Dr. J

by Julius Erving

  Keenan is also concerned about his nickname. Since the preseason, fans and players have been calling him Dr. K, which he feels makes him seem like a second-rate Dr. J.

  “I ain’t no Junior Dr. J.”

  He suggests, as an alternative, Mr. K.

  But it doesn’t stick and guys on the team start calling him by his given name, Larry, which he can’t stand.

  “C’mon, man, call me Mr. K.”

  “Mr. K?” Brian Taylor says, sounding it out. “That’s not a nickname, that’s an . . . abbreviation.”

  Keenan broods on this for a while, before coming back with Special K, which makes us roll our eyes. Super John finally rescues him: “Man, you’re just some cat, but like with a K,” he says. “K-A-T.”

  It sticks. We call him the Kat.

  6.

  Kevin is smart enough to recognize that if he wants to run, he’s going to have to play his young guns a little more—and allow us to play some man-to-man, sagging defense for some stretches. He begins starting Super John and Kat, and second-year man Brian Taylor. Super John and Kat are soon combining for over 30 points a game, and Keenan leads the team in rebounding that year, with over 11. Our oldest starter is Billy Paultz, and he is in his fourth year. (We call him the Whopper.) After that San Diego meeting we go on to win 19 out of 22. We are fast. With Kat, Super John, Brian Taylor, and me taking off on the break, there may be no team in basketball who can keep up with us. But I’m still worried we may be a little bit soft when it comes to playoff time. The game slows down in the postseason, and offenses become more methodical as defenses tighten up. If we go into the postseason with Paultz and Kat as our front line, we may not have the beef to match up against George McGinnis and the Pacers or Gilmore and Kentucky.

  7.

  With about 30 games left in the season, I get a call from Kevin, who tells me GM Dave DeBusschere has traded John Roche for Wendell Ladner and Mike Gale.

  “Why Wendell?” I ask.

  “We figured if we didn’t have him on our team, he was going to break your leg the next time we played.”

  That sounds about right. I know firsthand how tough he is, but I wonder about him because he also holds the record for being traded the most times in one basketball season. In 1972 he got dealt from Memphis to Carolina and back to Memphis and then to Kentucky. He is built like a linebacker and he has a mustache that looks like a squirrel sitting on his upper lip. He comes from a place called Necaise Crossing, Mississippi. He went to college at Southern Mississippi and the scouts had somehow measured him at six foot nine, but when he showed up for his rookie year in Memphis, he had shrunk five official inches.

  But he’s enough of a physical defensive stopper and outside shooting threat to have made two ABA all-star teams. He leads the ABA in fights started and ejections incurred. But perhaps Wendell is most famous for diving after loose balls. In Kentucky, he chased a loose ball into a glass watercooler near the Colonel’s bench and had to get forty-eight stitches in his hand. I remember Billy Cunningham telling me there was blood everywhere. Supposedly, Wendell wanted to come back in and play the second half.

  The first time I meet Wendell is at practice at the Cathedral College gym in Douglaston, Queens, our regular facility. Now I’ve been known to be vain from time to time—witness my morning Afro routine—but Wendell is something else: he actually shows up on the court with a brush so he can comb his hair during practice. But don’t make any mistake about Wendell being soft. He is perhaps the most competitive basketball player I’ve ever played with. Even in practice, he’s diving all over the place, smashing into walls and benches, knocking guys over. And every time he goes down, he gets back up, straightening his hair.

  As soon as he’s out on the practice floor, he and Williamson start to get into it, pushing and shoving each other.

  “Don’t mess with Super John!”

  Wendell shrugs. “Who the hell is Super John?”

  They are natural antagonists. Williamson is from Connecticut and Wendell is from Mississippi and almost every practice they get into a little tussle. He will undercut guys in practice, knock people over in a scrimmage.

  “Come on, Wendell!” I’ll say when he undercuts someone in a scrimmage. “This is practice.”

  “So what?”

  But I appreciate the impact of Wendell on our defensive mind-set, and he gives Kevin a bench player who can instantly change a game—sometimes for the worse.

