Quotes from Kareem's autobiography "Giant Steps"

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I'm mostly interested in quotes regarding his gameplay in the pros. I'll edit the OP with some of the other quotes listed below when I have a chance to type them.

Some are more interesting than others and I may end up not using some, just wanted to keep it organized. Note that some of the later topics are rather condensed. The first edition came out in 83, and a lot of that stuff was just added after the fact, and isn't really expounded upon.

p.198 (summer before rookie year, and his teammates, and sizing up his position)

About the only good time I had that winter was on the court. I had looked forward to playing in the NBA and once the opportunity came, I did my best to play it to the hilt. I was not lacking in confidence. In a preseason All-Star game at Kutscher’s Country Club in the Catskills, I had gone up against Wilt Chamberlain for the first time and played him tough. I was no schoolboy any longer, and thought he tried to establish immediate mastery over me, it just didn’t work out that way. By the time I got to the Bucks there was no question in my mind that I was going to make it as a pro.

The expansion Bucks had been a couple of men short, but as early as training camp we knew we were looking good. Jon McGlocklin was an All-Star guard and teamed with the excellent Flynn Robinson to form a solid backcourt. Bob Dandridge was drafted with me and mimediately impressed the coaches early as a quick forward with a nice shooting touch. Greg Smith, at six feet five, was an amazingly versatile small forward, a great leaper who could run with the guys who were six two and rebounded with the six nine bruisers. The bench was serviceable, with Don Smith, my old New York Operation Rescue teammate Fred Crawford, and Guy Rodgers, one of the classiest passer-playmakers in NBA history. We were a little short on rebounding muscle, but we were hong and fast, and all of us were ready to take a shot at the title.

Bill Russell had retired that spring after playing and coaching the Boston Celtics to another NBA championship, so I didn’t get the opportunity to go up against him. That’s just as well. He was a brilliant player, and it’s nice that I never had to work up the antagonism that would have been necessary to beat him. Wilt Chamberlain hurry his knee at the very start of the season and was out until the playoffs, so I didn’t face him in my rookie year either.

p.206 (Rookie season, defense and the Reed matchup)

The 1969-70 season itself went well. Though we started slowly, the team gathered a nice head of steam, and about halfway through, we really hit our stride. The Bucks were an expansion team, stocked with players not deemed valuable enough by their original clubs to “protect” in the expansion draft, plus me and Bob Dandridge from one year’s college draft, and a couple of guys picked up in trades. Expansion teams never do well; they have a cast-off mentality and, at best, moderate skills. In this one season we became a team, developed an affection for each other and a collective confidence that started from absolute zero, and finished second in our division with the second-best won-lost percentage in the league. Our big match-up all season long was with the New York Knickerbockers, and mine was with Willis Reed.

Individual match-ups are not really of consequence in a team game like basketball, and one man cannot carry a team over an entire season. A player is definitely capable of going wild for a week or two, getting a roaring confidence and a hot shooting hand and personally pulling and willing his team to victory. Once in a while you see a guy on fire, and his attitude spreads to his entire team, and they’re hard to beat. To put together a winning season over eighty-two games and eight months, however, a team needs strength in all positions, balance, health, and luck. Because I came from New York, and the Bucks and Knicks had the best two records in the NBA, a lot was made of our games together. We had a good rivalry, played in the same division, and went head-to-head in the Eastern Division Championship Finals.

We had beaten the Philadelphia ’76ers, with Billy Cunningham, Hal Greer, Archie Clark, and Wally Jones, in the semis. We didn’t know if we had the team to go all the way, but we were definitely going all out for it.

My game in the pros was much like it was in college, only expanded. On defense I was generally much quicker and more agile than the centers who were playing me, and I didn’t have a whole lot of trouble putting the ball in the hoop. I averaged over twenty-eight points a game. Also, both Mr. Donohue and Coach Wooden had taught me to make the good pass when I was double-teamed, and the Bucks’ Coach Larry Costello encouraged it as well, so I gave out about four assists per game over the course of the year. But my main strength was on defense. I had closed down the middle at UCLA, but in the pros the zone defense was outlawed, meaning I had to stay with my man or guard somebody else. Because most big men posted down low, however, I could stay near the basket, and I made it my job exclusively to control the inside, help my teammates by blocking the shots of anyone who might have gone around them and tested the lane. My teammates could play their men tight or gamble for the steal, safe in the knowledge that I was going to reject any courageous soul who had the audacity to drive on me.

The system worked well, but we had a hard time with the Knicks. Willis Reed, their center, was about four inches shorter than I was but ten pounds heavier. He was thick, mobile, and aggressive inside, which was not uncommon for NBA centers, and he had a soft, accurate touch with his jumper from twelve to eighteen feet, which was. If you left him alone, he could hit with it a good portion of the night. That made the Knicks an extraordinarily difficult opponent for us. I could go out and stop Reed’s jumper, but the Bucks had no strong forward to pick up the rebounds or cover the middle; so Walt Frazier would drive, Dave DeBusschere would post up, and Bill Bradley would be popping behind screens and hitting his jumper. I spent the whole series running back and forth trying to guard Willis outside and help my teammates inside. Though I could handle Willis personally, the teams matched up very much in New York’s favor.

After every game the only thing the writers wanted to know was, “What did Willis do to dominate you?” He didn’t dominate me. I was scoring thirty points a game, going in for a lot of rebounds, getting a lot of assists; I played as hard as I could, but the Bucks were not good enough to beat the Knicks consistently. An individual’s play never soffsets a great team’s play, and the Knicks had a great team from their starting five through Cazzie Russell and Dave Stallworth on a deep bench. Because this was the playoffs, I tried explaining this to the media. They’d stop writing and listen to me and say, “That’s a pretty good observation.” Then they’d go right ahead and write whatever it was they wanted their readers to believe, that Willis dominated Lew. I expected it in print, and they didn’t disappoint me. Willis had a great year; he was chosen Most Valuable Player. I won Rookie of the Year. He did what he had to do to make his team win, but he had a lot of help. The Knicks beat the Bucks in five games.

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p.209 (Oscar)

If my personal life was at a standstill, my professional life was taking the great leap forward. Tired of playing on a losing ball club and willing to go to court to establish his right to become a free agent at the expiration of his contract, Oscar Robertson forced the team owners’ hand and that autumn got himself traded to the Bucks.

I was ecstatic. We had been good but young, quick but lacking in the on-court presence that could command deference not only from our opponents but from ourselves. Last year every game had been a toss-up. Now, even before the Big O walked on the court for our first practice, we all had the feeling that this was our year.

Oscar Robertson is, in my opinion, the best all-around player in the history of basketball. A lot has been made recently of the “triple double,” a player going into double figures for one game in rebounds, assists, and scoring. Broadcasters and commentators talk about it like it was the Holy Grail. In the 1961-62 season Oscar averaged a triple double: Over an eighty-game schedule he could be counted on for double-figure rebounds; he led the league in assists with 899, and he scored over thirty points a game. He is the all-time NBA leader in assists and free throws made, and third in all-time scoring.

I had watched him on television when I was in high school, but his greatness hadn’t been obvious to me. Playing with the perennial also-ran Cincinnati Royals, he was deadly with that compact, ass-out jump shot, but he didn’t impress me that much. It was when I started playing against him that I began to understand how he controlled the game, and when I finally played with him I really started to see what his game was about.

Oscar Robertson was the epitome of the subtle, no-flash ballplayer. He had the game broken down into such fine points that if he got even a half-step on you, you were in big trouble. He kept the game very simple, which was his first secret. All the most effective basketball strategists and players have kept their technique honed to its most lean and essential parts. John Wooden did it in his coaching; Bill Russell did it in his playing, and Oscar was the same way. He didn’t have blazing speed, and he didn’t do a whole lot of pirouettes, all he did was score, rebound, and dish the ball off. He could handle the basketball well with both hands, using the crossover dribble, first the right hand and then the left then back to the right again, to lure his man into going off-balance or leaning in the wrong direction, after which he’d go right by him, and then it was either time for his shot or a pass. If you were going to stop him, you were just going to stop the basics, and you would just have to do it perfectly because he could take advantage of any miscue you might make.

At six feet five inches tall, 210 pounds, Oscar was the first big guard. It wasn’t obvious because he was so smooth and graceful, but he had tremendous brute strength, and if he bumped into you, he’d knock you back on your heels. On defense he was quick and smart and solid, as easily slap the ball away from his man as be the wall that would not crumble before a drive. On offense he had the consistently effective shot and the absolute will to put it in. His whole thing was access to the basket. When he got ready to shoot, if I could give him even a glimpse of space to work with, he would drive past, leading his defender into my shoulder, which would stop the man, and once past me either hit the lay-up or have the court awareness to hit the teammate whose defender had momentarily left him free while trying to stop Oscar.

He was a master of the three-point play, and he was at his best against guys who played him tough. Oscar versus Jerry Sloan was always a great match-up because Jerry played very physical defense. Jerry would get great position, allowing for no movement, no first step to the hoop, and then let his man run into him and be charged with the foul. Oscar loved that because it played right into his hands. Oscar would always let Jerry set, then fake as if he he was going around him. Oscar had the great move so, out of respect, Jerry would react, and as soon as he started, Oscar would bowl Jerry over, go up and hit the jumper, and be on his way to the foul line as the whistle was blowing and the ball was hitting the net. Oscar was so subtle he’d never get called for it. Meanwhile, Oscar was a truck, it was like getting hit by Jim Brown. But Sloan would bounce back up, complain to the refs, and get on with his game. I loved to watch them.

