what Larry wanted. He knew we had to ride our young colt’s back. At the same time, Lew was just one of the four players in our starting lineup who averaged at least sixteen points throughout the preseason. We had a balanced, involved, and engaged starting lineup. The grumblings ceased for a while.

  I also found myself taking care of other problems. For example, parking at the Milwaukee arena. There was a lot right next to the arena, but it was reserved for management and their friends. At a certain point, I wondered, why shouldn’t the players park there? I went across the street to a parking lot. Listen, I said, we’d like you to save us fourteen or fifteen spots for the players; we’ll take care of the cost. The guy was very nice about it. He was happy to do it. I never understood why Bucks management couldn’t figure out how to do that. More importantly, it gave me some small indication of the way organizations ran things and a clue as to what they thought of players.

  Before the 1970–1971 season, the NBA had expanded yet again, with new franchises in Buffalo, Cleveland, and Portland, bringing the total number of teams to nineteen—enough that the divisions had to be split and reorganized. Where five years ago there had been nine NBA teams, 108 players, and 360 games, now there were seventeen teams, 204 players, and 697 games. Some journalists printed their worries that the franchises had been awarded only to keep ABA teams out of those cities. Others wondered about how the quality of play would be diluted.

  We supported their argument by dropping three of our first seven games, which nearly sent Coach Costello off a cliff. He’d scream himself exhausted on the sidelines and then stare at the floor after games, as if wishing the boards would open up and swallow him. He didn’t have to worry too long, though. Soon enough Lew was scoring easily and in the flow of the offense. Dandridge started getting out on the break and running like hell out on the wing. Then, on the heels of that little winning streak, we returned to my hometown of Cincinnati.

  The crowd at the Cincinnati Gardens that night was 9,634, more than double the Royals’ average that season. When my name was introduced during the starting lineups, there was a roar. Everyone in the arena rose, and the sound got louder; it extended and welled. For more than a minute I stood there. The fans kept cheering. I swallowed my feelings, raised my hand. They cheered louder. It seemed they would never stop.

  On November 11, I entered Boston Garden for the first time with my new team. Bill Russell had retired from coaching by now, and Tommy Heinsohn had taken over on their bench. With Hondo Havlicek still out there, along with Dave Cowens, Jo Jo White, and a new round of dead-eye shooters, the Celtics were still loaded. The game was highly anticipated and broadcast on national television. In front of yet another record Celtics crowd, I played a complete game, scoring twenty-six points in forty-two minutes. As I led the Bucks to a 123–113 victory, we
showed just how dangerous a team we could be.

  “Oscar’s in charge,” Hondo said afterwards. “He stands out there with the ball and waits until Lew Alcindor and the corner men make their cuts, and then he hits the open man. The Bucks were tough enough to defend before Robertson got there. But now they’re just about impossible.”

  Added our coach, “Oscar made the shots. He made the passes. He got the rebounds. He just did a hell of a job.”

  Our winning streak kept growing. Ten games, then twelve. During the run I not only set the pace offensively but also performed defensively with a fierceness that many critics felt was lacking during my time in Cincinnati. With Lew throwing in those hooks and me clamping down on the league’s top guards, our streak reached sixteen games, and our 20–3 start was by far the NBA’s best record. Next on the docket: the Bucks’ kryptonite, the New York Knicks.

  Consensus was that during the Knicks fabled 1970 championship run, New York had physically overwhelmed and overpowered the Bucks—especially Willis Reed. Lew had been born and raised in Brooklyn and had grown up a Knicks fan, so word was the loss was especially galling. “I wouldn’t say it shook me up to lose to them last season,” Lew said. “But I didn’t like it one bit either. I averaged thirty-five a game, so Willis couldn’t have shoved me around too much out there. I think the Knicks get higher up to play against us than anyone else, but the truth is they should have beaten us. They had the better team. This year is another story.”

  On November 27, inside the sold-out Mecca, New York forwards Dave DeBusschere, Bill Bradley, and Dave Stallworth badly outplayed Bob Dandridge and Greg Smith. The Knicks bench outscored ours 24–0. Still, we were up eight and had the game won, until we fell apart in the last five minutes.

  After we lost to the Knicks, Lew complained to me about getting roughed up. I answered right back. “Lew, if you were not great, they wouldn’t touch you.” A man has to be physical out there, or else he’ll be run out of the league. Basketball is concentration. It’s a game where you never let up regardless of how bad you were beating somebody. You bury them so next time they would not forget. And it is a contact sport—a well-placed elbow can really help. I also told him he had to learn to pass quicker out of the pivot. He was getting double-teamed so much he needed to know where everyone else was playing.

  Great as Lew was back then, it was obvious to me that he was still learning about the pro game. He needed to mature and start understanding what players were trying to achieve with the roughness. Wilt, Willis, and Nate Thurmond were the only centers who had any chance at stopping him—and their only chance revolved around beating him out of position. But the whole league had picked up on the idea. To an extent, it was working. Hard fouls could disrupt him entirely, get him off his game. “In a boring game,” he once admitted, “when I look off into the rafters, Miles Davis or maybe Freddie Hubbard playing ‘Suite Sioux’ will be going through my head. Or in a rough game, you see my face screwing up; it’s because, man, I just get tired of the pushing. This isn’t a contact sport. It’ll never become a muscle-to-muscle situation with me, because that would defeat me. I’m not interested in tag-team wrestling; I’m a basketball player. I’m not overpoweringly strong but I’m strong enough to do my thing. I’ll settle for being Sugar Ray. Let someone else be Rocky Marciano.”

