No Heavy Lifting

by Rob Simpson

  Pistons coach Scotty Robertson knew I was young, naïve, and maybe too ignorant to make a difference. When I stepped over the imaginary line, he quickly let me know it.

  Led by rookies Isiah Thomas and Kelly Tripucka, the Pistons had just beaten the Chicago Bulls on the day after Christmas, 1981.

  “How do you look at the games coming up on the road?” I asked. “Teams you can beat?”

  Robertson, Chuck Daly’s predecessor as head coach of the Pistons, responded, “Welllll . . . teams what?”

  “Teams you can beat, I mean pretty eas . . . ” My voice trailed under his.

  “I . . . I . . . I don’t know where the hell you . . . you’re . . . you’re new. You know. Teams we can beat pretty easily? There ain’t nobody in this league like that. I’m not trying to put you down now, but you’re wrong. If you . . . if you check the record lately you’d find that New Jersey and Washington are on a pretty darn good roll. And there ain’t no teams in this league that you can beat easily, much less we can beat easily. They’re gonna be tough ball games, they’re on the road, and we’re gonna have to play well.”

  Ouch.

  Scotty then mellowed a bit and went on for another twenty seconds about how his team was playing well and that a couple other teams in the division had injury problems. I wasn’t listening. I was still hurting as I firmly held the microphone in front of his mouth. Charlie Vincent of the Detroit Free Press had a patient look on his face, combined with a smirk. George Eichorn of WXYZ Radio was standing next to me. Two veterans watching me get lambasted.

  Ouch, ouch, ouch. Was it something I said, or just how I said it? That wasn’t a stupid question, was it? What a jerk — the Pistons had won four in a row. I’m not new, I’ve been here covering these games for two years. All of these thoughts raced through my mind as I carried my injured pride out of the locker room and into the tunnel.

  Just when I might have been getting comfortable, or even complacent, getting a little cocky about being a kid covering the Pistons, I got knocked back on my ass.

  Other times, the heated exchanges with the coach were fun, like two weeks later, following a loss to Boston.

  “Why’d you take John Long out so early in the third quarter?”

  “Because he asked to come out. He was tired.”

  “I take it you thought the officiating was pretty poor tonight?”

  “No, I thought it was terrific,” Robertson snarled. Tense laughter followed. Coaches don’t like to be asked about the refs. They usually say they can’t blame a crappy game on the officials. Plus, bad-mouthing the officials in the media isn’t good policy or popular with the League.

  Of the three years Ric and I covered the Pistons regularly, year three, the 1981–82 season, was by far the most exciting. Thomas was the second overall pick in the first round of the draft, after Mark Aguirre to Dallas. Tripucka came later in the first round, out of Notre Dame. The Pistons were making a serious rebuilding effort and fans in the Motor City were pumped.

  Two images of Isiah Thomas stick in my mind from his first season.

  First: his shy, humble, baby-faced demeanour with the press. Throughout his career he was generally known for being soft spoken and for flashing his pearly whites as he talked. We’d find out later in his career that this was just one half of “Zeke.” He actually wielded a great deal of power in the organization as the team’s best player. He was tough, focused, and determined.

  I knew him back then as a sweet-moving, sweet-talking, (sometimes) crybaby rookie. His humility coming out of Indiana as a sophomore was impressive, but tough to swallow, given his importance to the team.

  Let’s face it, Isiah was the main reason the Pistons went from twenty-one wins in 1980–81 to thirty-nine wins in 1981–82.

  “I think this team would survive without me, they’d go on living,” explained Thomas following a six-point win against New Jersey in November 1981. The Pistons were three-and-oh.

  “Living, but winning?” pursued writer Vincent.

  “Yes, I think so,” replied Thomas.

  “So what in your mind would be the difference between last year, and this start?”

  “I don’t know,” Thomas answered, “I didn’t see this team last year, and I have no idea how good a club they were last year.”

  “Not very,” Vincent volleyed.

  “Sorry . . . ha, hee hee.” Thomas smiled.

