Whenever I saw her, I managed to sneak away before she could see me. I was constantly on the lookout just so I could avoid her. Then, one day, I turned around and there she was, standing in front of me with a scowl. She pulled me aside. “What happened to you, Lew?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“You hurt me, you know that? You didn’t call or anything.”
“I know.”
“And don’t think I didn’t see you running off every time I came near.”
But why was I feeling guilty? She was the one who had wronged me. “I wasn’t trying to be mean. It’s just that when Kelly told me about you and him—”
“Me and Kelly?” she interrupted. “I talked to Kelly, but that’s it. Just talked.”
Cheri taught me a valuable lesson about the foolishness of male pride. I had lost six months of time with her based on some boyish bragging, without even talking to her about it. After our talk, Cheri and I continued to date until I went off to California for college and she went to Pennsylvania. We started to see each other again on and off during college and even when I was in the NBA. We never could quite make the romance work in the long term, but we did succeed at friendship, and I would occasionally visit her and her husband when I was in New York years later.
Hanging out with Wilt so much that summer, and seeing how he owned every room he entered, how he was loved by the public, and how successful he was with women, had made me envy him. But I wasn’t him. As much as I enjoyed my glimpse into his glitzy and energetic lifestyle, I couldn’t help but wonder what other parts of his life might not be right for me.
19.
Senior Year: We Gotta Get Out of This Place
My senior year was the part of a roller-coaster ride when you slowly—agonizingly slowly—climb the lift hill, hearing each link clack into place as you rise, eagerly anticipating reaching the top and swooshing straight down. The whole year was a boring repeat of the year before, with all my focus being on the sweet day when I would burst off to college, never to look back.
My social life that year mostly consisted of hanging with my small group of friends. We called ourselves the Colleagues, which we thought was cool and sophisticated, but it now sounds like a cross between a Harvard law club and a frat house folk-singing group. Our main activities were visiting jazz clubs and throwing parties.
Jazz had become the soundtrack to my life story. I used it to explore my emotions, to lift me up when I was down, to mellow me out when I was anxious. Some of the clubs we went to were the same ones that I had visited with Wilt, but now, without him and his spotlight, the clubs felt more personal and intimate. Without the attention, I could just enjoy the music. I listened to, and even met, some of the greatest jazz musicians in the world: Roland Kirk, Sonny Rollins, and Thelonious Monk. Soon I became so inspired that I began to take saxophone lessons.
The Colleagues didn’t just sit passively and listen to music; we rented spaces and threw large parties that drew a couple of hundred people. We provided the place, the records, and the punch, and charged only ninety-nine cents because anything a dollar up meant paying city taxes. Kids danced and socialized and let loose while we divvied up a few bucks of profit. We were the kings of the local underground social world.
My parents had loosened the reins slightly since I was doing so well academically and athletically, and I still attended Mass every Sunday, so they knew nothing of the Colleagues, the parties, or the nightly visits to jazz clubs. I was living a separate life from the polite Good Boy Lew that teachers and parents raved about.
The basketball season that year was déjà vu. We won. A lot. Seventy-one games in a row. In fact, we hadn’t lost a game since I was a freshman. Coach drove the team with even more intensity, though I did notice that he backed off me a little after our confrontation. He couldn’t help but notice my lackluster appearance at his basketball camp. Whatever relationship we had before was over.
After seventy-one victories, we found ourselves facing DeMatha again. The last time we’d played them was the day after Coach Donahue had called me a nigger—and we had beaten them with a fury. I had wondered that night if my teammates had played with extra ferocity as a show of support for me after what Coach had said. I would have been too embarrassed to ask them, but ever since that shattering night, we seemed to bond together much more, both on and off the court. We played with almost mystic unity, as if we were the fingers of the same hand.
On this night, DeMatha came prepared for us. They had two big men, Bob Whitmore and Sid Catlett, both six foot eight. Bob would later be drafted by the Boston Celtics, and Sid would play for the Cincinnati Royals. Their guard, Bernie Williams, would play for the San Diego Rockets. I mention this because so many people think that because I was so tall, winning basketball games was easy. As if all I had to do was stand next to the basket, catch a lob pass, and drop the ball into the hoop. But there were a lot of tall guys out on the court, most thicker and heavier than I was, and they were also fast and agile and talented. The difference in size between me and Bob and Sid was about the length of a crayon. That’s an edge, sure, but not enough to make a significant difference unless you also have playing skills and a highly trained team.
The game took place at the University of Maryland field house, which was filled to its fourteen-thousand-seat capacity. We played hard, but with me being double- and triple-teamed during the whole game, we struggled. We kept it close, but in the end we were beaten, 46–43. Our streak ended, and we tasted the bitterness of defeat for the first time in three years. My teammates took the loss pretty well. There had been a lot of pressure on each of us not to lose after seventy-one games, so in a small way, losing was a little bit of a relief. Not for me, though. While my teammates changed and chatted, I sat in the locker room, still in my uniform, replaying the whole game in my head. I had scored only sixteen points, a career low for me. The last time we played them, I had scored thirty-five points. We’d lost by only three points. One play could have turned it around. What if I had taken that shot instead of passing it? What if I’d gotten that rebound I’d missed? I couldn’t help but blame myself.
