by Dan Doyle
“Plus, my system is known only around New England. Philly hasn’t seen it yet!” His declaration of certainty would prove true!
After winning a third Philly City high school championship, an article in the Philadelphia Daily News summed it up: “Keating’s teams are tough to beat because they play so well at different speeds. On offense, they fast break with abandon. If nothing shows up, they take care of the ball as if they’re playing on an aircraft carrier, with out of bounds being the ocean. And on defense, they utilize different levels of pressure from many different sets. On one defensive turn they might be in a frenetic full court man-to-man press with double teams in the backcourt; on the next turn they might change to a 2-2-1 three-quarter court press that lures you into the double team. The whole system allows St. Pius to dictate tempo and forces the opponents to change strategy.”
Harry Litwack, the legendary Temple coach who had known Jim since his playing days at St. Thomas, was more concise: “The kid can coach.”
Father Tim Cohane, the St. Thomas College president (and basketball devotee), had admired the grit Jim displayed as an undergraduate and followed his high school coaching career with keen interest. When the head slot at St. Thomas opened up in 1955, Father Cohane, confident in the accuracy of his judgment, appointed Jim, then thirty-one years old, to the position. Some members of the Athletic Board suggested that Jim might be, as one member put it, “a bit callow.” Father Cohane knew better. The young coach was an immediate success: tough and streetwise, but a guy with a genuine heart. His players loved him, the sports reporters were charmed by his youthful exuberance, and the Philly and Jersey high school ranks provided him with a ceaseless source of hoop prodigies.
“St. Thomas doesn’t rebuild—they reload,” cracked one rival coach.
In 1969, after fourteen splendid seasons at St. Thomas, which included twelve post-season bids and two NIT championships, the school offered Jim Keating the best contract in college basketball history. It was a ten-year deal that included a radio show and camp, earning him over $50,000 per annum (in ‘69!). There were also yearly raises and other incentives. Of greatest appeal was an alluring annuity, paid for by the St. Thomas Booster Club. The annuity would swell to $300,000 at the end of the contract; Jim could collect on it when, and only when, he completed the ten-year commitment. “We’ve even looked into your own TV program. The idea is a thirty-minute show that would run during the basketball season. It might take us a year or two to get this done, but if we can do it, we’ll add another eight to ten thousand dollars a year to your package,” said Father Cohane.
Jim’s playing career had followed the path of most who enter the coaching profession. He had been successful, but not nearly as successful as he had hoped to be. Deep in his heart (though he didn’t like to think so), he knew that his drive as a coach was fueled by his unfulfilled dreams as a player.
Back in ‘50, the Ft. Wayne Pistons had drafted Jim in the fourth round, and Jim figured he had a reasonable shot at making the team. None of the Pistons guards were over 6’3” and none had extensive experience. He didn’t get much court time in the first exhibition game, though, and was cut the next day. He took the first flight home, and by the time he grabbed his suitcase from the baggage carousel, his disappointment had turned into a resolve to succeed in a basketball pursuit over which he would have more control: coaching. He called the principal at St. Pius X to accept an offer that had been tendered to him at his college graduation.
In June of ‘69, a week after Father Cohane had offered him the corker contract (one unheard of in that temperate time of college athletics), those same Pistons, now relocated to Detroit, contacted Jim about their vacant coaching position.
John Ruffino, the Pistons’ general manager, lost no time in coming to the point: “Four years, starting at sixty-five grand per—with a bonus that could get you up to seventy-five grand each year if you take us all the way.”
Success at St. Thomas had infused in Jim a dose of hubris, which often accompanies early acclaim. Already certain he could win anywhere, he was not moved by the permanency of a ten-year contract and particularly liked the notion of coaching the only team to jilt him.
Father Cohane’s final invocation would forever be etched in his memory.