  “You’re reluctant to take the credit?”

  “Yes, I am, because it’s not because of me . . . it’s because of everyone. It’s a team effort. Um, other guys play well too, it’s not because I’m playing well that we’re winning, it’s because everyone’s playing well that we’re winning.”

  Comments like that made Thomas a very popular young player in blue-collar Detroit.

  The second image of Thomas that lingers in my mind in his rookie year: the time he injured his knee. They carried him out of the locker room and stuffed him into the back seat of his Mercedes, which had been pulled down into the tunnel. Zeke was gimpy, and the grimace on his face told the story. The car seemed to soothe him. This young dude was earning some serious cash.

  If only young radio reporters were getting paid the same as young basketball players. I took solace in the fact that although our paycheques had nothing in common, we were both having a really good time.

  Larry Bird was the first player who made me realize just how monotonous it was for these ball players to answer pretty much the same questions night in and night out, especially for star players, like Bird, who automatically were approached by at least a half-dozen media types after every game. He answered quickly, succinctly, and in a monotone voice, like a computer with a rural Indiana twang. To me, that made it more imperative to ask him smart questions.

  All in all, considering I was a tall, goofy, teenage reporter full of inexperience, most of the players were very gracious in answering my questions. The first to really put me at ease was Rick Barry, a superstar finishing up his career with the Houston Rockets.

  I was covering my second game ever on January 19, 1980. A couple of nights before, Barry had eclipsed the 25,000-point mark in career scoring.

  “Can I ask you a few questions?” I started.

  “Sure, go ahead,” Barry replied.

  “First of all, congratulations on your 25,000 Wednesday night. Also, first of all, I’d like to say, on your three-pointers, have you been practicing that a lot in practice, because you hit a couple tonight?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been practicing a little bit more since the coach has been using it a little bit more, as far as the offense is concerned. I don’t go out there and spend all day shooting them, I feel I can shoot from that range — it’s a shot you have to pick a good time to use. It can be helpful if used at the right time, if the ball goes in the basket. If you go out there and start firing them up indiscriminately, you can get your ball club in trouble. It’s the type of shot that if it goes in . . . if it doesn’t and you don’t get the rebound, it’s trouble. It’s tough to put an evaluation on it.”

  What a solid answer from a true pro, to a nervous question from a dorky kid with chronic Peter Tork (of The Monkees) hair.

  Interestingly, Barry’s career numbers benefitted just briefly from the three-point shot. His NBA predecessors didn’t have it, while those who followed him would. The rule change, implemented for the 1979–80 season, created a statistical subtlety in the record books that would forever affect comparisons between the eras.

  Barry went on to discuss the rumours of his impending retirement and the fact that he would continue his career as a TV analyst and possibly as an actor once he finished up as a ball player. He retired after that season.

  It was the first time I forgot whom I was talking to and where I was, and completely concentrated on the questions and the answers. Gradually, I came to realize that professional athletes were just li
ke anyone else and that there was no reason to be intimidated. I was still learning, but I was confident in my abilities. If someone was a jerk, that was okay. A basketball player can be grumpy after a tough day on the job, just like an auto worker or an accountant.

  Kareem Abdul-Jabbar always seemed a bit grumpy. Not so much from a rough-and-tumble night on the court, but from the “veteran-tired-of-reporters” syndrome. A superstar, a six-time NBA Most Valuable Player, Abdul-Jabbar spent season after season as the centre of attention. Having Magic Johnson around helped relieve a bit of the pressure from the press, especially when the Lakers were in Detroit.

  On the one occasion I interviewed Abdul-Jabbar, in February 1981, Magic had indeed drawn most of the media. Only one other time had Johnson, the former Michigan State Spartan star, performed professionally in a regular-season game at Detroit, so most reporters flocked to the youngster from Lansing. That opened the door to Abdul-Jabbar for me and WWJ-radio reporter, John Bell. Bell was a nice, soft spoken guy, with a fantastic announcing voice. His mellifluous tones eventually led him to the job as public address announcer at Tiger Stadium.

