When the Garden Was Eden

by Harvey Araton

  At 70, Lucas was still busy promoting himself as Doctor Memory, marketing his Lucas Learning System of retention techniques. He was still wedded to the itinerant life but not very interested in the NBA. “I never look back at the game,” he said while driving to the airport after an appearance in Columbus, Ohio, to catch a flight home to California. “It hasn’t been important to me for 30 years, because I’ve had so many other interests. And I really don’t think it’s as interesting a game as it used to be.” From the little he knew of it, what ailed it most, he said, was too much emphasis on jumping and dunking—and not enough on the brain.

  KNICKS FANS COULD ONLY DESPAIR when the Captain went down. Would we ever see him in uniform again? The first title had barely been won with Reed; if he was finished, what were the realistic odds of claiming another? To complete the misery, the regular season marked a familiar tormentor’s return to prominence, one we had wanted to believe would trouble us no more. Red Auerbach had managed to rebuild the Celtics in two years, mainly by drafting Dave Cowens, the undersize but speedy and hard-nosed center, and the smooth-shooting guard Jo Jo White. With John Havlicek still playing at All-Star capacity, it was hard to believe, much less accept, that the Celtics were already back running their mouths and their vaunted fast break. They won 56 games and took the division by a meaty 8 games over the transmogrifying Knicks.

  “Auerbach had always found a way to replace players,” said Tommy Heinsohn, the former Celtic forward, who’d replaced Bill Russell as coach after the last championship in 1969. “His philosophy was always quickness and speed, push the ball, attack people. Cowens came my second year, and he was perfect for that style. We developed an offense for him against the bigger centers; he became our point center. Handled the ball a lot and revolutionized the game by the way he was used.”

  A nauseatingly familiar story line was unfolding: the Celtics were imposing their will, even on the Lakers. Pat Riley had joined the team as a shooting guard the previous season, after three with the San Diego Rockets. He had forged a friendship with Jerry West, who admired the intensity of the former Kentucky Wildcat and had lobbied the Lakers to acquire him. From West, Riley learned what he would later preach as the dapper and sloganeering coach in Los Angeles, New York, and Miami: there was only one way to evaluate a season—whether or not a trophy sat in your locker room following the last game of the year.

  “Jerry epitomized, for me, the most desperate superstar this game has known,” Riley told me. “One of the greatest and most caring players ever, and every year he had to endure the torture of losing at the end.”

  It was enough to drive any man to the brink. West was in a blind rage when he telephoned Riley one day during the summer of 1971. “You won’t believe what the fuck is going on,” West hollered. “They hired the goddamn Celtics!”

  Having fired Joe Mullaney, and needing a third coach in four seasons, owner Jack Kent Cooke had brought in a man steeped in Celtics honor, Bill Sharman, who in turn tapped K. C. Jones to be his assistant. West’s horror notwithstanding, Cooke had endured enough humiliation at the hands of the Celtics. If he couldn’t beat them, why not hire them? Sharman certainly had the right credentials, beginning with his California roots. Raised in Porterville, California, he starred for USC before teaming with Cousy in the Boston backcourt and winning four titles during the first half of the Russell era. As a coach, Sharman already had an impressive résumé. Besides his title in the defunct ABL with George Steinbrenner’s (and Dick Barnett’s) Cleveland Pipers, he’d led the San Francisco Warriors to the Finals in 1967. Four years later, he won an ABA title with the Utah Stars.

  Sharman hit L.A. preaching green gospel. The Lakers were not going to run their offense through Chamberlain, Baylor, or West anymore; they were just going to run, period. The days of the star system were over. The offensive wealth would have to be spread around. He instituted a new system that included a morning practice on game day, which later became a leaguewide staple called the shootaround. “He gathered the troops and said he would like us to come in the morning before the first game for a practice,” Riley said. “We looked at each other and thought, What the hell is he talking about? Wilt was beside himself. He said, ‘Here’s the deal. You get me once a day, morning or evening. It’s up to you which one.’ ”

  Somehow Sharman convinced the big man to give it a try, albeit on his own recreational terms. Chamberlain liked to begin his day early, playing volleyball at Laguna Beach, and took to arriving at the Forum in his tank top and sandals, sand in his hair.

