Book of Basketball

by Simmons Bill

  The starting power forward on the Players I Miss Most from the Old Days team. Watch an old Celtics game on ESPN Classic and think of Tim Duncan while you study McHale: long arms, quick feet, tortuous low-post moves, an unblockable sky hook, underrated passing, an uncanny ability to block shots and keep the ball in play. It’s all there. Duncan runs the floor better; McHale had a wider arsenal of low-post moves. Other than that, they’re basically the same. Duncan is a little faster and a little more athletic; McHale was better at handling double-teams (and sometimes even triple-teams). Of course, we’ll see ten Duncans before we see another McHale. John Salley once described the experience of guarding McHale down low as “being in the man’s chamber.”

  Nobody could score more ways down low; not even Hakeem. McHale feasted on defenders with the following three moves: the jump hook (he could do it with either hand, although he never missed the righty one and could shoot it from a variety of angles), the turnaround fall-away (he could do it from both sides and from either direction; completely unblockable), and the step-back jumper from 12–15 feet (which always went in, forcing defenders to play up on him). 4

  Since he could convert those three shots at any point of any game, and the defender knew this, that set up the following alternative moves: up-and-under no. 1 (faked a turnaround, drew the guy in the air, pivoted, and did an ugly scoop shot), up-and-under no. 2 (faked a jump hook, drew the guy in the air, ducked under him, and did an ugly scoop shot), 5 the hesitation turnaround (showed the turnaround, waited for the defender to jump, drew the contact, then did a modified turnaround anyway), the double jump hook (showed the jump hook, drew the guy in the air, turned into him, drew contact and finished the jump hook), the running jump hook (started off on the left side, faked the jumper, drew the guy in the air, put the ball on the ground and unleashed an ugly running jump hook), and the drop-step (started off on the left side with the defender overplaying for the righty hook, then did a quick drop-step toward the baseline and laid the ball in). Then there were the combination moves, which nobody has been able to execute except Hakeem (who mastered the first one): combo no. 1 (faked the turnaround, pivoted, faked the righty jump hook, twisted the guy around and did the up-and-under), combo no. 2 (faked the righty jump hook, faked the full turnaround, twisted the guy around and did the modifed turnaround), and combo no. 3 (faked the righty jump hook, faked the up-and-under, caused the guy to freeze, then shot the step-back jumper). 6

  For those of you scoring at home, that’s twelve different low-post moves. Twelve! McHale had more combinations on his menu than Panda Express. If you were wondering how any forward could top 60 percent shooting for two straight years in his prime … well, that’s how. Did you know certain high school and college coaches show McHale tapes to their big men? And don’t forget, during the first half of the eighties (before Ewing entered the league), McHale was the top defensive player, someone who protected the rim and defended any low-post scorer or perimeter player: Toney, Julius, Hakeem, Worthy, Moses, Kareem, you name him. He was THE stopper in the NBA. Some other fun facts about my favorite underrated Celtic:

  Fact No. 1. McHale played the entire ’86–’87 postseason on a broken left foot. It wasn’t sprained or bruised—the thing was broken. That didn’t stop McHale from posting the following numbers in 21 playoff games: 21–9, 58% FG, 39.4 minutes. He risked his career—literally—to help the Celtics try to repeat as champions. Remember him limping up and down the court like a wounded animal? Remember Rick Mahorn purposely stepping on the broken foot during the Detroit series?

  Remember how he dragged the foot around for a whopping 53 minutes in a double-OT win in Game 4 of the Milwaukee series that year? He never thought about saying “Get me my ring, boys,”

  sucked it up and kept playing … and was never the same. Ever. Which reminds me …

  Fact No. 2. When McHale injured his foot near the end of that season, he had been playing the best basketball of his life (26–10–3, 2.2 blocks, 60.4% FG, 84% FT). Even Bird admits that McHale could have taken the 1987 MVP. So how good would McHale have been without suffering that foot injury? If Len Bias hadn’t passed away, McHale could have rested until the Conference Finals. Instead, he played in pain and broke the same foot in the first round. And if Bias had been around, maybe McHale wouldn’t have averaged nearly 40 minutes a game in the first place. 7 All we know is that he never had the same lateral movement or the same spring in his feet again. (What’s interesting is that McHale has no regrets; if he had to do it over again, he would.) 8 But the foot problems invariably led to ankle problems in both feet; McHale badly sprained his left ankle in Seattle during the ’90–’91 season, an injury that effectively ended his career two years later. I swear, if McHale hadn’t injured that damned foot, he would have thrived into his early forties on that Panda Express menu.