“Jim, if I didn’t like you so much, I wouldn’t be so blunt. You’re making a big mistake. With the exception of Auerbach and maybe Alex Hannum, no NBA coach lasts more than three or four years with a single team. My fear is that you’re going to get on the coaching merry-go-round, bouncing around from one place to another. This is no good for your family.”
But Jim felt it was time to break loose. He accepted the position—and yes, he would always look back.
Lying on the couch and staring at the darkness, the unpleasant thoughts of former times were displaced by what had happened that evening at the Gloves. Jim focused on a statement made by Bobby Duffy, one of several old acquaintances he’d not seen in more than four decades: “You left Worcester and so much has happened in your life, Jim. I stayed and not much has happened in mine.”
Would Bobby have preferred the rollercoaster ride of a nomadic coach in search of acclaim—some mountain peak highs that approached heaven and some lows that cratered to the very depths of human emotion? Jim thought not. For though not much had happened in the lives of Duffy and the others Jim had encountered at the Gloves, and though many of them may not realize it, he was not certain that they were unhappier for staying behind and not certain that they would have been willing to pay the price he had paid—if they knew the true cost.
5
(1969-1976)
The Detroit Pistons had been league doormats the year before Jim arrived. In his first season, he led the team to the 1970 play-offs. In his second, the Pistons reached the NBA Championship finals, losing to the Lakers in a scintillating seven-game series.
Jim was on the fast track at full gallop when, early in his third year, his team went lame. Over the course of four short weeks, three of his five starters suffered serious injuries. Not once in the entire season did the Pistons field its normal starting five, and the team plummeted to last place in the Eastern Division. The following year the injury hex continued, and the team moved up only one notch, from last place to sixth.
Jim’s demanding approach, which included an insistence on focus in both practice and games, had been embraced by the players in years one and two. But when the team began its downward spiral in year three, there were sporadic grumblings from a few malcontents. In year four, the discontent spread to the majority.
Fred Hannan, Jim’s top assistant and a former NBA backup guard, summed it up on a late-season road trip in year four: “We’re fielding a team of marginally talented guys who all think they’re stars. Plus, our twelfth man makes more than you.”
At season’s end, the general manager, Ruffino, had a frank discussion with his coach.
“Your contract’s up and the buzzards are circling,” Ruffino told him bluntly. “You’ve done one hell of a good job under tough circumstances, but the fans and the ownership are pretty unforgiving about two straight losing seasons—even if injuries played such a major role. Now, I can extend your contract for a year. But looking at our roster, we don’t have much to trade. So, I’d say we’re at least three good drafts away from getting back to the play-offs. We may have to stay down in the standings—get some good picks—before we can go up again.”
Jim shifted in his seat and wiped his rough, suddenly clammy hands on his slacks. He was instantly aware of the direction of the conversation.
“Several ABA teams are looking for head coaches,” Ruffino continued. “It’s a wacky league, but I’ll tell you this: They’ve got some players over there—the Erving kid from UMass is a good example. Hell, he’s Cousy with wings.”
Jim opened his mouth to speak, to tell Ruffino that he knew he could turn the team around if he was just given the chance, but Ruffino quickly continued his pitch.
“To be h
onest, a lot of our owners are quietly nervous about what they now know is real competition. Think it over. I’m sure you could hook on with a good contract, and I’ll work behind the scenes to make it happen, if you want.”
Uncomfortable silence filled the office. Jim wanted to say something, but he knew this was a one-sided discussion.
Ruffino looked Jim straight in the eye.
“Jim, I need to tell you that it might be better for you to leave on your own rather than being asked to leave.” It was advice delivered with icy candor.
Jim appreciated Ruffino’s frankness, but was repulsed by the unfairness of the situation.
“Two bad years, due completely to injuries, and they want to ride me out on a rail,” he protested that evening to Edna. He went on to describe Ruffino’s “suggestion” to move to the new league.
Edna responded with her usual patience, but not without a certain tightness in her voice. “A move would be tough for Sarah, Jim. She’s starting to like it here. She’s made some good friends.”
