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My Take On: The Launching of Larry Legend

By | Sports

As Larry Bird shot over Julius Erving in 1984, this reporter had the ideal courtside view at Boston Garden./Photo by Dick Raphael

It would be negligent to present a series of NBA flashbacks to the Michael Jordan era without including an article about Boston’s superhero, Larry Bird.

The Celtics’ “Larry Legend” gave me and another reporter, Marty McNeal, one of the best interviews of our careers. The 1985-86 Celtics had come to Oakland to face the Golden State Warriors, and Bird agreed to talk to us after practice. To our amazement, no other reporters had requested Bird, so when he walked onto the court Marty and I had him to ourselves.

He came into the NBA in 1979 as a very reluctant talker, but seven years later Bird had become what reporters call “a good quote.” He usually was affable and could crack a funny line, and that day Bird was in an unusually talkative mood. Marty and I kept feeding him questions and he answered with an openness and ease we hadn’t expected.

When the interview ended, I had enough quotes to write a two-part series. My favorite segment was about when Bird first felt a passion for basketball, so I hope you enjoy reading his sharp memories of that event in my Feb. 20, 1986, San Francisco Chronicle article “How Bird Took Off.” That night, he crushed the Warriors with 36 points, 12 rebounds and 11 assists.

This article also serves as my tribute to Marty McNeal, who died on May 21st. He was one of the funniest people you could ever meet, which I’m sure was one reason Bird tolerated us for so long.

This will be the last segment in my series about the roots of NBA superstars from the Michael Jordan era. The research and writing involved reminded me of how exciting it was to cover the NBA when it was just starting its climb toward worldwide recognition. I  appreciate all of you who have read my articles. If you have enjoyed venturing into pro basketball’s past, I encourage you to buy my book, “They Cleared the Lane: the NBA’s Black Pioneers” from Amazon or University of Nebraska Press.

How Bird Took Off

By Ron Thomas

Everybody remembers the first time he fell in love, and Larry Bird is no exception. The circumstances are a bit different, though. For Bird, it was the day he realized he could sink a jump shot at will.

“I can remember when I started hitting a lot of shots,” Bird said a few days ago. “I was shooting around, and all of a sudden shots started going in. I can remember to this day when that happened.”

In French Lick, Ind., where Bird was raised, he always liked basketball. But he didn’t begin to love it until that day, at the age of 14.

“I was at my friend’s house and there were people there and everybody was sitting around,” Bird said. “We started to shoot until somebody missed, and I hit 10 or 12 in a row.”

Everybody noticed his accuracy.

“Then I started concentrating on it and liking it. All of a sudden you feel excited about it and start playing ball all the time. That’s exactly what happened to me.”

A fortunate injury

About two years later, another fluke infatuation made Bird embrace passing as a skill. He was playing for Spring Valley High.

“In practice one time, I had just come back from a broken ankle and I really wasn’t quick enough or able to jump to get a shot off,” Bird recalled.

“I just started passing the basketball, and it seemed like everybody started getting excited about it. Next thing I knew, I was labeled a pretty good passer.”

Bird’s high school coach, Jim Jones, taught him the fundamentals. “Once I got them, the game came pretty easy.”

When the older players in his neighborhood started choosing him first in pickup games, Bird knew he had a special affinity for the game. He hasn’t lost it.

At Indiana State, Bird averaged 30 points a game and led the Sycamores to the 1979 NCAA finals, where they lost to Michigan State and Magic Johnson.

A new beginning awaited Bird in Boston. As a rookie, he averaged 21 points and five assists, and the Celtics leaped from 29 victories the previous season to 61 under demanding new coach Bill Fitch.

“He was the best thing that could have happened to me,” Bird said. “He made me a great player in a short period of time, because he had restrictions on me. Plus, after he found out I could do certain things and started trusting me, he let me go. All I had to do was give him eye contact, and he’d run my play.”

Three years later, however, Fitch’s players had grown to despise him because of his fanaticism. After Milwaukee swept the Celtics in the 1983 playoffs, Fitch resigned before his players could mutiny.

Saved by team defense

“Bill Fitch wasn’t really mean,” Bird said about the current coach of the Houston Rockets. “He was a winner. He’s not going to let himself get beat because he was not prepared. That’s one thing a lot of guys could not understand, and I could understand it.”

But Bird also understood that his teammates couldn’t tolerate Fitch’s pressure cooker. “I think Bill Fitch got out at the right time,” Bird said.

Now Bird plays for K.C. Jones – “the greatest human being I’ve ever been associated with” – and has teammates who share Bird’s ability to excel in the game’s subtleties. Especially on defense.

“You’ve got to know your teammates real well, because if you make a move on the defensive end, somebody’s got to cover up for you,” said Bird, who ranks eight in the NBA in steals with 2.2 per game.

Bird’s need to play with a team concept was painfully obvious in this month’s All-Star Game. He is neither a great leaper nor is he exceptionally quick – and it showed.

Small forwards like James Worthy jetted past Bird. Big forwards like Ralph Sampson powered over him as if he were Spud Webb without his launching pad.

But bring Bird back home to his Celtics, and he’s on the NBA All-Defensive second team again, as he has been for the past three years.

“Playing with these players has been the easiest part and made my game mature,” he said. “Dennis Johnson is the best player I ever played with. He knows what I’m going to do out there, and I know what he’s trying to do. It makes it very easy. Bill Walton’s getting to be the same way.”

Walton joined Boston this season after six years with the pathetic Clippers’ franchise. It took Bird awhile to figure out Walton’s game, but he has helped Walton become Boston’s leader in blocked shots per minute.

Plotting with Walton

Late in the fourth quarter of Sunday’s victory over the champion Los Angeles Lakers, Walton rose like a monster from the deep to crush a Worthy jump shot.

Worthy didn’t know it, but he was “set up” by Bird. Walton was the hit-man.

“Bill always tells me to set him up a couple times so he can block the shot,” Bird said. “My man will come driving in there and I’ll cut right in front of him so when he jumps, he can’t stretch all the way out.”

That’s what Bird did to Worthy, who shot anyway. “Then Bill will smack it,” Bird said.

Bird doesn’t block many shots, only 34 in 51 games this season. But he blocks a lot of paths to the basket.

“A lot of guys are rhythm shooters,” he said. “If you just get your feet in the way – where maybe they have to take a little jab step and then go up – they’re off balance a little bit.

It even throws off Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s sky hook.

“What I do is very minor,” Bird said. But if it were minor, he would have played on a losing team by now. He never has.

Even great players usually aren’t that fortunate. Just look at Walton’s purgatory with the Clippers.

But now, as a Celtic, “watch how he enjoys himself,” Bird said. “Talk to his wife and she says, ‘This is unbelievable. Bill’s talking to me now. He hasn’t talked to me in four years.’

“He’s been through it, and I don’t want to go through it.”

My Take On: Women Never Sweated Until Basketball Came Along

By | Sports

During the late 1980s and 1990s, women’s college basketball was producing superstars who would dominate the WNBA that began in 1997. Among them were Jennifer Azzi, Cynthia Cooper, Lisa Leslie, Rebecca Lobo, Dawn Staley, Sheryl Swoopes and Teresa Weatherspoon. All of them have been inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame.

The NBA was partly fed by players like Spencer Haywood, Julius Erving and Moses Malone who went straight from high school to the pros or played only a couple years of college ball, but female basketball stars have been developed almost exclusively through their NCAA experiences. The ultimate root of the women’s college game dates back to 1892, when physical training instructor Senda Berenson organized a game between freshmen and sophomores at Smith College just a few months after the sport was introduced to men. Four years later, the first intercollegiate women’s game was played between Stanford and University of California-Berkeley, often called Cal in the sports world.

