Committed to Excellence
In August 1989, three months before the Magic opened its first season, I attended a reception and dinner at one of the Disney hotels in Orlando. I sat next to Dick Nunis, who was then head of Disney Attractions. Nunis had begun his career at Disneyland in 1955, soon after his graduation from USC. He worked alongside Walt Disney for many years and knew him well. So I asked him, “What were the traits of Walt Disney that made him so successful?” Then I grabbed a napkin and scribbled down everything Nunis said.
“You can chalk up Walt Disney’s success to nine character traits,” Nunis began. “First, integrity—you could absolutely trust the man. Second, creativity—he was a true visionary. Third, administrative ability—he knew how to get the best out of people. Fourth, motivational ability—Walt was not easy to work for, but he could inspire you to perform at a higher level than you ever dreamed possible. Fifth, he was willing to take risks—not reckless gambles but bold, calculated, carefully planned risks. Sixth, Walt was a good listener—he was eager to learn from anyone, including janitors and secretaries. Seventh, he wanted people to challenge him. Eighth, he did his homework—he examined all decisions from every conceivable vantage point.”
“And ninth?” I asked.
“That’s the most important trait of all. Walt was fanatically committed to excellence. He was a stickler for getting every detail just right. Everything he did had his name on it, so it all had to be top quality.”
To underscore his point about quality, Nunis told me a story from Disneyland’s first year of operation, 1955. Nunis was in charge of training the people who operated the park’s attractions, such as the Jungle Cruise. One day when Nunis was on duty, Walt showed up at the Jungle Cruise and took a ride on the attraction. Nunis waited nervously until Walt returned, and he could tell at a glance that the boss was not happy. Stepping onto the dock, Walt said, “Dick, how long is the cruise supposed to take?”
“Seven minutes, Walt.”
“Well, that trip took just over four minutes. Everything went by so fast that I couldn’t tell the elephants from the hippos! I want you to retrain the boat operators.”
So Nunis spent the next week working individually with each operator, timing each one with a stopwatch. When Walt made his next surprise inspection, he rode with every operator of every boat—and each cruise lasted exactly seven minutes.
“Walt was happy,” Nunis told me. “He demanded excellence from every member of the organization, and he got it. No detail ever escaped his notice.”
Thirty years after I had that conversation with Nunis, the Disney family invited me to attend the grand opening of the Walt Disney Family Museum in San Francisco. I was struck by a quotation that was displayed at the museum. I thought of Walt timing his Jungle Cruise operators when I read:
“We can lick them all with quality.”—Walt Disney
A Leader Takes Bold Stands
Larry Catuzzi coached college football for many years, including four years as an assistant to Woody Hayes at Ohio State. Catuzzi was a quarterback at the University of Delaware when I was in high school in Wilmington, and we were teammates one summer on a semipro baseball team.
In 1999, my wife, Ruth, and I had dinner with Catuzzi. We talked about many fascinating subjects that evening, including the subject of leadership. As Catuzzi talked, I took out a pen and jotted down some of his words on a napkin. He said, “The one character trait all the great leaders have is toughness—mental and physical toughness, the ability to deal with hard situations and difficult people. A real leader takes bold stands. You can’t intimidate him, and he doesn’t hesitate to wade into tough situations and confront people when necessary.”
Having known Catuzzi for most of my life, I can say that he exemplifies the very qualities he described. He is toughness personified.2
Envisioning the Future
Gospel singer Bill Gaither is the Babe Ruth of Christian music. He and his wife, Gloria, have composed more than seven hundred songs, including such favorites as “He Touched Me,” “Because He Lives,” and the anthem of triumph, “The King Is Coming.” Gaither is a great basketball fan, and he loves to talk hoops.
In December 1985, while I was still the general manager of the Philadelphia 76ers, I was thinking seriously about building an NBA expansion team from the ground up. I visited Orlando, but I came back from Florida questioning whether that community could support an NBA franchise. The day after my Orlando trip, I went into my office in Philadelphia and the phone rang. It was Bill Gaither, and he wanted to talk basketball.
We chatted for a while, then out of the clear blue sky he said, “You know, Pat, what I really want to do is what you’re doing. I want to run an NBA team.”
“Oh? Do you know any teams that have an interest for sale?”
“No, no, not an existing team. I’d want to run an expansion team.”
Well, that came as a bit of a shock. I wondered if he had been reading my mail! So I said, “An expansion team? Where would you put this new team?”
“Only one place to be. Orlando, Florida.”
Wow! He had to be reading my mail! Not wanting to let on that I had just visited that very city, I said, “Why Orlando of all places?”
“We’ve played a lot of concert dates there, Pat,” he said, “and there’s something about Orlando that’s different from other cities. There’s a unique spirit there. It’s a family place. I keep thinking it would be a nice place to retire to, and if I could own a piece of an NBA team in Orlando, it would complete the dream.”
I had been having second thoughts about Orlando, but that conversation with Gaither tipped me back in its direction. As things turned out, Gaither never did buy a piece of the team, but he shared his dream with me, and that added a little oomph to my own expansion dream. From then on, I pursued a franchise in Orlando for all it was worth, and the rest is history.
The first task of leadership is vision. Bill Gaither is a man of vision, and he helped confirm my vision of a new NBA franchise in Orlando, Florida.
Michael Eisner and Frank Wells
“Every Walt Needs a Roy”
In September 1986, I received an invitation to a huge event at Epcot celebrating the fifteenth anniversary of Walt Disney World. The list of invited guests included VIPs from various fields of endeavor: business, entertainment, and sports. I bumped into Buell Duncan, the chairman of SunBank, and we chatted for a while about our efforts to bring NBA basketball to Orlando.
“The guy you need to talk to,” Buell said, “is Michael Eisner.” At that time, Eisner had been the CEO of the Walt Disney Company for about two years.
“Buell,” I said, “I’d love to meet Michael Eisner. Can you arrange it?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll introduce you.”
So Buell took me over to the American Pavilion in Epcot, where Eisner was on a platform flanked by Senator Ted Kennedy and Supreme Court Justice Warren Burger.
“Buell,” I said, “Eisner looks kinda busy.”
“Just wait here,” Buell said. “He’ll want to talk to you.” And Buell turned and walked away. I was on my own.
Never one to be shy, I waded into the crowd as Eisner finished his remarks. In person, I found him to be taller, more imposing, and more impressive than he appeared on television. When I got close enough to make eye contact with him, I extended my hand and said, “Mr. Eisner, I’m—”
“Pat Williams!” Eisner said, pumping my hand. “You’re just the man I want to talk to!”
“I am?” I said, stunned.
“Absolutely. We need to talk.”
“We do? When?”
“Now,” Eisner said. “Tonight. It’s eight o’clock now. Let’s meet in Paris at nine.”
Eisner’s assistant stepped forward and said, “You have an appointment with Chief Justice Burger at nine, Mr. Eisner.”
“You tell Burger he’s going to have to wait for me,” Eisner said curtly.
For a moment, I wondered how Eisner and I were going to get to Paris by nine. Even if the Concorde could make the trip in an hour, it doesn’t fly out of Orlando. Then it hit me: “Paris” is Disneyese for the French Pavilion at Epcot.
An hour later, I met Michael Eisner in “Paris,” and we had a fascinating conversation, just the two of us. It turned out that he had been following our efforts with the NBA with great interest, and he wanted Disney to become a part-owner of the team. Though Disney didn’t become a partner in our venture, the Magic continues to enjoy a mutually supportive relationship with Disney.
I see some distinct resemblances between Michael Eisner and Walt Disney. Eisner had been the studio chief at Paramount before he and Warner Brothers executive Frank Wells were brought in to run the Walt Disney Company. Like Walt, Eisner was a visionary at Disney—an idea man, an entrepreneur who could peer into the future and see possibilities. I met Frank Wells a few times, and I noticed that Eisner and Wells made a great team, much like the team of Walt Disney and his brother Roy Disney.
Walt and Roy were polar opposites. Walt was the idea man, the dreamer, while Roy was the accountant, the practical one. Michael Eisner was like Walt; Frank Wells was like Roy. It seems that so many successful partnerships are built on that kind of yin and yang relationship.
At Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream, Ben Cohen is the extrovert, the marketing genius, while Jerry Greenfield is the introvert, the one in charge of testing recipes and manufacturing the product. At Microsoft, Bill Gates was Walt, and Paul Allen was Roy. At Hewlett-Packard, William Hewlett was Walt, and David Packard was Roy. At Amway, Rich DeVos was Walt, and Jay Van Andel was Roy.
At Disney in the 1980s and early 1990s, Michael Eisner and Frank Wells had that same kind of relationship. Then, on Easter 1994, Wells was killed in a helicopter crash while returning from a ski trip in Nevada. His death, I think, was the beginning of the end for Eisner at Disney. Eisner was never the same after Wells was gone, and he stepped down in early 2005.
As my friend (and Disney expert) Peggy Matthews Rose once observed, “Every Walt needs a Roy, and every Roy needs a Walt.”
Watson Spoelstra
“We Toss the Coin, But . . .”
In the summer of 1988, our dream of planting an NBA expansion team in central Florida was finally becoming a reality. We received our expansion lists from the other NBA teams—lists of players we could draft from the teams in order to build our roster—and began to zero in on the players we wanted.
We would also get to enter the college draft. In a halftime ceremony during the Lakers-Pistons finals, a coin flip would decide whether the Orlando Magic or the Minnesota Timberwolves would get to go first in the expansion draft. Our head coach, Matt Guokas, would be in LA to call the toss.
Events like high-stakes coin tosses usually make a nervous wreck out of me. But on the morning of the big expansion coin toss, my friend Watson Spoelstra called me. Spoelstra (who passed away in 1999) was then a retired Detroit sportswriter living in St. Petersburg. “Pat,” he said, “I know how nervous you get when there’s a lot riding on a coin toss. But I’d like you to look up Proverbs 16:33 in The Living Bible. I think the message in that verse is meant just for you, and I think it will help you survive the suspense of this day.”
I thanked him, then looked up the verse. In it, a wise old man named Solomon observed, “We toss the coin, but it is the Lord who controls its decision” (TLB). That was exactly what I needed to hear, and I didn’t feel a twinge of nervousness after reading that verse.
That evening, our conference room was filled with sports reporters and Magic executives listening in on a telephone hookup between LA and Orlando. Out in Los Angeles, Commissioner David Stern flipped the coin.
Matt Guokas called it.
The future of our organization glittered in the air.
The coin bounced on the carpet—and came up Magic.
We went into our very first expansion draft with the number one pick.
George McGovern
“I’d Rather Live the Adventure”
In October 1996, I went to Washington, DC, for the twenty-seventh running of the Marine Corps Marathon. Before the race, I chatted with the woman next to me. She told me she came from Baltimore and was running her first marathon. The slogan on her T-shirt read, “When Was the Last Time You Did Something for the First Time?”
I said, “I love that attitude!”
Minutes later, the race began. After three or four miles, I noticed a gray-haired woman who was keeping an easy pace. I moved up beside her and said, “How are you doing?”
“Fine, just fine,” she said—and she was. This grandmotherly woman wasn’t even breathing hard.
“I’m from Orlando,” I said. “Where are you from?”
“College Park, Maryland,” she said, “and I know what you’re wondering, so I might as well tell you. I’m eighty-two, and this is my eighth marathon. I ran my first marathon when I was seventy-three.”
I could only imagine the conversation between this woman and her kids and grandkids. “Grandma, are you crazy? A marathon? At your age? What if you fall and break your hip?” But I had seen the joy on her face. I don’t know if her kids and grandkids understood why she was running that marathon, but I understood. I had that same look of joy on my face when I crossed the finish line.
I had taken on a challenge, and I had finished my course. Along the way, I had met two women who lived boldly and demonstrated the attitude of a winner. But the day was not over. That evening, I would meet another kind of marathon runner, and I would be inspired once more.
The “runner” I met over dinner that evening was former senator George McGovern of South Dakota. The “marathon” he ran was the race for the presidency. He ran against Richard Nixon in 1972 and lost in a landslide, but McGovern is still a winner in my book. As we talked, he showed me the attitude of a champion.
McGovern was a decorated bomber pilot in World War II. He risked death every time he climbed into the cockpit of a B-24 Liberator. On his thirty-fifth mission over Europe—which was scheduled to be his final bombing run before returning Stateside—he flew through a hailstorm of flak. The antiaircraft fire shredded the plane’s hydraulics, punched more than a hundred holes in the fuselage, and left his waist gunner critically wounded. McGovern had to invent a landing technique that was not in the training manual, but he brought his crew back alive, including the waist gunner.
As we talked, McGovern shared stories about his political battles, his famous friends (including John F. Kennedy), and his opponents, especially Richard Nixon. He even told me about a young go-getter who was his campaign director for the state of Texas in 1972—a fella from Arkansas named Bill Clinton. McGovern suffered one of the worst defeats in the annals of presidential politics, carrying only Massachusetts and the District of Columbia. He even lost his home state of South Dakota.
I asked, “How did it feel to lose so badly?”
“I knew it was an uphill fight from the beginning,” he said. “To start with, I had to defeat an unprecedented field of seventeen candidates to win the Democratic nomination. Then I had to go up against a popular sitting president. People who only remember Nixon because of Watergate forget that he had high approval ratings in 1972. Sure, it hurt losing in such a big landslide, but I have no regrets. It was the chance of a lifetime, and I went for it. Remember Marv Levy? He coached the Buffalo Bills to four consecutive Super Bowls and lost all four. He said, ‘I’d rather get to this final level and lose than be sitting home watching.’ That’s the way I look at it. I’d rather live the adventure than be a spectator to world events.”
McGovern didn’t reach the White House, but he lived the adventure. He lost the election, but he maintained the attitude of a winner.
Buck O’Neil and Ernie Banks
“Courage Is Part of Living”
They call Ernie Banks “Mr. Cub” and “Mr. Sunshine.” For nineteen seasons, from 1953 to 1971, Banks played shortstop and first baseman for the Chicago Cubs. Before that, he played for the Kansas City Monarchs of the Negro League.
I was the general manager of the Bulls from 1969 to 1973, and during my time in Chicago, Banks was an icon, a saint, a beloved hero in the “City of the Big Shoulders.” Banks was a big basketball fan, and he often came to Bulls games. If we ever wanted to get the crowd going, all we had to do was introduce Banks. He’d take a bow while fifteen thousand people would stamp, hoot, and holler.
One day, Banks was in Orlando helping out with the central Florida farm club that the Cubs had at that time. I went to his hotel and interviewed him for my radio show. As we chatted, I mentioned the fact that he was famous for always being upbeat and cheerful. No matter how the Cubs were struggling—and they were always struggling—his catchphrase was, “Let’s play two today!” In other words, let’s play two games today—it’s too great a day for just one.
“Ernie,” I said, “what makes you so optimistic? How did you develop that outlook on life?”
“The key person in my life,” Ernie said, “was Buck O’Neil. He was a coach with the Kansas City Monarchs, so I knew him from the Negro League. I was around Buck a lot, and he always stressed the importance of a positive outlook, an optimistic approach to life. He said, ‘You can be downtrodden and pessimistic and mad at the world, but what does that get you?’ Buck wouldn’t allow that. I saw what optimism did in his life and the kind of uplifting impact he had on everyone he met. I thought, ‘That’s the way to do it.’ That’s how I’ve been doing it my whole career, just like Buck taught me.”
Buck O’Neil had worked as a scout for the Chicago Cubs and the Kansas City Royals, and I had sat behind home plate with him at spring training games in Orlando. He had a charismatic influence, and the fans (including me) flocked to him for the chance to talk baseball with him. O’Neil was exactly as Banks described him: optimistic, forward looking, full of the joy of living. No wonder Banks was the way he was. His life had been influenced and impacted by Buck O’Neil.
O’Neil passed away in 2006 at the age of ninety-four. I had the rare privilege of interviewing him just a few months before his death. Raised under segregation in Florida, he was working in the fields packing celery when he was twelve. He decided he didn’t want to do backbreaking field labor for the rest of his life, and after attending a semipro baseball game in West Palm Beach, he knew he wanted to be a ballplayer.
