Marvin Bell, in his book The Escape Into You, speaks about sports, figuratively, with the precise insight of the poet who is able to weave metaphor intricately with reality. When he speaks of the love of form being a black occasion, I am carried back in time to the endless darkness of each forty-eight minutes I played for ten years. Bits and pieces of men fell to the ground.
I want to sympathize. I want to say, “Yeah, the coach doesn’t understand you. He doesn’t know the talent you have.” But, now I’m the coach.
December 9
Joe Caldwell is back, his marathon recovery stimulated by a short visit in Los Angeles with Dr. Kerlan. Dr. Kerlan, who is bent over at the waist with arthritis, is an expert on the subject of living with pain.
I was pleased with Joe’s performance tonight against Kentucky. However, it necessitates another change in lineup. It means another set of upheavals and if I’m not mistaken it will mean a confrontation with Joe at some point in the future. Joe has too many ideas on how to run a team, on few of which we concur. Joe believes a good offense is the best defense. It’s the other way around with me.
Carl was excited after the game. He said that the combination I used tonight of Denton at center, Mac at forward and Caldwell at the other forward was great. He told me we’ll just have to live with a few losses until the combination begins to jell—“even ten games,” Carl said. I’ll bet he panics after three losses.
December 10
Caldwell is a constant griper. Today he complained about extra meal money the team was supposed to be getting. The day before it was our hotel accommodations. Before that he bitched that Buddy Taylor, our trainer, wouldn’t pick up his uniform after the game.
I got a resounding boo from the crowd tonight. I have never been booed before in my life. Occasionally during my last year as a player, a few fans would ride me about being too old. Or like the time in New York after I had just published my first book of poetry, a fan yelled out of the crowd something about “How’d ya like that shot, ya fag poet!” But boos—never. I was deeply stung. I wish they knew how hard I’m trying to win. I felt like giving them the old Italian high sign. I would have as a player. But as a coach I’m supposed to accept it as “part of the game.”
We lost a defensively shabby game. It was a shoot-out. We couldn’t stop Pittsburgh and they couldn’t stop us. Joanne’s father, who flew in for a couple of days, came to the game. When Joanne tried to introduce him to Carl, all Carl could say was “This is the low point of the year.” He couldn’t even manage a handshake. His hands were too busy rubbing his temples. Carl is so uptight that, like Felix Unger, he has “clenched hair.”
December 11
We flew to Denver and we got beaten. After the game I went to dinner at Alex Hannum’s house. I was in no mood to visit but I rarely get a chance to talk to old friends. Alex told me that the wife of one of his players refuses to stand for the national anthem. He solved the problem by asking her to go out for coffee just before the anthem is played. He also had a meeting with his players and told them that as long as they played for him and took his capitalistic pig’s money, they would have to conform to his standards. I don’t think I could do that. A man, to my way of thinking, has the right to display his convictions. Black men have legitimate gripes and being only twelve percent of the population they have got to demonstrate where they can be seen. What better place than at a basketball game?
December 12
I had my first confrontation with Caldwell. He was arguing about our plays, particularly the “M” series. I told him that I had used the same set for ten years when I was playing and they were proven offensive patterns. I also told him that if they can work it against us (three of the teams in our league use the series), we should be able to work it against them just as easily. Joe backed down when George Lehmann took my side in the argument. George is a horse’s ass in many ways but he knows his basketball. I don’t like this sort of business, and I felt drained and particularly unhappy afterwards. We’ve cut plays to the minimum. They’re simple to understand and work. There should be no confusion.
All the players at the start of practice were sullen. They were very down. The first hour was like pulling teeth to get them to work with anything resembling enthusiasm. But toward the end, they had turned around, and during the shooting drill they laughed and kibitzed in a friendly way with one another. Maybe we took a step forward. But we slid back so much this month the forward step might not be enough.
Joe told me he shouldn’t practice hard so he can save himself for the game. God! What a psycho!