That game said much less about basketball today than it did about society’s expectations and limitations placed on women when the sport was invented. Here are the roots of today’s article:

Writing an article about the first women’s college basketball game sent me off on a surprising historical and cultural adventure. With Cal Professor Roberta Park as my guide, old San Francisco newspaper stories as my main sources, and the Stanford Library providing photos, I produced this article that appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle on Jan. 20, 1992, to honor 100 years of women’s basketball.

Cal vs. Stanford in 1896: Women’s Game Is Born

By Ron Thomas

Chronicle Staff Writer

When the Cal and Stanford women’s basketball teams play tonight at Cal, their rivalry will have added significance: On April 4, 1896, the two teams played the first intercollegiate women’s basketball game ever.

They played in a San Francisco armory on Page Street the day before Easter Sunday. It was a close game that was tied at intermission. The halftime score? 1-1. In the second half, reported the next day’s Chronicle, Cal committed a “fatal foul,” and Stanford’s Frances Tucker capitalized on it by throwing the ball into the basket for a 2-1 victory.

This year marks the 100th anniversary of women’s basketball, or “basket ball,” as it was written at the time. According to “At the Rim,” a new pictorial history of women’s basketball, Senda Berenson, director of physical training at Smith College, introduced the game to women in 1892, just three months after Dr. James Naismith created the game in Springfield, Mass., which is about 20 miles from Northhampton, Mass., home of Smith College.

The first women’s game was played on March 22, 1893, at Smith, a women’s school where the sophomores beat the freshmen, 5-4. Three years later, Cal and Stanford played the first intercollegiate contest.

That first game didn’t resemble basketball as we know it. There were nine players on a team, and the rules were still evolving.

“It wasn’t very clear to people in the beginning how the game should be played, so people snatched the ball away from each other, and they didn’t know how to throw it into the basket,” said Roberta Park, chairman of Cal’s Department of Physical Education and a specialist in sports history.

And women’s uniforms (called “costumes”) were extremely conservative: heavy woolen garments that covered a player’s entire body except for her face, neck and hands.

No Men Allowed

Naismith, who taught physical education at the International YMCA Training School (now Springfield College), created basketball because his male students needed an indoor winter sport. Park said it was introduced to Cal students by Walter E. Magee, a physical education instructor who had seen it played in Springfield.

At Stanford, one of basketball’s strong boosters was Dr. Clelia Duel Mosher, a staff member in the women’s physical education department who became its director in 1910.

In 1896, the Stanford women challenged Cal to a game in Palo Alto. May Dornin, who wrote a history of early Cal basketball in 1957, quoted the “Berkeleyan” student newspaper saying Cal players refused the challenge. They were “unwilling to have the game played in the open air, or anywhere where a mixed body of spectators can attend,” the Berkeleyan reported.

In other words: No Men Allowed.

Eventually, the teams agreed to the neutral indoor site in San Francisco and the banning of male spectators. Why were the women so concerned about men watching them play?

“Women’s roles, their destiny in life, what they should do and what they were physically and intellectually capable of doing was believed to be entirely different from men – almost diametrically opposed,” Park said.

“Therefore, since the vigorous, powerful and strong was very much part of the masculine role . . . it was strongly believed that not only could women not do this, but if they did it they were violating the rules of nature.”

Also, basketball demanded more exertion than graceful sports like tennis and golf. “If it gets too vigorous, you might get yourself in what were called ungainly poses – you might fall down – and all of these things were just not part of the decorum of the way a young lady should behave,” Park said. “And then you perspired, and women never sweated. Horses sweated, men perspired and women glowed.”

The Chronicle reported that on game day the armory windows were guarded by women holding sticks to keep men from sneaking in. It appears that Mr. Magee was allowed to watch the game because he was quoted in the article, and perhaps Dr. Thomas Wood, Stanford’s director of women’s physical education, was allowed to watch, too.

Emphasis on uniforms

In the Chronicle article, written by Mabel Craft, Magee’s wife, Genevra, (referred to as Mrs. W.A. Magee) and Miss Ada Edwards of Stanford are identified as referees, Miss Moser (presumably a misspelling of Clelia Mosher’s last name) as scorekeeper and a Miss Farnham as timekeeper.

The lengthy Chronicle article (it took half the page, including illustrations) used the very formal writing style of that era. Unlike today’s game stories, which focus on the action, the first third of the article talked almost exclusively about the players’ fashionable uniforms and excellent deportment, which Park said was necessary to prove the game was a respectable activity for women.

“The Berkeley girls have gorgeous hair,” Craft wrote. “Each girl was like a modern Lorelei as she threw back her long mane and braided it in long strands, tied with blue ribbons at the ends and caught up in the way its owner deemed securest.

“. . . the Stanford girls made quite as pretty a picture. Their sweaters were cardinal and masculine in cut, worn over the bloomers without belts and trimmed with wide red sailor collars. Their bloomers were an assorted lot. Some were brown, some blue, some black . . . all wore bewitching polo capes of bright red, with tassels.”

Craft characterized the players as “two different California types.” Stanford players were “small, slender, sinewy. Some were rounded, but most of them were agile, without an ounce of superfluous flesh.” The Cal players were “bigger, stronger, heavier, slower . . . They were more sedate and less vivacious, but not less eager and scarcely less alive than the Palo Alto girls.”

Basketball, 1896 Style

The rules of the game sound strange to us now. “The ball is caught and instantly thrown,” Craft wrote. “No one is allowed to fall on it and stay there. Five feet is the furthest you can run with it, and five seconds the longest you can hold it, and all in all, it’s the jolliest kind of a romp.”

Then she noted that the game was invented for men – “there isn’t anything effeminate about it” – and that physicians who believe women are “so delicate” would become hysterical watching them play it.

Stanford’s Martha Clark sank the first basketball in women’s intercollegiate history, which at the time counted for only one point. “It came after a most exciting rush, when the ball, like a cork, had been from end to end of the hall for 10 minutes,” Craft wrote.

The ball stuck in the basket, which was made of netting, so someone jerked a string attached to the basket and “it belched out its contents,” then the game resumed. About five minutes later, Katherine Jones scored for Cal, tying the game, 1-1.

Then a crisis arose. Stanford’s basket was lopsided, so the janitor and a helper, both men, were allowed in to straighten it. Dornin, citing a San Francisco Examiner article, said the Cal women “modestly retreated” into a huddle at the far end of the court, but the Stanford players “boldly” sat down in the middle of the floor.

At halftime, both teams rested in their dressing rooms and sucked on oranges for nourishment. Craft reported that, “One tearful mother was at the door. ‘I was afraid you were killed, dear,’ she said, ‘when you got that terrible fall, with that great big girl on top of you.”

“Not a bit of it,” her daughter replied. “I’m all right. Go back and don’t bother.”

When Cal fouled Frances Tucker during the second half, Tucker’s ensuing shot scored the winning point.

“The scene that followed was wild,” wrote Craft. “Somebody had an arm around the neck of every red sweater, the little red caps flew in the air and fluttered down anywhere.”

In the next few years, Cal continued to play games against local colleges, high schools and YMCAs, and Stanford women played weekly games against each other. In 1899, a Stanford faculty committee banned women from playing intercollegiate contests in all sports, and Cal’s women were discouraged from intercollegiate action because they couldn’t practice in Harmon Gym, which was being remodeled.

But they defied those orders and played again on April 23, 1900, a 7-0 Stanford victory. Tonight’s game at Harmon Gym is a tribute to their determination and their love for the game of basketball.

Next Sunday: How Bird Took Off

My Take On: The Magic Man Who Had No Limitations

By | Sports

Magic Johnson was listed as a point guard, but he was that in title only. At 6-foot-9, he could shoot or pass over almost any defender. With phenomenal peripheral vision, he could find any open teammate. From the ages of 28 to 30, he almost doubled his 3-point shooting percentage so he couldn’t be left alone on the perimeter. And in Game 6 of the 1980 NBA Finals, he proved that he could excel – not just play – center, too.