Though segregation at first kept him from playing in the major leagues, O’Neil never surrendered to bitterness. “My generation did the groundwork for the guys who play the game today,” he told me. “I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me. Every generation has its part to play. We all have our duty.”
O’Neil’s sense of duty served him well as a ballplayer. During two decades in the Negro League, he posted a .288 career batting average (including a career-best .358 in 1947). In 2006, he was nominated for admission into the Baseball Hall of Fame, but he failed to receive enough votes for induction. Though the sports world was shocked at O’Neil’s rejection, he was upbeat. “God’s been good to me,” he told a crowd of disappointed fans. “They didn’t think Buck was good enough to be in the Hall of Fame. That’s the way they thought about it and that’s the way it is, so we’re going to live with that. Now, if I’m a Hall of Famer for you, that’s all right with me. Just keep loving old Buck. Don’t weep for Buck. No, man, be happy, be thankful.”
As O’Neil told me in our interview, “In the Negro League, you had to hang in there. There were so many good ballplayers who wanted to take your job away. Courage is part of living. There’s always going to be obstacles and troubles out there. You’ve got to have the courage to stay in there.”
No wonder Buck O’Neil’s attitude had such an impact on Ernie Banks—and, yes, on Pat Williams. He had the attitude of a winner and a positive role model. And that’s the attitude of a leader.
“It’s Never Easy for Moses”
I was the general manager of the Philadelphia 76ers in 1983, when we made our championship run. Our center was Moses Malone, who enjoyed a twenty-one-year NBA career and a spot on the NBA’s all-time top 50 team. Malone was a tireless athlete, a dependable scorer, and one of the greatest offensive rebounders in the game.
Malone should not have been one of the greatest players in NBA history, yet he clearly was. At six ten, he was big but certainly not the tallest center in the game. There were a lot of players in the NBA with greater height, larger hands, faster legs, a higher vertical leap, and a more accurate shot, yet Malone somehow managed to be the best in the game.
After many hours watching him play, I could think of only one explanation for his greatness: Moses Malone had the attitude of a winner. He believed. He competed hard. He thrived on intense physical competition. The rougher it got, the better he played. The more hands an opponent put up in his face, the more accurate his shot. The longer the game went, the stronger he became. And he never quit. Malone may well have been the hardest-working player in the history of the game. He had an interesting habit of talking about himself in the third person, and he explained himself this way: “It’s never easy for Moses. Moses got to get out there every night and work hard.”
In many ways, Malone appeared to be a mismatch for the 76ers’ high-velocity style. Coach Billy Cunningham had been trying to ratchet up the team’s speed and quickness—and then we added Malone, a center with a slow-down style. There was no way to know what the team chemistry would be like until all the team ingredients—Malone, Dr. J, Andrew Toney, Maurice Cheeks, Bobby Jones, and the rest—were put together out on the court.
But Malone had something going for him that nobody counted on: the attitude of a winner. He wasn’t interested in personal glory. He just wanted his team to do well. In a quiet, self-effacing way, Malone stood before reporters in Philadelphia and humbly said, “This team is Doc’s show. I’ve got a chance to play with Doc, and I think it’s gonna be a better show. I’m just gonna play my game—attack the boards, go to the offensive boards, look for the fast break, look to rebound.”
In his first season with the 76ers, Moses led our team to the Promised Land—an NBA championship. During the victory parade down Philadelphia’s Broad Street, our players were feted with cheers and confetti, and Moses Malone received a special honor. As his vehicle passed a construction site, about twenty construction workers picked up their lunch pails and held them out toward Malone. Those working-class lunch pails were a fitting tribute to the hardworking player who helped bring a championship to Philly.
One of the paradoxes of authentic leadership is that a true leader is a servant of those he leads. Moses Malone saw himself as a servant of his teammates—and his serving heart was the key to his greatness as a leader.
“We Want to Be Happy after the Games”
Rollie Massimino coaches men’s basketball at Northwood University in West Palm Beach, Florida. He earned his coaching chops as an assistant to Chuck Daly at the University of Pennsylvania in the 1970s. When Massimino was hired to coach at Northwood in 2006, Daly was his biggest booster and attended every home game.
In 2009, when Daly was hospitalized for pancreatic cancer, Massimino went to visit him every day. Though Daly grew weaker by the day, he always had enough strength to needle his former assistant. “Rollie,” he’d say, “have you signed any good players? Remember, we want to be happy after the games.”
Massimino knew what Daly meant. The way to be happy after a game is to win. And to win, you’ve got to have a talented, well-balanced team—a team with good chemistry and no bad apples. Even in the closing days of his life, Daly was mentoring Massimino and helping to sharpen his coaching skills.
“Will He Listen?”
I’ve been an NBA executive since 1968, and I have been privileged to work alongside some of the legendary coaches of the game: Chuck Daly, Matt Guokas, Jack Ramsay, Dick Motta, Cotton Fitzsimmons, Gene Shue, Billy Cunningham, Brian Hill, Doc Rivers, Stan Van Gundy, and many more. Each of these coaches approaches the game in his own unique way. Yet, at one time or another, I’ve heard all of them ask the same essential question when scouting and recruiting new players: “Can I coach him? Will he listen to me? Does he have a teachable spirit?”
If coachability and teachability are so important in the NBA, at the highest level of the game, then these qualities are certainly important at every other level, and in every leadership arena. When you are assembling a team or an organization, the people you recruit must be eager to listen and to learn.
Four Leadership Principles
After Rudy Giuliani spoke at a seminar at our arena, he invited me into his private room for a chat. He could not have been more gracious. I came prepared to learn, so I opened my notebook and, with my pen poised over the page, said, “Mayor Giuliani, what does it take to be a great leader?”
“In my experience,” he said, “there are four essential principles for being a great leader. If you do all four, and do them well, you can’t miss.
“First, set realistic goals for your team. People work better if they have goals to shoot for. The goals should be challenging but achievable.
“Second, be a teacher. A leader should challenge his or her people to continually learn, grow, and improve. You have to practice important skills over and over until people master the fundamentals. Keep teaching, keep practicing, keep correcting, keep instructing. That’s how you cut down on the number of mistakes.
“Third, build the confidence of your people. Believe in them and stick with them through the tough times. Set high standards but be patient with them as they strive to attain those standards.
“Fourth, encourage your people to relax, to conquer fear, and to overcome worry. Nothing kills a performance like performance anxiety. Golf is a great example. You have to stay loose. You have to be relaxed in order to perform well. If you’re anxious about your backswing or afraid of making a mistake, you’ll blow it. The more relaxed you are, the better you perform.”
That’s great leadership advice from the man called “America’s Mayor.”
Howard Schultz
“We’re Not in the Coffee Business”
A number of years ago, I had a fascinating conversation with Howard Schultz, the man who bought a three-coffeehouse chain in 1987 and expanded it into the Starbucks empire. Today, there are almost twenty-one thousand Starbucks coffeehouses in sixty-two countries around the world.
“In a company of that size,” I said, “where do leaders come from?”
“Our leaders come from within our ranks,” he said. “We’re opening three stores a day, and we’ve got to promote from within. You can’t run a Starbucks store unless you’re steeped in the Starbucks culture.”
“So how do you spot leadership talent? How do you know when someone is ready to lead?”
“People skills,” he said. “Customer satisfaction is the key to the growth of our company. In order to be a leader at Starbucks, you’ve got to have outstanding people skills. We’re not in the coffee business. We’re in the people business. That’s what Starbucks is all about.”
“He Listened”
When I became the general manager of the Chicago Bulls in the fall of 1969, I was twenty-nine years old and doing business with some longtime veterans of the NBA wars, including Red Auerbach, who was then the general manager of the Celtics. Talk about intimidating! I’d go to league meetings and there would be the legendary Red Auerbach chomping on a cigar, wearing all his championship rings. To him, I was a wet-behind-the-ears kid from Chicago.
As the years went on, Auerbach became a great friend. He was always available to me and freely gave me sage advice when I needed it. He was a wise and generous mentor to me and many others.
After Auerbach’s death in 2006, I had Tom Heinsohn as a guest on my radio show. Heinsohn was a longtime Celtics player, coach, and broadcaster who played for Auerbach in the glory years. I said to him, “Tell me about Red Auerbach. What did he do that set him apart as a leader?”