December 13
Just when I feel befuddled about this team—which road to take and how to take it—they turn around and play beautifully. We knocked off Utah with Miller and Lehmann executing perfectly. Lehmann scored forty points. His three-point shooting was devastating. But you can’t win consistently with your guards, so this game has to be looked upon as unusual. Our team’s inconsistency is remarkable. I try to tell myself it is youth, lack of experience, some basic absence of certain skills, but always there crops up another feeling—one that strikes deeper and deeper into the soul of sports—about envy among the players. Even with the victory I can’t control my foreboding.
December 14
Travel in the ABA is absolutely ridiculous. The cities are connected by some of the more notorious airlines such as Allegheny, Ozark and Piedmont. To get anywhere you must grab a “milk run” flight which departs Greensboro at 8:00 A.M. and suffer through four or five intermittent stops before reaching your destination. To top it off, the ABA flies coach, which is pretty hard on tall men. So, I’m all bundled up, my knees on my chest.
We left Utah this morning at 8:00 A.M., caught a two-stop connection to Greensboro via Chicago (with a two-hour delay in Chicago) arriving just in time to play Virginia. How we beat them I’ll never know. So far we’ve beaten the Squires consistently. Carl was ecstatic. It was his birthday and we couldn’t have given him a nicer gift.
December 15
We took off early this morning for Kentucky. Piedmont Airlines treated us to one of their special flights through fifty-mile per hour winds which kept half the passengers sick. We rocked off the airplane and we were still rocking when we went on the court against the Colonels. We were exhausted and they destroyed us. Munchak was there. I expect to have another conference called tomorrow.
December 16
Just as I expected, the conference, via the Bell System, took place at 2:45 P.M. This time Munchak was critical of my motivation of the team. He feels that if he could motivate a team of workers at his carpet factory, it should be just as simple on a basketball court. This sort of simplistic approach surprises me. I figured Munchak to be smarter than that. It’s laughable to anybody who knows athletes. They’re a different breed. No carpet salesman has the ego of an athlete. But at the moment I’m not laughing. Management is beginning to piss me off. They are also making me question my ability. I don’t like these feelings of doubt. I never thought of myself as a genius, but I think that they expect miracles. It seems to me that coaches become geniuses when they have a combination of multitalented players.
Carl told me for the first time today that Ted McClain has certain incentive clauses in his contract that will earn him more money if he makes the All-Star Team, averages “X” amount of points or makes the playoffs. No wonder he’s not happy with his lack of playing time. I wonder what else they’re not telling me.
December 17
It’s 5:00 P.M., three hours to go to game time. As a player I’d look forward to the game. As coach I keep saying, “Jesus Christ, only three hours to go.” As a player you never feel like you’ll lose; as a coach you know that one of the two teams must take the loss. Objectivity demands that you realize the possibility of defeat. You have to plan ahead for losses as well as wins.
In the Pittsburgh game tonight, we were ahead by two with seventeen seconds left and we had the ball in our front court. Joe Caldwell, holding the ball t
o stall out the clock, mysteriously threw a cross-court pass that was intercepted by George Carter. A cross-court pass, under normal circumstances, is a dangerous pass. In the last seconds of a game, it is never thrown. I think Joe was worried that Pittsburgh would foul him. Since he is a thirty-one percent free throw shooter I can understand his concern. Carter went on to score the tying basket and we were in overtime. We wound up beating them on the basis of superior rebounding.
In the locker room the team was happy, as it always is after winning. That’s the difference between the team that has dissension and the one that doesn’t. A team whose players do not get along is not even happy when it wins.
Some of the players were kidding George Stone, whose body resembles a swayback horse. “George, how come you have such a big belly?” Miller quipped. “It’s not that I have a big belly,” George answered. “It’s because I got weak back muscles.”
December 21
After a good win against Pittsburgh, we went to New York and lost to the Nets. Carl was very down about the loss. He has phoned me every day. He is thinking of addressing the team at practice.
Carl did just that. He pleaded for greater dedication. I don’t believe anyone was listening. You can tell when athletes turn off; they remain very still. In contrast, if they are listening they become nervous. Their bodies move slightly. They fidget or sway back and forth. If players are listening their bodies expose them.
December 22
A lousy loss to Memphis at home. The crowd booed us all the way to the locker room. I was hit in the head and side by well-aimed wads of paper and ice-filled cups. I haven’t had anyone throw stuff at me since my playing days against the Nats of Syracuse. There the fans would pelt the visiting team with everything they could lay their hands on. But those were opponents; here we’re supposed to be the home team.