But Oscar was even more valuable as a leader than as a scorer. He was thirty-two years old and had lost maybe a step, but his total mastery enabled him to be just as effective as when he was averaging thirty points a game. By directing and inspiring the rest of us, he enabled the Bucks to play the game the way it was supposed to be played.

We had all the components in place. The Bucks had obtained Lucius Allen in an off-season deal with Seattle-it was good to have my old friend and running mate with me again-and with Lucius, Bobby Dandridge, and Greg Smith, we had three guys who could get up and down the court in a hurry. I was in the middle, and Oscar controlled the ball like he was dishing out compliments. Bobby was deadly from fifteen to twenty feet, and Oscar could spot him the moment he came open. People wouldn’t guard Greg Smith, which let him run free under the backboard where he was a terror. Oscar would find him. Lucius and Jon McGlocklin played off Oscar, and both of them could either put the ball on the floor or seem to be careening down the court and then pull up and shoot, which made our fast break effective. All the guys played D, and with Bob Boozer and McCoy McLemore coming off the bench for some board strength, we were a very powerful squad.

Coming out of three consecutive college championships and an NBA semifinal, I was used to winning and assumed it would continue pretty regularly, so I was not as overwhelmed playing with Oscar as I might have been. Had I known what he added to my game would come only once in my professional lifetime, I might have stopped to savor the pleasure of working with the best. I’d never known anything but the best, though so while I enjoyed playing with oscar, it wasn’t until several years later that I appreciated him fully.

What the Big O did for me that gave a quantum jump to my game was get me the ball. It sounds simple, and it was-for him. Oscar had this incredible court vision and a complete understanding of the dynamics of the game. Not only did he see guys open on the periphery for a jumper, he knew when each of us would fight through a pick or come open behind a screen, and the ball would arrive and be there like you were taking it off a table.

There is an exact moment when a center, working hard in the pivot for a glimmer of an advantage, has the position he needs for a score. You’ve run the length of the court, established your ground, defended it against the hands, forearms, elbows, trunks, and knees of another two-hunted-and-fifty-pound zealot who is slapping and bumping and shoving to move you off your high ground. You need the ball right then. It’s like a moon shot: Fire too soon and you miss the orbit; fire too late and you’re out of range, but let fly when all signals are Go, and you should hit it right on. Oscar had the knack of getting me the ball right at that place and time. Not too high, didn’t want to go up in the air and lose the ground you’ve fought for. Not too low, didn’t want to bend for the ball and create a scrabble down there. Never wanted to put the floor where some little guy could steal in and slap it away. Oscar knew all of this ,and his genius was, whether two men were in his face trying to prevent him from making the pass or in mine trying to prevent me from receiving it, in getting me the ball chest-high so I could turn and hook in one unbroken motion. No way not to score when Oscar was around. No wonder he has 2,500 more assists than anyone in NBA history.

One night he showed me the whole game. We were playing Golden State, and for some reason Oscar shed ten years and brought out the Big O one last time. Getting old in professional sports doesn’t always mean losing your ability all at once, mostly it means only being able to do in unpredictable spurts when you once could call up at will; becoming a miler among sprinters. That night, maybe because he was challenged, maybe because he was angry, maybe simply because he wanted to, Oscar just dominated the floor. He crushed everyone who opposed him on the court; threw hard, precise passes that demanded to be converted; rebounded with a passion, made seventy percent of his shots and scored thirty-seven points before he was lifted. Total mastery. I envy the guys who played with him in his prime. Playing with Oscar was like working with Thomas Edison.

Oscar took the game seriously. All season long if someone screwed up or didn’t seem to want to play, he would chew them out for not doing his job. People who weren’t rebounding, guys who weren’t playing defense, they were in trouble around Oscar. You had to respect him; you were playing with a legend, and he was still doing all of his job; how could you not do yours?

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p.214 (Wilt)

That year I played with a legend and against one. I finally got to go up against Wilt for real. (As with the Babe, Willie, Duke and Oscar, for the greats one name will do.) He had injured his knee and was out my rookie year, but he was very much a presence my second time through.

Wilt he’d his position in the pro basketball hierarchy with total seriousness. He fought for it the way he went for rebounds, with strength and intimidation. It was his only identity. Finally out from under Russell’s shadow, or at least no longer having to read the comparisons in every column and box score, he could have done without my interference. It would have been pleasant for him to rule the roost for a few years before some new young guy knocked him out of the box. And why did it have to be me, the kid he’d taken under his wing? After all, I was the boy he’d loaned his records to, to whom he’d shown the ropes. How could I possibly be threatening to take his place at the top? It took a special will to turn me into the demon threat to his kingdom who had to be defeated. But when the stakes are as high as identity itself, it’s amazing what the mind can do.

Wilt had a lot to complain about because, from the start, he couldn’t control me. Wilt’s entire game was built on strength. He controlled the land. (In fact, it was because of his dominance that the rules committee widened it by four feet the same way college ball outlawed dunking for me.) He had great timing and excellent spring, and he would routinely reject opponents’ shots, either stuffing them while still in the guys’ hands or batting them out of the air after they’d been launched. He was very big and very strong, and he would position himself underneath, and you could forget about coming near him. Nobody could move Wilt out of the pivot, and he was ferocious off the boards. (Over the course of his career he grabbed 2,200 more rebounds than Bill Russell and about 8,00 more than I have.) He was the dominant guy in there, with a personality to match.

Wilt has a place of special honor in the history of basketball. He personally made the game progress, brought the big man from clod to controlling factor. If it weren’t for Wilt, people wouldn’t believe some things were possible-one hundred points by one man in a single game, a fifty-point-per-game average. He led the league in scoring seven times and was the only center ever to lead the NBA in assists.

Wilt was not perfect, however. He wasn’t the best competitor; he didn’t have the most savvy as far as how to make his team win. Russell seemed to get the more crucial rebounds, and though Wilt won all the scoring titles, Russell came away with eleven championship rings to Wilt’s two. (Admittedly, Russell was playing with a superior team around him.) More importantly to me, Wilt was stationary and I was mobile, and I found out fast that he could not handle me on offense. I was eleven years younger than he was, and quicker to begin with. I found my first time down the floor against him that if I let him stand in the pivot and didn’t move before I got the ball, he would destroy me. The next time down, however, I saw that if I got even a little movement, I could either fake him left and go the other way with all the time in the world for a hook, or fake the hook, get him up in the air and drive the other way for a stuff.

Early on, he didn’t play me tough, figuring, I guess, that I was just a kid and he could intimidate me with the backboard growl. When that didn’t work he tried his usual bag of tricks that had woken on a generation of NBA centers. He’d go for my hands, but find himself a split-second too late, the shot was gone. He’d lay back and try for the in-flight rejection, but I’d get up too high and shoot it over him. That’s when it got to be fun. You could see him getting frustrated as m shots kept falling. He would coil and make this tremendous jump, his arms extended like a crane, but I had gauged i, knew exactly how high his outstretched fingers could reach, and put the ball just over them. He’d grunt, and it would drop for two.

I worked on a special trajectory shot just for Wilt, I’d start right under the basket, then lean away for a tiny bit, and put the ball at the top of the backboard. Wilt would go after it every time. He was determined. It would go past his reach, and I’d know from his body language he’d be thinking, “That’s not going in, it’s up to high.” The ball would squeak against the top of the backboard above the rim and fall right through. Frustrated the hell out of him.

At first, when he would back off me I’d sink the hooks from eight to ten feet. Made it seem like he wasn’t playing defense. He hated that. Then the coaches tried to have him muscle me, get all on my back. For a game or two he was reaching up under my armpit and knocking me off balance or batting the ball from my hands. The referees pretty much let this go, and it was fairly successful until I found a countermove. When he threw his arm under my armpit, I’d clamp down on it with my bicep and pin it to my side, then I’d go up to the hoop with him. If he pulled out, it was a foul. If he didn’t, i would hold him there while I shot my shot. If he yanked it out while I was shooting, I got my three points. It made him crazy. Jerry West, at the time his teammate on the Lakers and later my coach, told me Wilt would yell at his teammates and complain that they weren’t helping him guard me. Jerry says this was the only time he’d ever seen Wilt break down and ask for help.

I never took Wilt for granted, however. You can’t ever say that Wilt didn’t give his best, or that his best wasn’t superlative. Wilt was one of the great centers to play the game, and the next three years we had a very fierce competition. In the years since, he has said I played extra hard against him, as if I had something to prove. He is right; I did play extra hard against him-if I hadn’t, he would have dominated me, embarrassed me in front of the league, and undermined my whole game and career. I’d seen him play too long to think I could just go out there and play and not be overwhelmed. Wilt determined my best, and I gave it to him with a vengeance. I was definitely aware that I was posting up with the man against whom all the comparisons would be made. (In airplanes and subways, on movie lines or in the street all big black guys were asked not “Are you Bill Russell?” but, “Are you Wilt?”) He was the standard, and because part of his game was intimidation, I had to work especially hard to overcome him.

I think, though, that Wilt feels that beyond playing hard I tried to embarrass him, somehow to build my reputation at his expense, pull him down from his greatness. Make him look small. Wilt’s only identity was basketball; it was what made him a man, and he must have seen me-young, full of the future, capable in areas where he’d never been-as a very deep threat. And sometimes, on the court, I did embarrass him, though never intentionally. Toward the end of his career, when he was thirty-six and I was twenty-five, I had it any way I wanted. The Bucks would play his Lakers at the Forum, I’d be getting fifty points against him; he’d try the fadeaway, but I’d be there to block it, and he’d storm out to half-court. With his career, and to Wilt that pretty much meant his life, being closed in his face, he must have taken the defeat to heart. I definitely meant to beat him-I play to win at all times-but never to show him up. From Mr. Donohue on, my coaches had been emphatic about not hot-dogging, and I agreed fully. I try for the victory, and while I’m achieving that I don’t try to make anybody feel bad. I’d looked bad for my first fourteen years, and while that might have led some people to inflict it on others, I knew what it felt like and wouldn’t dish it out frivolously. Certainly not to a man as important to me as Wilt.

p.219 (one last note on Wilt)

I’m still glad I kicked his ass on the court, and I would have been perfectly pleased to have gone up against him in his prime. In 1971, my second year in the league and my first game against him, he was still playing great. We beat the Lakers in the Western Conference Finals, but after the last game, in Milwaukee, the fans gave him a standing ovation for his performance.

