In the late sixties and early seventies, several landmark U.S. Supreme Court rulings favored public school busing as a tool for integration. Though segregation had been illegal for almost twenty years, the reality was that blacks and whites lived in different neighborhoods, and that their schools had racially separate student bodies. Also, since inner-city neighborhoods had poorer tax bases, their school districts invariably received less funding for their classrooms than white areas. The result was an inferior education.
Busing was an attempt to bring greater racial balance to the educational system and to break down the pockets of school segregation that, in practice, still existed in some states. In New York City, the program went into full force a few years before my graduation from Sands Junior High. When the time came for me to choose a high school, I had the option of attending Fort Hamilton in Bay Ridge, New Utrecht farther south in Bensonhurst, or the George Westinghouse Technical High School in Flatbush. The first two were in white, working-class enclaves and offered comprehensive academic degrees. Westinghouse, a trade school, was closer to home.
I was hoping to attend college someday. I also wanted to get out of the neighborhood. At Sands, there was always a fight going on, and I’d had enough of it. That scratched Westinghouse off my list.
During the first few years of integration, my older brother had gone to Fort Hamilton and played on its basketball team, the Tigers, under Coach Ken Kern, whose old-school game was known to have several things in common with Gil Reynolds’s style of play. Thomas excelled and had won a college athletic scholarship, so I decided to follow his lead.
I expected to face some racial issues at Fort Hamilton, but wasn’t sure how serious they would be. In 1974 Bay Ridge was not what you would call a melting pot. The ethnic mix was mainly Italian, Irish, and Scandinavian, with many first- and second-generation Americans who did very little mingling with blacks or other people of color. Some residents—adults and kids—reacted to the efforts to integrate their school with suspicion, hostility, and occasional flare-ups of violence.
None of that concerned me early on. Sands was bad, and I didn’t see how my new school could be any worse. I was just excited by the change of atmosphere.
In my first year at Fort Hamilton, I tried out for the basketball team and made it. But I didn’t tell Coach Kern I was Thomas’s younger brother. He’d graduated in June, and I came along as a freshman in September, so we never spent a day of school together.
I can’t recall how the coach found out about Thomas and me. We had the same last name, of course, so it wasn’t exactly the world’s biggest secret. But one day right before practice, Kern came up to me with a curious look on his face.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Thomas?”
I just kind of shrugged. “I wanted to make the team on my own merit,” I explained.
He didn’t comment. But I think he understood. Kern knew what made his kids tick. With his straight, longish hair, heavy sideburns, and narrow face, he looked like the quiet man in a jazz or rock band in those days—the bass player who’d stand outside of the spotlight and provide a steady bottom to the music.
That could have described his coaching style. Solid and dependable. Laying out guidelines for us, then holding things together so we could “play the changes,” as musicians call improvising over, around, and between a song’s basic chords. He was a steady presence that allowed us to stay loose on the court, free our talent, and play with imagination and creativity.
Being on the Tigers, my curriculum had to be adjusted to fit the team schedule. Fort Hamilton had such a large student population that it held morning and afternoon sessions to reduce overcrowding. Sophomores, juniors, and seniors attended morning sessions, and freshmen usually came in at one in the afternoon. But I had to be at 8 A.M. home room so I could finish classes at one o’clock and then go on to basketball practice or travel to a game.
It wasn’t easy. I would wake up at 5:30 A.M. or so, eat a bowl of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, dress, and leave the apartment by 6:30. Then I’d take a ten-minute walk to the BMT subway line, which left me off a couple of miles from school. Though I could have transferred to a bus near the station, they always seemed to be running late, so I’d walk the rest of the way down 86th Street, the neighborhood’s main strip.
That hike to school seemed longest in the dead of winter, with bitter cold gusts lashing in off the Narrows and, sometimes, the blinding, wind-driven snow in my eyes. But that time of year, when it got dark early, leaving practice made me uncomfortable in an altogether different way.
As a black kid, I didn’t feel safe. Walking back to the train station at night, I would see people watching me, their eyes following me up the street like I was a criminal. Only after I’d hurried aboard the train would I breathe a sigh of relief.
I won’t claim I ever got used to the racial tensions. But I lived with them.
We had three white players on the Tigers. The rest of us were African American. Before we went to play against certain schools in Brooklyn, the black kids on the team would plot out the fastest and most direct routes home, knowing we might have trouble afterward. One school was in Gravesend. Another in Bensonhurst.
Few black people lived in those areas. After games—especially if we won—we’d grab our clothes, rush out of the gym, and hustle down the street toward the train station or bus stop as bottles started flying behind us.
That’s just how it was. I’m sure the same would have occurred to white kids in Fort Greene, Brownsville, or Bed-Stuy. Suspicion and mistrust are rooted in unfamiliarity. Things only change for the better when different groups interact.
At Fort Hamilton, there really wasn’t much interaction at all. Blacks and whites had a mostly peaceful coexistence, but they didn’t mix. That led to misunderstandings that I’ve come to realize were often more cultural than racial.
