Dr. J

by Julius Erving

  But Gene does everything by the book. He formulates his game plan and sticks to it, even when the players on the court are telling him it’s not working. If George says, “Hey, Coach, I can beat him to the left whenever I want,” Gene won’t alter his offense. Instead, he’ll be flipping through his playbook, looking for what he wants to run while we’re standing around, waiting for him to find what he is searching for in that bloated volume.

  It’s a big change from Kevin Loughery, who always had this feeling and instinct for the game and was adjusting our play-calling on the fly.

  During the regular season, it’s not so bad, as Gene has most of the answers in that book and we’re talented enough to win 50 games. I lead the team in scoring and we have six players in double figures. But come playoff time, I’m a little worried, because in those situations, as teams are cranking up their defensive pressure and each possession matters more, you have to throw out the book and go with your gut.

  In big games, the answers aren’t in the book; a coach needs to read them in the eyes of his players.

  23.

  For the first few months of the season, I continue living on Long Island and get a ride down to Philadelphia for practices and games from Lloyd Free. Lloyd has a place in Brownsville, Brooklyn, and he likes to drive fast in his new Cadillac. Or sometimes, we’ll take my new customized van: two captain’s chairs, leather interior, seating area in the back, a TV, a folding bed, a refrigerator. Everyone on the team has a van. The situation is ideal for me because I can sleep in the passenger seat while Lloyd speeds down the turnpike. At least two times, I wake up as the car is driving down the ramp into the Spectrum, and Lloyd tells me he was stopped and ticketed by state troopers and I slept through the whole thing.

  Eventually, I buy a three-bedroom condominium at the Academy House in downtown Philadelphia so that the family can come down and stay over if we have a home stand and the kids are off from school. Turquoise becomes a fixture at our games, and the TV cameras seem to seek her out. She becomes part of the news herself when she writes an article for the New York Times about our experiences with the Sixers. (The article is co-written by a freelance writer named Samantha Stevenson.) This is a New York newspaper, so of course she writes that we both miss New York. But Turq also has some choice words about my new team, taking the other guys to task for shooting too much, and saying she doesn’t “think the 76ers will win the National Basketball Association championship.”

  Now, Turq is a strong woman, and she has the right to say whatever she wants. That’s the kind of marriage we have. And the guys on the team don’t pay it any attention. But the Philly newspapers play it up, of course. And I have to do some damage control, but I never apologize for or criticize my wife. I know better than that.

  But her point is made in those few instances where the fans, as Turquoise writes, “can really see Julius play. They haven’t seen all of him yet.” I make the same point in interviews. If I’m not handling the ball eight or nine times down the court, then on the tenth time, it’s very hard to do something spectacular with it. I’ve always gotten my shots in the flow of the game. I admire guys like Lloyd Free who can not only drive two hours before a game, but can put up shots at a remarkable rate. Lloyd is a shooter. He’ll put it up from the locker room.

  In the all-star game that year, I score 30, get 12 boards, and win the MVP award. It feels good to show the fans what I am capable of, even if I don’t often get that chance in the Philadelphia offense. At least not until the playoffs.

  24.

  This is a team that won’t shut up. Lloyd declares himself All-World (before changing his name to World B. Free), Dawkins follows by claiming he is All Universe. (“This is the Dawk and I’m ready to talk,” is how he answers his phone.) Joe Bryant and Steve Mix are arguing through the media for more playing time. Doug Collins literally can’t sit still long enough to complete a sentence. And there is endless speculation about whether George and I can coexist. We can, of course. There is never actually any tension between George and me. If I have any issue, it is with Gene. Why should George be taking more shots a night than Doug Collins or me if he is shooting a lower percentage? That’s just not smart basketball.

  But the fans don’t care. We are selling out arenas all over the country—we lead the league in road attendance—and at home we’re playing in front of the biggest crowds of my career. We finish with 50 wins and the Atlantic Division title, which means we earn a first-bound bye and then face the Boston Celtics in the second.