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p.220 (Reed without the Knicks defense and All-Star MVP controversy)

I was starting at center for the West squad, and i was pleased to see that Willis Reed, captain of the Knicks, had been selected to start at center for the East. I kind of felt I had something to prove. From the playoffs the past year into the 1970-71 season, all I’d heard about when I’d gone to New York was how Willis was dominating me; I was agile but he’d shut me down, I was big but he was the best. Willis had been MVP; he was an excellent and inspirational ballplayer, but he had never dominated me. When he had a good game against me the writers would crow about it in the paper; when I played well against him, however, you couldn’t find a whole lot of column inches on it. The All-Star game, on national TV among the NBA’s most celebrated players, was my shot.

One-on-one I matched up very well against Willis. He tried, but he couldn’t muscle me under the offensive boards. Without the collapsing Knick defense to help him out, he couldn’t handle me alone, and I scored on him easily. On the other end of the floor I followed him outside and blocked several of his shots. This wasn’t the Knicks running set routes, and I had a whole team of All-Stars, each of who could cover his man very well without my help, so I didn’t have to worry about running back and forth to shut down the middle. I played Willis tight, and he made only five of the sixteen shots e got off, while I grabbed fourteen rebounds.

The game was close all the way. We led by four after first quarter, buy two at the half, and were down by one at the start of fourth quarter play. The game seesawed, and there was some fine ball getting played out there. But when the game was on the line I took over. My teammates looked for me down low, and, over Willis, my hooks were falling. I made the last six points, blocked a shot, came down and made a three-point play with less than ten seconds left to ice the game. We won 108-107 and I was stoked! This was great, High-level In Your Face, and I came off the court cheered and cheery, like I’d just hit a home run in Little League. I knew I was the game’s MVP. I knew it and I wanted it.

They gave the award to Lenny Wilkens. The voting had been done before the game ended. Lenny had played well, I had won all those awards in college; I didn’t need it like he did; we could change the voting but it’s a hassle; let’s give it to Lenny.

I heard it but I couldn’t believe it. No way anybody was the MVP of that game but me. It sounds petty, but that is a valuable award. Forget money, it’s about respect, prestige. I had fought through Willis in the teeth of the media and then watched as they effectively ignored it. Complaining wouldn’t help, it would only sound sour and ungracious. What could I do? Be small about it, and they’d nail me in video and print; be big about it, and they’d do it over and over again. I tried not to grumble. After all, the players saw what had gone on out there. I had done my proving to them, and they were most important. Your reputation adds to your game, and I had just showed everybody who knew how to watch that I was no longer a year away but right up there right now. We had won, I had shown my stuff, I was happy. So why was I so upset?

Maybe the people who influence the public though I didn’t need the applause, was unaffected by their approval. I certainly wasn’t letting them see my emotions in the locker room all season long, perhaps they thought I knew I was the best and didn’t need them to tell me. Maybe, power peing only as strong as the will of those underneath to accept it, they needed to dominate me and could only do it through denial. was a bad interview, they could reward someone who would give them a pay-off. Short-term smarts. If they wanted me to talk, this was no way to warm the relationship. **** those guys, I thought, and went out and got some dinner.

p.222 (71 playoffs)

We beat the Lakers in five and sat around waiting to see who we’d be playing for the 1971 championship. Baltimore was playing New York, and we had a serious rooting interest in the Knicks. They had knocked us out of the playoffs the year before; they were the defending champions, and we wanted to take the crown from the king. I wanted to do it in New York in front of my Mom and Pop and all my friends. I knew we were going to win—we had just lost sixteen games the whole year and only two out of thirty-six at home-and I wanted to see how the New York press was going to explain our blowing the Knicks away.

Unfortunately, the Knicks lost by two points in the seventh game, and we had to play in Baltimore. A bad break; Baltimore is hardly the media center New York is, and our championship series immediately lost about forty percent of its impact.

The Bullets were pretty well spent by the time we got at them. The New York series had been emotional and grueling, and dethroning the champions may have seemed like accomplishment enough for one week. They had a strong team with Gus Johnson, Wesley Unseld, Earl Monroe, Jack Marin, and Kevin Loughery, but the Knicks took a lot of running and pounding and thinking to beat, and when the World Championship round began, they seemed just a little bit drained.

Then, Fred Carter made a drastic mistake.

Fred “Mad Dog” Carter had come off the Bullet bench against the Knicks and made himself into a hero. He’d shot; he’d driven to the hoop; he’d gotten the points when the Bullets had needed them and no one could have expected that he’d deliver. Stardom was new to Fred Carter and, maybe a little filled with himself, he said something in the first game I’m sure he wishes he could take back.

“Give me the ball,” he shouted as he ran down the floor and found who was guarding him, “I’ve got Oscar, I’ll score easy!”

Oscar Robertson was already keyed up. Until that day he had been the Ernie Banks of basketball, the best player never to play for a world championship, but when Carter insulted him he became incensed. He was determined anybody in his path to get to that title. We were all ready, but Oscar had this rage to win.

The whole series, any time he had Fred Carter on him, Oscar took him down on the baseline and misused him. Oscar had been a forward in college, and when he got his man low he’d back him in, back him in; if the guy gave him half a step he’d take it, then bump him and have the man give up another one. It was like Bruce Lee cornering Malek, like something inevitable. The next thing you know Oscar was seven feet from the basket. Then he’d pump, get Carter up in the air, jump into him to draw the foul, hit the two, and make the free throw. He had Carter in foul trouble and talking himself. We swept the series in four games. My second year in the league and here I am playing on the World Champions and named the NBA’s Most valuable Player. I was ecstatic for two days. Then I was home in Milwaukee.

p.254 (72 playoffs)

The Bucks won the division and beat Golden State in the 1972 Western Conference Semifinals, but Oscar got injured and we lost to the Lakers in six. I was chosen the league’s Most Valuable Player for the second year in a row, which I appreciated, won the scoring title with a 34.8 average, and was their in the league in rebounding, but I would have traded it all for the championship and Greg’s return.

p.263 (73 playoffs)

I went to work every day, became very fatalistic, and by the time the season ended I had effectively kept paranoia from taking control. The Bucks had played erratically all year, but we won our final fourteen games and finished tied with the Lakers for the lead in the Western Conference. We were all thinking unexpectedly of the championship, and then we got beaten by Golden State in the first round of the playoffs. Having concentrated my energy so fully the last three weeks, finally getting the murder and terror to subside, I was very disappointed. I wanted to keep playing; it was better than living at home.

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p.266 (73-74 season and 74 playoffs)

Most of what I did was play basketball. We had an excellent team that year. Oscar was still playing, and we had Jon McGlocklin off the ball, Bob Dandridge and Curtis Perry at forwards. Early in the season we picked up Cornell Warner from Cleveland, and he would come off the bench at power forward. With Lucius spelling Oscar, and Mickey Davis behind Dandridge, we were deep. We beat everyone in the Eastern Conference consistently and had the best record in the league.

A few days before the end of the season we suffered a true setback. We were playing in Detroit with the division title wrapped up and only a couple of games to go when we lost Lucius Allen. It was during the game, one of the bellboys had left someone’s warm-up jacket too close to the court, and when Lucius ran by he stepped on it. Basketball courts are slippery to begin with, so when Lucius’ heel caught the cloth he slid as if he was doing a split and seriously damaged his knee. That was it for his season; the next day he had his knee in a cast.

Without Lucius we beat the Lakers and Bulls, and faced the Boston Celtics in the 1974 NBA finals. It was a combative playoff, and the officiating was generally poor. Richie Powers was the referee, and he allowed the Celtics’ center Dave Cowens to dive on my back for rebounds and defense; he thought that was okay. Every game he refereed, we lost.

I get especially intense for the playoffs. During the regular season I play every game to win-that is the point of professional basketball, and I resent anyone believing I would ever put out less than my best-but when the championship is directly on the line I get real focused. I am good at dismissing disturbances, giving little time to things I find minor or tribal, and during the playoffs I am even harder to distract. I use the power of concentration that Bruce Lee taught me; I lock into my chi and kick my game up a step.

The home-court advantage didn’t turn out to mean a whole lot. We lost the first game at home, won the second there, beat the Celtics in Boston in the third game, and lost there in the fourth. Got beaten in the fifth in Milwaukee and came back to Boston needing a road win to stay alive.

The sixth game was tight all the way. Neither team could establish dominance, and the lead went back and forth. The game was tied at the end of regulation time, tied at the end of overtime. With thirty seconds left in the second overtime period, we had gone down and made a tough basket, but the Celtics had come right back. John Havlicek was having an excellent series, and as the Celtics raced downcourt, Cowens set a pick for him in the corner. I switched out and jumped in the air with my arms fully extended, blocking the normal trajectory of his ball to the hoop. Havlicek was alert and smart, however, the definitive mark of a clutch ballplayer. He altered his shot, threw it almost straight up in the air like he was gunning for the top of a silo. The ball flew over me in a tremendous arc and fell straight into the bucket. They were up by one with seven seconds remaining.