“He listened to his players,” Heinsohn said, “and that made us all believe it was our team. He immersed us in everything that was going on. For example, Red might come up with a new play in the summer, and he’d lay it out for us and teach it to us in training camp in the fall. Then he’d say, ‘What do you guys think?’ We all got a chance to share our feelings and insights. Because he asked for our input, we all had a proprietary interest in the outcome of each practice and game.
“Here’s another example of the way Red listened. We’d be in the huddle with two minutes to go and trailing by ten points. Red would say, ‘Does anybody have something here?’ Different guys would offer their ideas, then Red would make a decision based on what his players thought. And because the players had made a commitment in front of their teammates, they were locked in. When players buy in and take ownership, their motivation and intensity go way up. That’s why it’s important for coaches to listen. Red Auerbach listened, and that’s why he was a great leader.”
Chuck Daly
A Suffering Business
In 1977, we hired Chuck Daly as an assistant coach to Billy Cunningham for the Philadelphia 76ers. Daly became a good friend, and we later hired him as head coach of the Orlando Magic—at a much steeper salary. He often needled me about the paltry sum we paid him in 1977, but I would reply, “Chuck, we got you cheap, but you certainly made up for it later.”
Daly had a wonderful way of expressing wise life principles. In the 1998–99 season, Daly coached the Magic into the play-offs, and we were eliminated by Washington in a very tough series. The next morning, Daly came into my office and sat down by my desk. “Ours is a suffering business,” he said with a sigh.
“Chuck,” I said, “tell me what you mean.”
“Everybody goes home suffering. The teams that don’t get into the play-offs are suffering. Of the teams that do get into the play-offs, most get knocked out and their dreams of a championship are dashed, so they are suffering even worse. Eventually, you get down to the two teams in the finals, and only one of those two teams will be victorious. The other team will go home as the loser. They will be suffering most of all because they came so close only to have their hopes dashed. Of all the teams that begin the season, only one team goes home happy. Ours is a suffering business.”
Daly had another great expression that he used from time to time: Never trust happiness. In other words, you might have won three or four games in a row, you might have everybody playing well, feeling motivated, and happy, and it could all go away with one bad game. So Daly would warn his players, “Never trust happiness.” Never get complacent. Always stay hungry, stay focused, because happiness can vanish in a hurry.
Daly also had a midnight rule. When the game is over, you’ve got until midnight to celebrate or to drown your sorrows, but promptly at 12:01, you must start focusing on winning the next game.
When Daly passed away in the spring of 2009, it was a sad day for all of us who knew and loved him. He was a leader who injected a lot of fun into this “suffering business,” and I miss him to this day.
“Be Praying for Pat Williams”
Kevin Durant is a star forward for the Oklahoma City Thunder, and he has been the anchor of that franchise for a number of years. Back when the team was not a good team yet, and they were getting some high draft picks, Durant would go to the draft and greet the new players after his team had drafted them. That was unheard-of.
After the draft, he would immediately come to Orlando for our summer league, which is for draft picks and free agents. He’d spend the whole week scrimmaging and working with the young Thunder players, demonstrating a difference-making level of involvement and leadership.
In January 2011, I announced that I had been diagnosed with multiple myeloma. Durant went straight to his Twitter account and tweeted out the message “Be praying for Pat Williams of the Magic.”
Durant and I didn’t really know each other, yet he saw the news and wanted people to pray for me. That really meant a lot to me. Durant has a strong faith and a strong character. He’s a leader on the court and a spiritual leader among his teammates.
Leadership Is Service to Others
Michael S. Dukakis was elected governor of Massachusetts in 1974, inheriting a massive deficit and record high unemployment. Under his leadership, Massachusetts emerged from one of the worst economic disasters in state history. Dukakis was elected again in 1982 and 1986 by wide margins. He won the Democratic nomination for president in 1988 but lost the presidential race to George H. W. Bush.
I once asked Governor Dukakis how he became interested in politics and leadership. “I ran for third grade class president at the age of eight,” he said. “I just wanted to exercise leadership, even at that very young age. As I grew older, I received encouragement from my teachers.
“I grew up in a community where there were many opportunities for political leadership. Brookline, just outside of Boston, is a town of about fifty-five thousand people—big enough, but not so big that you had to raise a fortune just to run for local office. The volunteers who helped me in my campaigns were absolutely crucial to my success.
“I’m concerned these days about our ability to attract young leaders for public service. I’m concerned about a climate in our country that often paints the worst picture of public service.
“There’s nothing quite so personally fulfilling as being in a position where you can have a real impact on the lives of your fellow citizens, and that is what political leadership—political service—gives someone a chance to do.”
“Are You Committed?”
Glenn “Doc” Rivers is currently the head coach of the Los Angeles Clippers. Before that, he served as head coach of the Orlando Magic (1999–2003) and the Boston Celtics (2004–13). As coach of the Magic, Doc got to work alongside his hero, Julius Erving. In fact, Doc got his nickname from NCAA coach Rick Majerus after young Rivers showed up at basketball camp wearing a “Dr. J” T-shirt.
When Doc took over in Orlando, the team was still reeling from the dismantling of a stellar lineup that had included Shaquille O’Neal, Penny Hardaway, Horace Grant, and Nick Anderson. He faced some tough challenges in rebuilding the team.
Doc went to great lengths to get his message across to his players. On one occasion, he wanted to make sure his leading scorer, point guard Darrell Armstrong, was fully committed to the goal of a successful season, so he sent him a message via Federal Express. When Armstrong ripped open the envelope, he found a single sheet of paper with three words typed in the center: “Are You Committed?”
Doc lived only fifteen minutes from Armstrong’s house. He could have driven that sheet of paper over and placed it in Armstrong’s hand for far less trouble and expense than it took to send it. But Doc wanted to make sure Armstrong got the message. And he did.
During his time in Orlando, Doc continually preached his four respect rules to the team. Respect your teammates. Respect your coaches. Respect yourself. Respect your family’s name. Those are rules to live by. If you respect your teammates, you’ll build unity on the team. If you respect your coaches, you’ll build harmony throughout the team. If you respect yourself, you’ll have dignity wherever you go. And if you respect your family’s name, you’ll build a reputation to be proud of.
Cal Ripken Jr.
The Ink-Stained Hand
One time, when the Ted Williams Museum and Hitters Hall of Fame was still in Hernando, north of Orlando, Cal Ripken Jr. was there. He and many other great ballplayers were signing autographs. I noticed that the line at Ripken’s table looked the longest and hardly moved at all. Looking closer, I realized why.
At many of the other tables, the ballplayers had an assembly line going, but Ripken spent four or five minutes with each person who came for an autograph, asking who they were and where they were from, answering their questions about his career, giving them a word of motivation and inspiration.
As I watched him sign, I noticed that his left hand was marked up with ink. Before he’d write his autograph, he’d take his pen and wipe the point on his left hand so that the ink wouldn’t blob up and smear when he signed. Then he’d look up and thank the fan and chat for a bit. The line moved at a snail’s pace because Ripken took the time to engage with every fan.
He recently came to our arena before a Magic game to sign copies of Squeeze Play, his latest baseball novel for young readers. Just as he had at the Ted Williams Museum event, he chatted with each fan, got his photo taken with them—and blotted the excess ink on his hand before he inscribed each book. Cal Ripken Jr. is more than a Hall of Fame baseball player—he’s a Hall of Fame human being.
Leaders are role models, and Cal Ripken Jr. is an example to all his fans of what it means to be a leader—and a servant.
Larry O’Brien
The Wrath of the Commissioner
Larry O’Brien was a key strategist of John F. Kennedy’s presidential campaign in 1960 and served as the postmaster general under Lyndon B. Johnson. He was appointed commissioner of the NBA in 1975, and his appointment helped to raise the stature and prominence of professional basketball.
An Irish-American from Massachusetts, he was an elegant, bespectacled man with a precise, businesslike way of speaking. When you met him and talked to him, you felt you were in the presence of royalty. But if you crossed him—look out!