  I score 36 in the first game, but we lose to my old teammate Charlie Scott and off-season buddy John Havlicek. It’s a seven-game war, and Doug Collins and I take turns leading our offense against Dave Cowens and Jo Jo White. It’s Lloyd Free who comes through in game 7, however, with a 27-point performance that buries the Celtics.

  In the Eastern Conference finals we are facing the Houston Rockets and their imposing young center, Moses Malone. We go up 2-0 at home. In game 2 our twin towers Caldwell Jones and Darryl Dawkins hold Moses to just 7 points. In games 4 and 5, we are able to slow down Moses and hold him to just 22 total points, taking a 3-2 series lead into game 6. I score 34 in the elimination game, but we are bailed out when Jake O’Donnell calls an offensive foul on John Lucas with eight seconds left on the clock. That call could have gone either way, and on the road, I certainly didn’t expect to get the benefit of the referee’s doubt, but we escape Houston with a 3-point win and a date with the Portland Trail Blazers in the NBA finals.

  This is my third championship series in four years, so I’ve been playing long seasons, leading each of these teams in minutes and scoring. I can’t stress how important it is for players to get rest during the season. That’s where a team’s depth becomes as important as its frontline stars. If you don’t have bench players who can contribute serious minutes toward the end of the regular season, then your superstars are going to get tired. They may still find a way to win—what sets great players apart is that ability to triumph over adversity—but it means you may not have the same shot at building a dynasty. Adding to our playoff problems this year is the fact that while I’ve increased my scoring in the postseason, averaging over 27 a game, our other superstar, George McGinnis, is struggling, averaging only 14 a night. (And his work ethic is questionable. Or at least it appears to be. Before some playoff games, he’s smoking cigarettes during shoot-around.) Luckily, Doug Collins is picking up some of the slack, scoring more in the playoffs than he did during the regular season.

  We’re supposed to beat the Trail Blazers. But we need to play as a team, and the secret to inspiring guys to trust each other and believe in each other isn’t in Gene Shue’s playbook. It’s something that has to be built up over a season of observing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. In another era, just a few years later, the star player on the team will be the one who sets the tone. The superstar becomes the undeniable leader, in part because of the money he is making, and also because of his power to get a coach fired. At this point, I’m still living in a universe where a player takes his cues from the coach. That’s how I’ve been brought up, that’s how I’ve been taught to play. I’m not the coach and I can’t undermine the coach, certainly not in my first season in the league.

  But maybe we are good enough to win on our individual talents. The Spectrum before game 1 is in a celebratory mood. These fans haven’t seen an NBA final since the ’60s and are just four years removed from the worst record in NBA history, the 9-73 team. All of us players feel some vindication at making it to the finals, given the controversy of the regular season. For me, in my first season in the NBA, this is a satisfying finale, to play for a championship, for the chance to win a title in both leagues. I start game 1 with a big dunk over my old ABA colleague Maurice Lucas and finish with 33 points. Doug adds 30 and we take a 2–0 lead. But at the end of game 2, there is a bench-clearing brawl as Lucas and Dawkins get into a tiff. Lucas never backs down from a fight, and he’s a big reason the Trail Blazers are h
ere, as he led the team that season in scoring and grabbed over 11 rebounds a game. He throws a punch at Darryl that misses Darryl but connects with Doug Collins, who is trying to break up the scuffle. Dawkins, meanwhile, is backpedaling away. I go and sit down at mid-court. The refs eject both Darryl and Maurice. Darryl goes into our locker room and demolishes our bathroom, actually tearing a toilet from the wall. He’s furious, and he lets the media know how disappointed he is that none of his teammates had his back in the fight. I’m thinking, we’re supposed to back up Dawk? Chocolate Thunder? He’s six foot ten and 260 pounds. He is our enforcer.

  More worrying is the fact that George has scored only 20 points in the whole series.

  Back in Portland, Maurice, Bill Walton, Bob Gross, Lionel Hollins, and the rest of the Blazers put together a balanced attack with six guys scoring in double figures in both games as they blow us out. George scores 14 and 5. I can tell his confidence is shot, like he doesn’t want to be here. I try to talk to him, to tell him that he needs to focus on his defensive play, on shutting down Maurice, on cutting off Walton’s passing lanes, but he’s not listening.