We called time out, getting the ball past mid court, and set up our final play. If this one doesn’t go in, we all go home. We figured they would key on me, so Coach Costello called for Jon McGlocklin to take the jump shot from the corner with me as the outlet in case he couldn’t get the ball, and we moved back onto the court.

A team is allowed only five seconds in which to get the ball inbounds, otherwise they lose possession. I posted low and set a pick to try and free Jon for the shot, but his man stayed with him, and Jon could not get open. With time escaping I ran to the free throw line at the right side of the land and took the inbounds pass. I looked around, but the Celtics had gone man-to-man, and everyone was covered.

There were only seconds left in the season, but I had my chi focused and had no worry. I felt as if everything was moving in slow motion and all power was mine. There was no sound, not even a real sense of bodies. My head was clear. I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so totally, comfortably alone. Henry Finkel was guarding me (Cowens had fouled out), and I just dribbled to the baseline, turned, and put up the hook. It went right in.

Things went back to real time, double time, in a hurry. The Celtics’ main strategy was as soon as you scored on them, they tried to inbounds quick and come back at you. The Bucks ran downcourt ready to beat them. The Celtics called time out. There were three seconds left to play. In our huddle we were intent on our functions, and when we walked back out on the court we had them zoned so well they couldn’t put the ball in play and had to call another time out. When they finally did get JoJo White free, he could only take a fallaway twenty-five-foot jumper with no chance. We won the game by one point.

I often have insomnia after games, sometimes even see the dawn. That night all I could do was lie in bed and replay those last seconds. Total adrenaline OD. I got on the plane to return to Milwaukee the next day, and I had not slept.

We lost the seventh game two days later. We could have beaten them, and with Lucius available to us I’m sure we would have. The Celtics were well-coached, however, and, to their credit, they took good advantage of our weakness. Throughout the series they pressured Oscar, guarded him closely as he brought the ball up the floor and set up our plays. Lucius was an excellent ball handler, and during the season we had counted on him to take a lot of that responsibility. Without him Oscar was forced to bear all that weight as they tried to wear him down, tire him out. With no Lucius we were forced to bring Ron Williams off the bench. Ron was a good shooter, but his ball handling wasn’t championship caliber. We also had Dicky Garrett who could handle the ball, but Larry Costello hadn’t played him in months and he didn’t have his game together for the playoffs. We ended up being undermanned in the backcourt, and it told on us.

[fpliii]

p.269 (74-75 season, injury, and changing teams)

The 1974-75 season didn’t turn out so well. Oscar retired, Lucius got traded ten games into the season, and I broke my own hand like an idiot. We were playing the Celtics early in the year, and on a scramble for a rebound, Don Nelson gouged my eye with his ginger. The pain was tremendous; I felt like I was blind, and I was furious. They let Cowens and all these guys climb all over me, never even gave me the most minimal protection of the rules, and now because of their stupidity, I might be severely injured. Don Nelson is no wimp; he’s a big strong man, and he had hurt me. I was in a rage, and when the pain in my head subsided enough for me even to be capable of retaliation, I wanted to kill him. I restrained myself because I knew Don hadn’t struck me on purpose, but I had to hit something, so I smashed my fist into the metal standard that supported the backboard and broke two bones in my hand. What a jerk. The pain was overwhelming, but once I calmed down I felt like a real idiot. All these people taking shots at me, and I personally put myself out of action. That was the stupidest I’ve felt in my entire life.

The eye healed in a matter of days; the hand took six weeks, and by that time the team was out of contention. I had to sit around Milwaukee, which was no treat, and hear about what a fool I was. Hey, nobody knew that better than I did. I needed to move, to put some of this behind me, to find some friends and a fun place to live. The team finished last in our division. I had never played on a loser before, and I didn’t like it. My contract with Milwaukee ended after the next season, but I had enough. Although they offered to buy me me a townhouse in New York City and even suggested that I could commute to the games if I would re-sign with the Bucks, it was time to think of a change of venue. I asked to be traded and the Bucks obliged.

It was strange, though. By the time I was about to leave Milwaukee I had finally developed an appreciation of its people. The team owners treated me with respect and pain me well, and the fans turned out to be great. They are the salt of the earth; they show up when you’re winning, they show up when you’re losing. They come early, stay late, and let you know what’s happening while they’re there. When I first arrived the fans weren’t very knowledgeable about basketball itself, but as the Bucks played it for them they developed rapidly, and by the time I lefty they were on top of the game. They were a different kind of people than any I’d met before, but I came to know them as generous and good. In New York the fans boo anybody on the opposing team; in Milwaukee they cheer anyone they appreciate. I ended up, much to my surprise, liking Milwaukee. It’s too cold for me, but it’s too cold for the people who live there too.

I would have played in New York with great pleasure. In fact, I tried to be traded to the Knickerbockers. My friends, my roots, even my family (though I wasn’t having much to do with them at the time) were all in the city. Walt Frazier, Earl Monroe, and Bill Bradley were still playing for the Knicks, and it would have been a perfect situation for me.

Unfortunately, the Knicks screwed things up. Rather than trade for me, in which case they would have had to compensate the Bucks with a a number of quality players or draft choices, the Knicks tried to try and finesse George McGinnis. George was a high-quality ballplayer working in the ABA who was for the first time becoming available to the NBA. The Knicks did not own the rights to sign him, but they signed him anyway. It was a blatant and obvious power play on the part of the Knicks’ management, and the rest of the league squashed them flat, invalidating the deal and penalizing them a first-round draft choice. Meanwhile, they were diverted from signing me. I was very disappointed, but I had to look elsewhere. I could have gone to the Washington Bullets and been near Hamaas and Habiba, but I decided against that. Jack Kent Cooke, the owner of the Los Angeles Lakers, had the money for me and the players to exchange with the Bucks, and when the deal was presented I accepted.

p.272 (75-76 season)

The Lakers didn’t look to be too good that year-they had traded three excellent prospects and their center to get me-but I was happy to be with them. We trained at a college facility in LA, and though nobody likes training camp, I’d always come out smiling. “What are you so happy about in this funky little gym?” a teammates asked as we were leaving a particularly tough practice.

“Just think if this funky little gum was in Wisconsin and there was snow in tomorrow’s forecast,” I told him.

The Lakers had Lucius and Gail Goodrich and Cazzie Russell, but power forward was a problem, and the bench provided minimal support. I took a lot of heat in the papers, supposed to score, rebound, and bring a championship to LA all by myself. I did try. I felt, returning to the city and, it seemed, to the public eye, that I had something to prove. I led the league in rebounds and blocked shots and was second in scoring, but the team was the NBA’s second to worst in defense, and we finished fourth in our division. I won the MVP for the fourth time, but it was not enough. I’ve said often that an individual’s play cannot carry one team or consistently beat another, and the 1975-76 campaign bears me out; I had the best statistical season of my career, and we missed the playoffs by two games.

[fpliii]

p.273 (76-77 season and Bill Walton)

The Lakers were prepared that next fall. Working with a private coach named Pete Newell, forward Kermit Washington had spent the summer learning how to provide muscle under the boards. This rejuvenated Kermit was just what we needed. If I’m going to intimidate inside, switch off and help my teammates with my mobility, we’re going to need someone with the strength and tenacity to grab the rebounds from all those missed shots. Kermit was every bit that man. On offense, if the other team tried to double-team me with the power forward, they left Kermit alone for more rebounds, which was suichide. He had developed into a disciplined player, and his solidity freed me to move around even more, save in the knowledge that he was taking care of business underneath.

Lucius and Cazzie were back, and we had added Don Chaney in place of Gail Goodrich, so our defense was greatly improved. We moved from seventeenth in NBA team defense to fourth, and our offense remained potent. The season was going along fine; we had the best record in the league, until injury struck. Kermit went down with a knee in February 1977, and in March, Lucius got hurt again. Two of our starting five had to sit on the sidelines for the entire playoffs.

The playoffs are a time when strengths are solidified and weaknesses exploited. Without Kermit to crash for rebounds, we were vulnerable off the boards, and without Lucius, our offense suffered. We managed to beat Golden State in the opening round, but it took us seven games, and then we came up against the Portland Trail Blazers.

At full strength, Portland and the Lakers matched up excellently. We had beaten them three out of four during the regular season. Their backcourt of Lionel Hollins and Dave Twardzik was quick and smart, as were Lucius and Chaney. Forward Bob Gross had a nice shot and an uncanny court sense, almost like eyes in the back of his head; Cazzie was going fine for us. At power forward Maurice Lucas was having an All-Star year, both scoring and getting his tough rebounds. Kermit matched him, and they battled when they met.

Portland’s center was Bill Walton. Bill had come out of the same UCLA program that I had, had been taught and disciplined by John Wooden, and had learned his lessons well. Playing at his best, Bill played a lot of defense. He used his size and bulk to control the crucial rebounding area, going after every ball and also getting a lot of blocked shots. He was extremely quick and mobile, which made him difficult both to guard and box out. He had good moves to the offensive boards, but that was not really his strength. His prime asset was the ability to draw the double-team and then find his open teammates with crisp and accurate passes for the easy shot. He was a great passing center, selfless, excellent with the outlet pass to start the fast break, and he was fortunate enough to have a couch who recognized and encouraged his talents and teammates who complemented them and could execute. On top of that Bill played with true playground enthusiasm, he would have played basketball even if there was no prestige or pay involved; he just liked it, and that added a dimension to his game; he was out there having fun for a living.

He also was an interesting guy. Five years younger than I was, he had graduated from high school in 1970, and the whole ‘60s flower power ethic was still strong in him. He wore his hair long in a pony tail and his beard kind of shaggy. He not only held firm left-wing political views, but he was not bashful about speaking them. He was a Great White Hope that was legit, a white man with the chance to show the ******s how to play basketball, but he wouldn’t accept that role in life or the conditional tons of advertising money that the business establishment prepared to give him in return.

