Dr. J

by Julius Erving

  It’s part of my makeup that I believe I can play with anyone, anywhere. And I see Pete as no exception.

  From the first day of training camp, Pete and I hit it off. He’s a soft-spoken guy, sort of like me, and a little bit in his own world, but then sometimes I can seem that way, too. I’m not aloof, but when I’m playing, I get so focused that I almost seem to lose intensity when I’m actually just totally into the game. Pete is the same way.

  But when you’re playing with Pete, you realize that not only does he have all of the Globetrotters moves—crossover dribble, snap pass, no-look stuff—but he can do them at unimaginable speeds. He’s one of the fastest players I’ve ever played with.

  The Hawks’ coach, Cotton Fitzsimmons, knows what he has in Pete and me. He’s telling me, “Doc, he’ll find you. In traffic, in the air, you have to be ready. He’ll find you.” And he’s right, I’ve always had fast hands, and I need them playing with Pete because he has this uncanny ability to get me the ball, through narrow windows in space and time, so that I feel like I’m already in my move once the ball gets to me. Also, as Pete gets to know where I like the ball, he starts putting up these perfect lob passes, just right on my hands where I can dunk it. After I throw it down, when I’m looking for Pete to give him a nod or wink of thanks, he’s already gone, running back down the floor. Fatty Taylor up in Virginia was a good point guard, but we never had the timing to do these alley-oop plays consistently—with Pete, after just a few days, we have a sort of telepathy between us. It takes some adjusting, and occasionally those passes are more flashy than good, but when they start working, I get a sense of what this season could be.

  From Cotton Fitzsimmons, I learn a ton about fast-break basketball. He’s a visionary on the subject, one of the gurus of the break, and he shows me more about where the guards and forwards should be positioned. Ideally, if you are fleet of foot and can get two forwards and a guard running, you can create a ton of three-on-ones or three-on-twos. I spend a month practicing this with Pete and Lou Hudson. It’s a clinic in transition basketball. The great lesson I learn is that it’s not how fast I run the break that matters, it’s how fast we all run it. If, as a unit, we are faster than the other team, then we will get layups.

  What is interesting is that Pete’s court vision has previously been so far beyond his teammates, they’re not ready for the kind of passes that he usually dishes out. I grew up imitating the Globetrotters, but I haven’t had much opportunity to try this stuff in practice, or on any other court except for Rucker—whenever I tried at UMass, Jack would practically cancel practice right then and there. So running with Pete is interesting in that I feel the freedom to throw some no-look and some behind-the-back passes as well, which can catch Pete off guard.

  At one point, in practice, we have a two-on-one breakaway and Pete dribbles between his legs and then hits me with a behind-the-back pass, then I dribble between my legs and hit him back with a behind-the-back pass. He is so surprised that he travels. None of his previous teammates have ever been able to match him move for move. But that establishes some kind of connection. As we were walking back down the court, he looks at me and nods. “Okay, Doc, I get you.”

  What really draws us together, however, is our work ethic. On every team I’ve ever played on, I’m the last person to leave the gym. If I can, I find someone who will stay after practice and play one-on-one with me. With the Squires I could convince Fatty Taylor or Ray Scott to stick around, and with the Hawks, it is Pete who stays. He’s always in the gym anyway, working on his crazy shots or a new dribble.

  The first time I see Pete in the gym after practice, he’s shooting left-hand shots from a seated position. I’ve never seen anyone do that before.

  I go down to the other basket and do my leaping drills, touching the rim a hundred times with each hand, then both hands, then hanging on the rim and then starting again. Finally, I go over and ask if he wants to play a little game.

  “H-O-R-S-E?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “One-on-one.”

  He nods. Just spending time with Pete is funny because he’ll do these things with a basketball I’ve never seen before when he’s just standing around, like spinning it forward, then backward, changing the direction with one flick, and it never leaves the tip of his finger.

  “We’ll play for dinner,” Pete says.

  Playing one-on-one with Pete is an experience. He’s got the kind of shooting range that I’ve never seen before. He can shoot it consistently out to thirty-five feet, but if I’m going to go out there and defend that, then he’ll cross me up on the dribble and get a layup or dunk. Pete has some great ups, and while he’s not known for getting to the rim, he throws some nice dunks down in our games, his hair flapping in the hot Georgia air. One of the things that makes Pete so great is his hang time, and no one talks about that. He can leave the floor and sort of stay up there long enough to fake one way and then pass another. That’s something coaches have been discouraging me from doing my whole life. I can remember only one exception: during my rookie season in the ABA we played the Kentucky Colonels, and Adolph Rupp, the legendary college coach who was working for the team as a special consultant, comes into our locker room after the game and says to me, “Young man, I’ve coached all my career and taught guys never to leave their feet and make decisions after they’re airborne. I watched you do it tonight, and I’m changing my philosophy.”

  Well, Pete will make everyone change their philosophy.

  We play some fierce games that summer, one-on-one battles that go for an hour after practice, and some of the guys even come out to watch after they’ve showered. Pete can get anywhere on the floor with his dribble and I can’t stop him. But he can’t keep me from penetrating, either. We play every day after practice and I think we split the bills for those dinners about in half.

