Book of Basketball

by Simmons Bill

  Bench. Dan Majerle, Brent Barry, Bobby Sura, Raef LaFrentz (before his knee injury), Andrei Kirilenko and Chris Andersen. This would have been an entertaining nucleus for a modern team even if they would have given up 125 points a game. 58

  Coach. Doug Collins, who would have edged out Westphal for a starting spot had he stayed healthy as an NBA player. He’ll have to settle for coaching the Billy Hoyle All-Stars and serving as Mike Fratello’s assistant (along with Dick Versace and Jimmy Rogers) on the What the Fuck Did He Do to His Hair? All-Stars. 59

  46. HAL GREER

  Resume: 15 years, 11 quality seasons, 10 All-Stars … top 10 (’63, ’64, ’65, ’66, ’67, ’68, ’69)

  … 5-year peak: 25–5–4 … 2nd-best player for one champ (’67 Sixers) … ’67 Playoffs: 28–6–5 (15 G) … Playoffs: 20–6–4 (92 G) … 20K Point Club

  During three summers spent researching this book, I loved learning about forgotten greats who played before my time—guys with whom I had no history whatsoever—and how after-the-fact portraits of them were colored by a collection of anecdotes and stories that always skewed one of six possible ways from players, coaches, and reporters who were there.

  1. Gushing overcompensation. Everyone from Star X’s era feels like Star X doesn’t get his proper due, so their stories include hard-to-believe anecdotes like “One time, we were trailing the Hawks by two in a Game 7. They got a fast break and Russell sprinted full-court to block the game-winning layup, only he was going so fast that he landed in the twenty-seventh row of the stands—I swear to God, Sam Jones and I counted the rows after the game!” and impossible-to-prove statements that ignore all contrary evidence to the fact, like, “Look, if Oscar played now, he’d still be the best guard in the league, I can guarantee you that one.” 60 You’ll also see this happen with druggies like Micheal Ray Richardson, Roy Tarpley and Marvin Barnes—yeah, we know those guys would have been good, but as the years pass, the ceiling was lifted for them, so now you’ll hear “as good as Magic” (for Micheal Ray), “as good as Barkley” (for Tarp) and

  “coulda been the greatest forward ever” (for Barnes). Pop a Quaalude and settle down.

  2. Backhanded compliments. Everyone praises everyone else from their era (that’s just the way it works), but sometimes you find sneaky digs strewn in. Bird would always say things about McHale like, “If Kevin wanted to, he could be the top defender in the league” and “He’s so awesome on some nights, then other nights he’s just average. He makes it look so easy.” Translation: I wish he gave more of a shit. Or ex-teammates would describe a mercurial guy by saying something like, “Hey, what can I tell you, Wilt was Wilt.” Anytime you say someone’s name twice as a way to describe him, that means he was either annoying, unpredictable, a complete asshole, a blowhard, as dumb as a rock, or some combination of those five things. If there’s ever a documentary about me and someone says, “Hey, what can I tell you? Simmons was Simmons,” I’ll kill myself.

  3. Outright potshots. Only reserved for renowned cheap-shot artists (like Laimbeer or Clyde Lovelette), selfish gunners (like Mark Aguirre), holier-than-thou pricks (like Rick Barry), moody enigmas (like Adrian Dantley) and, of course, Wilt Chamberlain.

  4. Totally biased evaluations of a teammate or former player. My favorite: Pat Riley deciding upon James Worthy’s retirement that Worthy was “the greatest small forward ever.” Had he said something like, “If you came up with twenty-five qualities for the perfect small forward, James would have had the highest number of them of anyone ever” or even “When God came up with the idea of a small forward, He was thinking of a guy like James Worthy,” I’d accept that. But you can’t tell me that James Worthy was better than Larry Bird, Rick Barry or Scottie Pippen and expect me to take you seriously after that. You just can’t. Same for Bird repeatedly claiming that DJ was the best player he ever played with. Um, you played with McHale at his zenith. You’re not topping that one, Larry. Sorry. 61

  5. Enlightening evaluations. Sadly, this never happens enough. Here’s an example of a wonderful critique of Marvin “Bad News” Barnes by Steve Jones, a former teammate of News in St. Louis, for Loose Balls:

  Marvin just attacked the ball on the glass. If he was on the right side of the rim and the ball went to the left, he didn’t just stand there like most guys and figure he had no shot at it, he went across the lane and got the ball. When he was in the mood, he could get a rebound, throw an outlet pass to a guard, then race down the court and catch a return pass for a dunk as well as any big man in basketball. He had an 18-foot range on his jumper and a good power game inside. He had every physical ingredient you’d want in a big man and he had the killer spirit to go with it. He didn’t just want to beat you, he wanted to embarrass you. But so much of what Marvin did was counter productive to his career. He disdained practice. He stayed up all night. He didn’t listen to anyone about anything, but then he’d come out and play a great game. You’d see that and know that the gods had touched this man and made him a great player, only he had no idea what he had. And he kept pushing things and pushing things, like a little kid trying to see what he could get away with. He was the star and he knew it. Also, management gave him carte blanche to do what he wanted, and what he wanted to do was run amok.

  You can’t do better than that. Steve Jones just summed up every

  memorable/tantalizing/tragic quality of Marvin’s career in exactly 248 words.62 The only way Jones could have done better is if he said, “Look, when you come into the NBA with the nickname ‘Bad News,’ you’re probably headed for a disappointing career.” 63 Then again, that was the perfect storm of subject and speaker—Barnes messed up in the least forgivable way possible, which meant Jones could be candid about him, and Jones was an eloquent guy who worked as a broadcaster for thirty years (and counting). If our ninety-six Pyramid guys had Jones wrapping up their careers in 248 words, this book would have been much easier to write.

  6. I-can’t-think-of-anything-memorable-to-say Cliché Bukkake. And now we’ve come full circle to Mr. Greer. By all accounts, he was either the second-or third-best guard of the sixties (depending on your feelings about Sam Jones), playing in ten straight All-Star Games, making seven second-team All-NBA’s, serving as a prototype for modern two-guards, hitting a high percentage of outside shots (career: 45 percent), rebounding a little (career: 5.0), scoring 23–25 a night in his prime, draining 80 percent of his free throws, playing good defense and taking as little off the table as possible. Greer retired in 1974 as the all-time leader in games played (1,122) and averaged a sterling 28–6–5 in the ’67 Playoffs for the Sixers. So it’s not like he lacked a top-fifty resume or anything. But check out these quotes from his “Top 50” profile page on NBA.com (the first three) and Tall Tales (the fourth one).

  Greer: “Consistency. For me, that was the thing, I would like to be remembered as a great, consistent player.”

  Dolph Schayes: “Hal Greer always came to play. He came to practice the same way, to every team function the same way. Every bus and plane and train, he was on time. Hal Greer punched the clock. Hal Greer brought the lunch pail.”

  Herald-Tribune: “ If there were an award given for a player who is most respected by basketball insiders, while getting the minimum public appreciation, Greer could win hands down.”

  Al Bianchi: “We called Greer ‘Bulldog’ because he had that kind of expression on his face and it never changed.”

  Did you enjoy that round of Cliché Bukkake? I’d throw in this quote: “There’s never been an exciting guy named Hal ever, not in the history of mankind.” I could only unearth one interesting tidbit about Greer: everyone from that era raves about his gorgeous jumper. 64 In Tall Tales, Alex Hannum calls it “the best medium-range jump shot ever” (hyperbole alert) and Bianchi gushes,

  “No one could ever stop and take a jumper faster than Greer.” In fact, Greer’s jumper was so reliable that he’s the only player who shot his jumper for free throws; remarkably, he finished his career shooting 80 perc
ent from the line. See, I knew I could dig up something interesting about Hal Greer.

  45. DAVE DEBUSSCHERE

  Resume: 12 years, 10 quality, 8 All-Stars … top 10 (’69) … All-Defense (6x) … 4-year peak: 17–12–3 … Playoffs peak: 16–13–3 (41 G) … 3rd-best player for 2 champs (’69, ’73 Knicks) and 1 runner-up (’72 Knicks) … player-coach (’64, ’65 Pistons)

  Two changes would have transformed Dave’s career historically. First, they didn’t create the All-Defense team until the ’68–’69 season. (From that point on, Dave made the first team every year until he retired.) Second, they didn’t create the three-point line until the ’79–’80 season. (Dave had been retired for six years, having spent his career shooting threes that counted as twos.) Add those tweaks and we’re looking at twelve All-Defenses, a career average of 20–11 and a well-earned reputation as the best three-point-shooting forward of his era. Even so, he left a borderline top-fifty resume, transformed the Knicks defensively, sparked countless “Dee-fense!