That season and in the previous two years Bill had been in the league we had played some good games against each other. He was developing into one of the NBA’s all-time great centers. He would bump me when I’d try to shoot the hook, and I had to do a lot of board work because he was an excellent rebounder. Fortunately, he wasn’t that offensive-minded, which meant that I could overplay him while he was looking to pass, then after he dished off, box him out and get the defensive rebound.

What I found offensive was the way that our relative talents were treated. I knew that white players got better press—that was obvious everywhere—but I was angry when, in order to exalt Bill Walton, the media started knocking me. If he played well against me, I was over the hill; if I excelled against him, it was no big deal. I could understand people debating whether he was better than I or I was better than he; it’s the sports fan’s endless speculation, part of the enjoyment of sports. But I resented people using him to knock me. When he started playing well the television commentators and newspaper columnists were tripping all over themselves saying, “Forget Kareem, it’s Bill.” They could promote Bill all they wanted,; he deserved it. But I had been Most Valuable Player four of the last six years—one trophy would be the highlight of most players’ careers—and I wanted the respect I had earned.

With Lucius and Kermit out of our playoff lineup, Portland beat us four straight. The games were close, the last three decided by under six points each, but all I read about in the papers and magazines was “Portland Shocks LA, Walton Outduels Jabbar.” I averaged thirty-five points a game; I was doing everything I could do, but I was playing against tough competition and not getting great help. Maurice Lucas out rebounded Don Ford something like fifty to twelve in four games, but the press stories read . . . “Walton made Kareem look terrible,” “Walton’s the greatest center ever to play the game.” There was something personal in the glee with which those opinions were reported; I felt as if another piece of me was being chipped away. I’ve had to deal with that ugly blend of racism and envy my entire career, and what it’s done to sharpen my killer instinct, made me super-intense. If I’ve become aloof and almost impervious to criticism, it’s because I’ve come to expect it. Still, it never feels good. You can bet if Bill and I had both been black, you wouldn’t have heard such crowing.

[fpliii]

p.281 (Benson incident)

I turned thirty in Los Angeles that spring and found that for the first time in my life I was totally alone. Hamaas was in jail; my wife was in Washington, D.C., my parents had been shut out to the point where my occasional vista to them was abrupt and uncomfortable. I might have felt solitary, but there was a strong relief in my solitude, as if my breath had been short for years and only now could I relax and breathe deeply. I began to recognize the kind continual stress I had assumed would always be part a part of my life, and I began to hope I’d been wrong. I was meeting people in Los Angeles, starting to consider my opportunities with the ladies, beginning to think like a free man.

That all ended when I kicked the shit out of Kent Benson.

I have a temper. I play the game hard and physically; I want to win every time I get on the court, and when something or someone gets in my path I am not unwilling to go right over it. I play within the rules, however, and I know them well enough to be aware when they’re being broken. Because I am large and powerful and a significant force to be reckoned with, I am constantly the target of my large, strong opponents who will try almost anything to neutralize or undermine my effectiveness. I get banged around a lot.

It is the nature of the position of center in the game of basketball as it has developed that one has to almost literally fight for space under the boards or on the court. You know you’re going to run into somebody’s elbow, trip over an opponent and fall hard on your hip bone, jump in the air and land on somebody’s shoulder with your kidney. You can deal with that; it’s part of the game. What I’ve had to contend with for as long as I’ve played the sport is my opponents’ constant attempt to physically punish me and the referees’ equally consistent refusal to permit the rules to protect me. Players either want to prevent me from playing themselves successfully or prove themselves against me. Most can’t do it within the rules. I take more abuse than anyone in the NBA. After a while I started to dish it back.

At first it was just annoying, being distracted from playing the game by jabs to the ribs and shots to the head. Then it became painful. Then I began to expect it, got angry even before the game began at the crap I knew I was going to have to take. Finally, it developed into a matter of principle: If the rules will not defend me, I will defend myself; I will not be a punching bag.

There aren’t many really hurtful players in the NBA. A lot of guys play hard-guys like Maurice Lucas, Elivin Hayes, Zelmo Beaty, Artis Gilmore, Paul Silas- but they’re just doing their best. The only truly dirty player I’ve run into, a man who took real pleasure in his viciousness, was Dennis Awtrey. Awtrey caught me with a blindside punch, very much on purpose, knocked me down, and was fined fifty dollars. He was great with the blindsided, never saw him go face to face. He was a mediocre player, and that one shot kept him in the league for several extra years.

I’d had enough of getting pounded, and for a while there I started to give it back regularly, but sometimes I retaliated too strongly. One fight I do regret was with Tom Berleson when he was playing for Seattle. We were both playing hard in my offensive end; I was trying to make my moves and he kept trying to body me, and as I made my way to the basket, we both fell in a heap to the polished court. When two guys over two hundred thirty pounds fall to the floor, it sounds like an industrial accident. It’s never fun. I hit my elbow sharply, and he landed on top of me. I was in real pain, scared that I’d been injured by a hostile player and angry at the foul. I scrabbled to my feet. When he got up I decked him; then I was ready to fight the whole Seattle team. I would’ve taken them all on. I know now-in fact, I knew when I calmed down in the locker room-that Tom hadn’t meant to hurt me. He is a big, awkward man, and he was just trying to play the game intensely. I’d simply been hammered once too often, and he bore the brunt of my anger. I never apologize to him, so I’d like to do it now.

The same kind of thing happened with Copy Dietrick of San Antonio. He tried to strip the ball from me and grabbed me by the arm. When the ref called a foul, Dietrick took the ball, flipped it back, and hit me in the head. I punched him in the mouth. Got kicked out of the game. To this day I don’t know whether he meant to get me or not.

All this sounds very cavalier, but getting battered intentionally by two-hundred-twenty-pound athletes eighty-two games per season (not counting the playoffs, when everyone’s blood is up and the whole deal escalates fifty percent) is no day at the beach. I’ve had both eyes gouged-I wear protective goggles every game because that’s where I am most vulnerable-I’ve been punched, pulled, pinched, pummeled. The concept is I’m so big that that’s the only way you can beat me, but it’s dangerous and it hurts. Out on the court I am my only defender.

I decked Kent Benson because I wasn’t going to be abused. Benson was another white hope fresh out of college and looking to make a name for himself. The Lakers were playing in Milwaukee. It was two minutes into the first game of the season; Milwaukee had scored, and I was jogging downcourt about to establish position to the left of the lane. There is a standardized amount of jockeying that goes on as the offensive player tries to claim and hold a space on the floor that he can use to his best advantage and the defensive man, using whatever means he can, attempts to deny him that privilege. Benson had no experience in the professional world, did not know the parameters, all he knew was that the book on me was, you muscle Kareem. He was going to show me that he didn’t back down a step, that he was a man. I had gotten behind him and was rady for the ball when he glanced around, saw nobody was looking, and threw a vicious elbow that caught me flush in the solar plexus. He knocked the wind right out of me. Immediately, I was back in the streets: With no breath I expected him to keep attacking me, because in New York that’s exactly what would have happened. I was doubled over, on the playground, dealing with another beating. I hated it; I hated him. I kept saying to myself, If I can just get my breath back we will have a final confrontation.

I started to breathe again, in gasps like I was crying, and as soon as I could move, I ran out there and fired on him. I wanted to kill him. If I’d hit him a good shot in the temple, I believe I would have killed him. Fortunately, for all my training in the martial arts when it came down to delivering a blow in anger I went with the roundhouse right and hit him in the orbit of the eye. His skull absorbed some of the impact. He went down as if he’d been shot, but I was yelling at him, wanted some more. This was life and death for me, and I was fully prepared to carry it through to its conclusion. Benson was a big man, six eleven, two hundred forty-five pounds; he could have damaged me. I had organs inside that didn’t need to be getting hit by him. It was early in the season, and i wasn’t going to let this be established as a precedent. I wasn’t going to stand for it.

Benson was not getting up. I really could have killed him. My temper was fierce, but justified or not, there was no way a man should die over a basketball game. I was angry and confused. I had been attacked, had responded in my own defense, and once again had become the villain. My temper had gone out of control and taken my new-found relaxation with it. I knew I could count on even more public hostility now.

I certainly got it. Boos from the crowds, columnists calling me a coward and saying I should have challenged Benson to a fight like two outsized gunslingers-the rookie sheriff vs. Black Bart. At that point I didn’t care; I was retiring. Why put myself through all this hatred? Is all this money worth being despised by millions?

Around the league the players were not so much surprised as wary. The tension that builds during a season is considerable, and more than a few guys have wanted to go to blows once in a while. Most of the time cooler heads prevail. I wasn’t very pleased with myself for having lost control-I had been ready to kill a man!-and I resolved to hold my temper better in the future. I haven’t had a serious fight since, partly because of my new discipline and partly because some of the guys I had to play against maybe started to think I was a little crazy-“Kareem, man, he’s a little . . . off . . . you know?”-and they might not have wanted to mess with me.

I had broken my hand against Benson’s face and was sidelined again. The league couldn’t suspend me because my hand was already in a cast, but they fined me five thousand dollars. Benson, who had caused the initial injury, was neither fined nor reprimanded. (The official explanation was that since the referees had not seen Benson foul me, the league could not discipline him.) Typical NBA justice: Discipline the ******. Later that season in a similar incident, Ricky Sobers, who is black, punched somebody out while the refs weren’t looking but got fined anyway because they caught him on video. The tape of the Milwaukee game very clearly shows Benson giving me the elbow that hurt me, yet he didn’t get fined. Where’s the logic? Where’s the consistency? All I see is white players being accused when attacking blacks, and black players who hit whites getting leaned on hard.