Early in the 1979–80 season, our Philadelphia 76ers played in Kansas City. Our powerful young center Darryl Dawkins went up for a dunk from the right side. The only Kansas City defender under the hoop was Bill Robinzine. Seeing that the dunk was a done deal, Robinzine made no move to block the shot. Dawkins smashed the rim with such force that the backboard exploded, showering him and Robinzine with thousands of pieces of glass.
The exploding backboard was an awesome sight—something that had never been seen before in the NBA. The officials halted the game for about forty-five minutes to mop up the floor and replace the backboard.
Dawkins became an instant celebrity, and he used his formidable gift of gab to maximize his fame. He dubbed himself “The Dawk,” “Chocolate Thunder,” and “The Master of Disaster.”
The dunk was replayed again and again on television sports shows, but the NBA brass was not amused. In a chilly phone call from New York, Larry O’Brien informed me in no uncertain terms, “That is not to happen again.”
I said, “I understand, sir.”
Three weeks later, it happened again.
We hosted the San Antonio Spurs at the Spectrum. Once more, Dawkins went up for a dunk and came back to earth in a meteor shower of broken glass.
In the excitement of the moment, I forgot Commissioner O’Brien’s warning. All I could see at that moment were the vast promotional possibilities. I ran out onto the floor with a paper bag and scooped up all the glass I could. Later, we announced that we would give away souvenir pieces of busted backboard glass at our next home game.
The next morning, I received another phone call from the NBA office in New York summoning Dawkins and me to the commissioner’s office. So we took a bus from South Jersey to the terminal in New York. We walked up Fifth Avenue, and people along the way pointed, waved, and shouted, “Hey, Chocolate Thunder!” Dawkins enjoyed all the attention, but it only made me more miserable. I was not looking forward to facing Commissioner O’Brien.
We arrived at the NBA office, and a receptionist ushered us into the solemn, morgue-quiet office of the commissioner. O’Brien eyed us coldly. Dawkins and I meekly took our seats.
“I thought we had an agreement,” O’Brien said, “that this was never to happen again.” He pointed out that many arenas weren’t equipped with extra backboards, so this wanton destruction of backboards simply could not be allowed.
For his part, Dawkins was very contrite. The shattered backboards, he said, were “accidents.”
O’Brien leaned forward. “There will be no more ‘accidents,’ Mr. Dawkins. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.”
Receiving that assurance, O’Brien visibly relaxed, and the atmosphere became a little less chilly. So I said, “You know, we gathered up all those pieces of glass and we’re going to give them away as souvenirs next weekend. We’re calling it Darryl Dawkins Shatterday Night!”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew I’d made a huge mistake. O’Brien’s jaw dropped, and a vein throbbed at his temple. He came halfway out of his chair and extended a threatening forefinger. “There will be no promotion and no souvenir glass. Do you understand?”
“Absolutely, sir,” I said. “It will never be mentioned again.”
The result of those incidents was a new league rule—the “Dawkins Rule.” Any player who shattered a backboard would be automatically ejected, fined, and made ineligible to play the following game. The shatterings also led to the use of snap-back rims that reduced the stress on backboards.
I learned a lot that day from O’Brien about the importance of firm, decisive leadership. In time, he became a good friend, and I often enjoyed our chats about his service in Washington under JFK and LBJ.
But I never again risked the wrath of the commissioner.
Pat Riley
“Don’t Be Afraid to Coach the Team”
In 1981, Pat Riley decided to leave the broadcast booth and become the head coach of the Los Angeles Lakers. Though he’d had a successful playing career, he had no coaching experience, not even as an assistant. Yet there he was, preparing to coach a team made up of highly talented, strong-willed, temperamental athletes. This was the era of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Magic Johnson, so it would take a strong leader to coach that bunch. In fact, it didn’t take long before his players began to challenge his authority and test his will. As a result, Riley began to doubt himself.
After one practice, Lakers majority owner Jerry Buss took him aside and said, “Pat, a word of advice. Don’t be afraid to coach the team.” That’s all Buss said, but Riley got the message. As he later told me, “That’s the single best piece of leadership advice I’ve ever gotten.”
“Go Get It Done”
When I was the general manager of the Philadelphia 76ers, I heard that Julius Erving—the legendary Dr. J—was unhappy with his team, the New York Nets, and was going to sit out training camp in the fall of 1976. So I called the Nets’ general manager, Bill Melchionni, and told him we wanted to acquire Erving. Melchionni told me it would cost six million dollars—three million to the Nets and three million to Erving.
I swallowed hard, then went to talk to our team’s new owner, Fitz Dixon. He had just purchased the 76ers for eight million dollars, and I was about to ask him to spend three-quarters of that amount on just one player! I was sure he’d never go for it, but I had to try.
I found our owner sitting at his desk.
“Mr. Dixon,” I said, “we have an opportunity to get a really special player on our team. His name is—” I paused for dramatic effect, “Julius Erving.”
I thought Mr. Dixon would jump up with excitement. Instead, he looked befuddled. “Who?”
I could hardly believe it. The owner of the Philadelphia 76ers had never even heard of Dr. J!
Then I remembered that Dixon was fairly new to the sports world. He was an educator, a philanthropist, a Harvard man, the son of a wealthy banker, the husband of an heiress. He had become a basketball fan just a few weeks before purchasing the team. He really had no clue who Erving was. How could I explain Dr. J to Dixon in a single sentence?
I said, “Julius Erving is the Babe Ruth of basketball.”
Dixon’s eyes lit up. We understood each other.
“How much will it cost me to acquire Mr. Erving’s talents?”
I gulped hard. “Six million dollars, sir.”
He didn’t even flinch. “Are you recommending the deal?”
I gulped again. “Yes, sir,” I said firmly, “I am.”
Dixon nodded slowly. Then he smiled at me and said, “Well, go get it done.” Then he added one of his favorite expressions: “That’ll be just fine and dandy.”
I could hardly believe what had just happened. In a matter of seconds, on the strength of my recommendation alone, Dixon had just made a six-million-dollar decision.
And he never regretted it.
Mike Krzyzewski
“No Excuse, Sir”
As a lowly plebe at the Point in 1965, Duke head basketball coach Mike Krzyzewski discovered a tradition the cadets called “Beast Barracks.” For two months, upperclassmen treat plebes as the lowest form of life. When an upperclassman asks a question, the miserable plebe is allowed only one of three possible answers: “Yes, sir,” “No, sir,” or “No excuse, sir.”
During “Beast Barracks,” Cadet Krzyzewski was walking on the campus with his roommate. Both cadets were in full uniform. The roommate stepped in a puddle, splashing mud on Krzyzewski’s shoes. Moments later, Krzyzewski saw two upperclassmen approaching. “Halt!” said one.
Krzyzewski came to a full stop. The upperclassmen looked the two plebes up and down. They told Krzyzewski’s roommate he was free to go, but Krzyzewski had to stand at attention. “Your shoes are all cruddy,” one upperclassman said. “Why?”
Krzyzewski wanted to blame his roommate for splashing mud on his shoes, but excuses were not allowed, so he replied, “No excuse, sir.”
The upperclassman screamed insults at him, then wrote him up, giving him demerits for his dirty shoes.
At first, Krzyzewski was furious with his roommate because of the mud, but then he realized he really did have no excuse. He should have gone back to his room and changed his shoes. He learned a lesson in responsibility, and he concluded that there really are only three answers to any leadership question: “Yes, sir,” “No, sir,” and “No excuse, sir.”
Harry S. Truman
“The Decision Was Mine”
In the early 1990s, Colonel Paul W. Tibbets Jr. was a guest on my radio show. Colonel Tibbets flew the atomic bomb mission over Hiroshima in 1945. It was fascinating—and sobering—to hear him describe the bombing mission that ended World War II. “When the bomb went off,” he said, “I felt a tingling in the fillings of my teeth. I looked out and saw the mushroom cloud rising, and I knew that the city underneath that cloud had disappeared.”
I asked Tibbets what he thought about as he flew back to Tinian Island.
“I was relieved,” he said. “I knew the bomb would end the war and stop the killing. When Japan saw the effects of that bomb, they’d have to surrender. They had no choice. There was no doubt in my mind that millions of Americans and Japanese would have a chance to live out their lives because of what my crew and I had done that day.”
I asked, “Did you ever meet Harry Truman?”