  Off the court, Wendell dresses in cowboy boots, bell-bottom jeans with a buckle the size of a manhole cover, and a fringe jacket. He’s the first man I’ve ever met who is obsessed with Burt Reynolds. I mean, we all like Burt, he’s a big star coming off Deliverance and The Longest Yard, but Wendell is fixated on the man. Wendell actually does a publicity poster of himself lying down in the buff with an ABA ball strategically placed, an intentional homage to his icon. He is so exuberant and full of life that even Super John comes around and takes a liking to him, inviting him to the dojo. Wendell goes a couple of times, learns a few moves, has some photos taken of himself in a kung fu robe, and then quits, complaining that there aren’t any pretty girls to spar with.

  Wendell is living out of a motel near the Coliseum. Since I’ve bought the second condo, I invite Wendell to move into the original one-bedroom. All he has to do is pay the mortgage for his rent. It’s a great deal for both of us, and it means that Wendell and I are neighbors and I end up spending more time with this big, preening redneck than with anyone else on the team. I go over to pick him up so we can carpool to practice, and he’ll be listening to a Mac Davis album, or he wants to play me a new Kris Kristofferson song.

  “What do you call this music?” I ask Wendell as he sings along to Mac Davis’s “Baby Don’t Get Hooked on Me.”

  I ain’t ready for no family ties

  Nobody’s gonna hurry me

  “This is my theme song, Doc.”

  “You ever been married, Wendell?”

  He tells me he was married to his high school sweetheart and didn’t want to give her a divorce, either, but was tricked into signing the papers before a game because he thought the lawyer handing him the divorce papers was a fan. He signed it, “Wendell Ladner, #33.”

  He loves playing in New York, he says, and of all the guys, he may well be the most successful ladies’ man on the team. As a single guy, Wendell is out on the town every night, but somehow he never shows up for practice with a hair out of place on his head. At one point, Wendell says he is experiencing some discomfort in his groin area. He asks me about it, I guess because of my groin injury the previous season. When he describes the burning sensation, I tell him that his is a very different sort of issue than mine was. For one thing, this doesn’t sound sports related. He goes to see the doctor and the doc tells him he’s been having too much sex.

  Wendell looks concerned. “You think so?”

  “How many times a day do you have sex?”

  Wendell shrugs. “Three or four. I don’t always count.”

  “Well, that’s excessive.”

  Wendell shakes his head. “It’s never with the same girl.”

  Another time, I’m walking back to the condo and I see Wendell running down the beach barefooted, wearing only his basketball trunks.

  “You jogging, Wendell?”

  He trots past me. “I had to get out of there,” he says, pointing at the condo. “I brought a girl back and forgot I already had one waiting for me. They’re in there fighting.”

  He stops running. “How does my hair look?”

  I’m a family man now, so I’m not out at night as much as some of the guys. Wendell and a few of our teammates—Brian Taylor, Willie, Billy Schaeffer—like to gather at a club over in Hempstead, the Salty Dog, which Billy Paultz co-owns. He’s got four levels of lounges, a couple of dance floors and bars. We’re heading into the disco era, and this is probably the hottest spot in Long Island. So Wendell is in heaven when he’s over there, mixing and mingling with the ladies. He’s always
lobbying the DJs to play some Mac Davis or Kris Kristofferson, and usually failing. Once, he manages to get some Creedence Clearwater Revival onto the sound system and he starts dancing around to “Willy and the Poor Boys.” Wendell actually has some nice moves out on the dance floor. You wonder how a guy who can be so graceful in dress shoes can be so wild on the basketball court.

  Every game Wendell plays, you know he is going to end up in the stands, a few rows back if possible. He takes out scorers’ tables, cheerleading sections, program sellers, peanut vendors, and, of course, watercoolers—sometimes on plays where it doesn’t even seem diving is really necessary. He will get into fights with the other team before the game, slugging it out with Warren Jabali or Cincy Powell or John Brisker while still in his warm-up jacket. He gets technical fouls for punching opposing players walking down the tunnel before the opening tip.