[fpliii]

p.286 (Kermit Washington fight, and subsequent trade)

The classic in this system of selective justice was the case of Kermit Washington.

Kermit was a triumph of the work ethic. He came out of college as a first-round draft pick with a great body and fine determination but short on technique and basketball skills. During three undistinguished years with the Lakers, he enrolled in a summer training program with former San Francisco University coach Pete Newell and, through pure hard work and determination developed himself into one of the league’s premier power forwards. He was strong and tough without being brutal. He was also a sensitive man who was always working to make his team win.

Kermit now has the reputation of a killer. It’s not that way. I saw the whole scene unfold right in front of me.

We were playing the Houston Rockets, in Houston, two months after i had punched out Benson. The rockets were a moderately talented team with a thin bench, and they relied on outside shooting and rebounding for their chance at success. When they went with their big front line of Rudy Tomjanovich, Moses Malone, and Kevin Kunnert they could be tough underneath. We had set up our offense and missed the host, the ball rebounding out and the Rockets taking off on a fast break the other way. I had been caught moving in for the offensive rebound, so I was near the backboard, trailing the play. Kunnert and Kermit had been boxing each other out, hustling for the gal, and when it had bounced away from them Kermit had grabbed Kunnert’s waistband to keep him from getting up court. Kunnert, who is white, had gotten mad and thrown first a left elbow that hit Kermit in the shoulder and then followed it with a right cross that caught him on the side of his head. You don’t do that to Kermit. Kunnert started to run downcourt, but Kermit chased him, grabbed him by the shorts, turned him around and started to hit him. Kevin can’t fight very well, at least he didn’t show much against Kermit who does know how to handle himself. Kermit was in a rage; he would not be blindsided, would allow no one to cheap-shot him, and was going to impress that point on Kunnert in terms he would remember.

I ran to court and grabbed Kunnert. When breaking up a fight between someone you do know and someone you don’t, Ive always found it to most effective to lock onto the stranger; first it prevents your friend from getting hurt, and second, you can reason with your friend, talk to him while shielding him off his opponent with your body. No way you’re going to talk down to an angry man you don’t know; at least, with your body between them, you stand a chance of cooling a friend into lucidity.

I grabbed Kunnert in a bear hug and swung him around to protect him. At that moment Rudy Tomjanovoch came running up from Kermit’s blind side to do exactly what I’d done, hold Kermit and calm things down. Unfortunately, Kermit sensed Rudy behind him, thought of it instantaneously as another attack, turned and threw an absolutely crushing right hand. Rudy ran full speed into Kermit’s fist. My back was turned momentarily, but I’ve seen videotapes of the blow and it’s terrifying. I did hear it, however. From three feet away it sounded like a watermelon had been dropped onto a concrete floor. I spun to look, and even as Rudy was going down, there was blood pouring out of his face, all this blood on the floor. Kermit had stove his whole face in.

Kermit is not a vicious man, he hadn’t meant to injure Rudy. He had reacted with force to what he’d felt was a serious threat. That much was obvious immediately. The league saw it differently. For the second time in two months a white player had been knocked cold by a black, and they were not going to stand for it. There were tapes of the entire incident, and they were shown over and over again on local news broadcasts around the country, made it onto the networks, this ****** almost killing the white boy. The beginning of the play, the first punch thrown by Kunnert and the cause of the whole chain of events, was also available on tape, but that was given no play. This was Violence in Sports, no retaliation or self-defense; this was ******s on the rampage, and it had to be stopped.

Kunnert was never disciplined. Kermit was suspended without pay for twenty-six games and fined $10,000. What that said to me, and to all the black players in the league, was that if somebody white punches you out,you play defense and hope that the refs will try and stop it at some point. If not, just realize that the NBA needs white players to keep the white fans interested and the arenas filled and the networks on the line. Count on no support from the people who run this business.

Before he could play another game, Kermit was traded. He and Don Chaney and a number-one draft choice were sent to the Boston Celtics for Charlie Scott. It was a terrible trade for the Lakers. We lost a solid chunk of our defense and some future for another guard. Our alternate rebounding fell to a white forward, Don Ford, and died; I got double-teamed by power forwards again; we had to go another year and a half undermanned off the boards.

More importantly than the Lakers’ fortunes on the court was something I only came to find out four years later. A highly visible and influential man in basketball told Kermit that the league owners forced Lakers owner Jack Kent Cooke to make that trade because they would not tolerate having me and Kermit on the same team. Here were two extremely powerful black men who had both severely beaten white players, and the owners wanted us separated because they would not have us intimidating the rest of the league. That’s hard to prove and easy to deny, but I fully believe it.

p.308 (77-78 after Benson incident, 78 playoffs)

My recuperation after decking Benson had given me time for reevaluation. Largely because of the fight, I was left off the All-Star team for the only time in my career, and I thought about quitting the game altogether, but I pulled through that one. I began to resurrect my enjoyment in basketball. When playoff time came round I was ready. Unfortunately, with Kermit Washington traded we were undermanned off the boards. Jamaal Wilkes, newly arrived from Golden State, had to play Jack Sikma. He was giving away five inches and forty pounds, and he was supposed to keep Sikma off the backboards. It was disappointing, but we lose the 1977-78 playoffs in the opening round.

p.309 (78-79 season)

I spent the next year trying to absorb the changes I was going through. I had a standoff with the press; they were too intimidated to ask me the questions I wanted to answer, while I was still too wary to invite them to take a closer look. Something must have registered within the Lakers organization, however, because I was named team captain. I was pleased and honored, though I never quite went and said so. I’d always been one to lead by example, and that’s the way I chose to express myself. Rousing speeches get old early, consistent full effort is there every day for everyone to see.

The Lakers of 1978-79 had the same strategic weakness as the year before, however: no power forward. When I play defense and block or intimidate shots, there must be someone on the sheet who can grab them. Much as I try, I can’t be expected to jump out, cause the miss, and then turn around and have the rebound fall my way every time. I need to be complemented by a strong rebounder. The 1978-79 Lakers went with two small forwards, Jamaal Wilkes and Adrian Dantley, and a thin bench. We placed third in our division and met the Denver Nuggets in the opening round of the playoffs.

Denver had beaten us three games out of four during the regular season with their run-and-gun offense. We split the first two playoff games, losing on their court by five and winning at home by twelve, and had to play the deciding game in Denver. The press really kicked us around. The day of the game the Los Angeles Times went out on a limb. They said Jerry West was not a capable coach, Abdul-Jabbar was not a leader, the Lakers had no leadership, and they would lose that final game to the Nuggets. I knew we didn’t have the strength to win the championship, but I was not about to be degraded. We went out and beat the Nuggets 112-111 on their home court and surprised the shit out of everybody.

Then all sorts of things started going on. Ted Dawson, a TV sportscaster whom I suspected might not like me either, told his biers, “Hey, you guys should send Kareem and the Lakers a telegram or mailgram, let them know how much you appreciate them,” because what we’d been reading in the papers, he said, wasn’t what was happening. The team had flown straight from Denver to Seattle for the start of the second round, and the next morning I was presented with stacks of mail. I was amazed. You mean, these people really do appreciate me?! I kept the whole load; I still have them. I called Cheryl to tell her the astounding news, and she said “I told you so.” I felt great. I started looking at faces in the crowd and realizing that there could be a lot of friends up there, that the people who stopped me for autographs might be really interested in getting them. If someone wanted to shake my hand, hey, I’d do it.

Of course, all that well-wishing didn’t mean we still weren’t a couple of guys short. Seattle pounded us off the boards again, beat us in five games, and went on and took the NBA title. But that last Western Union barrage really made my year.

[fpliii]

p.310 (becoming more outgoing, Magic, 79-80 season)

I was trying real hard the next season to be more outgoing. Not that I was going to tap dance for the media, but I began to feel at least receptive to people who in previous years I might not have bothered with. Cheryl also made a point of reestablishing contact with my parents. (Her father had a hard time handling the fact that his little girl was openly living with an affluent athlete. A big basketball fan, he refused to come home the first time we visited them. He’s lightened up a lot since.) She invited my mother and father to Los Angeles, something I had never done, and paid more attention to them into months than I had in a decade. I’ve never been good at airing my grievances-I’m still not-but at least Cheryl made me willing to reintroduce them into my life. Usually, once I’ve kissed someone off they’re gone for good.

My public image pivoted on a friendly gesture I made for my mother. Cora likes “Hot Rod” Hundley, a lively former ballplayer who does pro basketball color commentary on TV. She’s never met him, but she likes his personality, and I thought she would like him to say hello to her . . . on the air. I’d never seen it done on any of the NBA broadcasts, always thought out was taboo, but I figured I could come out of my shell one time and try it. I told Rod, “My mother’s a big fan of yours; she watches you; you should say hi to her.” Rod’s a happy-go-lucky guy, he’ll try almost anything; he was probably pleased to get an easy phrase out of me, so on national television he said hello to Mrs. Alcindor.

My mother missed it. She was away from the set. All her friends, however, called and told her, and she was a big hit in her social circle that week. She was a little upset at herself though, for not having been there to hear it, so the next time we were on a national broadcast I did it again. “Hot Rod, say hello to Moms for me.” But Rod was slick, he came right back with, “Why don’t you do it?” Yeah, I’m gonna do it. I looked at the camera and said, “Hi to Moms and Pops in New York!”

My folks loved it, this transcontinental notice and affection from their silent son, and I got a kick out of it-I went back to the huddle feeling like I’d just pulled a fast one-so I did it at program shows, half-time, post-game interviews, every time I got a chance.