  “That’s how he walked through the plays,” Riley said.

  The Lakers began the season by winning six of nine while another drama played out behind the scenes. During the preseason, Sharman had come to the conclusion that Elgin Baylor was not a good fit for the high-octane offense, given his age and bad knees. He intended to pull Baylor from the starting lineup in favor of the second-year forward Jim McMillian. Once Sharman made clear his intentions, Baylor said he would quit rather than come off the bench.

  Sharman had been taught to believe that no one—with the exception of Russell, who practiced when he felt like it, with Auerbach’s blessing—was bigger than the team. And since the Lakers stars had never won a championship, they didn’t have the right to dictate protocol. “It was,” Riley said, “a very bitter time.”

  McMillian was relaxing at home when word came that Baylor was retiring. He was as stunned and conflicted as he’d been at Madison Square Garden on the night of Game 7, 1970. The Columbia man didn’t mind playing behind the certain Hall of Famer. Even being pushed for minutes, Baylor had treated him kindly during his rookie year. “It was a delicate situation,” McMillian said. “I mean, how do you sit Elgin Baylor?”

  With the benefit of hindsight, the answer was obvious. In the very first game without Baylor, the Lakers beat the Bullets and proceeded to make one of the more bizarre transformations. Upon the departure of an all-time great, they embarked on a 33-game win streak, destroying the mark of 20 that had been set by Milwaukee the previous season.

  “We just dismantled teams,” West said. “We had a lot of weapons that allowed us to play a different kind of game. It seemed easy, to tell you the truth.” While giving Sharman his due for diversifying the attack, West preferred to credit the players more than the Celtics’ philosophy. Given his scars, that was too much to ask. “I did the same things I always did but never got credit for,” he said.

  But Gail Goodrich, who had been reacquired the previous season after spending two years in Phoenix, disagreed. “In many ways we played like the Celtics,” he said. “Before that, the Lakers had been pretty much a stagnant team, the offense going through a couple of stars.”

  The most compelling evidence of the Sharman effect was written in the fine print of the box score. Goodrich raised his scoring average by more than 8 points from the previous season and led the team by a fraction over West, who for the first and only time in his career topped the league in assists. More than any other season, Chamberlain sacrificed personal achievement by averaging 14.8 points, 6 off the previous season and an astonishing 36 off his career high of 50.4 in 1961–62.

  Over and over, Sharman stressed the running game, reminding the Lakers of the common misperception that players had to be sprinters to run a formidable fast break. The Celtics’ credo—carried on proudly in the eighties by the likes of skilled tortoises such as Larry Bird, Kevin McHale, Cedric Maxwell, and Chris Ford—was their commitment, positioning, and everlasting motion. “With us, we also had the speed, and I guess that’s where Showtime in L.A. really started,” McMillian said.

  Riley would argue that the brand name was still eight years in the making. But for all five titles Magic and Kareem would win in the eighties (four under Riley), he had to admit: “That 1971–72 season was the most glorious ride I’ve ever had.”

  To McMillian, the fusion of those Lakers was epitomized in a Sports Illustrated photo of Chamberlain starting the break with a long pass, with the
other starters—West, Goodrich, and the forward Happy Hairston—all in perfect position. Chamberlain finally was the Lakers’ institutional pillar, cast in the image of his longtime Boston rival.

  THE SUBJECT OF RUSSELL AND THE CELTICS was never far from Chamberlain’s restless mind. Sitting on the bus one day that season, McMillian got an earful on the inequities of the ongoing comparison. “Look here, rookie,” Chamberlain said, addressing McMillian as an apprentice even though he was in his sophomore pro season. “I don’t know why they’re always talking about Russ being the greatest. Look at all the players that played with Russ that are in the Hall of Fame. Look at me—how many? If all you have to do is rebound and block shots, how great do you have to be?”

  The definition of greatness for Chamberlain would invariably come down to how he chose to describe it, individually or collectively. In addition to the 33-game streak, the ’71–72 Lakers won 69 games, eclipsing the previous record of 68 won by Chamberlain’s Philadelphia team in 1967–68. Until Michael Jordan and the Bulls won 72 in 1995–96 in an expanded league littered with lousy teams, Chamberlain could claim to have anchored the two most dominant single-season teams in history. But he also knew legacies were established in the springtime; those 69 wins meant nothing in the playoffs.