  Dee-fense!” chants at MSG, banged bigger bodies, controlled the boards, made clutch shots and never cared about stats. Everyone remembers Willis sinking those first two jumpers in Game 7 of the ’70 Finals, or Frazier finishing with a magnificent 36–7–19, but nobody remembers DeBusschere finishing with 18 points and 17 rebounds and refusing to let Elgin breathe. 65 I was always fascinated that he retired on the heels of his best all-around statistical season (18 points, 11

  rebounds, 3.4 assists and 76 percent FT shooting), at the tender age of thirty-three, after the Knicks were smoked by Boston in the ’74 Eastern Finals. Maybe Dave thought he was slipping defensively. Maybe he wanted to go out on top when he was still good. I don’t know.

  Sadly, every NBA fan under forty remembers DeBusschere for one thing and one thing only: when he was running the Knicks in the mid-eighties and practically passed out with joy during the Ewing lottery. That shouldn’t be the first thing we remember about one of the great winners of his era, one of the few guys you absolutely would have wanted in your NBA foxhole. And since he resonated with so many New Yorkers, I asked one of the most famous Knick fans to explain why DeBusschere mattered so much. Here’s William Goldman66 remembering his favorite Knick:

  I thought it was a dumb trade, even for the Knicks. We get rid of our center, Walt Bellamy, who one season averaged 30 points a game and our rugged point guard, Howie Komives.

  And for what? This guy from Detroit.

  That’s all he was to those of us who lived in Magic Town back then. Oh, sure, we knew some stuff—none of it thrilling. Like he was the youngest coach in NBA history, and a total wipeout until he quit. And a major league pitcher. For a couple of years. No Koufax. There was no one, not one Knick nut in the city who predicted that our lives were going to shine till he retired six years later.

  What we didn’t realize was that the greatest defensive forward in history had come to save us.

  I don’t think there’s much doubt that Michael Jordan was the greatest player ever. Not just the championships or the stats, it’s this: We have TV. We can see him play. Plus he is still with us, young enough to spark rumors that maybe, just maybe, he might come back for one more year.

  Not a lot of footage on Dave. Retired in ’74. Died five years ago, at an unfair sixty-two.

  If you are reading this, obviously you have your all-time team. No one would attack you if your guys are West and Oscar, Magic and Elgin and Russ.

  Here’s mine:

  Michael and Clyde.67

  Wilt.

  Bird.

  And Dave.

  I was at his funeral and of course a lot of famous NBA people were there. You expected that. What was so shocking was how devastated they were. Not just the tears. It was the look of blind disbelief on their faces.

  Because they knew this: Dave was the toughest of them all. And he would attend all their funerals.

  None of them were meant to come to his….

  44. NATE THURMOND

  Resume: 14 years, 9 quality, 7 All-Stars … ’67 MVP runner-up … All-Defense (5x) …

  started for two runner-ups (’64, ’67 Warriors) … ’67 Playoffs: 16–23–3 … 4-year peak: 21–20–4 … recorded the first-ever quadruple double (22–14–13–12)68

  Congratulations, Nate! You’re the winner of the “Wow, I had no idea how good this guy was until I started busting my butt on this book!” award. Let the record show that:

  1. You were the third-best center of the late sixties and early seventies, only you never made an All-NBA team because you had the misfortune of going against the Wilt/Russell combo, then Willis/Wilt and Kareem/Wilt. And that you averaged exactly 15.0 points and 15.0 rebounds for your career (kind of amazing).

  2. You were a proven warrior whose career was altered historically by two decisions that had absolutely nothing to do with you: Rick Barry jumping to the ABA (crippling a Warriors team that would have contended for the next six or seven years), and Golden State trading you for Clifford Ray in a money-saving deal right before Barry peaked and they won the ’75 title. You landed in Chicago and lost an agonizing 7-game series in the West Finals to (wait for it) G-State. Not fair.69

  3. The Warriors traded Wilt in his prime partly because they wanted to make you their center. And partly because Wilt was a selfish head case who made too much money. But still.