Coach Donahue noticed my morose mood. “What’s going on, Lew?”
“Nothing,” I said. I wasn’t thinking of our personal tensions right then. I was thinking about the game. About all the what-ifs.
“Doesn’t look like nothing,” he said.
I looked up at him. He seemed remarkably calm considering we had just lost and how much he hated losing. His winning streak as a coach was also broken.
“I should have played better,” I said softly.
“Did you play your hardest?”
“Yes.”
“Did your teammates play their hardest? Is there someone in this locker room who let us down?” He looked at the other guys as if I was supposed to point someone out.
I shook my head. “It wasn’t them.”
“Now wait a minute, Lew,” he said. “You’re saying that you single-handedly lost the game?”
I didn’t respond. I could sense a trap.
“Don’t you think that’s kind of selfish? Because that implies that you must have single-handedly won all the other games. Isn’t that right? Are you willing to take credit for winning all seventy-one games? Yes or no?”
I didn’t say anything. I knew he was trying to comfort me, but I wasn’t willing to accept his comfort.
“Listen up, boys,” he continued, addressing all of us. “I’m the coach. If I blamed myself for this loss, then I also have to take credit every time we won. I’d have to assume it was my brilliant coaching, not your playing, that was responsible. But we all know that’s not true.”
The team stood perfectly still while he spoke.
“This is the finest high school basketball team in the country, maybe the world. Let that sink in. Being the best isn’t just about winning games.… It’s about how you act when you don’t win a game.”
On one level, I appreciated Coach’s speec
h. We weren’t suddenly happy, but he had relieved some of the burden. But on another level, I resented his trying to make me feel better, because that meant he still had the power to make me feel bad or good. Could I ever be sure he wouldn’t call me nigger again if he thought that would motivate me? I had to make sure that I didn’t give anyone that power. I had learned that much from my time with Wilt, who seemed vulnerable to no one. Wilt owned every room he entered, every court he stepped onto. It seemed to me that no one could hurt him, and that’s how I wanted to be.
We never lost another game. By spring, we were chosen national champions for the second year in a row. Stories about our team appeared in national publications. We were local heroes. Coach Donahue was a local hero.
I enjoyed winning for my team’s sake and my sake, but it still bothered me that our triumphs were shared by Coach Donahue and Power Memorial. It was endurable only because I knew that in a few months I’d be gone forever.
20.
Choosing a College
Senior year at Power followed a predictable routine I had long ago mastered. I gave the teachers what they wanted, and in return I got what I wanted: straight As. I had my eyes on the enormous changes going on in the world outside our school, but I stopped trying to change anyone’s minds inside it. I had recently read James Baldwin’s essays in Notes of a Native Son, after having read his The Fire Next Time in eighth grade and being deeply affected by its bluntness about race relations in America. Baldwin wrote, “Do I really want to be integrated into a burning house?” To me at that time, Power Memorial Academy represented America’s patriarchal racist past, and that patriarchal system was already burning itself up by trying to stop the inevitable change going on. I was looking to the future—a future described in the Constitution, where everyone was treated equally. The first step in my joining that future was finding the right college.
My main focus in senior year was trying to decide which college was the best one for me. Basketball scholarship offers were flooding in daily, so I could go to any school I wanted. I just had to narrow down what I was looking for. But I had a lot of requirements. Whatever school I selected would be a showcase for my playing, which would determine my professional basketball career. Being on a winning team would position me to get a well-paying contract. Being on a losing team would make me less valuable. The wrong choice could cost me millions of dollars in the long run. But winning wasn’t my only criterion for basketball; I also wanted to play under a coach who treated his players with respect and dignity.
But my choice wasn’t based on basketball alone—I was also interested in strong academics. I knew that the career of an athlete, whether in college or in the pros, depended on avoiding serious injuries, so I needed to study and make sure I had a degree I could use in case basketball didn’t last. Even more important, I loved to learn. My passion for history and writing had been reignited, and I was eager to take my education to the next step at a university level where teachers wouldn’t be hiding the faces of important historical people. As much as I daydreamed about winning college basketball games in front of huge crowds of cheering fans, I also dreamed of all the books I would be reading, the intense discussions of politics and literature in classes. I wanted both.
But mostly I wanted to get away from home. To see what kind of man I would grow into outside the stifling shadow of my father and emotional grip of my mother.
After visiting North Carolina and seeing the way they treated civil rights marchers, I knew I didn’t want to attend any school in the South. After much discussion between Coach, my parents, and me, I narrowed down my choices to the University of Michigan, Columbia University, St. John’s University, and UCLA.