Jim hesitated; he felt conflicted. “I know . . . I know,” he said softly.
Edna could see that Jim was struggling with the decision and that, from a professional standpoint, the situation left little choice but a move. She rested her head on her husband’s shoulder and said, “You’re a great coach and a better person, James Patrick Keating. Sarah’s young enough to adjust. If the ABA is the next stop, we’re with you. . . . You know that.”
Two weeks later, Jim signed a three-year contract with the Memphis Tams of the ABA. The family packed, sold their Detroit house short, and headed south. The Jim Keating caravan moved on, but with a tangible feeling of uncertainty.
Jim Keating’s three-year stint in the ABA was a rocky ride filled with bad players, checks that bounced higher than the league’s multi-colored balls, one last-place finish—and, in the end, a merger with the NBA that left Memphis without a team and Jim without a job.
While injuries had been at the core of the Detroit demise, a lack of capital had prevented Memphis from signing the caliber of athletes that would have kept the team competitive. And while everyone close to pro basketball knew that Jim had been hamstrung by the broken fortune of his owner, the three NBA teams looking for head coaches showed no interest in his services.
One day, during a long talk with Edna, he analyzed the state of his career with deadeye accuracy.
“I could eventually hook on in the NBA as an assistant, hope the team does well, and then maybe get a head job. But right now, the guys who would hire me have no openings. As far as college goes, no one has called. And as I’ve always told you, the worst thing you can do is apply for a job. You have to be asked to apply if you expect to have any reasonable shot. . . .
“But there is something that interests me. There’s a team in the Spanish pro league that’s looking for an American coach. Their season starts in a couple of weeks and they want me. The money’s good, it’s only two games a week, and I get to come home for a week over Christmas. And frankly, Edna,” he continued, with a slight but telling crack in his voice, “I think I need a job that’s not a daily pressure-cooker.”
Edna McCarthy had been a sophomore at St. Peter’s High School in Worcester when Jim Keating, ace athlete and star of most girls’ fantasies in Main South, had first spoken to her. She was a bright and beautiful bookworm with few friends and many pent-up dreams. Her most lofty yearning was to know this luminary who, she was certain, surely did not know her.
While Jim may have been the boy most coveted by the girls in the neighborhood, he rarely dated. He was far more interested in raising Cain or scoring points than courting young ladies. A girlfriend took up too much time!
Yet he had taken notice of Edna. She first caught his attention in the school lunch room. Jim observed that when she sat with her friends, she was the quiet one. When her friends were laughing out loud, Edna would be smiling—or reading; she always had a paperback with her. Though still a bit awkward, perhaps because of her shyness, she was without question the most beautiful girl in the school. Her hair, which hung well below her shoulders, was a light reddish brown—sorrel-like and stunning. Her eyes were a stronger reddish brown—russet in shade, striking, and a perfect match with her wealth of hair, fair skin, and full lips. Even the drab school uniform the nuns imposed on the girls could not conceal a Rita Hayworth figure.
But beyond her beauty, what attracted Jim was the way she carried herself with such quiet grace—dignity was the word that came to his mind.
One cold Friday in February—several hours before St. Peters’ big annual home basketball game against St.John’s— Jim summoned his courage. He ran up behind Edna, slowed to a walk, and approached her with caution, bereft of the confidence that was his usual companion.
“Goin’ to the game tonight?” he asked shyly.
“No . . . no, I wasn’t planning on it,” she said.
Edna McCarthy was so absorbed in her studies that she did not even know there was a game—a fact she kept discreetly to herself.
Jim nodded and tried, but failed, to say something meaningful. He then headed off, leaving Edna to wonder what significance, if any, this brief encounter had.
Jim did not speak to Edna, or even approach her, until two months later. On a sunny Tuesday afternoon in April— heading to a game with his baseball uniform on—he caught up with her once more, almost in the same spot as their first meeting.
