Eleven Rings: The Soul of Success (32 page)

My favorite moment was when they showed up in Orlando for the 2009 finals and presented me with a Lakers yellow basketball cap embroidered with the Roman numeral X to commemorate my tenth championship. Would there be an XII cap?

The vultures were already circling. When I saw my friend, NBA photographer Andy Bernstein, arrive in Dallas, I greeted him half-jokingly as “dead man walking.” Still, even though it may seem like magical thinking now, I really believed that we were going to win game 4 and take the series back to L.A. To be honest, I hadn’t given much thought to how I wanted my career to end or what I was going to do next. I was just trying to stay in the moment and get through the next game.

That was the message I delivered to the players: Win the game, get the series back to our house, then put the pressure on the Mavs to win. Maybe I was missing something, but I didn’t have the sense that the players had given up or thought the series was already over. Nor did I think that they’d tired of playing together as a team.

Of course, when you’re a coach, you don’t have the same kind of apprehension you do as a player. When you’re a player, you obsess about not screwing up and making a mistake that will blow the game. But when you’re the coach, you think, how can I get these guys keyed up and on their game? What kind of insight can I offer them so that they can play more spontaneously? And what kind of coaching change can I make to give them an edge?

My concern in game 4 was trying to get Pau to push back against Nowitski and stake out a better position in the post. Our key to victory was a strong inside game, and that began with Pau. In game 3 I got so tired of watching him get shoved around that I thumped him on the chest as he walked off the floor just to get a rise out of him. The media had fun with that, but Pau understood what I was trying to do. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough.

I’m not sure any magic coaching fixes would have made much of a difference in game 4. The Mavericks had the touch from start to finish, shooting a remarkable 60.3 percent from the field and 62.5 percent from the three-point line, as they danced and laughed and partied their way to a 122–86 blowout. Much of the damage was done by the Mavs’ backup players, particularly Terry, who hit a playoff-record-tying 9 three-pointers and scored 32 points; Predrag Stoyakovic, who went 6 for 6 on threes; and Barea, who scored 22 points while dashing around the court like Road Runner outwitting Wile E. Coyote.

The first half was so lopsided, it was almost laughable. By half-time, we were down 63–39, but I refused to surrender. I told the players that all they needed to do was to get a few defensive stops, make some shots, and turn the game around. And they started to make that happen. Then, midway through the third quarter, Fish stole the ball and tossed a long pass to Ron, who was speeding up court all alone. This could have been a game-changing drive. But as Ron rose toward the basket, he looked as if he couldn’t decide what to do with the ball, and it slipped out of his hands and careened against the bottom of the rim. Soon after, Terry nailed a three-pointer and put an end to what turned out to be our final threat.

The next part was painful to watch. During the fourth quarter, Lamar took a cheap shot at Nowitski and was ejected from the game. Moments later Bynum struck Barea with a dangerous right elbow that sent him crashing to the floor. Andrew was immediately thrown out of the game and later suspended for five games. As he walked off the court, he tore off his jersey and bared his chest to the fans—an embarrassing, bush league move.

It was all over.

The late Lakers’ broadcaster, Chick Hearn, often used to proclaim when he thought a contest had been decided: “This game’s in the refrigerator, the door is closed, the lights are out, the eggs are cooling, the butter’s getting hard, and the jello’s jigglin!”

Those words rang true now. Not just for the game, but this championship run and my tenure as head coach of the Lakers.

Everything was in the refrigerator.

—

I’ve never been very good at dealing with loss. Like many competitors, one of the main driving forces in my life has been not just to win but to avoid losing. Yet for some reason this fiasco didn’t affect me as much as some of the other losses I’ve endured in my basketball life. In part, that was because this wasn’t the finals. It’s much easier coping with an early-round loss than a game in which you’re closing in on a ring. But even more than that, the way in which the Dallas finale unfolded was so over-the-top absurd, it was hard to take too seriously.