  Pete Maravich is the most skilled basketball player I’ve ever seen.

  When exhibition season starts, we play the Kentucky Colonels—the leagues would regularly match up for exhibition games—and I score 28 and grab 18 rebounds. Every time I pull down a rebound, there’s Pete on the wing. I hit him and then run downcourt and he always finds me in stride where I can do something with the ball. The next game, against Carolina, I score 32 on 14 of 15 shooting, thanks to Pete’s passing. We win both games easily. In addition to Pete, we have small forward Sweet Lou Hudson, who can drain it from outside, and a veteran center in Walt Bellamy, who can match up in the post with anybody.

  I have never looked forward to a basketball season as much as this one with the Hawks.

  31.

  The NBA has been fining the Hawks $25,000 for each exhibition game I play, and commissioner Walter Kennedy has vowed to continue penalizing the team until I join the Milwaukee Bucks. So for a few days, I’m thinking I’m going to have go to Wisconsin, but then a judge in New York issues an injunction ordering me to play for the Squires and insisting that we settle our contract dispute by arbitration. Atlanta has me signed, but with the NBA ruling that I have to play in Milwaukee, the Hawks are no longer interested in fighting the New York ruling, figuring they no longer own my NBA rights. Irwin and I appeal the injunction, and I go back to Hempstead to await the court’s ruling. Publicly, I say I’m willing to sit out the season. I don’t want to, of course, but if this gives Irwin more leverage to at least renegotiate the Squires deal, then that’s the position we have to take. According to the terms of the Hawks’ deal, I get to keep the signing bonus, the car, and the apartment, so we’ve made out financially very well for my few weeks of playing with Pistol. Irwin’s earned my complete loyalty.

  The season starts, and the Squires lose their first 4 games. Finally, a three-judge federal appeals court panel upholds the Squires’ injunction, ordering us into arbitration, appointing as arbitrator a Harvard Law School professor named Archibald Cox, who will later become famous as special prosecutor in the Watergate trial.

  I’ve lost. I’m heartbroken. If I want to play basketba
ll, then I have to go back to Virginia. Earl calls me at my mom’s house and tells me he hopes I’ll play for the Squires.

  “You’re our franchise. No hard feelings,” he tells me. “It’s just business.”

  I tell him I know. But I don’t have a place to live. I gave up my house. And now it’s just me. No Freda, no kids.

  Earl thinks this over. “You can stay at my place.” He says he’s never there, since he spends most of his time in DC.

  Earl has this fantastic penthouse in downtown Norfolk with a waterfront view. And I’m just one guy, basically a bachelor.

  I tell him that sounds fine. I’ll stay up in New York and join the team for their game at the Nassau Coliseum and then drive back down myself.

  That’s what I have to admire about Earl. We go through four months of bitter legal battles about where I’m supposed to play, accusing each other of cheating and saying awful things about each other in court filings. But when the judges hand down their orders, he doesn’t hold any grudge, and neither do I.

  The team I join is 0–4. In my first game back I score 26 and pull down 11 boards in front of my mom and plenty of my old schoolmates. The next game is back in Scope, and a crowd of nearly 10,000 gives me a standing ovation when I’m introduced. That’s how loyal the Virginia fans are: they come out and show their love for me even after I’ve spent the summer trying to leave town. We win that night and the next two to go to 4-4. But this team just isn’t the same as it was last year. Attendance is down and our club just doesn’t have the same chemistry as we did the previous season. For most of the year, our number two scoring option is center Jim Eakins, who shoots a high percentage but doesn’t demand a lot of attention in an opposing team’s game plan. Because I have to carry much more of the scoring load than before, I end up leading the league with 31.9 points a game.

  About halfway through that season, however, our team gets a little more interesting when Johnny Kerr signs a nineteen-year-old kid who had been thrown out of Eastern Michigan University, a quiet, shy string-bean who can shoot like, well, like Pete Maravich. Kerr had heard about this kid through one of his old Syracuse teammates but had never seen him play. Then one day he was watching an all-star game in Michigan and he sees this six-foot-seven guard draining 25-footers like layups. That’s when he decided he had to sign George Gervin.

  George is so humble and easygoing I can’t believe he was thrown out of college for fighting. If not for Johnny Kerr showing up at that all-star game, he may never have played pro ball. But from the moment Al brought him into practice and had him set up behind the 3-point line and shoot, I could see this kid was something special.

  Faster than he looks or acts, he has this super-quick release and can get his shot off from anywhere. Plus, he can finish at the basket with either hand and from any angle. He’s taking the finger roll and using it almost like Kareem uses the sky hook; it’s a shot he can get in traffic whenever he wants.

  One day after practice, George leaves the court. I follow him down the hall and call out to him, “Hey rook, where do you think you’re going?”

  He turns to me, all hang-dog shy and unsure of himself.

  “We’re not done practicing,” I say. “We got some work to do.”

  And George stays after every practice with me, becoming my regular one-on-one opponent.

  It’s amazing, but in just a few months I’ve played with two of the most creative big guards in the history of basketball. I’m living the most interesting hoops clinic in history.