“Just once,” he said. “After the war ended, President Truman invited me to the White House, and we had a conversation in the Oval Office. He thanked me for completing my mission, and then he said, ‘Don’t lose any sleep over it. You did what you had to do. The decision to send you was mine.’”
Donald Rumsfeld
An Integrity Check
Donald Rumsfeld served as the secretary of defense under two presidents, Gerald R. Ford (1975–77) and George W. Bush (2001–6). In 2006, I signed a copy of my book The Warrior Within and mailed it to Rumsfeld in Washington, DC. A few days later, I received a note from him.
Dear Mr. Williams,
I received the signed copy of your book, The Warrior Within. It was kind of you to think of me, and I appreciate it. Enclosed, please find my personal check to cover the appraised value as required by regulation. I would like to reimburse you for your nice gift.
Sincerely,
Donald Rumsfeld
Included was a check made out to me for forty dollars, more than double the retail price of the book. I have sent books to government officials before, and that was the first time an official responded by sending a check for reimbursement. I was quite impressed, and I have Rumsfeld’s letter and check framed on my wall.
Bobby Bowden
A Solid Foundation
Mark Richt, head football coach at the University of Georgia, told me how another legendary coach—Bobby Bowden, head football coach of the Florida State Seminoles from 1976 to 2009—exemplified integrity. “It was a life-changing experience,” Richt said, “to serve as an assistant coach under a man of the caliber and character of Bobby Bowden.
“I was coming up the ranks as a college coach, and I’d heard a lot of war stories about how coaches need to break the rules and cut corners in order to put together a winning team. But soon after I took the job at Florida State, Coach Bowden eased my concerns. At one of the first coaches’ meetings, he said, ‘We will not do anything outside of the rules to recruit a player to our program. I will support everyone on this coaching staff in everything they do—except cheating to get recruits. This program is built on a foundation of integrity.’
“When I heard that, I knew I was in the right place. Coach Bowden always demanded integrity from his coaching staff, and he instilled integrity in all of his players.”
Walter Winchell
Be Careful What You Say
Our era has largely forgotten Walter Winchell (1897–1972), but in the times I grew up in, he was the most well-known newspaper and radio gossip commentator in the country. From the late 1920s through the 1960s, fifty million people read his newspaper column every day. He made his radio debut on WABC in New York in 1930 and was the narrator of the television crime drama The Untouchables from 1959 to 1963. He was famed for his rapid-fire style of speaking; he could deliver his broadcasts at a rate of two hundred words per minute. For decades, there was hardly a person alive who couldn’t instantly recognize the distinctive voice of Walter Winchell.
In 1967, I was the general manager of the Spartanburg Phillies. Our announcer was John Gordon. At the end of the season, Gordon and I decided to head to Fenway Park in Boston for the 1967 World Series between the Cardinals and the Red Sox. As we were hanging out among the legendary media personalities who were covering the game, Gordon spotted Winchell.
This was long before the era of cell phones, of course, but there was a pay phone nearby, so Gordon decided to call Jack Six, the host of the afternoon show on his radio station, WSPA in Spartanburg. He placed the call and got Jack Six on the line. “That’s right, Jack!” Gordon said. “I’m at Fenway Park with Walter Winchell, and I want to put Winchell on the air with you.”
Six said, “That’s great! Put him on!”
Gordon turned to Winchell, handed him the phone, and said, “Walter, say hi to Jack Six!”
Unfortunately, Gordon neglected to tell Winchell that the phone call was going out live on the radio in Spartanburg. So Winchell grabbed the phone and said, “Who in the @#%& is Jack Six?”
The word Winchell used was the F bomb, unquestionably the most unairable word in the broadcast business. There was no delay button in those days, no safety net. The word went out live over the airwaves, turning the atmosphere blue over the entire city of Spartanburg.
Poor John Gordon! His mouth dropped open, his eyes bugged out, and his face turned as white as the paper his termination notice would be typed on. Gordon knew his broadcasting career was over. Yet he somehow managed to get through that debacle, and he became the radio voice of the Minnesota Twins for twenty-five years.
(I don’t know what happened to Jack Six.)
The moral of the story: Be careful what you say. Especially in this era of smart phones and the internet, you never know when your words might be broadcast to the world.
Art Linkletter
Watch Your Intensifiers!
Art Linkletter was probably Walt Disney’s closest friend. So, while I was writing a book about Walt, I had several conversations with Linkletter. During one of our chats, I said, “Walt was a very unique man, wasn’t he?”
Linkletter stopped me right there. “The old schoolteacher is coming out in me,” he said. “Forgive me for getting up on my soapbox, Pat, but a person either is or is not unique. There are no degrees of uniqueness. So you can’t be somewhat unique or very unique or extremely unique. But you are absolutely right about Walt. He was unique. Simply unique.”
Ever since Linkletter corrected me on my misuse of an intensifier, I’ve been aware of that mistake in my own speech and the speech of others. It’s an amazingly common mistake, and now that I’m conscious of it, it really grates on me! Whenever I hear someone in the media refer to someone as “very unique,” I feel like calling them up and saying, “The old schoolteacher in me feels compelled to point out—”
There’s only one problem. Unlike Linkletter, I was never an old schoolteacher.
LeBron James
Poised and Articulate
LeBron James came out of high school highly celebrated and was drafted by the Cleveland Cavaliers. He made his debut in the Orlando summer league, a tournament for new draft picks and free agents. Normally, we hold the summer league in our practice gym, but having James there was such a big deal that we opened up the arena, and we almost packed the building.
After the summer league game, James conducted a press conference. The media room was packed, and I stood off to the side to take it all in. I was amazed to hear this eighteen-year-old youth, straight out of high school, handling the media like a pro. He answered their questions, remaining poised and in total control throughout.
He stayed focused on his message throughout the press conference, and that message was largely about his favorite cause—playgrounds for kids—and his corporate sponsor. He said, “Nike has agreed to sponsor playgrounds around the country, and I’m very grateful to them. Any more questions?” He took another question or two, then said, “That’s all I have time for.”
Then he was off the stage and out of view.
I thought, How in the world does an eighteen-year-old develop the ability to be that poised, that articulate, that in control? It’s especially amazing when you realize he came from a deprived background with a teen mother and an out-of-the-picture father. Somewhere along the line—perhaps in high school or through the people who managed him professionally—he received some good instruction regarding public speaking and dealing with the media.
And he may have a natural communication ability to match his ball-handling skills.
Norman Schwarzkopf
“Talking to People Straight On”
Every year, the Magic organization stages a spring gala event to raise funds for the Magic Youth Foundation. One year, the guest of honor at the event was General Norman Schwarzkopf. The organizers asked me to be Schwarzkopf’s host for the evening, and I was honored to spend time talking with the general.
I found “Stormin’ Norman” Schwarzkopf to be very outgoing and friendly. I said, “General, do you ever think about the fact that a madman in Iraq, and his decision to take on the whole world and invade Kuwait, helped to make you a household name?”
“I think about it all the time,” he said. “If it hadn’t been for Sadaam Hussein, no one would have ever heard of me.”
Schwarzkopf was frequently out on the speaking circuit, so I asked him, “What is the most important thing you’ve done to advance your speaking career?”
Without hesitation, he said, “I threw away my notes, came out from behind the lectern, and started just talking to people straight on.”
His answer to my question had a big impact on me. During my speeches, I was still using note cards and standing behind a lectern. But Schwarzkopf rocked my world. I realized I needed to do what he did. So just like Stormin’ Norman, I stopped using note cards and removed the barriers between my audience and me. And I love public speaking more than ever!
Joe Garagiola
The Three Speeches
Joe Garagiola is a former Major League Baseball catcher who later became a television personality, appearing on NBC’s Today show for many years. I once asked him what he had learned during his career as a public speaker.
He told me, “I’ve learned four important lessons as a public speaker. First, you must believe in what you’re saying—or nobody else will. Second, act as if you’re among friends and you’re there for a nice visit. Third, there’s no such thing as an ad lib. Prepare your ad libs in advance and use them accordingly. But also be prepared to play off other speakers or the audience or some incident or feature of the room. Be alert to your surroundings. Fourth, whenever you give a speech, you’ll find that you actually give three speeches: the one you prepare, the one you actually deliver, and the one you wish you had made. A lot of times after a speech, I think, Let’s get everybody back in their seats. I just thought of a great line I should’ve said.”