  Fact No. 3. McHale was the funniest Celtic of all time. (For further evidence, trek down to your local library and get a copy of Jack McCallum’s Unfinished Business, or better yet, just buy it online. Come on, you already splurged for this book. Go crazy!) One of the true tragedies in sports history was that McHale decided to run the Timberwolves into the ground instead of heading right into sports broadcasting, where he would have become the John Madden of basketball. 9

  Remember, this was the guy who actually stole scenes from Woody on an episode of Cheers.

  Fact No. 4. His uneasy alliance with Larry Legend remains the most intriguing subplot of the Bird era. People always assumed they were friends—you know, the whole “two big goofy-looking white guys” factor—but they rarely mingled and McHale was the only teammate Bird always avoided praising, partly because of their friendly rivalry, partly because Larry resented the fact that basketball didn’t consume McHale like it consumed him. 10 He praised Parish and DJ constantly but never seemed to have a compliment for McHale that wasn’t at least a little backhanded. Even after their careers were over, Bird bemoaned the fact that McHale never drove himself to become the best player in the league, saying that his teammate could have become an MVP had he “really wanted it.” Larry almost seemed disappointed that McHale never pushed himself harder because, in turn, Bird would have had to push himself an extra notch to keep his place as the alpha dog on the team. Still, nobody should ever question McHale’s desire after the ’87 playoffs. Not even the Basketball Jesus. To his credit, McHale always took the high road with Bird—dutiful teammate, perfect second banana, never daring to challenge him publicly, always willing to fade into the background. One of my favorite McHale quotes came after the legendary Dominique/Larry duel, when McHale said, “Sometimes after Larry plays a game like this it makes me think ahead … I’ll be retired in Minnesota and Larry will be retired in Indiana, and we probably won’t see each other much. But a lot of nights I’ll just lie there and remember games like this, and what it was like to play with him.” Somebody turn the heat on, because I just got the chills.

  Fact No. 5. Nobody had a weirder body; it was almost like someone gave him Freddy Krueger’s arms and put them on backward. Bill Fitch said McHale had “an incomplete body … he’s waiting for the rest of the parts to come by mail.” McCallum described McHale’s body as

  “Frankenstein-esque … deep bags under the eyes, unusually long arms, shoulders that appear to be coming off the hinges.” Of his awkward running style, poet Donald Hall wrote that McHale “lopes down the floor like an Irish setter, his hair flopping like ears.” Danny Ainge once quipped that McHale on a fast break looked like a “baby deer on ice.” But until Hakeem came along, no big man had quicker feet; nobody was better at the “miss a short jumper and jump up again quickly to tap the ball in” play (McHale hopped like a kangaroo). And McHale’s turnaround could be touched only by Hakeem’s turnaround in the Turnaround Pantheon (and that’s the toughest shot in basketball, bar none). So McHale was a great athlete. He just didn’t look like one.

  ake no mistake, he had some great moments: coming up with some huge blocks against Philly in Game 7 of
the ’81 playoffs; pouring in 56 points against Detroit; eating Ralph Sampson alive in the

  ’86 Finals; playing on the broken foot during that double-OT game in Milwaukee; his forgotten 33-point performance in the Bird-Dominique game; even his retro farewell in Game 2 of the Charlotte series in ’93, when he had the Garden rocking one last time with a 33-point flashback performance. Over any single game, one image is embedded in my brain: every crucial road victory from the Bird era ended the same way, with the Celtics prancing happily out of the arena and McHale crammed in the middle of it all, holding both arms in the air with his fists clenched. Name the game, you’ll see it: Game 4 in Houston (’86), Game 4 in Los Angeles (’84, ’85), Game 6

  in Philly (’81, ’82), Game 4 in Milwaukee (’87), Game 6 in Atlanta (’88) … it doesn’t matter. He did it every time. In a funny way, it became McHale’s legacy along with the post-up moves. He may have looked ridiculous as hell—giant arms craning up in the air, armpit hair flying everywhere, a goofy smile on his face—but McHale’s sweaty armpits doubled as our disgusting victory cigar. He was amazing to watch, unstoppable at times, laugh-out-loud funny, inventive, ahead of his time, the ideal teammate … and the one NBA legend who felt obligated to rub his armpits in the collective faces of 18,000 fans after an especially rewarding victory. I miss those days, and I miss those armpits.

