by Bill Walton
The games were so popular and really became cultural events, with all the Blazermaniacs bringing their handmade signs of support, noisemakers, and party favors, which they would regularly share with us.
The team didn’t have much of a local television package then, so they started to show all the home games on a big, closed-circuit screen at the Paramount Theatre—the same joint where I originally met the Grateful Dead. While we never were actually in the Paramount during the show (we were the live show across the river), the tales from the golden road through the Paramount became legend. I’m not quite sure how many rules and regulations were ever actually enforced at the Paramount, but I do know that everybody who went had a real good time.
The Blazers fan base, which really started that year, became one of the greatest economic forces in sports business history. Ultimately, our terrific fans bought every ticket for every game for eighteen consecutive years, still an NBA record, and an all-sports record for years, until baseball’s Boston Red Sox recently broke the consecutive-games—but not the years—record.
As things were settling into a nice rhythm with this completely new and totally invigorating basketball team, things were changing in the rest of our lives as well. The presidential election of 1976 brought a fresh respite of sanity, intelligence, common sense, and human decency, which had eluded us during the weird, crazed days of the Nixon cabal. When Jimmy Carter was thankfully and finally voted in, we soon got a phone call from some people with his transition team. They told us that they were going to change the direction, focus, and methods of the Patty Hearst–SLA case, and that they were going to stop the FBI from following us around all the time, stop listening to all our phone calls, stop reading all our mail before we did, and basically let us get back to living our lives, free and easy. We were most grateful, although the trust that is always necessary to make things really work was a long time coming in its restoration.
* * *
We made the playoffs that year for the first time in the now seven-year history of the expansion franchise. We would have done better and finished with the best record in the league as well, but I had missed seventeen games that season, and the team faltered during the stretch. In retrospect, they were two more foot and ankle injuries—twelve games out with a bulbously inflamed Achilles tendon, five with a severely sprained ankle—that could be traced to the congenital lack of mobility in my lowest extremities. In the MVP voting, done in those days by the players, I finished second, runner-up to Kareem.
Our first-round matchup and first-ever NBA playoff experience was with the Chicago Bulls, a team that had played very poorly at the start of the season but came alive down the stretch with an epic run that had them playing the best ball of any team in the league that spring.
They had a lot going for them—tons of talent, an incredible fan base, and a powerful home-court advantage. But what they really had was a raging bull in Artis Gilmore, who was not nearly the best player—that was Kareem. But Artis was as tough and difficult to play against as any man alive. He was 7'2". And who could ever tell how much he weighed? What scale could measure this true giant of a man?
What really made Artis so tough, though, was that he had no comprehension that there were rules, and not just for basketball—rules like three seconds, double dribble, traveling, and offensive fouls—but for human decency as well.
And right as we were getting ready for our first NBA playoffs, the referees went on strike for better pay and working conditions. It made a lot of sense to me from a labor, social, economic, and political perspective, but as I looked out at Artis on that court without our trained and reliable refs, I was more than a bit concerned.
So here we were at center stage, about to start our first, monumental, best-of-three NBA playoff series against Artis and the Bulls, and a critical component of the whole show—competent refs—was nowhere to be found.
We had the home-court advantage and first chance in our building. And with Game 1 with the Bulls raging on, everybody is in early foul trouble. And while these substitute refs are trying to keep the show going, it’s really not working.
Maurice Lucas was helped immensely during his career by the fact that he played during an era that had only two refs per game, and very limited use of television instant replay.
In those days there were physical fights and confrontations in every game. And Maurice was always in the middle of it all. He loved it. He knew others didn’t. And he was always willing to do what other people couldn’t or wouldn’t do. It was the way things were. And after business was settled, and everybody calmed down—we got back to playing the game.