George McGovern
A Good Man Speaking Well
George McGovern, the Democratic nominee for president in 1972, discovered his leadership ability through public speaking. He told me, “My high school English teacher said I had a talent, both in literary expression and in speaking. She introduced me to the high school debate coach, who transformed me from a somewhat shy and reticent student into a more confident and persuasive public speaker.”
McGovern drew inspiration from the classics. He told me, “The Roman orator Marcus Fabius Quintilian once defined an orator as ‘a good man speaking well.’ You must first become a good man or a good woman before you are worth listening to as a speaker. It’s the same way with other activities. A good teacher is a good person teaching well. A good coach is a good person coaching well. A good parent is a good person parenting well. I encourage people, especially young people, to become good people first, then become good speakers. The life well lived is its own reward.”
In college, young George McGovern was elected class president and won a statewide speaking competition with a talk called “My Brother’s Keeper.” He concluded, “It was only when I saw myself as a speaker that I realized I was a leader.”
Alvin Dark
“I’d Delegate”
Alvin Dark is a former shortstop and manager who played for five National League teams from 1946 to 1960. I have often visited him and his wife at their home in Easley, South Carolina. During one visit, I sat at their breakfast table and said, “Alvin, if you had your baseball management career to do over again, what would you do differently?”
“I’d delegate,” he said. “I’d make much better use of my coaches. When I was managing, I did everything myself. My coaches had titles and job descriptions, but I thought I had to be the pitching coach and the hitting coach and on and on. If I could start again, I would give my coaches a whole lot more freedom and responsibility so that they could do their jobs. I wouldn’t try to do it all myself.”
Joe Namath
“Coach Bryant Taught Me a Lesson”
Legendary NFL quarterback Joe Namath played for Alabama’s Bear Bryant from 1962 to 1964. By his own admission, Namath was the kind of player who tried Coach Bryant’s soul.
During the 1963 season, when Namath was a junior quarterback, the young athlete broke training by going into a tavern. When Coach Bryant learned of the infraction, he faced a tough decision. Namath was Alabama’s star quarterback. Any action that took Namath off the field would be unpopular with the fans and the other players. But Coach Bryant wasn’t in that job to win popularity contests. He was there to build character and train young leaders. He decided to suspend Namath for the last two games of the season—including the 1964 Sugar Bowl.
“When Coach suspended me,” Namath told me, “it was very hard on him. We were at his home, discussing the situation, and he just fell back on the bed. I was scared, really scared. I asked if he was okay, and he said yes. He sat up and said, ‘Well, Joe, I’m going to have to go ahead and suspend you.’ He told me to report to his office at one p.m.
“When I got there, Coach and all his assistants were standing in the foyer. Coach said, ‘My coaches and I had a meeting. Some of them think there’s another way to go about this issue, but to me, that’s not the right way to go. I’ll retire before that.’
“I was so embarrassed that I had caused this,” Namath told me. “I pleaded, ‘Coach, don’t do that.’ But Coach Bryant said, ‘We’re going to have to move you out of the dorm. If you want to leave Alabama, I’ll help find another place for you to go. If you want to stay and follow the rules and do everything the way I want it done, you can come back to spring practice.’
“I did go back in the spring, and I discovered that I was listed as the fifth-string quarterback. I moved up the charts very gradually. Coach Bryant taught me a lesson that stays with me to this day: No one is indispensable; no one is above the rules. And when you break the rules, you don’t just hurt yourself. You hurt your teammates, your coaches, your fans, everybody.”
Phil Jackson
Motivate and Inspire
Phil Jackson is one of the greatest coaches in NBA history and a longtime friend. He now gets to try his hand as a front office executive, having just been named president of basketball operations for the New York Knicks. A number of players Jackson coached later wore Magic jerseys, so I got to hear from his former players exactly how much they appreciated his ability to motivate and inspire.
At Christmas and other times of the year, Jackson would buy books and other gifts for his players. He would never buy books by the case and pass out fifteen copies of the same book. Instead, he would carefully select fifteen individual books, each targeted to an individual player’s unique personality. Each gift was selected for the inspirational impact it would have on that player.
He always asked himself, “How can I motivate and inspire each of my players to step up to the next level?” His eleven NBA championship rings prove that he knew what he was doing.
Jackson once told me how one of his coaches motivated him to take responsibility as a leader on the team. “When I was a senior at the University of North Dakota,” he said, “my coach was Bill Fitch. I was captain of the team. But at one point, Bill had to take the job away from me. We were playing a game in Chicago, and I went out with some friends to Rush Street. I got back to the hotel after curfew, so Bill took away my captaincy. He said, ‘You won’t be captain again until you prove to me you deserve it.’ Bill made me prove to him that I had the self-discipline to be captain. In time, I earned my job back, and we went on to a successful season. Bill Fitch gave me a lesson in discipline that has helped me throughout my life.”
“The Authority to Make Mistakes”
I owe my long career in the NBA to Jack Ramsay.
John “Jack” Ramsay is best known for coaching the Portland Trail Blazers to the 1977 NBA title and for his broadcasting work, largely for ESPN. He was inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame in 1992.
My first contact with Ramsay came in 1968, when he was the general manager of the Philadelphia 76ers and I was in my fourth season as the general manager of the Spartanburg Phillies.
I walked into my office and saw a phone message slip on my desk. It said I had received a call from Jack Ramsay, and I was to call him back at a number in Inglewood, California. The only Jack Ramsay I had ever heard of was in Philadelphia, but this number was in California. I was sure it couldn’t be that Jack Ramsay. But when I called the number, I found out it was that Jack Ramsay. To this day, I don’t know how he heard of me or who gave him my phone number.
“I’m in LA,” he said, “to work out the details of our trade with the Lakers. We’ll be getting Darrall Imhoff, Archie Clark, and Jerry Chambers in exchange for Wilt Chamberlain. The trade will be announced later today. I’m going to coach the 76ers this season, in addition to my general manager duties. We need a business manager, and from what I hear, you’re the guy we need. Would you like the job?”
“I sure would!”
“Good. Come to Philadelphia in a few days. We’ll work out the details.”
For most of my life, I’d had my heart set on a career in baseball, and suddenly I had a chance at a career in professional basketball. I went to Philadelphia, and Ramsay interviewed me and gave me the job. Because of that phone call in 1968, I’ve spent the past five decades in the NBA.
Though Ramsay was my boss at the 76ers, he gave me a lot of leeway and decision-making authority. Years later, he explained to me his views on developing young leaders. “When you are training young leaders,” he said, “you need to give them the authority to make decisions—and even make mistakes. No second-guessing. If a young leader feels his boss might swoop down and undo his decisions at any moment, he won’t feel he’s really leading. This undercuts his motivation to lead. Young leaders need to have a sense of genuine authority—within reasonable limits, of course. We need to stand back, let them make their decisions, and let them deal with the consequences of those decisions. Demonstrate approval when they do well, hold them accountable when they fail, and express confidence in them, win, lose, or draw.”
Colin Powell
“Take Care of Your Troops”
In June 2005, I attended the twenty-fifth anniversary celebration of the Washington Speakers Bureau. Near the end of the evening, I took a trip to the dessert table and found myself within arm’s reach of retired general and former secretary of state Colin Powell. In fact, we were both reaching for the same éclair.
“General Powell,” I said, “I’m Pat Williams of the Orlando Magic. My son Bobby has just become a minor league manager in the Washington Nationals farm system. He just called me and told me he’s eager to do everything he can to succeed. What leadership advice would you have for my son?”
The general said, “Tell your son, ‘Take care of your troops.’ And tell him, ‘Keep your mouth shut and do your job.’” He turned to leave, then he added over his shoulder, “And tell him, ‘Stay focused on this job. Don’t worry about your next job.’”
And with that, he was out the door.
With Powell’s words still echoing in my mind, I took a napkin from the dessert table, pulled out my pen, and wrote down his insights—a twenty-second leadership course from one of the great military leaders of our time. The next morning, I photocopied that napkin and mailed it to Bobby.