  In one game against St. Louis, we’re losing to the Spirits by 30 and Wendell somehow slips out of his shoe and loses his man, Freddie Lewis, who is dribbling away. Wendell gets up holding his shoe in his hand, and he’s chasing after Freddie. Freddie is a fast little guy, so Wendell gets frustrated and finally just throws his shoe at him, knocking the ball loose. Freddie stops, looks around at Wendell, and then just shrugs, like, What are you going to do? That’s Wendell.

  8.

  But Wendell is the missing piece, a physically tough defender who makes every player in the league think twice before coming down the lane. And every team starts the game thinking about Wendell instead of me. With Williamson and Kenon in the lineup and contributing steadily, Paultz and Taylor having fine seasons, and my own campaign, which will win me my first MVP award, we may be the best team in the ABA this year. And one of the keys is the relationship between Kevin and me.

  Kevin is an outspoken, brash coach, unafraid of criticizing a player or shouting during a practice or a game if a player is repeating the same mistakes. Remember, Kevin and Rod are often scrimmaging with us, so some of the young guys react badly when Kevin lays into them.

  What gives Kevin cover is the fact that he and I have a very frank relationship. He will shout at me during practice or criticize me for not making my rotation on defense. I tend to avoid verbal confrontations, and even if I feel that Kevin could be more tactful in the way he brings up some of my errors, I also feel that he has demonstrated enough flexibility and shown me enough respect that I can let it slide if he’s throwing a coaching fit, trying to make a point.

  But it also stems from the fact that I can tell that Kevin respects me and my efforts. I am the player he will ask to shut down the other team’s best player, or who he will ask to take the big shots, and he never questions my intelligence or desire or character. He will sometimes just start shouting, “Julius, are you ever going to rotate down to the block on that? What the hell are you waiting for?”

  I do notice that he seems to shout at me at least once every practice. In a private moment, Kevin pulls me aside and thanks me for not challenging him the way so many star players would. “I ride you a little. But because you take it, the other guys, Williamson, Kenon, Taylor, they know they have to take it, too. And they need some shouting. They see that if Dr. J will listen, then they have to listen.”

  Kevin has us over for poker games at his place: Super John, Brian Taylor, Rod Thorn, Wendell, and a rotating cast of guys. I’m a decent card player, and tend to play more on the road or during bus and plane flights. I have a good poker face and can stay calm no matter what I’m holding. Kevin is a card shark, and he may double his salary from these poker games, especially if Wendell is playing. Wendell has no poker face. If Wendell has a big hand, he can’t contain himself. His smile will light up the room.

  “Wendell, keep it under your hat, brother.”

  “What? Aw, damn, how did you know?”

  This is all part of our process as a team, this bonding. Brian Taylor even moves into a condo down the beach from Wendell and me. We’re a group of really close guys and, going into the playoffs, we know we are the best team in the league, maybe in all of basketball.

  9.

  The challenges of life back in New York are never-ending. I need to come up with twenty to thirty tickets for every home game, since I’ve got so many family and friends coming to the Coliseum to see me. And Mom isn’t happy about the decisions I’m making in my personal life. She accepts Cheo and loves him as her own grandchild, but she’s still vaguely scandalized by me and Turq living together out of wedlock. There is no explaining to her that we are living in a different time, that men and women are cohabitating, having sex before marriage, and all that. Still, the tension between her and Turquoise is a steady, quiet rumble in my life that I ignore at my own peril.

  But I have to give Turquoise credit, because she adjusts to this new life flawlessly. She has her son, and is pregnant with our second, and still she comes to every home game and sits with the players’ wives and girlfriends and immediately generates this intense interest in the fans. Everyone wants to know more about her. She has this bearing that is almost regal, and I guess that’s the same quality that first attracted me down in Norfolk.