  I saw that once Lew was able to recognize a double-team and hit the cutter, teams were going to have real problems stopping us. What we really needed, though, was a killer instinct. For many players, I knew, this came with experience—most of our guys who were getting playing time hadn’t been in the league long enough to really suffer or know what it meant to want to win. They’d almost made it to the finals the previous season, and that was pretty good. But this was my eleventh year in the league, and I’d never played for a championship. Every game took a little bit out of me that I couldn’t get back, and I didn’t know how many chances I was going to have. I wasn’t messing around out there. It was my responsibility to get this team mentally ready. From this point forward, I was more aggressive. If someone screwed up or didn’t seem to want to play, we talked the situation out. People who weren’t rebounding, guys who weren’t playing defense, they needed to realize that we had to get the job done. “If we start getting flaky,” Jon McGlocklin told reporters, “he shapes us up, quick.” Lew seconded the notion, dismissing any thoughts that he might resent being told what to do. “You have to respect Oscar. You are out there playing with a legend, and he’s still doing all of his job. How can you not do yours?”

  Our ship righted quickly. We started another run. With Lew getting a natural and unforced thirty points a night and everyone else staying involved, we beat the hell out of a few expansion teams and then a few mid-level clubs. Our whole offense started to click. It wasn’t flashy; it was just efficient and unstoppable: If you didn’t double-team Lew, he scored. If you somehow did successfully double-team him in time to stop his skyhook, he could kick it back to me for the open shot. If you got to me, I might hit Bobby slashing down the middle. I might skip it across the court to Jon McGlocklin for a jumper. Coach Costello sometimes told me to shoot more, but I figured I had to start our plays and make sure they were run correctly. At the same time, there was a delicate balance, because to be effective and to keep defenses from cheating too much on Lew, I had to think offensively. Where in the beginning of the season our team was feeling our way through each game, now you could see everyone trusting each other more, becoming more confident. Nobody worried about being able to get the ball up court against pressure or successfully starting the offense. Everybody knew he was going to get his share of touches and shots.

  On January 8, the Knicks came back into town. They’d taken both of our regular-season meetings to this point and had beaten the Bucks in sixteen of nineteen games during Milwaukee’s two seasons in the league. We knew that at some point we were going to have to beat these guys, just to prove to ourselves that we could.

  Though Willis Reed had spent the previous weekend in a New York City hospital with abdominal pains and flulike symptoms, he was still in the lineup. There’s no mercy in basketball, and we went after Willis immediately, feeding Lew. He had a couple of early layups, but inexplicably missed them. Time and time again he attacked Willis. Time after time, the refs called fouls on Lew. Halfway through the first quarter, our star had to go to the bench with two fouls. As we called time-out, the capacity crowd at the Mecca, which had been so crazed and hysterical during starting lineups, hushed.

  Larry started scribbling on his pad.

  Those Knicks were probably the best purely defensive team of that era. Red Holzman had them hustling all over the floor. In a half-court situation, they weren’t flashy or tricky, but simply settled in. They made you take tough shots, and then they got the rebound when you missed. I took care of beating the press myself. In the half-court sets, with Dick Cunningham replacing Lew, our offense had to change. We switched out of a traditional low post offense. Instead of trying to establish position down low, as Lew had done, Dick came out onto the perimeter, setting picks at the elbow of the key. When I came off those picks and was open, I shot. When a man was open, I made sure to hit him.

  Even with Lew sitting for half the game, the Knicks could never get ahead. We built up a double-figure lead early in the second half and down the stretch had to survive their frantic pressure. With five minutes left, they’d closed the gap to 99–95 (“a tense struggle which would have done justice to a playoff game with everything riding on the outcome,” said the next day’s Milwaukee Journal).

  But where we’d folded the past two times against New York, this time a rested and determined Lew outran Willis, beating him up and down the court, disrupting their defense. I broke New York’s pressure on two big possessions, hitting Bob Boozer and Greg Smith consecutively for an easy jumper and a three-point play, to salt away our 116–106 victory.

  In my best performance in a Milwaukee uniform, I made eleven of nineteen shots and thirteen of fif
teen free throws for a season-high thirty-five points. I also dished out thirteen assists and had nine rebounds. Bob Boozer said it was like watching me in 1961 all over again. Coach Costello said it was my best game of the year. “Oscar did it all,” admitted Willis Reed. “That’s his game; he runs the team. A lot of people say he’s fat and out of shape, but he doesn’t play like it. We could have come back, but he wouldn’t let it happen.”

  “That win was a big part of our season,” Dick Cunningham admitted, after the game. “We had to have this one. If this doesn’t give us a lift, nothing will.”

  Our record improved to 33–7, while the Knicks’ fell to 32–13. The season wasn’t halfway over, but you couldn’t help but start thinking. Expansion had brought another realignment with it, and if and when our teams ended up meeting each other in the playoffs this season, it wouldn’t be during the conference finals, but for the NBA championship. We rode that momentum, extending what became our second major winning streak of the season to ten games.

  As the all-star break arrived, we had the best record in the league. Conversations revolved around whether we could sustain this pace through the entire season, and whether the Knicks would have enough to knock us off this time.

  Meanwhile at home, things had taken an equally encouraging turn.

  During the first half of the season, while I was out on the road, friendships were developing between us and our neighbors. My daughters had started going next door to shoot baskets with the Preisters’ girls on the hoop in their backyard. On occasions my youngest would ring their doorbell and go in and ask for cookies from the cookie jar. I hadn’t known about any of this. But once Yvonne told me, I was delighted. Late one day during the fall, I’d watched as my next-door neighbor wrapped up his fruit trees. After a while I’d went over and asked what he was doing. George Preister explained the importance of and intricacies involved with protecting the fruit from rabbits during winter. George and I began to talk about basketball and other man talk. Their daughters always babysat for us. First, Janet babysat, and when she went off to college, Mary took over the job. All Yvonne had to do was give the Preisters the Bucks’ season schedule.