I hadn’t given it even a second’s thought, but it turns out that lots of people liked the touch. They hadn’t expected me to be so warm to anyone, and when I did it seemed to cheer them a little. Even the big fellow says hi to his folks. Fine with me, no need to be nasty. Journalists saw it, or got wind of a new attitude on my part, and the whole deal began to feed on itself. Images work that way; one friendly story begets another; one civilized interview attracts more civilized questions. I may have been a bit more patient with the same old lines of inquiry, and therefore a better interview, but I was still the same guy with the same beliefs. I was simply being perceived as more approachable and therefore being approached more often. Also, my career had continued so long that I may have outlasted a generation of sportswriters. The older, more traditional beat reporters who were inundated and insulted by the old anti-Olympic, pro-black power media images were being replaced by younger, hipper, more sociologically appreciative journalists who had to deal with Vietnam and had accepted racial awareness as part of growing up. To them I wasn’t an intruder, I was an institution.

There was also an easy journalistic hook to hang my “transformation” on: Earvin “Magic” Johnson. Earvin came out of college after his sophomore year as a twenty-year-old kid with tremendous exuberance and outstanding basketball skills. In games, at practice, at pickup scrimmages, wherever he happened to be, Magic was very thrilled to be playing basketball. He was a boy living a dream, and his enthusiasm was infectious. He was also a showman who was totally capable of playing the kind of intense winning basketball that I responded to and at the same time making the crowd feel like they were participating. And in some sense they were, because the more a place roared the more he would make it roar. He would bring smiles to people’s faces, mine included.

Earvin likes to make eye contact. He’s got an expressive face, and he enjoys the good challenge, so whenever possible he’ll look right at a defender to let him know that not only is a basket and two points on the line, buts is a guy’s pride. He’ll lock his opponent in a personal duel. When Earvin is going strong there is a real person out there for the fans to latch onto. He loves the attention and really basks in that public warmth.

Earvin broke into the league as a humorous fellow with basketball as his life. Even his style of play was humorous. He likes to have a laugh on the court, and it’s always at the opponent’s expense. He keys everybody up: his teammates because he’s such an extraordinary passer that he’s liable to get you the ball at any moment, and the other team because they don’t like being a foil to some of his sleight of hand. He loves to fool someone, dash by, get the lay-up, not even look as the ball is going down, but beam downcourt and make some gesture that brings the crowd to its feet laughing and applauding while his defender seethes. Guys don’t like having that done to them, so it raises the level of the game for all of us-we’ve got to deal with the other team’s coming back in our face-and puts a buzz on everyone who’s watching.

Most important in what makes Earvin an outstanding ballplayer, however, is his expertise. He’s one of the great passers, and at six feet nine, he’s a guard who can crash the boards hard and often. He does his job well and consistently. That, more than anything, makes him a pleasure to work with.

So I was enjoying the 1979-80 season, and people began to notice. The press figured it was my “liberation” by “Magic,” but it was a combination of factors. First, Cheryl was constantly telling me I had significant things to say and encouraging me to share them, with my teammates and the public. Second, Dr. Jerry Buss, who had recently bought the team, stepped in and renegotiated my contract, which I took as a statement that he valued my contributions very highly. Third, during the off-season the Lakers had obtained two strong rebounding forwards, Spencer Haywood and Jim Chones, who I knew would make a tremendous difference in the capacity of the team to go all the way to the championship. With Jamaal Wilkes at small forward, Norman Nixon having developed into a truly excellent guard, Earvin, Spencer, and myself in the starting lineup, and for the first time a strong bench, we were looking very good. As the season started I was a happy man.

The first game of the season was on national TV. We were playing in San Diego against Bill Walton and the Clippers, and the game came down to the wire. With only a few seconds left and the Lakers down by a point, we called a time out and set up a play. I was concentrating, but my life wasn’t on the line. We had eighty-one games to go, and then the playoffs. I was just going to work. The ball came in to me, I turned and, as the buzzer sounded, put up the hook. The ball went in, we won by a point. Good. Nice way to start off a season. I turned to jog back to the locker room and get on with the rest of the day when I felt someone running at me, pinning my arms to my side. I was shocked. It was Earvin, both arms around me, his cheek to my chest, hugging me as if we’d just won the seventh game of the championships. The last game he’d played had been for the NCAA title (which bios team had won), and he’d gotten so excited that this single Sunday afternoon NBA contest had taken on almost cosmic proportions for him.

I was a little embarrassed-such a public display, so little cools-but he was so happy that it dawned on me, I’d had a lot of fun making that last shot! If Earvin had any effect on me, it was because he helped the team win and reminded me just how good that made me feel.

[fpliii]

p.314 (80 Finals)

The Lakers played well all season long, finished first in our division, beat defending champion Seattle in the Wester Conference Finals, and came up against the very strong Philadelphia ‘76ers in the 1980 World Championship Series.

I hadn’t been in a final in six years, and I wanted to win this one something fierce. I looked at our squad, looked at theirs with Julius Erving, Darryl Dawkins, Maurice Cheeks, and Caldwell Jones, and knew we could get it done. After three straight NCAA championships at UCLA and another in the NBA only two years later at Milwaukee, I had gotten used to winning, almost taken it for granted and lost the thrill of victory. Now, nine years after my team’s last title, I had become all too familiar with the agony of defeat. There had been reason for each loss, and I had tried to blunt the disappointment by being extremely rational about exactly why we’d been beaten, but what I hated most was becoming resigned to losing. For this championship series I kicked that feeling in the ass and went out and raised my game even more.

We split the first two games in Los Angeles, went out and split two in Philadelphis. We were back on home court, and it was time to make our move. I had been scoring about thirty points a game, but I wanted more. If we won this, we only had to split a home-and-home series to be the champs. If we lost, we’d have to sweep.

There was tension, but id didn’t bother me; ‘d been playing under pressure since I was twelve years old. People expect me to win; other people’s expectations are a constant in my life, but the true pressure is in the preparation, which I impose on myself. I have my personal standards to maintain that are higher and more exacting than any outsider could know. I’ve been asked about tournament pressure, but that’s like, “What does your blood pressure feel like?” It’s part of my system.

I was, however, very pumped up for that fifth game. Philly wanted this championship just as much as we did; they’d been coming close for years. The game was tight when, late in the third quarter, I made a layup, came down on the side of my foot and felt a tremendous pain jump through my left ankle and run up my leg. I knew just from the way it was hurting that it was serious. I work on my ankles; they are very strong, and most of the time I don’t sprain them even when I turn them over, but this time it went all the way. Dr. Kerlan, the team physician, thought it was fractured, and the medical team wanted to know if I wanted to go to the hospital right away or wait and watch the game.

“Can I hurt it any more?” I asked.

“If we tape it up, you won’t be able to injure it further.” Dr. Kerlan told me, “but it’s going to hurt a lot.”

“I’ll try it,” I said. “I want to play.”

They taped it tightly, and when I stood up and tried to move it, I found they were right; it hurt like a mother****er. But I was deep into my chi, using all of what Bruce Lee had taught me about focussing my energy and harnessing my power, and after Allah for some special strength, I move out of the locker room as if in my own concentrated cloud.

I stepped onto the court and, no doubt about it, there was pain. I had to adjust for the fact that I couldn’t jump off my left foot, and I had to fight off Darryl Dawkins at the same time. The first few times up and down the court intruded like an electrical storm, let me know I was in a struggle. But there was a more pressing battle going on, and I shut out all pain and focused tightly on the job at hand. I was no longer mobile, I had to be concise. My foot would let me know when I screwed up.

I scored forty points that night, and we won by five. After that game I headed straight for the hospital and then to bed. I couldn’t even travel with the team to Philly for the sixth game. My ankle had swollen up the size of a grapefruit, and inhere had to be a deciding seventh game, there was no way I was sitting it out, so I spent that day at home on the mend.

What a frustrating feeling, watching my team play for the World Championship two thousand miles away while I was laid up in bed. I hobbled to the television, shouted at the referees and rooted loudly for the Lakers. Earving played center for the game and scored42 points. Jamaal; went wild with his jumper and popped in 37. We won!

The vacuum in my bedroom, knowing what a sweaty, steamy madhouse the locker room was lil, left me kind of numb You win a championship in a single moment; you share the victory with the guys by spritzing champagne and yelling and jumping and popping apocalyptic fives. Then a team goes its separate ways. No ticker tape parade the next day is worth the one hour immediately following the final victory-and I missed it. I met the airplane when the team came home, held the trophy, congratulated the busy, but I felt the fates had denied me that one solid burst you play all year to win.

They gave the playoff MVP award to Magic. I had averaged more than thirty-three points over five games, played the good defense, grabbed the rebounds, but Magic had worked his show in the spotlight, had his one brilliant performance, hand been the better story. He was right there on the scene to receive the trophy, get his picture taken, be the shining star; I was in Los Angeles, on crutches, no guarantee of being a properly receptive recipient. I understood why they passed on me, but I wasn’t happy about it.

Cheryl talked me down. Where only a few years before I might have been bitter, blamed and hated an antagonistic media, now I could see why the machine worked that way and accept it as the real world. Magic, in accepting the championship trophy, said they’d won it for “the big fellow,” which was gracious and thoughtful of him.

I felt a whole lot better when, several weeks later, I was voted the league’s MVP. It was my sixth time; no one had won it more often.

p.318 (80-81, 81-82, 82-83 seasons)

We didn’t repeat in 1981 as NBA Champs because Earvin got injured, and when he came back he had forgotten what had made him and us so successful. Mammoth public success is hard to handle at any age; at twenty-one it’s got to be real difficult. He had been an unselfish and joyful passer who could hit his outside shot if he had to. After the championship the team got put on the back seat and, for public relations purposes, Magic was moved out front. It took losing to Houston in the miniseries for it to become clear to everyone that the Lakers were a team-one of the best-and we needed to blend all of our individual talents to survive.