  34. GEORGE GERVIN

  Resume: 14 years, 11 quality, 12 All-Stars … ’78 and ’79 MVP runner-up … Top 5 (’78, ’79,

  ’80, ’81, ’82), Top 10 ABA (’75, ’76), Top 10 NBA (’77, ’83) … leader: scoring (4x) … record: points in one quarter (33) …-5th-leading Playoffs scorer (27.0 PPG, 59 G) … 3-year peak: 30–5–3, 54% FG, 85% FT … career: 25–3–3, 50% FG, 84% FT … ’75 playoffs: 34–14 (6 G)

  … ’79 playoffs: 29–6–3, 54% FG (14 G) … 3 straight scoring titles (1 of 6 players ever)

  33. SAM JONES

  Resume: 12 years, 8 quality, 5 All-Stars … Top 10 (’65, ’66, ’67) … 3-year peak: 24–5–3 …

  5-year Playoffs peak: 25–3–5, 47% FG … played for 10 champs (’59–’66, ’68–’ 69 Celts), 2nd-best player (3x), 3rd-best player (3x) … 3rd-best player on one runner-up (’67 Celts) …

  career: 46% FG, 80% FT

  The Ice/Sam debate doubles as the enduring point of this book. When measuring the impact of a player’s career, it’s easy to get swayed by individual triggers (scoring/rebounding stats, All-Star appearances, All-NBA nods) and situational triggers (either a lack of playoff success or an inordinate amount of playoff success), as well as things that have nothing to do with anything (like a cool nickname or distinctive shot). Upon first glance, you’d assume Ice was a better player than Sam and that’s that. So let’s break it down Dr. Jack–style:

  Originality. Sam provided the DNA model for nearly every great shooting guard from the past forty years, a six-foot-four athlete with long arms, an explosive first step, a killer bank shot and no discernible holes in his game. Ice was a six-foot-eight string bean who weighed about an Olsen Twin and a half at his peak, looked like a dead ringer for a black John Holmes 11 and could have been knocked over by one of Billy Paultz’s farts. We’ll never see anyone like him again. I am sure of this. Slight Edge: Ice.

  Calling Card. Sam owned the most accurate bank shot of his era, making them from 22-degree angles, 64-degree angles … it didn’t matter. Meanwhile, Ice owned the most accurate bank shot of his era and it wasn’t even his signature shot: He could routinely sink his world-famous finger roll from as far as 12–15 feet, like he was trying to win a stuffed animal at a carnival. I can’t pick between these two shots because I love them both to the point that I’m writing this with a boner right now. What’s tragic is that we probably won’t see either shot again—at least to that degree of success and frequency—because of the basketball camp mentality that infected today’s game. Everyone shoots the same and plays the same, like they’re coming off an assembly line or something. That’s why we rarely see finger rolls or bankers anymore, and hell will probably freeze over before we see another old-school hook shot. Slight Edge: Ice.

  Nickname. Gervin had one of the best NBA nicknames ever, “the Iceman”; 12 Sam never had a nickname, fitting because he received less attention and fanfare than anyone in the top forty. We’re deducting points here only because Val Kilmer went by “Iceman” in Top Gun and had such disturbing homoerotic tension with Maverick. Edge: Ice.

  Best What-if. Sam played behind the great Bill Sharman for four full seasons in an eight-team league—with no hope of stealing Sharman’s job because of the black/white thing—until he finally landed crunch-time minutes in the ’61 playoffs (25.8 MPG, 13.1 PPG) and the starting spot after a banged-up Sharman retired that summer. 13 Throw in four years of college and two years of military service and Sam didn’t start until he was twenty-eight, making the rest of his career even more astounding. (Note: Jones and Russell were the first greats to maintain a high level of play into their mid-thirties.) Then again, “What if Sam hadn’t lost much of his twenties?” can’t compare with Gervin getting drafted by the ’72 Virginia Squires and teamed up with a young Julius Erving for one year before the cash-poor Squires sold Doc to the Nets. What if Ice and Doc had played their whole careers together? Can you imagine a late seventies NBA team trying to match up with them? Would that have been the coolest team for the rest of eternity? And who thought it would be a good idea to stick a professional basketball team in Virginia? Edge: Ice.