That evening Kareem Abdul-Jabbar sat out the potential title-clinching game against the Philadelphia 76ers, so Magic volunteered to take his place, then filled the stat sheet with 42 points, 15 rebounds and seven assists. That performance earned him his first NBA championship,  the Finals’ MVP Award, and a reputation for being able to play any position.

On June 9, 1987, Magic’s incredible versatility attracted the national spotlight again when his “junior, junior” sky hook – fashioned after Kareem’s signature sky hook – stunned the Boston Celtics with two seconds left in Game 4 of the NBA Finals. Two games later, the Lakers clinched the title. In Magic’s 12 seasons with L.A., they appeared in the Finals nine times and won five championships. Here are the roots of today’s article:

The day after Magic’s winning hook shot, writers surrounded his locker and asked how he learned that shot. He credited it, and much of his varied skills, to thievery. Here’s how Magic built his game, one unashamed theft at a time, as told in my San Francisco Chronicle article on June 11, 1987.

Magic’s ‘Stolen’ Talents

By Ron Thomas

Chronicle Correspondent


Magic Johnson proudly admits that he is a thief – one who has stolen parts of his offensive weaponry from some of the best basketball players who ever lived.

If he were not such a student of the game, he probably would not have made Tuesday’s 12-foot hook shot that gave Los Angeles a 3-1 lead in the championship series. Tonight, the Lakers go for win No. 5 and the NBA title at Boston Garden.

Tuesday’s game-winning shot was not a Magic original. Instead, he modeled it after teammate Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s famous “sky hook”, just as Magic previously had emulated Bob Cousy’s passing, Oscar Robertson’s back-in jumper and George Gervin’s deceptive drives.

“I’ve always believed that if you look at other people’s games and see something that can help our game, you should steal it,” Magic said. “Why not? That’s a smart player to me.

“You just steal a little to make your game better, and the guys I took things from were the best in the game. Now I take all those guys and add it to my game, and this is Magic Johnson’s game.

“Here I am.”

Calling on the hook shot guru

The newest addition is his hook, which he shoots with the right or left hand.

Before this season, Magic had used the hook since college, but only in pickup or H-O-R-S-E games. Then, last summer in training camp, Coach Pat Riley changed Johnson’s role from playmaker to scorer-passer, and Magic decided to add variety to his repertoire of shots.

At 6-foot-9, he usually has a height advantage over defenders, so the hook shot seemed ideal for him.

“Plus, even if a man is taller than you, that’s one of the only shots you can still get off,” he said. “It’s just a hard shot to block.”

The hook no longer was a toy to fool around with. Because it was to become an important part of his arsenal, Magic wanted to learn the proper technique for releasing it. So he consulted Abdul-Jabbar, the hook shot guru.

“I gave him permission to shoot it,” Abdul-Jabbar joked. “It’s hard to get the rhythm of it, so I worked on it with him, and I guess he’s worked on his own.”

Magic practiced and practiced the hook during training camp, and sometimes he polished it on his indoor basketball court in his mansion in Bel Air. It became one of his favorite shots, and in March, he beat the Warriors with it in Oakland.

When the final seconds of Tuesday’s game arrived, Magic’s “real junior, junior sky hook” had been perfected before he lifted it over the fingertips of Boston’s 6-11 Kevin McHale and seven-foot Robert Parish.

“At that time, that was my best shot,” Magic said. “I’ve been hitting it all season. I just let it go.”

Profiting from older players’ excellence has been a life­long habit for Magic, beginning when his father, Earvin Sr., taught him how to think on the court.

The Big O, Cousy, and The Ice Man

While growing up in Lansing, Mich., Magic spent many hours watching Cincinnati’s Oscar Robertson star in televised games. Since they both are unusually tall guards, Magic said he watched Robertson closely, and now they talk basketball every summer.

Gervin and the late Terry Furlow also lived in Michigan, so Magic played one-on-one games against them when he was in high school. He didn’t get a chance to do that against Cousy, who was 31 when Magic was born, so Johnson has studied films of probably the greatest passer ever.

As a result of Magic’s history lessons, he has become an incredibly versatile superstar.

“l looked at bow Oscar backed in and just shot over people,” Magic said. “On the passing, everybody can pass, but how you pass to set somebody up for a shot is the key. Cousy used to do that the best. He used to drive in and drop it off for a shot.

“Gervin had all the moves, so once he drove in, he could get his shot over everybody. You very rarely saw George Gervin get his shot blocked because he had a technique to slip and slide in to make you, as a big man, unable to jump.”

Now Magic, the ex-pupil, has become a tutor to many high school and college players. Two of his prize students are Celtic guard Sam Vincent, another Michigan native, and University of Iowa star Roy Marble, and Magic often plays one-on-one against youngsters at basketball camps.

It’s his way of paying back Gervin and Furlow, an NBA player who died in a 1980 auto accident.

“When I was young, Furlow used to beat me 15-0,” Magic said. “I was in high school at that time. I would get so frustrated that I would quit. He said, ‘You’re not going to quit. If I beat you everyday 15-0, pretty soon you’re going to get one game.’

“He beat me every day for a while 15-0, then finally 15-1, 15-2, and you start scoring on him. The same way with Gervin. He would kill me, but by learning, after they beat me I would beat everybody my age and a little older than me. They were so proud of me when I made it to the pros.”

Today, Magic Johnson is the star every young player should copy – there’s something in his game for everyone.

Next Sunday: The first women’s college basketball game. Final score: 2-1

My Take On: NBA’s Skywalkers – Playing Above the Rim

By | Sports, Uncategorized

Dunking, a foundation of today’s NBA, used to be a guilty pleasure done in the privacy of casual workouts or a team’s practice in the 1940s and ’50s. Just driving down the lane during a game was frowned upon. “We had a saying, ‘Nobody comes through the middle without a ticket,’ ” recalled Earl Lloyd, the first black player to participate in an NBA game.

So, throwing down a slam would have been considered a rude attempt to embarrass an opponent, probably one worthy of a fight in the NBA’s Wild West days when brawling was acceptable.

But extraordinary leapers like Joe Caldwell and Connie Hawkins made dunking a crowd pleaser in the 1960s and ’70s, and the era of “The Last Dance” produced airborne creative geniuses who were admired and feared during the 1980s and ’90s. That’s why I wrote this third installment of my Sunday basketball profiles. Here are the roots of today’s article:

I interviewed some of the greatest dunkers of all time mostly at the 1986 NBA All-Star Game for a story about the sport’s amazing skywalkers. But that game will forever be remembered for producing the most unexpected Slam Dunk champion of all time, 5-foot-7 Spud Webb. I hope you enjoy “NBA Elite – Games Above the Rim” (SF Chronicle, March 19, 1986) and “Spud Webb Takes Off to New Heights” (SF Chronicle, Feb. 10, 1986).

By Ron Thomas

They are the daredevils of the NBA – the skywalkers who soar, swoop, dip and slither in midair to score points and thrill crowds.

“Going above the rim and making a play,” says Julius Erving, the unofficial captain of the skywalkers’ air corps, “blocking a shot, pinning a ball on the glass, dunking the ball, bringing the ball down then, taking it back up – that’s the stuff dreams are made of.”

Not to mention reputations.

Erving, Dominique Wilkins, Michael Jordan and James Worthy explore the atmosphere around and above the rim in a way few mortals can.

All are small forwards or big guards – the positions that seem to have the best combination of size, strength and flexibility – and they symbolize the playing-in-the-air artistry more prevalent now than ever in the NBA’s 40-year history.

But by “daring to be great” – one of Erving’s personal mottos – they also expose themselves to serious injury.

“The element of danger doesn’t really enter the priorities you think about when you’re on the ground,” Erving said. “It’s right up there one or two when you’re above the rim.

“Where am I going to land, and who’s going to be under me? Is it going to be some guy who will take my legs and put them where my head was, or will this be a safe flight and a safe landing?”