Maurice usually got a technical foul in every game he played, particularly if the refs were paying attention. The reasons covered the entire spectrum—punching somebody, elbowing another, kneeing or hip-checking some hapless soul in the groin, head-slaps with the back of his hand, throwing the ball at someone, pulling an opponent’s pants down. You name it, he did it. And we all loved him for it. Because once Maurice became your teammate, none of us ever had to worry about anything—ever again.
It’s now early in the second half of our first NBA playoff game with the Bulls, and it is as intense a scene as I’ve ever been a part of; things could easily go either way. Maurice was as smart a player, guy, and competitor as I’ve ever known. He always knew the score—in the games of our lives. He and everybody else knew that he had already gotten a technical foul in the first half. So when he committed another crime against human decency early in the third quarter, we were caught off guard. Everybody knew that we had to have Maurice if we were going to win anything. That’s the way teams are. He was indispensable.
And so the ball is dead, we’re all standing there waiting on the ref, who’s ready to make the call on Maurice’s latest transgression, and with this second technical, Maurice would be automatically ejected—and with him gone, what were we to do?
The 12,666 Blazermaniacs stood hushed. As we all hovered at midcourt, and with the entire crowd standing but stunned, and everything in the balance, Maurice was about fifteen feet away from the ref, who was standing there poised with the whistle in his mouth, ready to make the call. The other nine players in the game at the time were all right there, between Maurice and the ref, almost like a gauntlet, but really this was between two powerfully opposing forces. As the ref is inhaling to blow the whistle, Maurice quickly takes three long strides straight at the poor unsuspecting guy, reaches out, and grabs the whistle out of the guy’s hand and mouth. Now the whistle is also tethered to the guy’s neck with the string lanyard that they use. Maurice yanks on the whistle, breaks the lanyard, and is now standing toe-to-toe with the staggered ref, who has no idea what to do.
Maurice, towering over the guy, looks down at him, looks at all of us standing right there, and growls, “Ref, if you blow this whistle and call another technical foul on me and eject me from this game, I’m going to kill you on the spot.”
The trembling ref took a step back. He looked around at everything—all of us, the fans, the coaches. He took it all in, including the deepest breath that I’ve ever seen taken.
Finally, after a seeming eternity, he spoke. “Mr. Lucas,” he said, “if you would please just give me my whistle back, we can get on with this great game.”
Maurice gave the guy his whistle back, and we went on to win the game. Barely.
* * *
The show moved to Chicago for Game 2. It was the single wildest game that I was ever involved in. Chicago Stadium was huge, probably twice the size of what we had in Portland. The Bulls had a publicly listed capacity of about 23,000 for basketball. But the upper levels and balconies of the Stadium were just open benches, with no backs to them. And like Artis’s true size and weight, how could you ever tell how many people were actually in there?
When the game was finally over, Brian McIntyre, then the young PR guy for the Bulls, released attendance figures somewhere in the neighborhood north of 29,000 fans for the game. Brian
was quickly called into the boss’s office, where he was immediately told that the Chicago fire marshal was a very good friend of the Bulls’ management, and they wanted to keep that relationship positive. And so from this point forward, no matter the actual size of the crowd, Brian was never to report the attendance as more than the 23,000 capacity.
It didn’t matter what they said—it seemed as if the entire city of Chicago was inside the building. To help things along for the home team there, there was at least one hard-liquor shot bar outside every hallway leading into the seating bowl. And during every time-out and dead-ball stoppage of play, the fans would race out the nearest doorway, slap down their dollars, and start pounding away.
The game was back and forth, up and down, and every which way. There were something like thirty-nine lead changes and thirty-two ties. At one point when we were surging, one of their assistant coaches came running onto the floor and started choking Herm Gilliam with his entire arm around Herm’s neck. Maurice raced over and leveled the coach and pulled Herm back into the game of our lives. Ultimately, we lost, 107–104, setting up the final showdown in Portland.
* * *
Before the decisive Game 3, Jack Ramsay came to me with some bizarre suggestions on things to try against Artis, who was just really tough for me. They included some defensive fronting while face-guarding Artis, which seemed ludicrous in our discussions but worked very well when I actually tried it.