  They beat us in game 5 at home. It’s really a beat down, but we mount a furious fourth-quarter rally to cut it to 6. I score 37, but we are never really close. “It’s a bad scene,” I tell Turquoise after the game. We are doing everything in one-on-one situations. Portland is scoring through ball movement, keyed by Walton’s post-passing skills. This just isn’t how you win playoff games.

  In game 6 in Portland, I score 40 points—including a big dunk over Bill Walton coming down the right side of the lane—and George redeems himself with 28, including a clutch jump shot with eighteen seconds left that pulls us within 2. Then George ties up Bob Gross on the inbounds pass, and then he wins the ensuing jump ball, tapping it to Free, who passes it to me at the top of the key. I dribble once, and put up a 16-footer with Walton in my face. I get a good look, but I miss. The ball goes out of bounds to us. In the huddle, Gene calls a play for George. I think we should run a play for Doug Collins or let me drive. But I don’t say anything. I’ve just blown my chance to tie this up. But George misses the final shot and—

  I suddenly feel like I’m invisible. There’s Walton jumping up and down, Hollins tossing the ball into the air, someone stripping off Walton’s jersey, and then Walton hugging Maurice Lucas. Jack Ramsay, wearing a pair of the most colorful trousers I’ve ever seen, is arm in arm with one of his assistants, Ramsay’s blue blazer tails flapping up.

  Fans are rushing past me, their fists pumping. They are climbing up on the baskets, pulling at the rims. I’m looking out over the swirl of people. Wait, wait, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

  I take a deep breath and go jogging off the court, dodging delirious Trail Blazer fans. I’m thinking, I’ll be back.

  In the locker room, I’m sitting down and then I look over at Lloyd Free and Henry Bibby and I say, “Hey, we are good enough to win this thing. We didn’t this year. That’s all. But let’s go over and congratulate those guys.”

  McGinnis shakes his head. But Lloyd stands up, and so do Bibby and Doug Collins, and we go over to the Portland locker room to shake their hands. That’s what I would want my opponents to do.

  And we’ll be back soon. Right?

  25.

  After my playoff performance, the Sixer organization and the fans embrace me, and I feel the strengthening of my connection with the city. The Academy House is a new building right off Broad Street, and I become good friends with my neighbors, especially with a gentleman named Brinkley, who lives across the street. Through Brink, I become close to Teddy Pendergrass, the soul singer and an idol of mine. By then, Teddy has already gone solo from Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes and released his self-titled debut album and then one of my favorites, Life Is a Song Worth Singing. Teddy is a Philadelphia institution, one of the originators of the Philly Soul sound. He’s also a big basketball fan, and we start to hang out whenever I’m in town.

  When Teddy was just twelve his father was murdered, so there is some common ground between us in that he was raised by strong women. And we were born just a few weeks apart.

  Teddy and I get along immediately. There is some mutual respect there, but also I feel like our experiences are somehow similar. Teddy—and Cos and Miles—understand the pressure of performing, of what it’s like to go into the arena, night after night, even when you’re not sure you have your best game or best voice in you that night. That’s what it means to be a professional: to know the pitfalls, but to persevere and give the fans everything you’ve got.

  Teddy and I talk about that. We’re both in our late twenties, but somehow life on the road, in entertainment, or in sports makes you feel middle-aged before your time. It’s not just the physical wear and tear, it’s also the ability to be able to turn the page, to leave behind past disappointments—and coming up short in game 7 of the NBA finals is that kind of loss—and move forward without dwelling on it.

  “That’s right, Doc,” Teddy says in his gravelly voice. “An artist has to be in the now, baby. You can’t look back.”

  “Then how do you find the emotion you put in your songs?” I ask. I’m thinking about songs like “Turn Off the Lights” or “Only You.”

  Let’s take a shower, shower together

  I’ll wash your body and you’ll wash mine.

  (Okay, maybe not that song.)