December 23
The New York fans could not believe the ABA doubleheader tonight. We played the Floridians, who brought along their bikini-clad ball girls. The bikinis as well as the red, white and blue striped ball, not to mention our horrible performance, was about as much as round ball fans of New York could stand. Lehmann played in a fog. He is strung out over Caldwell even though Caldwell insists that he can play with anybody.
I kept the team in the locker room until we had talked, discussed, even yelled at one another. It might have worked but Lehmann refused to say anything. His head between his legs, he was the picture of a depressed man. One of the real problems was the hostility between Joe and Lehmann. If George would have just opened up we would have certainly been able to air things. As it was, Miller, McDaniels and Caldwell voiced their grievances with each other. It was good but not good enough. I’m afraid that the only thing to do is trade some of the players. I still badly need a big rebounding forward.
I kept the dressing room locked to reporters until Jack Dolph, the ABA Commissioner, knocked on the door to get me to come out. Finally I went out to bullshit the press. The first question was not hard to guess. “What did you say to your players?” Did they really think I would tell them? But year in and year out reporters keep asking the same question.
December 24
Returned to Greensboro to find that my house had been bombarded with eggs during the night. These must be a lot of anger in this area for people to act so childishly.
I ask myself if I really have the stuff to motivate this team. I never had trouble motivating myself or my teammates as a player. Yet, how different this is from playing. How terribly alone and frustrated you feel when a team is floundering, looking for inspiration. I firmly believe a coach can only do so much and then it’s up to the individual. I begin to sound so repetitious. I can imagine how tired the players are of hearing me always talking about aggressive boards and tough defense, switching and putting hands up on defense.
Joanne and I spent a quiet Christmas Eve together. We comforted each other before a warm fire listening to Dylan Thomas incant “A Child’s Christmas in Wales.” Afterward we felt better knowing that pro basketball, winning or losing, means so little in comparison to each other, to restful moments, to good health, and to the kind of life that cries out for peace. If success is what I’m after, I’d better forget about living a peaceful life.
December 25
We flew to Memphis today. The Cougars rented a plane, very plush. We settled down to two hours of cards to pass the time. I joined the card game because I couldn’t concentrate on the book I was reading, Zen and the Art of Archery. There was a line from the book where the author wonders “over the effortless performance for which great strength is needed.” How many times, watching players lift themselves into the air, have I wondered the same thing? Rick Barry, for example, seems totally unconcerned, even bored by the strain he places on his body. And though the fans cheer wildly with each picturesque shot, they cannot begin to realize the torture to those muscles.
I was also saddened looking across the card table at George Stone. I made a deal for him and now I will most certainly have to trade him or put him on waivers. Who would want him with almost one half of the season gone? George is the kind of player that needs playing time to be effective, something I can’t afford to give him. I keep stalling, though Carl is getting pressure from Munchak to cut down to ten players. That means two players without a job.
We lost to Memphis. But the team played better. They looked like they wanted to play together, willing to lower their egos to a sensible level just enough to win games. After the game Carl was in a depressed state. Once again I told him that building a team does not happen overnight and that he’d better tell that to Munchak. I told him I was sure tonight’s game was a positive performance and he could judge better by the results of our game against New York tomorrow.
December 26
I woke up this morning to read in the paper for the sixth time that my job was on the line. I wrote a letter to Marvin Bell, who teaches at the University of Iowa’s Writer’s Workshop, to find out about admission for next year.
In the afternoon we drove down to Raleigh for our game with the Nets. In the locker room before the game, I sensed a greater spirit of togetherness. For the first time, when I asked the players if they had any suggestions that would be helpful I received advice rather than bent heads. Maybe slowly, they are coming to realize the true cooperative spirit—a spirit in which the coach becomes merely a conductor of tempo, a spy to ferret out the opposition’s patterns, and not the leader. True athletes must lead themselves.
My spirits were bolstered when we finally beat the Nets in a come-from-behind victory. It was a game in which I had felt confident throughout, even when we were down by fifteen points in the third quarter. I became so excited that I knocked over a row of chairs. It was purely unrehearsed dramatics.