Regardless, I still fouled out late in the game, joining Maurice and Dave Twardzik, who had both already fouled out. It was not a good spot to be in, but our great fans stayed with us when all seemed lost. And fortunately we had Lionel, who always played his best against the Bulls. He made countless huge plays down the stretch.
While the game was still very much up for grabs, Lionel got into the lane with his own dribble still alive. When Artis lumbered over to shut him down, Lionel flipped the ball over to Robin Jones, who had replaced me. Robin, who did not have the quickest release on his shot, coiled, then unwound, elevated, and let it go from about eighteen feet out in front by the right free-throw-line elbow. Big Artis recovered from shutting off Lionel and was now right there, back on Robin. As the ball left Robin’s fingertips, it did not look to have any chance of success. And as Artis soared and extended to try to send it back, he was able to get just a couple of fingertips on the ball after it had cleanly left Robin’s hands. Artis’s efforts were just enough to deflect the course of Robin’s jumper, and seemingly the course of history as well. Maurice, Dave, and I were all standing right there next to Dr. Jack on the sideline, unable to do anything but watch as our hopes and dreams were apparently crushed by Artis.
But that shot by Robin, scraped by Artis, was redirected just enough to bank off the backboard and into the basket.
Chicago responded, and we called time-out. Dr. Jack was none too pleased with Lionel, telling him in the huddle, “We ran the play for you to shoot, not for you to pass to Robin.”
We ran the pick and roll again, only this time Lionel was wide open—Artis was afraid to leave Robin—and he sealed the win with a jumper.
We were on our way, and never looked back.
* * *
Off to Denver, for the Nuggets, who had the talented David Thompson, Dan Issel, Bobby Jones, Bobby Wilkerson, and Coach Larry Brown. Having spent a life with plenty of high-altitude training, the effects of the mile-high elevation never really played out for me. But the players, talent, and coach sure did.
David was better than ever, as his skill level had skyrocketed under Larry Brown. Dan Issel was always a problem for me, with his excellent footwork, outstanding perimeter shot, tough position defense, and excellent transition game. Plus he was always able to get to the free-throw line against me. The Bobbys—Jones and Wilkerson—were the kind of well-rounded, interesting team guys whose squads just won the games as they went quietly about their business.
Denver had the home-court advantage, and the first game of this best-of-seven series went right down to the closing play.
We were down one, but with plenty of time left for a well-executed play. In our huddle, Jack Ramsay drew up a masterful plan that involved at least four of us, with a combination of a ball swing to the weak side, a down-screen, a cross-screen, and an open-up post opportunity that would schematically create a wide-open jumper on the right side with an option to dump it down low for a power play inside.
Bobby Gross was our outstanding in-bounds feeder. He dutifully got it in to Maurice on the left wing, who totally disregarded everything Jack had just told us. Luke snatched the ball away from the defensive pressure and pivoted inside, swinging the ball in front of him like a truncheon, flinging his defender aside like a rag doll, and then started working his way toward the rim with his own solo dribble. Halfway there, with the clock now against him, to say nothing of the entire state of Colorado collapsing defensively around him, Luke pulled up and delivered a classically perfect jumper, which easily found its way home as the clock ticked down, ensuring our victory, and ultimately the series. As good as Denver was, they had no chance at our place.
Jack was livid at Luke for breaking the play. In the euphoria of the winner’s locker room, Jack kept coming back to the fact that Luke didn’t run the play. Finally, Luke simply said, “Come on, Jack. We won the game. It’s all good. Things will be OK.”
We all loved Luke, and he was such a big-game and moment-of-truth performer. It was all good. Over the years, Jack never failed to bring it up, shaking his head and muttering how Luke didn’t run the play.
The Nuggets took the next game. They were good, and had a top coach and fans who thought they had a chance. They had the advantage in Denver, but we were unstoppable at home and took the next two games to go up 3–1.