  In the first round, the Lakers swept Chicago before confronting Kareem and the Bucks, who had pounded them the previous year. Milwaukee had also been the team to end L.A.’s 33-game streak, at the Milwaukee Arena. Chamberlain, of all people, requested a team meeting. He spoke of all the years when he believed that he was a better player than Russell but that Russell won in the end because he’d had the better team. Jim Cleamons, Phil Jackson’s longtime assistant in Chicago and L.A., was a rookie guard on that team, soaking up every word. “At one point Wilt looked around the room and said, ‘You know what? Kareem is a better player than me, but I know that we’re the better team.’ ”

  Coming from the typically bombastic Chamberlain, the admission was a startling concession—to Father Time, if no one else—but his point was well taken. An uneasy alliance of star players, the Lakers had every reason to believe, or at least suspect, that they had finally become a well-oiled machine. They took the penultimate step by strafing the Bucks in six games, reaching the Finals for the eighth time in eleven years. Now came the thorniest part. Never had a team with Jerry West been burdened with such expectations.

  “Good as we were that season, the pressure when we got to the Finals was incredible, especially for Jerry,” Riley said. “He wanted to be a champion so much. I’m telling you that you could see the desperation in his eyes.”

  THE KNICKS, MEANWHILE, HAD WON 48 games, good enough to account for the NBA’s seventh-best record. They were now two years removed from championship glory, and only growing older. The uproar created by the Monroe acquisition had quieted to whispers—fears that both parties might have made a colossal mistake. The bench missed Mike Riordan and Dave Stallworth, while Barnett, 35, was slowed by injuries. The backup center—with Lucas starting—was the one and only Luther Rackley, acquired from Cleveland after Reed went down. Was there any compelling reason to think of the Knicks as serious title contenders? Not really. Yet the playoffs in New York had become a rite of spring that we fervently hoped would consume us for weeks. My friends and I relished spending the few dollars we had on a blue-seat ticket and the occasional night outside the Garden, an urban camping trip in chilly April, to queue up.

  The Knicks drew the Bullets in the first round. Though the teams remained rivals, the regular-season meetings were awkward, especially the first one, 11 days after the trade. In street clothes, the injured Riordan stood on the Bullets’ side, glumly watching the Knicks warm up. Stallworth got an ovation when he was announced as a starter, but he was dominated by DeBusschere once the game began. No one, however, had a worse time of it than Monroe, who played an embarrassing five second-quarter minutes off the bench, scored two points, and watched the Knicks roll, 125–114. He and the Bullets weren’t sure whether to resent or pity each other.

  “I didn’t know what to say to them and they didn’t know what to say to me,” he said. “So we hardly said anything.”

  Archie Clark had replaced Monroe as the primary backcourt scorer, averaging a shade over 25 points on the season, but Gus Johnson was injured and fading, Kevin Loughery and Fred Carter were missed, and the result was a 38–44 regular season that was somehow good enough for a Central Division title and the home-court advantage that came with it. That didn’t stop the Knicks from snapping a 2–2 deadlock by pummeling the Bullets in Game 5 at the Civic Center before wrapping up the series at home.

  The Celtics, also with home-court advantage, were next in the conference final. After beating Atlanta in the opening round, Heinsohn worried that Cowens and White, in their maiden playoff run, might not be ready for a team as wily as New York. The fears proved well founded when the Knicks rolled into Boston Garden for Game 1 and could do no wrong, blitzing the Celtics early and riding Walt Frazier’s 36 points—equaling his championship-night total—to a 116–94 victory.