Here’s an example. I loved math. In fact, I was good enough at algebra to tutor my classmates. Once, while the teacher was explaining something in class, one of the kids seated near me became disruptive. I didn’t think he intended to start anything. He was just horsing around. But I was trying to concentrate on the lesson. I loved working with numbers.
When I asked the kid to settle down, he only got louder.
“What if I don’t?” he said.
I looked around at him from my desk. He happened to be a white kid of Italian descent. Though his background didn’t matter to me, it would become important soon enough.
“Squash it,” I said. Among black kids in the projects that meant forget it, let it go. I didn’t want a fight.
But the kid just seemed to get more agitated. He puffed out his chest and swore.
When I saw how worked up he was, I decided to take my own advice and let it go. I turned back toward my books, positive that would be the end of it.
I was mistaken.
A few periods later, I was called from my classroom to the principal’s office. The kid was sitting there too. I could see he was still fuming, and I couldn’t understand why. The incident in class hadn’t seemed like a big deal.
Then the principal began explaining why we’d been summoned. He’d heard that there would be a showdown between the black and Italian students after school and that the threat I’d made in class was causing the uproar.
I cocked my head to one side. “Sir… what threat?”
The principal faced the other kid. “Would you please repeat what you told me a minute ago?”
“King said he’d squash me.”
“What?” I said.
“Squash me,” the kid repeated. “Like in, ‘You wanna squash me, I’ll squash you first.’”
I sat there in astonishment.
“Wait,” I said. “I told you to squash it.”
“It?”
“Right. What happened in class. I meant, forget it.”
The principal stared at us from behind his desk. The office had gotten so quiet you could have heard dust fall.
I broke into a grin and saw the kid was grinning too.
“‘Forget it’?” he asked.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
We both cracked up. I didn’t want the principal to think I was disrespecting him, but I couldn’t help myself.
Luckily, he didn’t take exception. I think he was glad to have averted a race riot at his school. The kid had his crew ready for a showdown. There’s no telling how far it would have escalated if the principal hadn’t called us in.
The whole thing was a crazy mix-up. But it illustrates the racial realities in that period. Our coexistence was fragile, a bubble that could have burst under the slightest of social pressures.
The incident in math class was the closest I came to a fight at Fort Hamilton. There really weren’t any problems of that nature. But I felt I was living in two worlds. The world where I was cheered as one of the top varsity players in the city, and the solitary world I inhabited after leaving the gym. I didn’t feel fully accepted by the student body or the surrounding community. After practices or games, I never lingered with my classmates, but would get right on a bus or train and ride back to Fort Greene. On the court, there was no room for shyness. But off the court, I was an introvert—nervous around people, lacking social skills, and unable to form meaningful connections with others.
Looking back, I realize I didn’t truly live in either of those worlds, but in the world behind my Game Face… the world inside me. It was a world apart, and no one could penetrate its thick outer walls.
On Friday nights, I enjoyed riding the subway alone. There weren’t any basketball games, and basketball was my only real interest. Some guys would get together or go on dates. But I viewed riding the train as a break from everything around me and never told anybody about it. My parents certainly didn’t know.
I’d always been drawn to trains, a youthful fascination many boys of my generation shared. I grew up in an era before video games, when we played with miniature railroad sets, watched Western heroes tangle with villains in the cabs of moving locomotives, saw Choo Choo Charlie in Good & Plenty television commercials, and then made whistle noises by blowing in the empty box of candy. Trains were the best.
As a tenth grader, I still hadn’t outgrown that attraction. Besides, a token only cost thirty-five cents in those days. The subway was cheaper than Coney Island.
I knew my way around the city. I rode the trains and buses to tournaments and was familiar with their different routes. So, on Fridays, I would get on the J train at Flatbush and Fulton, take the long ride out past John F. Kennedy Airport in Queens to the last stop, then turn around and head back into Brooklyn. As the train swayed rhythmically along the tracks, I would sit and think, read my psychology books, or just stare out the windows at the passing stations. I also remember writing some of my earliest poems, a hobby that would become a lifelong means of self-expression.
Mostly, riding the subway gave me time to relax. I liked the plaques with the station names, the tile walls along the platforms, and the way the stripes above the plain white tiles changed color from station to station. I liked going up into the train’s front car and watching its headlights spill over the tracks as it rumbled from the station’s brightness into the pitch-black tunnel. I liked the feeling of acceleration in my stomach and the metal-on-metal sound of the wheels picking up speed on the rails. Clank-clank… clank-clank… clankclankclankclank… Then the squeal of the brakes as it pulled into the next stop on the line.
Riding the subway on Fridays was better than sitting around the cheerless apartment. I didn’t want to share that with anyone. It was mine. The rest of the week, I lived for basketball.
Memory is like a collage made by pasting together snapshots, or even cut-up pieces of snapshots… hundreds upon hundreds of them, more than we can ever count. The standout moments can be scattered or in clusters, at least for me. That’s how it is when I recall my teenage playing years.