When Erving goes up, he says he’s always looking or feeling for “ground space.” Sometimes, opponents provide it. “If guys see you coming down wrong, they’ll catch you to keep you from hurting yourself,” Wilkins said.

Other skywalkers don’t acknowledge the danger. “I’m so used to it now, there’s no fear,” Jordon said.

Skywalking was a stranger to the NBA until the late 1960s, when Elgin Baylor and Johnny Green joined the league. They both are black, and in the 1990s, eagle-like thrusts to the basket became more common as the number of black players increased.

Tom Sanders, a Boston defensive star in the ’60s, said black players learned to defy gravity because they concentrated on developing their skills more than white players.

In addition, basketball is king in predominantly black urban areas, where there is a scarcity of playing space and money required for other sports (such as golf and tennis).

“It comes down to the number or blacks who take the game seriously,” Sanders said, adding a personal concern that too many young players place basketball above academics.

Sanders said that when he played, every team had at least one player with extraordinary leaping ability – Connie Hawkins, Joe Caldwell – but there was much less dunking because of a popular defensive philosophy.

‘If you make me look bad, I may hurt you a little bit.’ – ex-Celtic Tom Sanders

Today, dunking and playing in the air are accepted fundamentals of pro basketball, says Lakers coach Pat Riley, executed best by “disciplined leapers” who have tremendous body control.

“It’s the evolution of the athletes,” Riley said. “The training methods and their physical makeup have changed the game. It’s being played much higher and taller than in the past.”

In skywalking, there is no prepared flight plan. Says WiIkins: “I just do whatever comes to mind.”

So does Worthy, who credits skywalking to “God-given talent” and spontaneity.

“You run into obstacles you don’t expect when you first take off,” he said. “Once you run into them, creativity is just automatic.”

A few years ago, Worthy pulled off one of the most sensational moves ever seen in the Coliseum Arena when he went up for a baseline shot, spun 360 degrees around the Warriors’ Larry Smith, then banked in a jumper.

Credit it to planned spontaneity.

Earlier in the game, Smith had blocked two of Worthy’s shots after Worthy had eluded his main de­nfender. The next time, Worthy shook Purvis Short, waited for Smith to leap, then jumped and spun around him.

“I didn’t know it was going to be a turn,” Worthy said. “That playground instinct just came out. I never practiced that before.” And he has not been able to duplicate the move since.

Jordan, who has missed most of this season with a broken foot, appears to change direction in midair effortlessly, but he says it’s easier to play earthbound.

“On the ground, you control your steps,” he said. “In the air, you can’t. You can’t go around a person.”

But Jordan does, doesn’t he? “It looks like it,” he said. “A lot of times when you change direction, it’s because you got bumped.”

Worthy never rehearses his moves, but Erving takes a studious approach that defies the concept of the “natural athlete.” He sometimes will sit at courtside and think about different ways to expand the court’s dimensions.

For a memorable basket in the 1980 playoff finals, Erving drove down the right side of the foul lane, floated under the backboard with the ball extended out of bounds, then curled under the left corner of the backboard for a reverse layup over Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

“They don’t know what to do when I’m holding the ball out of bounds,” Ervin said at the time. “Do they go for it? Do they wait for me to bring it back? It has a tendency to freeze defenders. That’s from studying the game – that’s not natural, either.”

Even Erving’s subconscious reaches skyward. He has dreams in which he is flying, which inspires his on-court imagination.

Skywalker By Necessity, Not Nature

As a younger growing up in Roosevelt, Long Island, he most admired Jumpin’ Johnny Green, the 6-foot-5 Knicks forward who often would grab a teammate’s off-target shot in midair and guide it into the basket.

“I always got a kick out of that part of his game,” Erving said.

Erving’s flights of fancy began for more practical reasons. He wasn’t a good outside shooter, so be needed a way to get closer to the basket.

“I started saying, ‘This is wonderful. I can create as avenue for myself and get to the basket, (where) I can jump up and just drop it in.’ It was almost a no-brainer.

“And out on the break, there was the challenge of taking the little guys for a ride.”

Erving’s flights can get dangerously bumpy.

“There’s an electricity that goes through you if you think you should be on the ground and suddenly you’re not,” Erving said. “Suddenly you’re riding on somebody’s shoulder or you get turned around. It’s like a shocking experience and it’s very, very scary.”

After one of those flights, Erving likes to stay on the runway for a while.

How do defenders stop skywalkers? Denver small forward Alex English has the unenviable task of guarding many of them. He doesn’t let his ego get in the way of reality.

“It’s difficult in that they may go over your head, but you use your fundamentals like blocking out and staying on the floor when they shoot,” English said. “Some plays you just have to accept that you can’t do anything.”

Of all the players who specialize in playing in the air, English is most awed by the former NBA star who officially carried the nickname “Skywalker.”

“When I played with David Thompson,” English said, “he did things that just blew my mind.”

Spud Webb Takes Off to New Heights

Photo by Associated Press

By Ron Thomas

Chronicle Correspondent


Spud Webb, whose nickname came from a satellite, has reached a new orbit.

Webb, a 5-foot-7, 133-pound rookie reserve guard for the Atlanta Hawks, is the NBA’s Slam Dunk king, taking the crown Saturday from his best friend among his teammates, 6-7 defending champion Dominique Wilkins.

Wilkins knew Webb could dunk far better than his height would allow, but he didn’t know Webb could defy gravity to make 360-degree spins in the air and still have enough loft left to jam the ball through.

Webb knew that all along, but he can’t explain why he can hang and twirl and spin and jam – even though his hands are so small that he can’t palm a basketball.

“When I figure that out, I’ll write a book about it,” Webb said.

Maybe it’s all in the nickname, Spud. “Everybody thinks it came from a potato, but it came from a satellite,” Webb said.

On his first dunk, he was 5-foot-4

When Webb was a baby, he reminded a friend of his mother’s of a Soviet space satellite called “Sputnik.” Other children shortened it to “Spud,” and now, every basketball fan in America is bound to recognize that nickname, too.

Couple the fact that a 5-7 player won the dunking championship with 6-foot-9 Larry Bird winning the Long-Distance Shootout, and there couldn’t be a better advertising tool for a sport that prides itself on having the world’s best and most versatile athletes.

“Isn’t it great for the NBA?” Atlanta coach Mike Fratello said. “It’s just another thing that will enhance the NBA in the public’s eye.”

Fratello, who also is 5-7, said he can’t imagine anybody who can’t identify with Webb. “When you’re on the bus tomorrow riding to work or on the subway somewhere, you’re saying to yourself, ‘He’s smaller than I am’ or ‘He’s as small as my son is.’

“He’s America. Everybody’s going to be out there tomorrow in their driveway trying to hit the rim.”

Webb spent a lot of time hitting the rim himself before he dunked for the first time. He said he must have tried 100 times before he finally cleared the rim. He slammed for the first time as a 5-foot-4 high school senior.

Since Webb is a Dallas native, he was the crowd favorite all day. (Webb is tied with three others as the smallest players in NBA history: Monte Towe, Red Klotz and Wat Misaka.)

His biggest fan at the contest (rating enthusiasm, not size) was 5-9 former NBA star Calvin Murphy, who had played earlier in the old-timers game. When the judges gave Webb less than a perfect score of 50 on one dunk, Murphy was so agitated he stalked up the sideline toward the judges’ table, frowned like he had smelled a skunk and waved his white cap in disgust. And when Webb stood nearby, you could see Murphy chattering away.

“He was telling me he had (bet) his house on me, so don’t miss,” Webb said.

“We know that the fans wanted Spud to win,” said judge Roger Staubach, the former Dallas Cowboys star. “But we had to be sure that he deserved it. He was more creative.”

A Self-Made ‘Sputnik’

Such as when he threw the ball toward the basket about 15 feet high, caught it on one bounce in mid-air and reverse dunked without touching earth.

