Life on the Run (7 page)

I eat breakfast with a friend who is thinking about running for Congress in Chicago if he can get the Daley machine’s endorsement. The talk is of fund-raising, political intrigues, and political organization.

After breakfast, I go to a luncheon put on by the Chicago Bulls Boosters, where I am scheduled to be the principal speaker. It is held in a downtown Chicago hotel and about 200 men attend. Part of being a professional basketball player is speaking at many kinds of affairs: shopping center openings, charity fund raisers, sports banquets, high school and college assemblies, bar mitzvahs, annual company dinners, and church services. You learn to sense the mood of an audience. The element of performance in a speech often outweighs substance. The hard thing for me is to strike the balance between preaching on the one hand and slapstick on the other. Somewhere between those two extremes lies the craft of a professional speaker, be he lawyer or teacher, politician or basketball player.

The expectations of an audience to which one speaks are much different from those of 20,000 basketball fans. They aren’t nearly as demanding. During my senior year at college, I spoke in the area of New Jersey around Princeton. When my college coach would accompany me, he’d say the audience laughed at my jokes, not because they were funny, but because I told them. In a way he was right. I have often heard Walt Frazier or Willis Reed or Red Holzman tell stories that are not side-splitting but that made audiences roll in the aisles. The temptation as a speaker is to adopt a standard pose and to work from it to any audience. Willis acts as if he were a politician at a county fund-raising dinner, giving recognition to all the other politicians in the audience. He unfailingly directs compliments to the Knick organization—owners, general manager, coach, publicity man, and secretary—and to the fans, and to his hosts of the evening. Frazier, on the other hand, always conveys a cocky aloofness with an occasional good-natured jibe at Holzman, other players, or the toastmaster. For example, he will say, “Red Holzman is a smart coach. Smart enough to draft me.” Holzman’s approach is self-deprecating. He becomes the put-upon little guy who just tries to get by against all the odds. He will say, “I heard what the toastmaster said about baldness. I don’t think that’s so nice. [Pause.] I feel lucky to be here tonight. Out of place with all these stars, but lucky. [Pause.] And that’s why you people shouldn’t make fun of me. Besides, Willis Reed said it was okay if I came tonight. [Pause.] He knows I need a free meal.”

For me, the challenge of improvisation is the most important element of public speaking. I will arrive at the dinner or luncheon without specific preparation and, as the meal progresses, I’ll write my speech, particularly the humor. Sometimes I surprise myself. Occasionally I fall flat, like the time I got up at a formal dinner and introduced Mr. Vanderbilt as Mr. Rockefeller.

The luncheon lasts two hours. The businessmen seem to be entertained with my locker-room humor and informed about the inequities of the reserve clause. I return to the hotel room, where I find DeBusschere asleep with the television on. The room is strewn with the residue of our stay: soda cans, books, odorous drying uniforms and gym shoes, an emptied suitcase, and a promotional packet from McDonalds. I undress and sleep for an hour. The TV awakens me. A talk show, one of America’s consciousness raisers, blasts away into the late afternoon. The guest is Woody Hayes, the football coach at Ohio State University. He says, “Anyone who will tear down sports will tear down America. Sports and religion have made America what it is today.”

“Why doesn’t he tell that to the official he kicked,” DeBusschere says as he changes the channel.

Most arenas in the league are modern structures built in the path of urban growth. Chicago Stadium is a relic from the past. Built in 1929, it stands like a mountain of Depression concrete, in the center of urban decay. When I first started playing professionally in 1967, there was an operating McDonalds restaurant across the street. Now, all that remains is the sign with the golden arches. The rest was leveled. Outside the arena black kids ask for tickets. Stores in the area are boarded up. Those that remain won’t last long. The crime rate in the nearby housing projects is high. One of the reasons that Chicago never draws well is the physical danger involved in parking. There are three lots near the stadium with spotlights shining on them. For those who come late, there are more distant lots which are safe only if you leave with the crowd. A year ago, two friends waited for me after a game for half an hour and as we approached their car, a young kid robbed us at gunpoint.