Doug Collins
A Lesson I Learned
Doug Collins was drafted by the 76ers in 1973. I arrived there a year later as the general manager, so Collins and I were together in Philadelphia for a number of years. Collins had an ongoing battle with foot and ankle problems, including stress fractures in the bones of his feet. He wanted to play, and these physical issues were very hard for him.
On one occasion, I was talking to a sportswriter about the latest foot injury Collins had suffered. I said to the writer, “Doug obviously has a low pain threshold.” The reporter quoted that line in his story. I didn’t think much of it until the next day when Collins showed up at my desk very upset.
“What right do you have to talk to the media about my pain threshold?” he said. “I’m the only one who knows about my ability to take pain.”
I instantly realized I had misspoken. I had said “pain threshold” (which literally means one’s ability to withstand pain) when what I had in mind was Collins’s susceptibility to fractures. A person can be prone to physical injuries, such as fractures, and still have a very high tolerance for pain. The fact that Collins had spent a lot of time playing with his feet and ankles taped up when he probably should have been off his feet testifies to a very high pain threshold.
I had blown it—big-time. I apologized to Collins and told him I had learned an important lesson and it would never happen again. And it hasn’t.
As a result of that incident, I learned that a leader should never comment in a way that seems to criticize or diminish a player’s endurance, perseverance, or mental toughness. Saying an athlete can’t tolerate pain well is an insult to his character and even his manhood. It was a careless, insensitive thing to say.
That was a teachable moment for me. I learned an important lesson about taking care of my troops.
“Be Nice to People”
In 1965, when I was the twenty-four-year-old general manager of the Spartanburg Phillies, a new manager joined the Cardinals farm club in Rock Hill, South Carolina. His name was George “Sparky” Anderson.
Anderson had played in the big leagues one year as an infielder. Recently retired from playing, he had just started his managing career. Since we were both in the Western Carolinas League, we saw each other frequently and became acquainted. I had no way of knowing at that time that he would go on to become the third winningest manager in Major League Baseball history behind Connie Mack and John McGraw.
During those early years, Anderson and I competed ferociously, yet we were always good friends. He went on from Rock Hill to Cincinnati, then to Detroit. He had a legendary career, a Hall of Fame career. Our paths crossed many times over the next four decades, and Anderson could not have been more gracious. He’d always point me out to friends and say, “There’s Pat Williams! He and I battled each other in the minor leagues in South Carolina!”
Anderson once told me that he learned his positive, joyful approach to life from his father. “My dad was a man of character who taught me how to act,” he said. “He didn’t tell me. He showed me. He was kind and decent to everyone. When I was eleven years old, he said, ‘George, there’s one thing that will make a big difference in your life, and it will never cost you a dime, and that is to be nice to people.’”
I always felt uplifted when I saw Anderson in spring training or on the road somewhere, and I was deeply saddened when he passed away in late 2010. He spread joy wherever he went, and that left a deep imprint on me.
Rich DeVos
Leadership Is Love
In August 1997, I attended an RDV Sports meeting in Grand Rapids, Michigan. RDV Sports owner Rich DeVos was still recovering from a complicated heart transplant in London, so he joined us by teleconferencing. Though he was present only via a big-screen television, his personal warmth dominated the meeting.
The item on our agenda was the downsizing of our team store, the Magic Fan Attic. It meant that sixteen jobs would be eliminated. We debated the issue for twenty minutes, and DeVos finally put the matter in focus. “This funeral has gone on long enough,” he said. “It’s time for the burial. So tell me what happens to those sixteen employees. Remember, I want each one of them taken care of. You can relocate them in the organization, give them good severance checks, or help them find jobs, but I want them taken care of. Understood?”
We understood.
DeVos didn’t personally know any of those sixteen people, but he loved them. He had compassion for each one because love is a leadership skill. Love is not a feeling—it’s a decision. You don’t have to have a warm, fuzzy emotion in order to love someone. All you have to do is seek what’s best for them, just as DeVos sought what was best for the sixteen employees of the Magic Fan Attic.
Love is a learnable skill, and every leader can learn it. If you lead ’em, you’ve got to love ’em.
Hal Urban
“Do Everything in Love”
I once had Hal Urban on my Orlando radio show to talk about his book The 10 Commandments of Common Sense. He said, “When I was in college, I played basketball for two coaches. The first one was supportive and encouraging and never missed a chance to give positive feedback. The second one was always angry, had a foul mouth, and frequently humiliated his players. He never gave us any positive feedback. Obviously, I played much better for the first coach.
“As leaders, we need to catch people doing things right, then build on that. Too many young people hear more about what they do wrong than what they do right. No matter how old we are, we thrive on positive feedback.
“I recently came across a verse of Scripture that I had read many times before—1 Corinthians 16:14. This time, it spoke to me in a new way. It says, ‘Do everything in love.’ I thought, ‘Everything? What would my life look like if I did everything in love?’ So as I set off on my book tour, I made up my mind that in all my interactions with airline attendants, hotel clerks, waitresses, everybody, I would do everything in love. I tried it, and when I returned home, I told my wife, ‘That was the best week I’ve ever had!’”
Urban’s experiences inspired me. I had a three-day trip coming up, so I tried the same experiment. With every person I met along the way, I tried to serve that person in love. I talked to people and found out about their families, their interests, their plans, their dreams. When people assisted me in my travels or hotel stays, I tried to repay their kindness. When I returned home, I told my wife, Ruth, “That was the best three-day trip I’ve ever had!”
Tommy Lasorda
Canned, Evaporated Wisdom
Tommy Lasorda spent more than sixty years in various roles with the Brooklyn and Los Angeles Dodgers. He was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1997 and managed the gold-medal-winning USA team at the 2000 Sydney Summer Olympics.
He once told me a story about baseball players—and cows. “One day when I was fifteen years old,” he said, “my mom brought home a bag of groceries and set it on the kitchen counter. I pawed through that bag to see if she’d bought any foods I liked, and I noticed a can of Carnation evaporated milk. I read the slogan printed on the can: ‘Contented cows give better milk.’
“I’ve remembered that slogan throughout my career. I adopted that approach as a manager. Every time I managed a team—whether it was the Ogden, Utah, Dodgers in 1965 or the Los Angeles Dodgers in 1995—I believed that contented ballplayers give better performances. That slogan guided all my management decisions.”
Truett Cathy
“Honest and Successful at the Same Time”
I once shared a platform in Atlanta with Truett Cathy, founder of the Chick-fil-A restaurant chain. We were speaking to an audience of high school kids. Truett spoke first, and I sat in rapt fascination, taking notes, as he spoke in that deep, rolling Georgia accent.
One of Truett’s memorable lines was “You can be honest and successful at the same time.” It occurred to me that young people don’t hear that message often enough. Instead, they hear that you need to do whatever it takes to win. Truett not only says that honesty and success go hand in hand but also lives it and proves it every day by the way he conducts his business.
Vince Lombardi
“I Love the Man”
Willie Davis was a dominant defensive end for the Green Bay Packers during the Vince Lombardi era. I once asked Davis to tell me about his last conversation with Coach Lombardi in 1970, after Davis had retired from football. Here’s what he told me.
He was at San Diego Stadium for an exhibition game, the New York Giants versus the Chargers. During the game, Giants owner Duke Mara told him that Coach Lombardi was in a DC hospital dying of cancer.
Davis rushed out of the stadium, drove straight to LAX, and took a night flight to Washington. He grabbed a cab to Georgetown University Hospital and was met there by Mrs. Lombardi. She led him into Coach Lombardi’s hospital room.
“That was the only time I ever saw Coach Lombardi not in control,” Davis said. “You should have seen him smile. He didn’t have much voice, but he whispered, ‘Willie, you were a great player. That was the best deal I ever made.’ He started to cry, and I did too. I was in the room for only about two minutes. Then Mrs. Lombardi led me out and said, ‘He gets very emotional when the old Packers come to visit.’”
Davis flew cross-country for just two minutes with his old coach. He felt it was time and money well spent. As he was getting into a cab to return home, reporters asked him, “Why did you fly across the country to see Coach Lombardi?”
“Because,” Davis said, “he made me feel important. I love the man.”