  4. Wilt and Kareem called you their toughest defender in the early seventies. You averaged 2.9 blocks during the first year they kept track, when you were just about washed up, so who knows how many you were getting in your prime. God forbid we kept track of blocks until 1974. What were stat guys doing back then? Do you think Maurice Podoloff suggested blocks in the early sixties and the NBA’s lead statistician angrily responded, “Look, we’re fucking overworked as it is—we have to keep track of points, rebounds, and assists! Get off our backs”?

  5. You had the greatest bald-head/full-beard combo of anyone in the history of professional sports with the possible exception of Granville Waiters. So there’s that. We penalized you a few spots only because of your curiously terrible shooting: 42

  percent for your career (other than Chris Dudley, the worst percentage by any center who played 750 games or more); 38 percent in the ’69, ’71, ’73, and ’75 Playoffs combined (35 games); 37 percent in the ’75 Playoffs (13 games). 70 So you were like Dikembe Mutombo but better. Who wants to sex Nate Thurmond? 71

  43. CLYDE DREXLER

  Resume: 15 years, 14 quality, 10 All-Stars … ’92 MVP runner-up … top 5 (’92), top 10 (’88,

  ’91), top 15 (’90, ’95) … 4-year peak: 25–7–6 … 3-year Playoffs peak: 23–8–7 (58 G) …

  2nd-best player on one champ (’95 Rockets), best player on two runner-ups (’90, ’92

  Blazers) … Playoffs: 20–7–6 (145 G) …’90 Finals: 26–8–6 …’95 Playoffs: 21–7–5 (22 G) …

  career: 22K-6K-6K … member of ’92 Dream Team

  Gets the nod over Greer for one reason: during the most competitive stretch in league history (1990–93), Portland made the Finals twice with Drexler as its lone blue-chipper. We’ll remember him as the only basketball player other than Michael J. Fox who succeeded at a memorably high level even though he dribbled on fast breaks with his head down. We’ll remember him as the poor man’s ’Nique in the “ignite the home crowd with a fast-break dunk” department. We’ll remember him for battling male pattern baldness but refusing to shave his head like so many others. We’ll remember him for one of the truly great nicknames: “Clyde the Glide.” And we’ll remember him for being the fragile, too-unselfish-for-his-own-good leader of a memorably unpredictable Blazers juggernaut that consistently shot itself in the foot at the worst possible moments. Poor Clyde never seemed to make smart decisions at pivotal times, never seemed to understand when a game was slipping away and his team needed him to assert his will, and never grasped the basic premise of

  “Look, I’m good at a lot of things, and I’m not so good at other things, so maybe
I should just do what I’m good at.” 72

  For instance, of any player who attempted at least two 3-pointers per playoff game, guess who has the worst percentage? That’s right—Clyde at 28 percent. Twenty-eight percent! That didn’t stop him from clanging 133 of 178 threes (23 percent) in Portland’s 58-game Playoffs run from 1990 to 1992. During the ’92 Playoffs, Clyde was 19-for-81 on three-pointers (23.5%) and 179-for-344

  (53%) on two-pointers. If you were a Portland fan, what made you happier that spring, Clyde launching a three or Clyde either driving to the basket or pulling up for a 15-footer? He just didn’t get it. Ideally, Clyde should have been the second-best guy on a great team—like a McHale, Worthy or Pippen—an unselfish sidekick who wasn’t quite great enough to carry someone to a title. This finally happened when Houston reunited Clyde and Hakeem, leading to a rare “gunning for a ring late in his career” success story when the Rockets swept Orlando in the ’95 Finals. Because of that, I have Clyde ranked forty-third … and yet I feel terrible for him because his career was swallowed up by Jordan. The MJ shadows are everywhere. This goes beyond Clyde being the poor man’s Jordan, a rival shooting guard who filled the stat sheet 85 percent as well but wasn’t the same crunch-time guy or suck-the-soul-out-of-you competitive killer (and that’s an understatement). Consider three things:

  • Clyde started one year earlier than Jordan and showed enough promise that when Portland landed the number two pick in the ’84 draft, the Blazers decided, “We’re all set in the Exciting Perimeter Scorer department, so let’s pick a center with surgically repaired tibias.”73 Besides being the single greatest NBA what-if, did you know Portland allegedly offered that pick plus Drexler for Ralph Sampson? What if Houston had said yes? Can you imagine? How many titles would the Hakeem/Clyde combo have won? Would we remember Jordan’s career differently? And if Sampson had played in Portland and never injured his back in that freak fall in Boston, would we remember him as a top-thirty guy?