The Nuggets won Game 5 in Denver. It was the first time in sixteen days that we had the real refs, but even so we could not escape the endless whistles, and I fouled out. Even worse, we lost Dave Twardzik to a severe ankle sprain. This development completely changed the dynamics of what lay ahead. What were we to do without Dave? He was great off the ball at both ends of the court, had terrific hands, and was tough as nails. It hurt to lose him.
On the plane ride home, with Dave now on crutches, Coach Ramsay came by my seat and laid his eyebrows on me—the indication that he had something very serious he wanted to talk about.
Dr. Jack is a very earnest and analytical guy, and an extremely smart and deep thinker—and he has these very thick eyebrows, which would furrow back and over his bald head. And when he put the “ ’brows” on you, it was about to all come down.
He said that with Dave’s ankle injury, which was now discovered to be much worse than it initially appeared, Jack wanted me to know that he was planning on putting Larry Steele in Dave’s place as our other starting guard with Lionel. As I sat there, crammed into my tiny airplane seat, Jack explained that a lot of his thinking was driven by the desire to keep Herm Gilliam in his natural rotation off the bench, in that Herm was really the only guy on our team who could provide instant statistical production without any help from anybody. Larry would give us continuity, stability, a bigger defensive presence, and outstanding perimeter shooting, which was more critical than ever, what with our opponents being completely unable to come to grips with Maurice down low.
I looked back at Jack while he laid out the whole vision and dream in his always methodical and meticulous way. When he was finally finished, I said something to the effect of, “That’s the worst idea I think I’ve ever heard.”
I went on to explain that our game, our real strength as a team, was speed and quickness. And we had a guy who had been sitting there on the bench all season, never getting any play, never saying a word. He was the quietest teammate that I ever had. But he was also the quickest and fastest guy I had ever seen, and if we were going to remain true to ourselves, our style, and our vision of what our team was about, then how about giving our twenty-year-old rookie, Johnny Davis, a chance?
Coa
ch Ramsay muttered something about experience, stability, seniority, and that he was the Coach here, and then he walked back to his seat.
When we gathered that night for the game, No. 6 and hopefully the series clincher, Jack told us for the first time that Johnny Davis was going to start in Dave’s absence.
The rest is history, as Johnny went out and in his first real NBA action—the guy had never played in any meaningful action up until that night—absolutely lit the joint up. Twenty-five points, seven assists, four steals, and thirty-nine minutes later, things would never be the same again.
Not only did the Denver Nuggets now know who Johnny Davis was—so did the rest of the world.
Johnny never looked back. Nor did we. His joining our active squad was very much like the night Mickey Hart joined the Grateful Dead. History was made, and the future had a new script. We became incomparable, unstoppable, and beyond description.
* * *
For us, it was now on to Los Angeles, Kareem, and the Lakers. They had the home court, they had the best player and the league’s MVP, but they had struggled with Golden State, going the distance to finally win at home at the Forum in seven games.
We were fresh and ready, and we now had an entirely new dimension to our team in Johnny Davis. Dave Twardzik was not going to be able to make it back anytime soon. But with Johnny’s speed, quickness, and explosiveness, there didn’t seem to be anything that we couldn’t do on the court.
The Lakers had some injury problems. Their guards Lucius Allen and Don Chaney (both heroes of mine as I was growing up) were hobbled with foot and knee problems. Kermit Washington wasn’t able to play at all. That left only Don Ford from Santa Barbara to wrestle with Maurice Lucas.
But they still had Kareem, who seemingly never got hurt. At his fiftieth birthday party years later, a grouchy Kareem showed up in a walking ankle boot and using a cane for stability. I asked him what could possibly have happened; he had not played in the NBA since he was forty-two. He was mad as can be, saying that he had to have some carving work done recently on his little toe, and that it wasn’t pleasant; it was really slowing him down. I asked him how many surgeries that was for him now. He seemed surprised, then told me it was his first.