In 1981-82 we worked perfectly: Earvin worked the ball, ran the break, and made sure everybody was happy in the flow of the game; Norm Nixon finally got the respect he deserved as an All-Star; Jamaal Wilkes maintained his smooth game in trying times; Kurt Rambis arrived and shocked the media and the rest of us with his banging; Michael Cooper became indispensable; and Bob McAdoo showed his critics he could still play. We beat Philadelphia again, and this time I was there to share in that victory flash fire. I got used to winning again. Want to do it all the time.

The 1982-83 season started where our championship had left off, only we looked to be even better. Our confidence was high and we had deepened our squad by adding the number one pick, James Worthy, a slick and impressive forward out of North Carolina. We were looking to be the first NBA team since 1969 to repeat as champions.

p.320 (82-83 playoffs)

With my charred house a constantly painful memory, I channeled my energy into my work. The Lakers won the Western Division tile easily. Unfortunately, late in the season Bob McAdoo went down with a foot injury. And when James Worthy broke his leg in a real accident going for a rebound, we found ourselves at a distant disadvantage going into the playoffs. We beat portland, took San Antonio in six, and then faced the Philadelphia ‘76ers.

They were tough. Strong, well-balanced, and deep, the ’76ers would have been a battle even if we had been at full strength. But when Norman Nixon went down with a separated shoulder in the first game, things got even more difficult. They played excellent basketball and beat his in four straight.

[fpliii]

p.320 (83-84 season and the scoring record)

The 1983-84 season had several true and lasting highlights and one serious lowlight. I started the season with a good shot at Wilt Chamberlain’s all-time NBA career scoring record and by mid-March it was within reach. It developed into a real media event, the kind that only a few years ago would have made me very cynical and suspicious. The Lakers would come to play in a city during the weeks that the points were piling up and the press would gather around and ask: “How does it feel to be breaking Wilt’s record?” “What does it mean to you?” “Do you think you are better than Wilt?” And then we’d move to the next town and the reporters would say, “I know you’ve been asked this before, but . . .” and I’d get the same a barrage. As the day approached the questions flew faster, the crush got thicker. I had some answers: I like breaking Wilt’s record, it’s an achievement of quality and durability. I leave the question of whether I’m better than Wilt to the students of the game; that kind of speculation is a fan’s birthright. What does it mean? Even now I’m not sure. I still haven’t sat back and savored the satisfaction of being the all-time leading scorer. At the time I was keying on the playoffs, which is what playing in the NBA is all about.

There was a lot of pressure, but there was also a lot of warmth. Because of the historical aspect of the record-this thing spanned fifteen years and a lot of people’s adolescence and adulthood-all sorts of people wanted to witness and somehow share in the event. With all the media coverage it started to snowball, and when that started happening people who had never paid much attention or showed much respect started to get behind it. “Ah, he’s going to do it. What’s it about?” I watched at first warily and then with a growing pleasure as basketball fans astound the country made me a part of their lives in a way that I really hadn’t been before. I truly did feel like I was a part of people’s lives. It was a strange and very pleasant experience for me. I’d be driving down the thruway in Los Angeles and some guy in the next lane would recognize me, roll down his window and start weaving down the road yelling, “Pass Wilt, Kareem! Go ahead and do it!” White people, black people, I was finding out who my friends were.

I finally got the record against the Utah Jazz. We were playing in Las Vegas and I had a hot first half. It was definitely going to be that night. But the Jazz weren’t going to roll over; they didn’t trick up the whole game to stop me but they weren’t going to make it easy, either. They collapsed their defense on me to begin the second half and, just on the brink of the record, I missed several shots in a row. The buckets weren’t coming because the Jazz were conscious of it.

Earvin Johnson’s whole career has been based around his being a playmaker and helping everyone on his team do their best. He’d said before the game that he wanted the honor of getting the assist on my record-breaking basket, a fine and genuine gesture. But I just kept missing. Finally I set up to the right of the basket and the Jazz started to throw up a double team, almost a triple team. Magic got me the ball and when I saw them coming I stopped. They froze for a split second to see if I was going to pass the ball out for the open jumper, and when they did I went on ahead and put up the hook and-at last-it went in.

The fans went wild, the officials stopped the game and gave me the ball. My mother and father came on the court. It was a wonderful moment.

The next night, at the Forum in Los Angeles, I saw Wilt. The Lakers organized a tribute and during the ceremonies he and i goat a chance to speak. Wilt has never gotten the proper respect, people didn’t appreciate what Wilt did when he did it; they tossed it off as somebody with superior physical ability doing something that didn’t count for much. But I took it seriously, and so did the guys in the NBA, and so does Wilt. Out there on the floor, while other introductions were being made, he leaned over to me privately and said, “I’m glad to see you do it. I’m glad it was you.” Wilt would rather his record had stood forever, but he’d been my mentor, had taken an interest in my career before I’d ever had a professional career. It was a very gracious thing to say. I told the fans in LA that I was happy they could share the moment with me. That was something of a transformation for me, and I think Giant Steps had a lot to do with it. While writing and promoting the book, I talked to many more people than I’d ever been comfortable speaking with before. I tried to let people see through my eyes and the results were surprising. Reviewers and readers were startled by my openness and I was pleased by their warm response. They could see that the problems I’ve dealt with are the same ones they’ve had to face and that in many ways we are similar, regardless of our physical or cultural differences. I could feel people identifying with me. They approached more easily, and for my part I was more easily approachable. I don’t see strangers as attackers any longer, don’t feel they’re out to tear down what I’ve accomplished. I can’t be everybody’s favorite, but at least now people can respect and appreciate what I’ve done.

Unfortunately, the NBA season ended in a dud. The Lakers lost in the playoffs to the Boston Celtics. Now I know what my man Popeye Doyle in The French Connection felt like. He went through a whole lot of tough hard work, busted up a big heroin ring, confiscated dope by the pound, and in the end the bad guy got away. I don’t even want to talk about it.

p.323 (looking forward to 84-85, retirement, and mentoring James Worthy)

The 1984-85 season will be my last. It will have been sixteen years and I deserve a vacation. I don’t want to hang on just to be hanging on. The money definitely tempts me; it would tempt anybody. But at age 38 I’d have to work harder for it and if my production declined then in everybody’s eyes it would be seen as a “shame,” a “tragedy.” It wouldn’t be. I’d still be competing with the best in my profession, but if I competed less successfully it would mess with everybody’s head, including mine. I have to accept that age has its effect, but I don’t want to hear anyone saying, “He’s over the hill.” I’d rather go out on top.

I like knowing I’m at the top of my profession; it’s taken my a short lifetime to appreciate it, but now I am aware of my position. I’d be surprised if I can attain the kind of dominance I’ve had had over basketball in another field, but I’m definitely going to try. I’m considering going to law school, there’s enough competition in that field to keep me interested. I want to resume my Islamic studies, I also want to lie on the beach in Hawaii for years on end. My children demand and deserve my attention.

I have played organized basketball since I was eight years old and have accumulated a certain amount of knowledge. Basketball demands both ability and thought; there are a lot of hugely talented players at work in the NBA who will never achieve all that they’re capable of because they’re either too disinterested, smug, or stupid to learn the angles. I don’t have the patience to be a coach, but I’ve got this information, and as I am approaching the end of my playing career, I’ve begun to feel both an impulse and a willingness to pass it along.

It’s taken me some searching to come up with this. Teammates come and go according to the whims and desires of both management and themselves; you don’t want to lay out the whole NBA for somebody and then have them traded and tear up the league or beat you in the playoffs. I also have never been one to push myself on anyone, don’t want any innocent chalk talk to be interpreted as arrogance. Ballplayers are very sensitive about being told what to do by their peers; everyone in the league has excellent skills, and most hardly listen to the coaches, let alone a teammate. I’ve always preferred to lead by example, give advice only when it’s requested. Unfortunately, either because they thought it was uncool or figured I wouldn’t give them my time, few guys ever asked.

Recently, however, the opportunity arose and I took it. The Lakers chose James Worthy as the number one selection in the 1982 NBA draft. When he arrived at training camp it was immediately obvious that he was a player. He had size, speed, strength, quickness, agility, a good shot, and the clear willingness to learn what he didn’t already know. He also seemed like a nice guy, and after a while we hit it off. I risked volunteering, and he risked asking.

There were definitely gaps. He was sixteen years younger than I was, for starters. I’d begun to get used to that sort of thing, the longevity of my career putting more and more distance between me and the players. Worthy was drafted after his junior year in college, though, and was almost the youngest guy in the league. No way I could talk to him about Sandy Amoros’ great catch against the Yankees in the ’55 series; it was five years older than he was.

We did talk basketball, though, and I found it satisfying to put into words my pieces of personal information—subtle, specialized, valuable only to the very few people who could share in its benefit and understand the effort it had taken to gather and test it. When I saw Worthy respond, by absorbing what I was telling him and thanking me, and by using it to play well, I got a private pleasure totally unlike anything basketball had offered me before. James Worthy is his own ballplayer and ought to succeed on his talents, but there was a continuity started that I was beginning to enjoy.

[iamgine]

Thanks for this.

[fpliii]

Thanks for this.

A little too tired to type any more at the moment, and I probably won't be on very much tomorrow or Sunday, but this should be done within a week or so.

[Hamtaro CP3KDKG]

The GOAT
Nice job fpliii