December 27
I was ashamed this morning when I read the sport sheet. We had won a hell of a game, and our local reporter, Mitch Mitchell, still could not write a positive story. Our victory over the Nets was interwoven with constant references to our being “the worst team in the league.” If a story like this took some of the thrill away from me, I wonder what it did for the Greensboro readers. If I were there after reading the story, I would conclude that the Cougars only won by accident.
Mitch Mitchell is a pain in the ass. At the beginning of the season I spent hours trying to explain all the nuances of the pro game. Nothing appears to have sunk in. Mitch is the Inspector Clouseau of the newspaper business. Wearing a bright red sport jacket, white shoes and a cigar tucked into the side of his mouth, he parades around the periphery of sports, writing down what he thinks he sees. As he is only a year out of journalism school it is questionable that he sees what he sees accurately. He simply has not been exposed. Down deep, however, I think he wants so very badly to win. He wants to be a cheerleader and be associated with a winner.
After reading Mitchell’s article I turned the page to find that our owner had given a story to Larry Keech, one of the columnists. He is the same
Larry Keech who took me apart for trading his friend, Bob Verga. The column told of Munchak’s disappointment with both the teams he owns, the Cougars and the Greensboro Generals hockey team. It further said my job as coach, that of the Generals’ coach, and the jobs of all the office personnel, are in jeopardy. Munchak, it seems, does not like his name associated with a loser—even for three months.
I wonder how the New York Knickerbocker owners felt all those years in the cellar. I guess Munchak’s answer would be that they were not losing $10,000 per game. It all boils down to dollars and cents.
Carl called to reassure me that in order for Munchak to fire me, he would also have to fire him. I was not reassured, but grateful for Carl’s words.
If I failed to mention my wife’s annual “wives-drunk” I’ll make up for it now. For the last four years Joanne had invited the wives of all the players to our house while we were on the road. The main purpose to get smashed. Two weeks ago Joanne had the players’ wives over to plan gathering food, clothing and toys together for a family whose husband has just had a kidney transplant. Without taking anything away from the humanitarian goals of that get-together, it turned out to be a real blast. Last seen, the girls were dancing arm in arm, kicking their legs in a reasonable imitation of the Las Vegas Follies.
December 29
The coach of the hockey team was fired as predicted.
A losing coach lives looking over his shoulder.
Rick Telander
You’ve literally grown up in Peoria. Ever since reading The Wind in the Willows as a boy, you’ve been drawn to adventure writers and their capering characters. At age twenty-five you’ve found yourself, after an All-Big Ten career as a defensive back, cut by the Kansas City Chiefs and trying to convert your English degree from Northwestern into a livelihood as a writer. If you were Rick Telander (b. 1948), you too might have done what the future Chicago Sun-Times columnist did in 1974: spend a summer immersed in the basketball culture of Brooklyn to write a book called Heaven Is a Playground. A year earlier Sports Illustrated had asked Telander to catch up with current college stars on the courts they returned to when school let out, and he discovered a range of characters in Flatbush’s Foster Park, including the mercurial Fly Williams, then a star at Austin Peay State in Tennessee. In choosing to go back a year later on his own dime, he addressed “a restlessness in my soul that bubbled like a broken water main,” as he put it in the preface to one of three editions of Heaven issued since its first publication in 1976. In this excerpt, Telander introduces the most fascinating of that summer’s dramatis personae. At first glance, Rodney Parker is an archetype, the well-connected hoops hanger-on who brokers opportunities for young players in his orbit. But Parker, who made a living as a ticket scalper, breaks the mold in his apparent altruism. (As he told Telander, “I like the ink, is all.”) Bunking down in a sleeping bag on the living room floor of one of Parker’s friends, Telander set out each day with his notebook and AM/FM cassette recorder, knowing he could flick the radio on to defuse a tense situation. Over that summer he played and coached and questioned, and he listened with an ear sympathetic enough that nearly three decades after Heaven was published, Barack Obama, then a senator from Telander’s home state, pronounced it “the best basketball book I’ve ever read.”
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