And his first dunk, a running two-hand slam, had some accidental flourish. It went through the net, bounced on top of Webb’s head, then bounded back up through the net again.

It was originally ruled a miss until everyone realized Webb’s head had launched its own basketball “Sputnik.”

Webb had performed all of his dunks before, but he didn’t come into the contest with any set plan of dunks. “I didn’t decide what I was going to do until the referee handed me the ball,” he said.

He hadn’t even practiced his routine. “For the last week, I had a sore ankle,” he explained.

“Yeahhhh. Right,” said a skeptical Wilkins. “You must have done some quick healing.”

Next Sunday: Magic Johnson’s “Stolen” Talents

My Take On: Air Jordan Lands in Oakland

By | Sports

Since NBA Commissioner Adam Silver suspended the NBA season on March 11 because of the coronavirus,  hoops-starved fans have clung to ESPN’s “The Last Dance” documentary (has a film ever had a better timed release?), replays of memorable games, and endless roundtable discussions about sports’ unknown future while panelists practice social distancing.

It’s just not enough for desperate NBA junkies, so I offer to do my part to satisfy us. I received such a good response to my April 24th blog about Michael Jordan that I’ve decided to make it the first installment in a series of articles about the roots of pro basketball superstars’ exploits. They will be focused on NBA players who starred between 1976, the first season after the ABA-NBA merger, to 1995, when Hall of Famer Moses Malone retired as the last NBA player who had played in the ABA.

Why that span? Because there never was, and I believe never will be, a greater collection of pro basketball talent over a 20-year period. At a time when the struggling NBA couldn’t get the Finals shown on prime time TV, the merger added an influx of dominant, extremely creative players like Julius “Dr. J” Erving, George “The Iceman” Gervin, David “Skywalker” “Thompson and Larry “Special K” Kenon who arrived playing at or near their peak. Add Jordan, Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, Isaiah Thomas, Kevin McHale and other future stars who joined the NBA through the normal draft, and you have an incomparable harvest of talent.

Superstar Profiles to Come

During the next two months, I’ll post profiles I wrote for the San Francisco Chronicle and USA Today about different types of roots of the NBA’s phenomenal dunkers, Magic, Bird, Dr. J, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Michael Ray Richardson, and a historical piece about the beginning of women’s basketball. With that hoops nourishment, I hope we can maintain our sanity through June 21st, when Game 7 of the NBA Finals could have been played.

The roots of today’s article: During Michael Jordan’s first two NBA seasons, Oakland had a hex on him even though the Bulls played there only once per season. In 1984, head coach Kevin Loughery limited Jordan to only 13 minutes against Golden State. In 1985, he broke his foot on a fluke play and missed 64 games. But on Nov. 29, 1986, he returned to Oakland at full throttle, averaging 37 ppg. before punishing the Warriors for 40 more. Before that evening, the Chronicle flew me to Los Angeles to interview Jordan and teammates about his blue-collar, hard-hat work ethic that returned him to prominence, never to be grounded by injury again.

Coming Next: The NBA’s Skywalkers – Julius Erving, Dominique Wilkins, James Worthy, Michael Jordan on how they fly so high

My Take On: The Night Superman Met His Kryptonite

By | Sports

By Ron Thomas

Here is the actual clipping of the game story I wrote after Michael Jordan suffered the only serious injury of his career, a broken left foot in 1985./Photo by Mike Maloney, San Francisco Chronicle

In retrospect, I buried the lead, as we say in the news business. I had overlooked the best story of the night.

In the second episode of “The Last Dance,” ESPN’s celebrated documentary about the Chicago Bulls’ last of six NBA championship seasons, one of the more telling events occurred when Michael Jordan broke his foot in the third game of his second season. It happened in Oakland on Oct. 29, 1985, and I was there.

I was the San Francisco Chronicle’s beat reporter covering the Golden State Warriors, and 11,210 fans had come to the Coliseum Arena to see the NBA’s newest superstar. The fact that the 15,000-seat arena was far from filled tells you that Jordan was more potential than production, and the Bulls were closer to pedestrian than perfection. Their head coach was Stan Albeck, not Phil Jackson, and the rest of the starting lineup was Sidney Green, Orlando Woolridge, Jawann Oldham and Kyle Macy – all solid NBA players but not a star among them. Scottie Pippen and Dennis Rodman weren’t even in the league yet.

Either the Bulls won or Jordan was no fun

The early part of the series had devoted itself to how fanatical Jordan was about winning. There were no moral victories in his world, no confidence-building losses against title contenders. Either the Bulls won or he was no fun, and in the film, 35 years after he broke his foot, viewers could hear the disappointment in the now 57-year-old Jordan’s voice as he recalled how he landed wrong on a fastbreak and basically ruined the rest of his season.

However, that night in Oakland, the Bulls rallied behind Woolridge’s 25 points and Macy’s 12 assists to win 111-105. Jordan had contributed 12 points on 6-for-10 shooting in only 18 minutes, but no one knew at the time that his season was over. So, rather than leading my story with the fact that the great Jordan had left the court after hurting his foot, I “buried my lead” and didn’t get around to mentioning him until my ninth paragraph.

“Many of the 11,210 spectators had come to see superstar Michael Jordan, but the Coliseum Arena is becoming his personal jinx,” I wrote that night. “Last season, he played a season-low 24 minutes in a Bulls loss when then-coach Kevin Loughery benched him. Last night, he jammed his left foot, compressing two bones, with 45 seconds left in the first half and didn’t play again. It was X-rayed after the game.”

‘I was devastated because I had never got hurt.’ – Michael Jordan

At the time, it looked like no big deal; players limp off the court all the time, and even the fact that Jordan was carried off the court a few minutes later didn’t raise an alarm. Today, Jordan probably would have had an MRI exam the next day, but that technology wasn’t available yet for sports injuries. So it wasn’t until November 5th, a week after he got hurt, that a Chicago Tribune article reported the X-rays did not reveal a break but a CAT scan found that Jordan had fractured a navicular tarsal bone in his left foot.

“I was devastated because I had never got hurt,” Jordan recalled in the documentary while shaking his head. He still sounds annoyed about it. “They put me in a cast. I couldn’t do anything. I was anxious. I’m sure I was irritable to a lot of people.”

That fracture cost him 64 games, the only time in his 15 seasons that he had a serious injury. Jordan played in only 15 more games that season, the Bulls finished with a 30-52 record, and Chicago’s first of six titles was still six years away.

Tinkering With the Game: Innovations by black people helped change the shape of baseball

By | Portfolio

By Ron Thomas

Chronicle Staff Writer

The contributions black people have made to baseball haven’t been limited to accomplishments on the playing field.

“Most people think of what blacks did on the field: the base hits, home runs, great catches, by Willie Mays … which is fine,” said baseball historian Dick Simpson. “My point is that not only did they improve the game on the field, but black people were involved with fundamental innovations that became a part of baseball.”

One innovation dates back more than a century. Several others were developed in the Negro leagues, which, except for black newspapers such as the Pittsburgh Courier and the Chicago Defender, were largely ignored by the media. Because of the relative lack of media coverage and documentation of the Negro leagues, some of these innovations are supported by lore rather than facts.

“I’m not prepared to argue firsts,” said Robert Peterson, the author of “Only the Ball Was White,” the ground-breaking book about the Negro leagues that was published in 1970. “There’s an awful lot of uncertainty in this field.”

But there is no disputing that without innovations by black owners, coaches and players, the national pastime would not be the game we know today. Here are some examples:

Shin guards now are worn by catchers to protect them from the spikes of players who are intent upon crossing home plate. But the first shin guards were invented by one of two black second basemen, Binghamton’s Bud Fowler or Buffalo’s Frank Grant, who played minor-league ball in the 1880s in the International League. They invented the shin guards, which were wooden slats wrapped around their legs, because white opponents intentionally tried to spike them while sliding into second base.