  Scoring Ability. Ice was the number two all-time shooting guard from an “I’m getting my 30–35

  tonight in the flow of the game and you’re not stopping me” efficiency standpoint, nestled comfortably between MJ (number one) 14 and Kobe (number 3). Sam’s scoring had an on/off switch; Ice just scored and scored and rarely had those “Uh-oh, look out, he’s starting to catch fire!” streaks, peaking in 1978–80 with these Money-ball numbers: 30 points per game, 54 percent shooting, 85 percent free throw shooting. During the ’78 season, he had a game in Chicago where he scored 37 points on 17-for-18 shooting. As one Spurs teammate joked in 1982, “The only way to stop Ice is to hold practice.” Sam wasn’t in that class, but he was remarkably steady in big games (we’re getting to that); it should also be mentioned that Sam had 25-foot range and would have been helped by a three-point line, whereas the three-point line didn’t help Ice at all. Poor Sam came along twenty years too soon in every respect. Edge: Ice.

  Head Case Potential. Gervin endured constant criticism for his priorities (did he care more about scoring titles or winning titles?); his defense (outstandingly crappy); his squawking about being underpaid (constant); his dedication (he skipped practice so frequently that SI casually mentioned in 1982, “Gervin is habitually late for workouts and sometimes doesn’t show up at all,” like they were talking about an asthma condition or something); his effort issues (when the Spurs gave him a six-year, $3.9 million extension before the ’81 season, they included a $14,000 bonus for every win between 36 and 56 games); 15 and his personal life, which was endlessly rumored about. 16

  Here’s how Ice summed up his relative lack of popularity in 1978: “Whereas I never went fly like some of the boys. 17 I’m conservative. I got the short hair, the pencil ’stache, the simple clothes. Plus I’m 6’8”, 183—no, make that 185—and when you look at me all you see is bone. Otherwise in Detroit I’m known as Twig according to my physique. I just do my thing and stay consistent. I figure the people be recognizing the Iceman pretty soon now. Whereas I be up there in a minute.”

  18 It would have been fun following him and covering him, but you might not have enjoyed coaching him or playing with him. As for Sam, he was a head case only in one respect: He never liked the pressure of being “the guy” and preferred to be a complementary star. According to Russell’s Second Wind, Sam carried the team enough times that Russ finally asked him why it didn’t happen more often; Sam responded, “No, I don’t want to do that. I don’t want the responsibility of having to pla
y like that every night.” Russell respected that choice, pointing out how so many players wanted to be paid like stars without actually carrying the star’s load every night, so Sam’s acceptance of his own limitations was admirable in a way, even as it frustrated the hell out of Russell that Sam was satisfied with being an afterthought some nights. Then again, Sam turned into Jimmy Chitwood with games on the line. Here’s how Russell described it:

  I never could guess what Sam was going to do or say, with one major exception: I knew exactly how he would react in our huddle during the final seconds of a crucial game. I’m talking about a situation where we’d be one point behind, with five seconds to go in a game that meant not just first place or pride but a whole season, when everything was on the line…. Red would be looking around at faces, trying to decide which play to call. It’s a moment when even the better players in the NBA will start coughing, tying their shoelaces and looking the other way. At such moments I knew what Sam would do as well as I know my own name. “Give me the ball,”

  he’d say. “I’ll make it.”19 And all of us would look at him, and we’d know by looking that he meant what he said. Not only that, but you knew that he’d make it.

  Defensive Prowess. The old joke about Sam: the best part of his defense was Russell. But he wasn’t better or worse than most of the guys back then—great athlete, well conditioned, long arms, knew where to go and what to do—while Ice was the worst defensive player of anyone in the top thirty-five. Part of this wasn’t Ice’s fault: the Spurs didn’t care about defense, only that he outscored whomever was guarding him. Which he usually did. Still, defense wins championships