Inside the stadium, things look as if they hadn’t changed for twenty years. Vintage popcorn smells permeate the arena. Vendors in blue uniforms load their boxes with an evening’s supply of hot-dogs, beer, and soda. The court and hallways are so dirty I change shoes after we play here. The arena itself is cold and the locker rooms are cramped. It is difficult for twelve players to dress or shower at the same time.

Chicago is a city in which many of our players bump into their pasts. Barnett’s father shows up from Gary occasionally, or some long-lost Tennessee State friend, living in Chicago, says hello. Frazier’s wife lives in Chicago. He always arrives at the stadium separately from the team after spending the day with his son. The mother of Cazzie Russell (a former Knick) sometimes stops by to say hello to Cazzie’s old teammates.

As we change into our uniforms, Danny opens the evening’s banter. “I knew a boy who came to the clubhouse one day in San Francisco in the old Pacific Coast League. He complained of a stomach ache. The doctor said it was overeating. He continued to complain. His father took him to another doctor who diagnosed it as a sore throat. The kid died that night of a ruptured appendix.”

“Doctors are just like anybody else,” I offer. “There are good ones and bad ones.”

“Yeah, and some of them are terrible,” says Danny. “You ever hear what happened to Jeff Chandler? He had a simple operation but the doctor left some tool inside him. He bled to death. Sinatra sued the hospital for I don’t know how many millions, which went to Chandler’s wife, but that didn’t do fuckin’ Jeff any good. He’d already gone West.”

“Some doctors are as counterfeit as wrestlers,” says Clyde, who has just arrived. “You know my grandmother used to believe that wrestlers were for real on TV.”

“Yeah,” says Barnett, “all those wrestlers rehearse. Man, some of them cats make the big bankroll, $100,000 or $200,000 a year. Ernie Ladd, my man, is making more now wrestling than he ever did in football.”

The door of the locker room opens and in walks Ernie Banks, the Chicago Cubs baseball player who does sports broadcasting in the winter. His Afro is clipped close and the slightness of his build is surprising. He has a wide smile and a button on his lapel that says “Get Excited.” He opens with “Hey, how you doin’? You’re real professionals now; right, how you doin’?”

As Banks walks over to Frazier for an interview, Barnett turns away and says, “No motherfucker’s suppose to be
that
happy, man.”

Effective defense in basketball requires good body position (keeping yourself between the offensive man and the basket) and knowledge of where the ball is—all the time. Each player must remain alert to help if a teammate’s man breaks free. No player, though, can stop another player every time down the court; that’s just the nature of a game played by talented individuals. Two offensive maneuvers, the screen and roll and the jump shot, one old and one new, decrease every team’s defensive capabilities.

When the jump shot was first introduced, it was particularly devastating because conventional defensive wisdom urged that the defender never leave his feet. Bill Russell, the Boston Celtic great, changed the game by demonstrating that a player could not only jump to block shots successfully but could also control the game by selecting when and where to block shots. Now players regularly attempt to “reject” (block) opponents’ shots, an act that has added more grace and excitement to the game. But, the shooter still has the advantage of knowing when he will release the ball.

A screen and roll is a basic basketball play. One player “screens” or “picks” (impedes with his stationary body) the defensive man of his teammate, who is then free to shoot unmolested in the open space behind the screener. If the screener’s defensive man “switches” (jumps from guarding the screener to guarding the newly freed man), the screener rolls (moves in a straight line) to the basket before the other defensive man can get into his path. While in motion, he receives a pass for what should be an extremely easy shot. Thus the screen and roll is complete.

Sometimes a screen is set for the purpose of freeing a player to receive a pass. Team patterns can be designed so as to spring open men at any point on the court. Proper timing and placement (when and where to set screens, when and how to use the screens, when and how to pass the ball to the newly freed man) can make defense very difficult.