I went back and forth among the four schools, driving myself crazy trying to make up my mind. Finally, I decided to visit the UCLA campus, after which I would choose once and for all.
21.
California: A Brand-New Me
The hot California sun glinted off the shiny metal roofs of the World War II Quonset huts. This can’t be the right place, I thought, stopping in my tracks. The great basketball coach, John Wooden, who had just taken his team to back-to-back national championships, couldn’t possibly have his office in this collection of shabby buildings that looked like an abandoned army camp. Not at one of the most prestigious campuses in the country. If this was how they treated their famous basketball coach, how much worse would it be for the team? Were they going to pitch a tent for us to live in? Had I just flown three thousand miles for nothing?
On the other hand…
I had just hiked across the greenest expanse of grass I had ever seen, under the brightest sun I had ever seen, among the most attractive coeds I had ever seen. For a seventeen-year-old high school kid hopped up on hormones and hubris, this was a lot to take in. Even when I had traveled outside New York City, I’d usually done so in a battered old school bus and only went from smelly gymnasium to smelly gymnasium. With that in mind, the metal huts weren’t so bad at all.
I knocked on the door and heard a pleasant voice say, “Come in.”
A friendly looking man in a blinding white shirt and midnight-black tie stuck out his hand when I walked in. “Welcome, Lewis,” John Wooden said. He was only five foot ten, short for a former basketball star. But during a forty-six-game stretch, he had sunk 134 consecutive free throws. He knew his way around a court, both on the boards and from the sidelines.
I’d expected to be intimidated by Coach Wooden, but I surprised myself by being pretty calm. Instead, I felt impatient to finish all this agonizing over which college to attend and eager for my college life to actually start. I wanted to challenge myself against the best college players to see how good I could become. I wanted to attend classes with renowned scholars. I wanted to date cute girls.
He gestured for me to sit across from his desk and I did. The top of his desk was filled with papers containing practice drills and player notes from his team. I saw Gail Goodrich’s name with some scribbled notes beside it. It took every bit of self-control not to crane my neck around to read what he’d written about one of the greatest college players around. That could be my name next year. What would he write about me? My heart started to beat rapidly with excitement.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to ask. I figured he’d quiz me about my game, my playing style, favorite moves.
He gave me a long look through his nerdy black-frame glasses. “I’m impressed with your grades, Lewis,” he finally said.
Really? He wanted to talk about grades?
He looked me straight in the eyes to make sure I knew he was serious. “For most students, basketball is temporary. But knowledge is forever.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“You can only play basketball for so long, then you’ve got to get on with the rest of your life.”
I nodded.
“My players graduate with good grades. If they choose to continue to play basketball, that’s great. But if they don’t or can’t, they then have the education to choose another path. That’s why you’re in college in the first place. To give yourself choices.”
That was unexpected. I had visited many other colleges and universities, and their coaches had mostly flattered me while hard-selling their sports programs that would bring me glory and national adulation. This was the first coach to emphasize academics over athletics. He was more concerned about our long-term happiness than our win-loss record. He didn’t treat me as a basketball player, but as a student who would be playing basketball on the side.
We talked for about thirty minutes, only briefly touching on basketball. He told me that most often he recruited players for quickness rather than size and had never coached someone as tall as I was, but added, “I’m sure we will find the proper way to use you on the court. I am looking forward to coaching someone like you.”
We stood and shook hands again.
“Freshman year can be very difficult,” he warned. “Making that transition fro
m high school isn’t easy. There are a lot of adjustments, especially for athletes, who have to train every day for several hours.”
I nodded again.
He smiled. “But you seem like the kind of young man up to the challenge.”
The challenge. That’s what I was looking for in a school, and somehow he knew that. Rather than tell me how easily I would fit in and how smoothly everything would go, he appealed to the competitor in me.
I flew back home to my box full of scholarship offers, but I was pretty sure that UCLA would be my new home. First, though, I had to have my parents’ final approval.
A few weeks later, Coach Wooden and his assistant coach Jerry Norman arrived at our two-bedroom apartment on Nagle Avenue, in the Dyckman Houses. Two white guys in sports jackets and ties knocking on a door in the housing project usually meant bad news. Not this time. Despite all the offers, Coach Wooden was the only one my parents had invited to our home. They knew I had my heart set on UCLA, and they wanted to make sure they could trust these men with their seven-foot baby.
My dad studied the men with his cop’s X-ray vision, sizing up their character the way he would a perp at a crime scene. My mom smiled pleasantly, but her eyes were just as probing as Dad’s. Right now, they didn’t care about scholarship money or UCLA’s reputation—they were measuring the men who would be, on some level, replacing them for the next four years. My parents expected them to look out for me.
“Lewis,” my mom said, “why don’t you go wait in your room while we talk.”
I gave her an annoyed look, but she just stared back. This was my future. I didn’t want to wait in my room like some romance novel heroine whose parents were arranging her marriage. This was the reason I had to get as far away from here as I could. As far away as California.
Becoming Kareem Page 10