“Um . . . Edna . . .” he said coyly. “There’s a prom in three weeks. You know, the Senior Prom.”
Edna was stunned, but also wary that this might be some boyish prank—one that would badly hurt her feelings. Up to this point, her life had been full of books. She’d never had a date, let alone experienced the excitement of a relationship. Edna had emigrated thirteen years before from Cork with her parents, who had sheltered her to the point of near suffocation. She secretly ached for adventure—and she concluded that she must be willing to suffer some angst to find it.
“You . . . you want to go to the Senior Prom with me?” she asked incredulously.
“Well . . . yes,” Jim Keating responded in a surprised tone, perplexed as to why this knockout of a girl would wonder about his request.
“Um . . . I’ll have to ask my parents,” she said honestly.
“No,” said Patrick McCarthy when the jewel of his life asked for his permission.
“But Daddy, you don’t even know who asked me.”
“It’s the Keating lad, Patrick,” said Una McCarthy firmly, and her tone made it clear that she expected her husband to reconsider his harsh verdict.
“The athlete?” Patrick McCarthy replied.
“Himself!” Una declared.
Practical man that he was, Edna’s father quickly reversed his decision. The next day, Jim found Edna, hoping for a positive response to his request. Glowing with the most radiant smile, Edna delivered the news he hoped for: “My parents said yes!”
Jim took a mental snapshot of that smile, of that entire moment. He would reflect on it many times.
Despite his popularity among females, Jim Keating had never had a steady girlfriend. And no girl had ever been close to him. That kind of platonic friendship rarely happened in Main South in those days; there was usually some romantic link. But within weeks after the senior prom, Edna McCarthy became Jim Keating’s girlfriend—and his best friend.
The prom decision was easy compared to her present dilemma. Spain? If only it were so simple.
6
When Jim Keating went off to war, he and Edna McCarthy had promised each other their faithfulness. By the time he returned home three years later and accepted a basketball scholarship at St. Thomas College in Philadelphia, Edna had graduated as valedictorian of her high school class. She had then spent eighteen months working to save for college and had been awarded a partial tuition scholarship to Clark University, only two blocks from her home.
Jim and Edna both started college in September ‘46 and both received
their degrees in June of 1950. Edna graduated magna cum laude in Art History. Jim’s academic record was slightly less distinguished, but still sound, and on the basketball court he was a genius. He set school records in both scoring and assists. At commencement, he was presented the St. Thomas Scholar-Athlete Award, given to the student who “best combines academic and athletic excellence.”
The couple was married in a grand Irish wedding at St. Peter’s Church in Main South on July 11, 1950. Like so many other young Catholic newlyweds in the neighborhood, Jim and Edna had been certain that tampering with the sixth commandment would surely commit them to the fires of hell or, at the very least, bring a scorching rebuke in the confessional and a rosary for penance. On their wedding night, they made love for the first time and happily found another shared passion.
Edna knew that what followed marriage should be children, so she set aside her dream of a PhD in Art History. Besides, she was now “Mrs. Jim Keating,” a title that was gaining stature in the Philadelphia Catholic community. But Edna’s expectations and sense of purpose were shattered when she suffered two miscarriages.
After the second miscarriage, to stave off depression, Edna enrolled in a master’s program in Art History at Temple and taught sixth grade at St. Paul’s Elementary School in South Philly. She provided moral support to a young coach fast acquiring acclaim in his profession and steered clear of prolonged reflection on their childless state.
When Jim Keating accepted the St. Thomas job in ‘55, Edna soon took on several key responsibilities with the team, among them unofficial hostess and academic counselor. At home games, she organized informal receptions for boosters, and when the team traveled, she often went along. On the road trips—long before academic counseling became an integral part of athletic programs—Edna Keating would tutor players on subjects ranging from math to poetry. She was young, brilliant, beautiful, and unfailingly upbeat. The team adored her, and if some even harbored romantic fantasies about their coach’s wife, she had the wit and tact to maintain propriety.