  “That’s passion, baby,” Teddy says. “The passion always has to be there. I bring the passion every night.”

  Teddy should know. When I’ve been backstage at his concerts, his audiences seem like they are 90 percent women, and they can’t get enough of his passion. In fact, he’s starting to perform what he calls “Ladies Nights,” which are women’s-only concerts. My sister is calling him the Black Elvis, and he is as popular, or maybe even more so, than his contemporary R&B masters Marvin Gaye and Barry White.

  That’s why I will never understand his desire to use drugs.

  Teddy has a bad problem. I’m standing backstage with him at the Tower Theater, and a couple of men come by and they go back into Teddy’s dressing room and they are hooking him up with heroin, the needle, the whole thing. I’m like, Are you shitting me?

  As a player traveling around the league, whenever I am offered cocaine, or when I see it come out at a party, then I’m leaving. That’s it. Doc is gone. At one point, in Los Angeles, a Lakers player invites me to a party and we walk in and there’s naked women snorting cocaine off the floor. I turn to him. “This ain’t my scene.”

  I learn to be careful about my friends and acquaintances. With Richard Pryor, for example, whenever he’s around, I know he’s going to be funny, and he’s a warm person who is among the most articulate and intelligent men I have ever met, yet at one point, when Richard asks me to hold his leather bag for a minute, I tell him no.

  You don’t ever hold Richard Pryor’s bag. Whatever is in there, you know it’s bad news.

  About the only habit-forming proclivities my teammates seem to have is Caldwell Jones and his bathtub full of beer. I know this is reputed to be an era when the league was infested with cocaine, but perhaps because my views on the subject are well known, I don’t see much of it. Or my teammates know enough to keep that stuff away from me.

  26.

  Pat Williams, our GM, has been with the team since 1974 and is the man responsible for our steady improvement. He is assembling our roster piece by piece, signing George and me, trading for Henry Bibby and Caldwell Jones, and drafting World B. Free and Darryl Dawkins and, soon, a point guard from West Texas State named Maurice Cheeks and another guard from the University of Seattle named Clint Richardson. He’s a basketball visionary, and uniquely gifted at perhaps the GM’s toughest task: serving as the axis between an impatient owner and his anxious employees. Our owner, Fitz Dixon, is a patrician Mainliner and inheritor of a fortune made a hundred years ago in the trolley car business. He lives on an estate so vast and grand that, supposedly, the f
lowers alone are worth $1 million. And while he is reserved, his patience for Gene Shue is apparently wearing thin.

  He blames Shue for losing the championship to Portland. And 6 games into the 1977–78 season, Dixon fires him after a tough loss to Chicago. Shue spent the off-season urging Pat to trade George McGinnis, which Pat opposed because we couldn’t make a good deal considering George’s playoff performance. Fitz becomes impatient, so Gene is gone.

  The players are happy with his replacement: Billy Cunningham. We’ve all played with him or against him, and he is a good communicator and has an uncanny feel for the game. He’s overtly emotional while Gene was more subdued. Billy on the bench is sweating, cursing, jumping up to argue with the refs. He’ll sweat right through his three-piece suits. He’s a Brooklyn guy, so from the start I feel like we have good, clear communication. He’s a little like Phil Jackson in that he whistles when he wants our attention.

  Plus, Billy has a secret weapon. He brings in Chuck Daly, a former Pennsylvania head coach who took the Quakers to the NCAA tournament four times, including an Elite 8 appearance against North Carolina in 1972. Daly is a genius at figuring out how to motivate players and to get them to buy into Billy’s system. Chuck is also the guy who can temper Billy’s hotheadedness with gentle reason. And both of them have an amazing feel for who is contributing and who should be the floor. With Billy, sort of like Kevin, I feel like I can talk frankly about what I’m thinking and that, despite the intensity of those conversations, there is always a mutual respect.

  Still, the season ends in another disappointment as we lose to the eventual champion Washington Bullets in the Eastern Conference finals. The Bullets are a good team, with Wes Unseld, Elvin Hayes, and Bobby Dandridge, and they take us down in six games.