  Bell reached Abdul-Jabbar just ahead of me. The big fellah was sitting on a stool in front of his locker, putting on his socks. Both Bell and I decided to kneel down on one knee in front of him and extend our microphones. Like batters poised in the on-deck circle, we leaned forward and began the questioning. Again, Abdul-Jabbar was not all that excited.

  “Sure, go ahead,” Jabbar responded to our request to interview him. Then, just as Bell asked his first actual basketball question, Abdul-Jabbar ignored us, and stood up.

  “After you’ve already been the champs . . .” Bell stopped. I was suddenly staring at Abdul-Jabbar’s right kneecap; Bell, staring at his left. We both did the slow head tilt upward as Kareem turned to grab more clothing. It was incredible how tall he stood. Our vantage point made it even more ridiculous. Bell and I briefly looked at each other and chuckled. As we made the effort to stand simultaneously, our old friend George Eichorn, then the host of his own show on WBRB radio in nearby Macomb County, Michigan, slid in for a question.

  “What did you think of that Piston effort out there tonight? Is it what you expected from the scouting reports you got?” Eichorn asked.

  “Gee, you know, they tried hard to win, they played hard,” Abdul-Jabbar responded.

  “How about down the stretch, you against Wayne Robinson, wasn’t that giving away a little too much, huh, from their standpoint?” Eichorn followed with a snicker.

  “Well, you know, I don’t . . . I don’t really get into the coaching part of it. That’s what the coach went with, that’s his decision.”

  Bye, George. Abdul-Jabbar didn’t appear to enjoy the hometown reporter taking pokes at the Pistons while asking questions. He seemed annoyed by the lack of respect. That meant trouble for Bell when he tried to finish his interrupted question.

  “Kareem, you guys had to know coming in here that . . .” Bell started and was interrupted again. Pistons General Manager Jack McCloskey stepped up to greet Abdul-Jabbar and quickly shake his hand.

  “Hey, Jack, how you doin’?” Abdul-Jabbar reacted.

  Bell continued again.

  “The Pistons are lying there, waitin’ for you, it’s that way everywhere you go when you become NBA champs . . .”

  “Uh huh.”

  “They knocked off the Sixers, and I know you guys knew that, but still in all, the Pistons are the worst team in the NBA, how do you . . .”

  “Well, they have the worst record,” Abdul-Jabbar interjected. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean what it says.”

  “How do you guys approach this game? Did you approach it as a tough game, or more like a practice, a warm-up for the big game coming up for you guys?”

  Ouch. Bell was getting dangerously close to that dreaded situation where the questions become longer than the answers. Generally, when that happens, things aren’t going very well. Abdul-Jabbar dismissed the negativism.

  “I . . . I really don’t understand what you mean.”

  I was hurting for, and with, Bell. I also grew impatient. This was my first, and probably last, opportunity to ask Kareem Abdul-Jabbar a question. The big man went on about his dressing business as Bell continued.

  “Okay. As the NBA champions, everywhere you go, the Pistons, the Sixers, everyone is trying to knock you off.”

  “Right.”

  “When you come in against a team that has only thirteen victories, like Detroit, it’s tough to get psyched up, it’s tough anyway to get psyched up every night in the NBA, night after night, but against the Pistons especially, isn’t it?” Bell concluded.

  “Not necessarily, you know, they played us tough out in L.A. We were in quite a fight all the way through the game and, ah, they played hard tonight. They might not have a good record, but that doesn’t mean they don’t come and do their job,” Kareem answered.

  “Then that puts pressure on you to do your job every night regardless,” Bell followed.

  “Well, you know, that’s . . . that’s what they pay me for. My job doesn’t change all that much.”

  My turn.

  “What about the race right now with Phoenix? How does it shape up? What will it take to overtake the Suns?” I asked.

  “Well, we gotta continue to play well and we gotta

  get lucky too. But, that’s something that you have to wait and see.”