  “Having Lucas at center instead of Reed gave them a whole different look,” Havlicek said. He, better than anyone, was familiar with Lucas’s shooting range, his unusual skills. “The guy never studied in college the way the rest of us did,” Havlicek said. “An hour before a midterm, he’d sit down and read ten, twelve chapters. His brain was different than the rest of us. It was scary how he stored information. When we’d play against him, we’d call out the two play and Jerry would be yelling like a madman, ‘Watch the high screen for John.’ ”

  With Lucas countering the youthful energy of Cowens with positioning and experience, the Knicks finished off the Celtics in five games, and suddenly a title without Reed was four victories away. When the Knicks went into the Forum for Game 1, shot 72 percent in the first half, and blew the Lakers out, 114–92, it occurred to us all that we were playing with house money and might actually pull off the unthinkable. Lucas tormented Chamberlain in Game 1 by bombing away from outside for 26 points on 13 of 21 shooting. Bradley made 11 of 12 shots. DeBusschere had 19 points, 18 rebounds, and 6 assists. Frazier had a triple double of 14, 12, and 11. Meanwhile, West’s anxiety was painfully obvious: Mr. Clutch missed 12 of his 15 shots.

  Chamberlain didn’t know what to do about Lucas stationing himself in the exurbs of the offense. “I never saw a team as dumbfounded as they were,” Lucas said. “We were absolutely killing them.” But Cleamons insisted that the Lakers shrugged off the walloping because they didn’t believe the Knicks would continue that kind of shooting.

  “We felt like it was easier to recover from a game like that, because everything they threw up went in,” he said. “It happens. I remember the veterans saying, ‘Keep doing what we do. Things will turn.’ ” Sure enough, late in the second quarter of Game 2, fate ran a bone-crunching screen on the Knicks. With Barnett slowed by injury and Monroe still wandering around like a jet-lagged tourist, DeBusschere pulled a muscle in his right side, limiting his minutes and productivity and essentially undoing the team’s fragile chemistry. Without three frontcourt players who were outside threats, Chamberlain was able to anchor himself in the lane with impunity and shut down the rim.

  “Jackson had to play more, and Phil couldn’t throw it in the ocean from the beach,” Lucas said, conceding that his shooting tutorials had been largely in vain. Chamberlain had 26 points and 20 rebounds as the Lakers took Game 3 on the road, and the Knicks’ last chance to make it a series came two nights later.

  On another wild Friday night at the Garden in May, L.A. rallied from a 7-point deficit in the fourth quarter and had a 2-point lead when Frazier tapped in a missed shot with three seconds left. The game went to overtime, then double overtime. Two free throws by West gave the Lakers the lead before Goodrich—scoring in bunches all series long, relentlessly attacking Monroe, who was playing with bone spurs in his foot—grabbed a long rebound off a missed Lucas jumper and went the length of the fl
oor for the game-clinching southpaw runner. Down 3–1, the Knicks were reduced to hoping that a sprained right wrist suffered by Chamberlain might be a factor. He was questionable for Game 5 in L.A., but he took the floor with his wrist heavily taped and still dominated Lucas, who lacked Reed’s upper-body strength, with 24 points and 29 rebounds. After the Lakers’ 114–100 victory, securing the championship, Chamberlain was handed the MVP trophy.

  Who would mock Wilt Chamberlain now? “I know everyone talked about Jerry finally winning a title, but I always thought that series was more of a validation for Wilt,” Goodrich said. “Jerry was one of the greatest players ever, but those days people expected the big men and especially Wilt to dominate. He was always under the most pressure because of Russell. When Wilt won a second title and with a second team, I thought that really put a stamp on his career.”

  Truth be told, West didn’t give a damn about the MVP trophy, the accompanying car, the media fuss. Been there, done that—in a losing cause in 1969. With Riley alongside him, he ran off the floor, feeling an acute sense of relief, stronger even than his jubilation. “I remember saying to myself, Thank God, I’m not going to be a loser all my life, we finally got lucky enough to win,” West said. “You know, people say it’s not about luck—but that’s not true. Ball rolls off a rim, officials make calls. Someone gets hurt. It’s a huge element. I felt a number of times that I had the right teammates but the stars just weren’t aligned.”

  He counted Baylor foremost among them, of course. West’s lasting regret was not being able to share the moment with his old friend. Even Reed, watching from the sideline, could recall being struck by the merciless irony of the Lakers winning it all months after Baylor had walked. “You felt sorry that he hadn’t stuck around,” Reed said. “I still wish he had.”