In “Only the Ball Was White,” Peterson excerpted an 1889 Sporting News story in which an unidentified white International


Frank Grant, shown second from right on the bottom row in this photo, developed shin guards to protect himself from sliding base runners.

League player admitted that he was “prejudiced” against teams with black players, yet “could not help pitying some of the poor black fellows” in the league. It is presumed the player was talking about the 1888 season when he said:

“Fowler used to play second base with the lower part of his legs encased in wooden guards. He knew that about every player that came down to second base on a steal had it in for him and would, if possible, throw the spikes into him.

“… I have seen him muff balls intentionally, so that he would not have to try to touch runners, fearing that they might injure him. Grant was the same way: Why, the runners chased him off second base.”

In 1891, Sporting Life, a popular publication of the time, quoted another player, Ed Williamson, saying that the desire to injure Grant made the feet-first slide popular among white players. ” … he put wooden armor on his legs for protection, but the opposition proceeded to file their spikes to a sharp point and split the (shin guards),” Williamson said.

In three International League seasons, Grant batted .351 and once led the league in home runs. He also was an excellent second baseman, but eventually the abuse forced him to switch to the outfield after he missed many games due to injuries in 1888. The outfield, said baseball historian James Overmyer, was “less predatory” than second base.

Beginning in 1890, professional teams refused to sign black players until Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in 1946 as a member of the International League’s Montreal Royals, a Brooklyn Dodgers farm team.

The first night game in major league history was played in Cincinnati’s Crosley Field on May 23, 1935, an event that revolutionized the game. But beginning in 1930 the Kansas City Monarchs, who temporarily had withdrawn from the Negro leagues to become an independent team, had popularized night baseball by playing under portable lights purchased by team owner J.L. Wilkinson.

Technically, night baseball wasn’t a black innovation because lighted fields had been used sparingly in the past and Wilkinson was white. But night baseball’s value as a marketing tool was proven as the Monarchs competed against Negro league teams and on barnstorming trips throughout rural areas. The Monarchs’ success helped convince major league baseball to adopt night baseball.

“Others had used lights as a novelty for maybe one game, but Wilkinson developed a system that could be used on a long-term basis,” said Janet Bruce Campbell, author of “The Kansas City Monarchs.” “It proved to be their salvation during the Depression because so many teams were going broke, especially minor-league and black teams.”

The Monarchs played their first night game on April 28, 1930, and Peterson said they introduced night baseball in many cities, including Pittsburgh and Detroit. In 1933, Gus Greenlee, who was black and owned the Negro leagues’ Pittsburgh Crawfords, installed lights in his team’s stadium, Greenlee Field.

Before lights had been introduced, baseball teams suffered because they could only play during daylight, when most potential fans were working. Buck O’Neil, who played for or coached the Monarchs from 1938-55, said they tried to get around that problem by scheduling twilight games which started at 6 p.m. and continued until sundown. Even so, games often ended before farmers, who worked extremely long hours, could arrive. Weekend games were another way to get around the daylight problem, but, said Campbell, “If there was a rain-out on weekends, it was financially devastating.”

So Wilkinson asked a Nebraska company to build a portable lighting system which would be transported by trucks. Telescoping poles were implanted in a truck bed, with each pole supporting six floodlights raised about 50 feet above the field. A 100-kilowatt generator was put in center field to provide electricity to the trucks, which were placed along the foul lines and behind home plate.

“With the lights, he got everybody to the game,” O’Neil said. “And the lights were an attraction.”

O’Neil said batting, fielding ground balls and catching low line drives weren’t that difficult, “but if a high fly ball would go above the lights, you had to wait until it came below the lights (to see it). But if you learned how to judge the ball, you had some idea where it would come down.”

Campbell wrote there were even more problems, such as outfielders trying to make sure they didn’t trip over the generator’s wires while chasing a fly ball. “I think players realized (lights were) almost a necessary evil,” she said. “It allowed them to survive during the Depression but it wasn’t the ideal conditions.”

Now it’s commonplace to see a catcher snap the ball into his glove one-handed while he keeps his right, throwing hand behind his back to protect it from injury. Former major-league catcher Randy Hundley, who played with the Chicago Cubs from 1964-77, popularized that style, then Hall of Famer Johnny Bench perfected it.

But a half-century ago, the Negro leagues’ Lloyd (Pepper) Bassett, who starred from 1934-50, already was catching one-handed with his “squeezer” mitt.

“The mitts were kind of stiff, so he got the biggest mitt he could and took a lot of stuffing out of the mitt and caught most of the balls in the webbing,” said O’Neil. “(The usual) catcher’s mitts didn’t hinge in the middle. They were round and you had to catch the ball with two hands. Pepper would put that right hand behind him and catch that ball with one hand.

“So many catchers missed so many games with (injured) knuckles or split fingers, but Pepper didn’t have that problem.”

Bassett, one of the Negro leagues’ best catchers, introduced another playing style that probably never has been emulated: catching in a rocking chair. In “Invisible Men” by Donn Rogosin, Bassett explained that when he played for the New Orleans Crescents in the 1930s, they weren’t drawing well, so “I had to figure out some way to put some people in the park.” He used that gimmick only sparingly, but it became his trademark.

The batter walks up to the on-deck circle, drops a doughnut-shaped weight over his bat, then swings the bat a few times to limber up before stepping up to the plate. Ever wonder who invented that doughnut?

The answer is the late Elston Howard, a major-league catcher from 1955-68 who was best known as the handler of New York Yankees pitching staffs that won four World Series. He introduced the product – “Elston Howard’s On-Deck Bat-Weight” – in the late 1960s to speed up a player’s swing and strengthen his arms, wrists and forearms.

“Bat-head speed is so important, and when you can make the bat-head feel lighter you can whip the bat,” said baseball announcer Tim McCarver.

Howard’s invention, which he created with two friends, is far less cumbersome than loosening up by swinging a lead bat or swinging several bats at a time. The dough­nut is made of metal dipped in plastic, and it has become such a fixture in major-league baseball that three doughnuts are displayed in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

My Take On: COVID-19 – Can This Be Real?

By | Politics

The coronavirus has left much of the world sheltering in place./Image by Center for Disease Control and Prevention

Our world has been knocked off balance.

Seeing doctors and nurses wear construction goggles to shield their faces and garbage bags to protect their bodies from the coronavirus looked like scenes from a destitute nation I had never known about before calamity struck.  

Hearing black female White House reporters Yamiche Alcindor, Abby Phillip and April Ryan being called “nasty” by the President of the United States used to be unthinkable until Donald Trump made it his go-to reflex reaction when they challenged his actions or integrity.

But, sadly, this is the new reality.

So are the oddities that come with social distancing and self-imposed virtual isolation during the COVID-19 tragedy. Many of those oddities seem minor, but added up, they are mighty confusing.

Ruby on Valentine’s Day/Selfie

Living the Good Life

I live in a 4-year-old development comprised of about 45 units in suburban Atlanta. Probably typical of the pre-COVID-19 era, I know some of my neighbors’ faces but few of their names. I’ve met most of them while walking our dog, Ruby, because they own dogs, too. Occasionally, we would stop to chat, but not anymore. Now, that neighborly chat literally could be your mortal enemy.

Despite that, a few days ago Ruby ran across the street (which is appropriately more than six feet wide) to greet one of her dog friends and its owner. She and I agreed that this is the perfect time to be a well cared for dog or a baby. Their world is so simple – feed me, pat me (for a tummy rub or a burp) and collect my poop – that they’re oblivious to COVID-19. Lucky them.

Who Can I Trust?

So I go for a late afternoon walk just to get out of the house. It’s a comfortable 70 degrees, and I leave the cozy oval in my development to quick-step down a usually very busy street that now is virtually deserted. As I walk past the neighborhood day care center, I see oncoming trouble – a young couple riding their bikes toward me. They’re in their 20s and I’m way past AARP age, so never the twain should meet during COVID-19.