  Bell thanked Abdul-Jabbar and bailed. I asked one more question, about Pistons centre Paul Mokeski, and how Abdul-Jabbar rated him. As he responded, I drifted back to thinking about this man’s immense height. I stood about six-foot-two at the time. Abdul-Jabbar topped seven feet; a ten- or eleven-inch difference that seemed like a hell of a lot more.

  As he finished a kindly comment about Mokeski, I savoured the fact that I was chatting with maybe the greatest player ever. I thanked him, and I wandered off.

  With friends Tracy Roberts and Ric Blackwell at our high school graduation in 1982.

  Just before I walked out of the Lakers locker room that night, I experienced another brief encounter with hoops royalty. The bus engine revved, and the players filed out. As Magic Johnson walked by, chatting with anyone and everyone as he went, I reached out and touched his knee-length fur coat.

  “Take it easy, Magic,” I said as I patted his back. He didn’t respond nor did he even notice as my hand sank into four inches of sable. It was the softest and smoothest thing I had ever felt. My right hand simply disappeared for a moment.

  “Holy crap,” I almost said aloud. I didn’t want to take my fingers off the coat. I wanted to pet the damn thing. Instead, with mouth agape, I just stared at it as Magic walked away.

  ~

  Ric Blackwell went on to anchor TV sports and news for a number of years on both coasts of Florida and helped me get at least two jobs along the way. He’s married with four kids and runs his own production business. He was my best man the first time I got married.

  BIG Z ON THE MOUNTAIN

  Part 1

  “Piece of cake.”

  Comment by a passerby, on our way to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, June 2008

  In the summer of 2008, Boston Bruins Captain, Zdeno Chára, decided to add his name to the list of NHL hockey players involved with the international humanitarian organization Right To Play. Chára, the tallest player in league history, would do this in a fittingly large manner. Not only would he visit underprivileged African children for a few days in Mozambique as an RTP Athlete Ambassador with Calgary Flames defenceman Robyn Regehr, Chára would then stick around and raise awareness for the cause by trekking up Africa’s highest mountain, Kilimanjaro, in Tanzania.

  The climb involved four other people.

  Mark Brender, deputy director of RTP Canada, organized the entire trip and accompanied the hockey players around Mozambique before joining in
on the trek. Brender, in a previous life, had traipsed around a portion of the Himalayas.

  Darryl Lepik was a producer for NHL Productions/Studios who leapt at the chance to climb Kilimanjaro. A self-described workout freak, triathlon type, Lepik essentially built the business opportunity to shoot a documentary around the personal opportunity of climbing the mountain. He made the travel and budget arrangements for himself and his camera guy, organized the shoots, and essentially directed the production.

  Mark Berg was Lepik’s handpicked choice as cameraman. Aside from being affable and talented, Berg was considered in decent-enough shape to handle the climb, and, more importantly, interested in taking on the challenge. He was also paid handsomely.

  I was the last adventurer. I had been to Africa to shoot a documentary with Brender and Right To Play the previous summer and was anxious to get involved again. Like Lepik, for whatever reason, I had a profound interest in summiting this mountain. I planned to take part in just the Tanzanian portion of the excursion, promote the cause, and write about it for a handful of media outlets in Boston. For this, I was not paid handsomely. I actually used frequent-flyer mileage to fly round trip to Africa.

  At the last minute, I also decided to make this excursion the sixth and final thirty-minute episode of Hockey Odyssey, a pilot TV series, plagued by a limited budget, that aired on the NHL Network.

  Berg would be shooting his documentary on high-definition equipment worth tens of thousands of dollars. I’d be shooting on a Panasonic palm-sized camcorder worth about 600 bucks.

  Mark Berg, Mark Brender, Darryl Lepik, Zdeno Chára.

  It all seemed like a great idea: raise some money and publicity for a good cause and throw in some personal adventure and accomplishment for good measure. Well, as Scottish poet Robert Burns best put it, “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men/Gang aft agley” (often go awry).