  Turq and I decide to have a very quiet wedding ceremony with some family and close friends at the Americana Inn. We know that if we publicize our wedding, or if the press finds out about our plans, we will be mobbed by reporters and fans. Turq and I have done a great job keeping it quiet, and we haven’t leaked to anyone, not even family. This is some serious down-low stuff. And if you ask any of the guys I’ve played with, I’ve always been good at keeping my secrets. But at a bachelor party thrown for me the night before by my teammates, I make the mistake of revealing my plans. And the next day it’s all over the newspapers and on the radio, and by that night, the TV news is covering it and saying Dr. J has gotten cold feet. The truth is, I’ve heard about the phalanx of TV cameras that are waiting for us over at the hotel. Turquoise is already there, upstairs, and she calls me and tells me it’s a circus. If I show up, I may never get inside for my own ceremony. They’re stopping traffic outside. I’m thinking, Damn, this is really something. I mean, I knew I was becoming a celebrity, that my fame was starting to transcend basketball, but this was a little beyond what I had previously imagined. We need to make a move. Turquoise tells me to go to the Waldorf Astoria, that the judge will meet us there. I’m with my old friend and Rucker League teammate Dave Brownbill and his girl, Frannie Ryan, and we race over to the Waldorf Astoria where we take a suite.

  When I get there, Turquoise is looking as beautiful as ever in her simple white wedding dress, holding a bouquet of flowers. She is shaking her head as if to say, What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  And all I can tell her is, “I never said it was going to be easy. But it will be interesting.”

  The judge, August Moresca, finally turns up a little after midnight and performs the ceremony. Dave and Frannie are joined by my dentist, who just happens to walk into the Waldorf the same time as me, so I tell him to come up. (Since my job working at the bakery, I’ve had bad teeth, and by the time I’m twenty-four, I’ve already had two root canals. Believe me, inviting Dr. and Mrs. Marks is more than just an act of spontaneous generosity.) We toast with champagne and potato chips. But we have somehow managed to keep our marriage a private affair, which is what both of us wanted. As it would turn out, far too much of our lives would be played out in public.

  10.

  Loughery has us playing our best ball at the end of the season, as we win eleven of our last twelve to finish at 55-29, the best record in the ABA.

  In the first round we take on Al Bianchi and the Squires—owner Earl Foreman has sold George Gervin to the San Antonio Spurs, so this team doesn’t have the talent to compete against us. We win the first 2 games at home and then head down to Norfolk for game 3.

  It’s a blast being back in Scope for a playoff game, but the Squires sort of lull us into playing their game, and somehow they are leading by a point with 8 seconds left. I take the ball, driv
e down the left side of the lane, go up and spin the ball off the backboard, and I . . . miss. The fans seem almost disappointed that I didn’t make the buzzer beater. But we take the next two to put the Squires away. This would turn out to be the last playoff game the Squires would ever play. I always wonder what would have happened if somehow Earl had kept all his pieces—me, Gervin, and Charlie Scott—together. We would have been a perennial contender in any league. The lesson here is you don’t want to play for an owner who can’t afford to keep a team together. I like to think that in Roy Boe we have found a guy who won’t have to break up the good chemistry we’re building.

  In the next round we face my old nemesis, Artis Gilmore, who that season is combining with Issel for 44 points and 28 rebounds a game. They also have sharpshooter Louie Dampier and, of course, John Roche, who they picked up in the trade for Wendell. Even though we finish with a better record, it seems the media still sees Kentucky as the team to beat, in part because of the presence of their all-star big men and the fact that they have been to the finals before. I feel I have always played well against Artis, and I believe there is no defender in the league who can stop me without fouling. Artis and Issel have for a few years been the best combination in the league, and they have gotten closer to the title than I ever have. I haven’t even led my team to the finals.

  I’ve had a great regular season and win my first MVP award, as I lead the league in scoring again and finish second in minutes, third in steals, third in blocks, sixth in assists, and tenth in rebounds. I’m First Team All-ABA again, along with Artis, George McGinnis, Jimmy Jones, and Mack Calvin. But just as important for the Nets has been the emergence of Super John and the Kat, both of whom make the All-Rookie team.

  But I haven’t won a championship since playing for the Sal, through high school and college, and with the Squires; we have come up short at the end of the season. This year, I’m determined to change that.