  32.

  Earl’s place is in this luxury high-rise penthouse. I can park the Jaguar and the Mark down in the garage and take the elevator up to this three-bedroom aerie with panoramic views of the city and the harbor. Earl and his wife, Phyllis, had it decorated in this contemporary style, with these exposed rock walls, shag carpeting, sunken living room, wet bar, and glass-and-chrome coffee tables. The closets are filled with his and Phyllis’s stuff, so it’s a little odd when I’m entertaining to have to explain why there are the clothes of a middle-aged white woman in the closets. But I’m living rent-free.

  Earl tells me, “No pay, just play.”

  Still, whenever I have girls come up, they always do a double take because they can tell that this just doesn’t seem like the kind of place I’d be living in. But it works for me: it’s tidy, very organized, with a cleaning lady who comes in every other day.

  When George comes over, I can see him wondering how I can afford it. Earl signed George for just $100,000 over two years, so after his agent’s commissions and taxes and insurance, he barely has enough to rent a modest apartment. I tell him this is the owner’s pad.

  George nods, and I can see him thinking that all he has to do to live in the owner’s apartment is lead the league in scoring.

  33.

  I’m taking advantage of my new freedom with the opposite sex, dating various women, including a Squirette (those are the Squires’ cheerleaders) named Rei Kelly. We were friends during my rookie season, but in my second year we become intimate as well. She’s a Norfolk girl and has me over to dinner to meet her parents. We both know we’re seeing other people. In fact, when the Indiana Pacers come to play, Darnell Hillman and Rei hit it off so well, she sort of becomes his girlfriend when he’s in town. I don’t mind. We’re cool like that.

  It’s an interesting time for me sexually, in that I can date with a free conscience, and there are plenty of opportunities as we travel around the country. I’ve got a fat bankroll. I’m the star of the team. And after Carol, I am definitely not looking for another long-term relationship. The sexual revolution has finally made its way down to Norfolk, Virginia, and I’m indulging, perhaps a little too much. No matter: it never gets in the way of my game. I am aware of my role as a leader. I will never let partying or a girl impinge on practice. I make it clear to every girl I’m with that I’m not looking for any kind of long-term relationship.

  But that’s what I run into after we beat the Kentucky Colonels up in Richmond. Billy Franklin, a rookie on the team, said he had some girls coming up for the game. After the final horn blows, I come down the tunnel and there’s Billy.

  “Doc, these girls just saw you play and they really want to meet you.”

  They’re in the backseat of a Cadillac. I bend over and look in and there’s three of them, two of them sisters.

  “This is Cynthia,” Billy says. “This here is Cynthia’s sister Camille. And that’s Turquoise.”

  I’m not too impressed with the sisters. But I am definitely attracted to the other one, Turquoise.

  I lean back down. “How you like the game?”

  Turquoise smiles. My blood jumps. “Congratulations. You won.”

  “Yes I have.” I smile.

  It turns out these girls are up here from North Carolina, visiting some friends at Howard University. Turquoise’s brother, James, plays at Virginia Union, so she knows a little about basketball.

  Turquoise has exquisitely shaped lips, sharp cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes with tilde-shaped eyebrows, and light, almost golden-colored skin. She has Freda’s coloring, actually.

  She is a uniquely beautiful woman with graceful, southern manners. But I can also sense something else. There is a fierceness to her, a cunning, that radiates from her eyes, from the way she is appraising me. I like this girl. She’s a Leo, just like Carol.

  We exchange phone numbers.

  34.

  There is something wrong about how I treat women. When I went on that run of eight women in eight days, it left me feeling like I had failed at something, was in some ways a disappointment to my mother. I don’t want to see women as sex objects, though sometimes I fall into that behavior and pattern. It’s not how my mother raised me, I know that, but it is pretty typical behavior for young men. And now that I’m not with Carol and I’m not betraying anyone, I can convince myself that this is all in good fun. I’m always discreet, and I don’t talk to the other guys on the team very much about my nocturnal activities,
but sometimes, the emptiness of the pursuit gets to me. I don’t want to end up alone, like Tonk, cut off from my wife and children.

  I invite Turquoise to come visit me in Norfolk and stay over in the penthouse. She drives up from Winston-Salem, and by the time she arrives, I’ve got the mood going, a little champagne on ice, some fresh-cut flowers, some chocolates, Marvin Gaye on Earl’s quadrophonic sound system, the lights dimmed so that the nighttime harbor view of ships moving in and out of port and cars moving along the expressway is all shimmering yellows, reds, and greens against black sea and through a layer of soft fog. How can a young lady resist? I’m thinking. This is almost unfair.

  Then Turquoise arrives and she’s with Cynthia.

  We’re sitting on the sectional sofa in the sunken living room: Cynthia, Turquoise, and me, and I’m thinking, How can I make a move with her wing-woman right there . . .

  “You want to meet one of my friends?” I ask Cynthia.

  I call the rookie, George Gervin, and tell him I have a girl for him.

  “Who?”

  “Cynthia,” I say.

  “Is she fine?”

  I look her over. “Um, yeah.” She’s a fine person, if that’s what Gerv is asking.