I wasn’t pleased with how the players handled themselves at the end of the game. Still, as we gathered one last time in the locker room it didn’t feel right to deliver a lecture on NBA etiquette. “I think we played out of character tonight,” I told them. “I don’t know why that happened at this particular time. The media will probably make a big deal out of this. But you shouldn’t look at this game as a measuring stick of your ability or your competitiveness. You’re better than this.” Then I walked around the room and thanked each of the players individually for the great work we’d done together over the years.

As a rule, players usually have an easier time dealing with loss than coaches. They can go in and take a shower, then come out and say, “I’m tired and hungry. Let’s go get something to eat.” But coaches don’t have the same kind of release that comes from playing a grueling physical game. Our nervous systems tend to keep firing long after the arena has cleared.

For me, the nerves usually kick into high gear in the middle of the night. I’ll sleep for a few hours, then—bang!—my brain is up and spinning. “Should I have done this, should I have done that? God, what a terrible call in the fourth quarter. Maybe I should have called a different play?” And so on. Sometimes I have to sit and meditate for a long time before the noise settles down and I can go back to sleep.

Coaching takes you on an emotional roller coaster ride that’s hard to stop, even when you’ve diligently practiced letting go of your desire for things to be different than they actually are. There always seems to be just a bit more to let go of. Zen teacher Jakusho Kwong suggests becoming “an active participant in loss.” We’re conditioned to seek only gain, to be happy, and to try to satisfy all our desires, he explains. But even though we may understand on some level that loss is a catalyst for growth, most people still believe it to be the opposite of gain and to be avoided at all costs. If I’ve learned anything in my years of practicing Zen and coaching basketball, it’s that what we resist persists. Sometimes the letting go happens quickly; other times it may take several sleepless nights. Or weeks.

After talking with the players, I walked down the hall in the American Airlines Center to another room where my kids were waiting. They were distraught. A few had tears in their eyes; the rest were in a state of disbelief. “I can’t believe this happened,” Chelsea said. “That was the most difficult game we’ve ever had to sit through. Why did it have to be
this
game?”

That’s a question I’ve asked myself a few times since. There’s a tendency to search for someone to pin the blame on when an unexpected disaster occurs. The columnists had a field day accusing everyone from Kobe to Pau to Fish to Ron to Lamar, and, of course, me for the loss. Andrew told reporters that he thought the team had “trust issues,” and there may be some truth to that. But I think there were a number of factors that stopped this Lakers’ team from joining together into the integrated championship-winning force we’d been so many times before.

Fatigue was a big factor. It takes a lot of grit—physically, psychologically, and spiritually—to win
one
championship. By the time you’re shooting for your third in a row, you’ve played so many games, it gets harder and harder to tap into the inner resources that make winning possible. What’s more, many of the key individuals on the team—including me—were distracted by personal issues that made it difficult for us to compete with the same invincible spirit we’d known before. As Lamar said simply after the game, “There was just something missing for us.”

Buddhist sages say that there’s only “a tenth of an inch of difference” between heaven and earth. And I think the same can be said about basketball. Winning a championship is a delicate balancing act, and there’s only so much you can accomplish by exerting your will. As a leader your job is to do everything in your power to create the perfect conditions for success by benching your ego and inspiring your team to play the game the right way. But at some point, you need to let go and turn yourself over to the basketball gods.

The soul of success is surrendering to what is.

Behold the child:
My mom and me at my dedication at the Bethel Tabernacle Church in Anaconda, Montana, 1945.

The family that prays together:
I’m the one in the short pants with (
clockwise from my right
) Joe, Joan, Dad, Mom, and Charles.

Big Coyote:
In my senior year, Williston High won the North Dakota state title. Some friends still call me Wiley (short for the cartoon character Wile E. Coyote).

Role models:
At UND I was schooled by two future NBA coaches: head coach Bill Fitch (
left
) and assistant coach Jimmy Rodgers.

Born to be wild:
I could baffle batters with my curve in college, but sometimes, as Fitch liked to say, my fastball “couldn’t find home plate with a Geiger counter.”