If team defense is to be even partly effective, it requires determination, considerable effort, and group coordination. The Chicago Bulls display all three. Under the leadership of their coach, Dick Motta, an iron-disciplined Mormon who frequently reminds me of Holzman in his pugnacity and competitiveness, the Bulls harass players all over the court. While it is usually easy to dribble the ball three quarters of the court deep into your own offensive zone, the Bulls make it difficult to dribble anywhere. The players guard their men chest to chest for the full length of the court. They dive to the floor for loose balls and into the stands for lost balls. They fall down in front of offensive players at the slightest brush and if a charging foul is not called they bounce up and continue hounding. They communicate effectively among themselves. They know when and how to switch. If a screen is set, the man who switches tries to smother the ball handler so that he cannot pass the ball to the man rolling. If the screen is away from the ball, they frequently see it far enough in advance to alert each other and prevent receipt of an uncontested pass.

Ironically, the Chicago offense revolves around the assumption that defenses make mistakes. They run rigid offensive patterns. They remain patient until the defense’s concentration or determination lapses and then they exploit it. For example, they run a simple screen away from the ball and wait until the defense either doesn’t switch, which gives the shot or switches too soon, which gives the roll. Only on rare occasions can a defense prevent both options, particularly when the offense sets good screens and has the patience to take only good shots. Many of their baskets come from “offensive turnovers” (mistakes, such as bad passes, and violations, such as steps, double dribbles, and offensive fouls). One of the anomalies of their offense is the presence on the team of Chet Walker, who is one of basketball’s great one-on-one forwards. Not a flashy player, he makes his moves with such perfect timing that his one-on-one action does not disrupt Chicago’s patient offense.

One-on-one is a game within a game. Every pro has played it. Sometime before his involvement with the complexity of team ball, the need to develop pride and confidence made individual confrontation necessary. A few players continue to feel such soaring confidence in their abilities that they
prefer
to duel with a single opponent rather than coordinate their movements within the team. When two one-on-one stars play against each other, there is a lot of “get-backing” (when one scores, the other must reciprocate). Screens bother them, for screens crowd at least two more people (the screener and his defensive man) in upon them. One-on-one stars want the ball, an open court, and a single defensive man. Then they operate with imagination and uncanny skill. There are nights when one-on-one players can so easily beat any defense that they seem to be reaching heights of invincibility unknown to other mortals.

“When I was younger coming up, everything was a constant one-on-one battle,” says Dick Barnett. “Even if you were in a game you were still playing against your man in a one-on-one situation. As you mature in the pros, you no longer feel like you have to go out and build a reputation. The game isn’t as personal. You have so many games that your approach is more workmanlike.” A more controlled one-on-one is practiced by Walker and by most veterans. They don’t shoot every time.

Walker is an excellent basketball player standing 6′6″ and weighing 230 pounds. He is a handsome man with a close-cropped Afro. I first saw him play in college, and even then his body and mind seemed in balance. He does pretty much what he wants on a basketball court, getting a good shot at his whim. He will dribble to the middle of the court or to the baseline, and will go into his shooting motion as if he is going to jump and shoot. If the defender does not jump, Walker will “fake his shot” another time and perhaps even a third time. By the last fake, the defender will at least be off balance and will probably have jumped into the air to block the anticipated shot. Walker will then take his jump shot unmolested, or will be fouled as he shoots.

If he chooses to fake his shot before he dribbles, he retains the option of driving to the basket when his defender jumps for the faked shot. In addition to Walker’s mastery of these basic moves, he is a very smart player. He senses when to make the explosive drive to the basket and when to play nonchalantly within the pattern of the team. He senses when he has the advantage and he knows that he has to be patient to use it most effectively. Above all, Walker is confident in the clutch—shooting during the last quarter—and, eight times out of ten, if there is a last-second shot, he is the one to take it.

Holzman finishes his pregame talk. Everyone claps and we walk down a linoleumed hallway, up a set of steps, and into a still empty Chicago Stadium. The three tiers of seats are newly painted in red, white, and black. The steel beams cross the ceiling and disappear into the sides of the building’s old brick walls. Radio booths hang at the Bulls’ end with the station’s call letters, WGN and WMAQ, embroidered on the giant banners which cover the bottom half of the booths. Concession stands sit at the same spot on each tier, looking as if they were carefully stacked toy blocks. The old pipe organ with its red and white ornate wood decoration high above the visitors’ end soon will be raised into position and the organist will play the national anthem. We go through our warm-ups. People start to fill the midcourt area seats.