No problem with the young woman, because she’s riding in the street. But her male companion is coming right toward me up the sidewalk, eating up the 100 yards between us at a fast pace. Sigh. Now I am forced to make a coronavirus-driven decision.

… he’s got that ‘I own the world’ swagger

As far as I’m concerned, pedestrians deserve first dibs on sidewalks, so I should stand my ground and the young biker should swerve over to the otherwise empty street. But a quick assessment says that’s not happening.

Even pedaling a bike, he’s got that “I own the world” swagger, and he’s wearing a sleeveless shirt, and no doubt he’s sweating under his Panama hat.

So do I gamble that he’ll do the polite thing and take to the streets, taking the risk that he won’t and he’ll sprinkle possibly infectious sweat all over me as he glides by. Or do I defer to him and cross the street while his bodily fluids are far beyond striking distance?

The ballot is in. Deference won with a unanimous vote. As difficult as it is, in these times it’s often best to put pride aside just to survive.

Leaving the Old Behind

Sometimes I flash back to the days of freedom in February. So as I sat on the edge of my bed wondering how to give my journalism students a lesson in descriptive writing, the answer suddenly popped into my brain.

“Just do what you’ve done before,” I reminded myself. “Take the class to King Chapel and have them crowd around Martin Luther King’s ‘Have a Dream’ speech that is etched onto the front wall. Have them take turns reading paragraphs of it and point out to them how beautifully it’s crafted. Draw their attention to the painful imagery of the ‘promissory note’ of ‘life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness’ that still is owed black people. Remind them that that’s the part of the dream that white people and the media almost never speak of.”

Then I stopped and had to laugh out loud. I had forgotten that normalcy has disappeared. King Chapel is no longer accessible to me since I’m self-isolating and Morehouse has closed except for cyberspace activities. My students are no longer in Atlanta; they’re scattered all around America instead. And the last thing they would want to do now is “crowd around” anything, including King’s wonderful prose.

So, I ask, “Can this be real?

THE DOCTOR: Erving Is Making Final House Calls

By | Portfolio

By Ron Thomas

It was 1976, the summer of the ABA-NBA merger and Julius Erving was being showcased in NBA cities for the first time. The ABA hadn’t had a major television contract and was more of a rumor than a memory for most of the nation. But anyone who called himself a basketball fan had beard about “The Doctor.”

Such was his legend that 6000 fans packed DePaul University’s Alumni Hall in Chicago to see this phenomenon from basketball outer space. They saw Mickey Johnson, then with the Chicago Bulls, set himself in the lane to take a charge from The Doctor, then lean back with his face toward the ceiling as Erving leaped over his head for a stuff.

With about two minutes left to play, Erving left the game accompanied by a standing ovation. The game continued, but the fans began streaming out of the arena.

“Doc be gone; I be gone,” one fan said.

After tonight, Doc will “be gone” from the Coliseum Arena, too. The game between his Philadelphia 76ers and the Warriors 730 tipoff, KNBR 680 Radio will be his final one here as he plays out his final NBA season. Fortunately, Erving can’t take our memories with him.

There are myriad ways to account for Erving’s 16 seasons of greatness dating to when he broke in with the ABA’s Virginia Squires in 1971. But Ervmg explains it best.

“I dare to be great,” he says. “Unless you dare to be great, you can’t be and never will be.”

Erving never wanted the law of gravity to restrict what he could do.

“I dream about flying a lot,” he said after a magical performance in 1983. “I just find myself floating out in space as if I had wings. I stay up a lot longer when I’m dreaming. I go sideways, backwards, do somersaults … It’s a fun way to sleep. Sometimes your dreams just seem so real.

“After you understand the fundamentals of the game, the artistry and creativity come from dreams and experimentation.”

It took Ray Wilson, Erving’s high school coach on Long Island, a few years to understand Erving’s quest for the unknown. Young Julius would make a remarkable move, and Wilson recalls thinking, “He was pretty lucky.”

Wilson concedes that be was “imposing my limitations- something I couldn’t do, I assumed he couldn’t do.” When an Erving move surprises him now, Wilson says, “I just shake my head and say he marches to a different drummer.”

Erving implants indelible memories. In the 1980 NBA finals against the Lakers, he swooped down the right side of the lane, curled under the basket with his arm and the ball extended out of bounds, then hooked around flat-footed Kareem Abdul-Jabbar for a reverse bank shot. Best shot I’ve ever seen, but probably far from the best Erving ever made

Jack McMahon, the Warriors’ director of play personnel, watched Erving for 10 years in Philadelphia. He’s seen all the maneuvers, but the Erving deluxe was a display of sheer power.

In a playoff game against Washington, “he took one down the middle hard and strong on Elvin Hayes,” McMahon recalled. “You talk about in-your-face’ This was ‘in-your-face supreme.’ I loved it; I’m not an Elvin Hayes fan.”

At a press conference yesterday in Oakland, Erving said his personal favorite occurred at Petersburg, Va., in his first pro exhibition game. At the University of Massachusetts, the tallest opponent Erying had faced was 6-foot-10, but the Kentucky Colonels of that era had 7.2 Artis Gilmore and 6-9 Dan Issel on the front line.

“I went around a guy named Wil Jones, and I was going to dunk the ball -just a conventional, one­handed dunk,” Erving said. “While I’m going up, (Gilmore and Issel) went up and they blocked out the basket.

“I felt myself slicing between the two of them and I held the ball up real high. Then I saw the white



Season/Team                      G               FGM        FGA        Pct.         FTA          FTM         Pct.         TR             Ast.         Pts.

71-72/Virginia                     84            907         1810      .501        467         627         .745        1319      335         2290

72-73/Virginia                     71            889         1780      .499        475         612         .776        867         298         2268

73-74/New York                 84            897         1742      .515        454         593         .766        899         434         2299

74-15/New York                 84            885         1719      .515        486         608         .799        914         462         2343

75-76/New York                 84            915         1770      .517        530         662         .801        925         423         2462

ABA TOTAL                            407         4493      8821      .509        2412      3102      .778        4924      1952      11662



Season/Team                      G               FGM        FGA        Pct.         FTA          FTM         Pct.         TR             Ast.         Pts.

76-77/ Philadelphia        82            685         1373      .499        400         515         .777        695         306         1770

77-78/Philadelphia         74            611         1217      .502        306         362         .845        481         279         1528

78-79/Philadelphia         78            71.5        1455      .491        373         501         .745        564         357         1803

79-80/Philadelphia         82            838         1614      .519        420         534         .787        576         355         2100

80-81/Philadelphia         81            794         1524      .521        422         536         .787        657         364         2014

81-82/ Philadelphia        72            780         1428      .546        411         539         .763        557         319         1974

82-83/ Philadelphia        77            605         1170      .517        330         435         .759        491         263         1542

83-84/Philadelphia         78            678         1324      .512        364         483         .754        532         309         1727

84-85/Philadelphia         78            610         1236      .494        338         442         .765        414         233         1561

85-86/Philadelphia         74            521         1085      .480        289         368         .785        370         248         1340

86-87/Philadelphia         7               54            105         .514        27            31            .871        35            25            136

NBA TOTAL                             783         6891      13531   .509        3680      4746      .775        5572      3068      17495




Hand Issell come down, but the black band was still up there. Then that one finally came down, and I ended up dunking the ball (while) falling, and started running down the court.

“I really didn’t know what I had done, but I looked around and the place was hysterical. From that play on, I think I was established as a pro player.”

Pride and competitiveness have always been Erving’s driving forces. The past few years, he’s made a conscious effort to “master all aspects of the game” instead of being just a scorer. And losing is always unacceptable.

“He and I used to play one-on-one after practice,” former Virginia teammate George Irvine said, “and he’d work his tail off to make sure I didn’t win. I remember only winning a few times, and those were flukes.”

When Erving’s pride is stung he demands immediate payback – like a ill-tempered bill collector.

Watch Erving if his shot is blocked from behind. His face scrunches up into a snarl, and he vengefully hones in on the culprit who wronged him. Invariably, his claw-like hands will swat the next shot into the crowd.

Three years ago, Erving had struggled through two bad playoff games against Milwaukee. Philadelphia writers were calling for his basketball burial: “Is it time for The Doctor to make his last house call?”

Two nights later, Erving responded with a triple-double performance. After the game, totally out of character, he didn’t stick around to answer reporters’ questions- he went directly from the court to the team hotel across the street.

He felt betrayed by the same reporters who’d praised him over the years, and they could read his reply in the box score. Later, he told a reporter he had dedicated that game to the “older generation.” Doc was 33 at the time.

Phil Jasner, who was covered the 76ers for the Philadelphia Daily News for six years, said that was the only time he can remember Erving refusing postgame interviews. Usually he is a reporter’s dream.

Erving sets aside an hour after practice every day for interviews, and after games he is often engulfed by a mass of reporters crowding around him.

It’s easy to identify the least important Philadelphia players (will history remember Sam Williams or Paul Thompson?) because they’re assigned the lockers next to Doc.

The 11th and 12th men almost never get interviewed, so Doc’s entourage of questioners can spread into their locker space.

But access doesn’t endear Erving to reporters; courtesy does. Approach Erving for an early-season interview, and before you can get to question No. 1, he’s liable to ask: “How was your summer?”

How was my summer? That’s a shocker. Players so seldom show an interest in a reporter’s life that an inquiry can leave you mute.

In addition to pursuing business interests after retiring, Erving wants to be an ambassador for basketball. No one has better qualifications.

Rumors fly around the NBA as often as planes in an airport. Yet Erving remains untouched by rumors; his personal life is considered exemplary, above reproach.

At a time when Americans rue the breakup of the family unit, Erving sat on Denver’s McNichols Area floor during the 1984 Slam Dunk Contest and listened to advice from a coaching staff composed of his children.

If a black athlete can speak his name without stumbling on the words, it’s common for him to be patronized for being “so articulate.”

But Erving truly deserves the description.

A few years ago at the league meetings, he accepted an award for teammate Bobby Jones. Erving was expected to give a speech; instead, he mesmerized the audience with a tribute to his close friend, who overcame epilepsy to become a basketball star.

Unlike so many athletes who waste their money, Erving has become a respected businessman. Sure, he has his Maserati and a fur coat, and one venture into the high fashion shoe industry flopped quickly. But now he is part owner or a Coca-Cola bottling company and a television station in Buffalo.

And though hundreds of pro athletes promise to “go back and get my degree,” Erving, who left Massachusetts after his junior year, actually did so by completing his course work during two years of road trips. He had no choice; he had promised his mother he would graduate.

“It was a matter of putting something to rest that was unfinished business.” He said yesterday.

“The Doctor” truly will be missed. The night Erving announced his decision to retire, a saddened Irvine said, “Julius Erving leaving basketball is like taking Mom out of apple pie.”

Redemption in ’04 for Black former Olympic Gymnast

By | Portfolio

Date: Monday, August 23, 2004


Ron Galimore, the first black Olympic gymnast, never got a chance to perform in the world’s greatest sports event The United States boycotted the 1980 Olympics in Moscow to protest Russia’s invasion of Afghanistan.

At last, partial compensation has arrived during the 2004 Olympics. Now, Galimore is senior director- that means he’s the boss – of the USA Gymnastics men’s program. It has already produced: a silver medal in the team event, and the first American, Paul Hamm, to win Olympic gold in the all-around men’s competition.

There’s a likely chance of winning additional medals in Monday’s finale of the gymnastics competition, and the possibility that this Olympic team’s success will stop – or at least slow down – the elimination of men’s Division I intercollegiate gymnastics teams. In 1982, there were 79; now there are 19. That steep decline usually is attributed to the unintended consequences of Title IX requirements for parity in men’s and women’s sports programs, and to budgetary reasons.

“I’m hoping (the current team’s success) will have a positive impact,” Galimore told during a phone interview from Athens, Greece. “I don’t think one program was dropped when we won the gold in 1984. I’m hoping the attention will garnish creative energy in trying to maintain the programs.”

He already has heard that gymnastics clubs have been deluged with calls from parents that want to enroll their children.

“I really think (the sport’s popularity) is going to explode because we’ve gotten such good press out of this,” said University of Nebraska men’s coach Francis Allen. He recalled that as a child Hamm was inspired by a Russian gold medal winner. Allen wonders, “How many boys and girls were watching Paul and said ‘I want to win a gold Medal'”

The success of the men’s program has helped soothe the pain Galimore, the son of the late Chicago Bears football star Willie Galimore, still feels from the 1980 boycott.

When Ron Galimore made that Olympic team, he had already been a three-time national champion in floor exercise and the vault. “At the time, Ron could jump out of the building,” said University of California-Berkeley coach Barry Weiner. “He was so explosive. I believe at the time he was the best vaulter in the world.”

That’s what Galimore thought, too.

Then Russia invaded Afghanistan in December of 1979 and President Jimmy Carter responded by withdrawing the U.S. team from the Moscow Olympics.

There were 61 countries that joined the boycott, leaving 80 to compete.

Meanwhile, Carter’s decision ruined Galimore’s master plan to win a medal and then become a television sports commentator.

“When the boycott happened, I was devastated,” said Galimore. “I felt a little forgotten because people didn’t want to talk about it. It took me about five years to get over that because you’re thinking ‘What if? What if?’ But I was able to brush that off and get back on my feet.”

Galimore worked in marketing, handling a major sponsorship for the U.S. Gymnastics Foundation, opened his own gymnastics training center and was Florida’s men’s gymnastics chairman for five years.

When he became director of USA Gymnastics men’s program in 1994, it was so disorganized that there was serious doubt the United States would qualify for the 1996 Atlanta Olympics. The program rallied under his direction to win fifth place in the 1996 and 2000 Olympics.

That was commendable but, “We had a summit in 2000 and we didn’t want to be fifth anymore,” said Olympic assistant coach Miles Avery, who also is black. “lt’s great to be in the top six, but that’s not medaling.”

Now the silver team medal has been won, thanks largely to Galimore’s organizational skills. Unlike many foreign countries that train Olympic-caliber athletes at a central site, American gymnasts are spread throughout the country among college teams, club teams and private training centers. Yet, Galimore has been able to coordinate his sport’s coaches, judges, administrators and athletes to create a cohesive Olympic effort.

“I think Ron does a good job of meeting everyone’s needs,” coach Weiner said.

Avery, who has been seen on television lifting athletes up to the rings and high bar throughout the Olympics, also played a major role. He’s the personal coach for three Olympians- Paul and Morgan Hamm, along with Blaine Wilson – and made a critical decision that helped Paul Hamm rally from 12th place to first place in the all­ around after a shocking fall on the vault.

As Hamm trained for the Olympics, Avery suggested that he simplify his high bar routine by reducing the number of release moves (taking both hands far off the bar) from five to three. That paid off when Hamm perfectly executed three releases to score a decisive 9.837 out of a possible 10 in the all-around’s last event.

“He was able to withstand tremendous pressure and do the best routine on high bar in his life,” said Avery, who is Ohio State’s head coach.

On Monday, U.S. men could win additional gold in individual competitions in the high bar, parallel bars and vault. Even if they don’t, Galimore already feels partly redeemed for the 1980 boycott.

“To go from not thinking we would qualify for the 1996 Games to today’s success truly does help,” he said. ‘Being part of it and at the helm of it helped me feel there was a purpose for me to do something else big. It doesn’t replace the opportunity taken away from me, but it’s helped me in the second stage of my life.”