I competed in tournament after tournament. With the high school league, the Restoration Eagles, the Police Athletic League, and later under my old coach Lester Roberts, who’d changed the name of his team to Brooklyn USA ahead of the nation’s bicentennial, issuing them uniform T-shirts with American flags on the front.
As a member of the Tigers, I averaged 26 points and 28 rebounds a game, was named to the All New York first team, and was also named Most Valuable Player in eleven of the sixteen high school All-Star tournaments in which I participated.
During my senior year, we were in a conference with New Utrecht High School in the heart of Bensonhurst—the school that the comedian and actor Gabe Kaplan, a fellow Brooklyn kid, went to in real life and the one you’d see over the El train in the opening and closing shots of his TV show Welcome Back, Kotter.
A kid named George Johnson played for Utrecht. We were almost exactly the same age and height, and had matched up in the playground since we were younger, so I knew him pretty well.
Johnson had a big reputation; the scouts who reported to college recruiters around the country were buzzing about him, saying he was the best high school forward in New York City. The only one who’d formed a different opinion was a talent evaluator from Queens named Tom Konchalski.
Though I didn’t know it, Konchalski had been keeping tabs on me since my junior year, when Gil Reynolds entered the Eagles in a spring tourney at Mosholu Montefiore Community Center in the Bronx. It was one of the better local competitions, mainly city teams, with a few from Westchester and possibly one from Connecticut.
Konchalski attended, taking notes in the legal yellow pad he carried everywhere. The Eagles won, and I was MVP, and I caught his eye. He kept it on me for the rest of my high school playing career.
He didn’t have much company. During my senior year, Johnson was one of two New York high school players getting most of the attention from scouts. The other kid they were watching was Butch Lee, a guard with DeWitt Clinton High School in the Bronx—a top basketball school that had won the city championship the year before.
I knew of Lee’s reputation, though we hadn’t faced against one another on the hardwood. Since our schools were at opposite ends of the city, we didn’t compete during the regular high school season. Also, we played different positions—I’d been converted to a center in my junior year, and he was a guard—so we wouldn’t have gone head-to-head, even in the playoffs.
Lee had gone to the Five-Star Camp in Honesdale, Pennsylvania, run by another talent evaluator, Howie Garfinkle. Garfinkle put out a newsletter called High School Basketball Illustrated that was considered the bible of New York and New Jersey high school players. Almost every college basketball coach in the country subscribed to HSBI, and its success led Garfinkle to start his own scouting service. It was the first of its kind in the country.
Garfinkle was promoting Lee and had heavily showcased him at Five-Star. Some of the top young college coaches in America instructed at the camp—Chuck Daly and Bobby Knight were two originals—so kids who went there had an edge in getting noticed.
I would have loved to attend Five-Star, of course. But enrollment at the camp wasn’t something I could realistically consider. My parents didn’t have the money to pay for it, and Garfinkle never thought enough of my abilities to ask me to his summer-long, invitation-only program.
That only made the chip on my shoulder bigger and heavier. I had no problem with Lee catching the eyes of scouts. He was a great, tough-minded player, as I would see for myself when we eventually played together in a tournament.
But George Johnson?
He was the best forward in New York?
Really?
I’d faced Johnson many times in the playground and youth tournaments, and always outplayed—spell that d-e-s-t-r-o-y-e-d—him. A good enough finesse player, he was always put on his heels by my ferocity and determination. For me, winning meant everything, and Johnson could never match that.
The rivalry between our high schools was intense. Bay Ridge and Bensonhurst were bordering sections of Brooklyn with largely blue-collar, Italian American residents. The students came from similar backgrounds; a kid attending one school was likely to have friends and family in the other. All kinds of bragging rights were at stake.
I marked the dates of our two scheduled games with the Utrecht team ahead of time. The bleachers were always packed for our showdowns, and the teams came ready to play. They would be noisy, hard-fought contests.
I overpowered Johnson. Dominated him defensively and offensively. In the first game, I scored 36 points off him. In the second, I hit 29. He couldn’t stop me.
Unfortunately, Utrecht was more cohesive. They had very good performances as a squad and won both games. The losses were hard for my team to shake off. Everyone was badly disappointed. But besting Johnson was a consolation for me. He walked off the floor demoralized in spite of Utrecht’s victories.
I was in his head. I’d proven something. To him, myself, and to anyone else who had paid attention.
Tom Konchalski was one of those people.
AS MY SENIOR YEAR AT FORT HAMILTON WENT ALONG, Coach Kern occasionally gave me brochures and copies of recruiting letters from universities around the country. Even though I’d had a very good season with the Tigers, I didn’t make it onto the radar of the top-tier basketball colleges. But a few candidates grabbed my attention.
Arizona State University was one of the first to invite me. The Sun Devils had reached the NCAA several times under head coach Ned Wulk, and his winning reputation was a lure. I decided to check out the program there.
I also heard from the University of Dayton, a private Catholic school in Ohio. A special education teacher at Brooklyn’s Westinghouse High named Artie Hirsh had seen me play in local tournaments, and his old friend Jack Butler was a coaching assistant at UD. He told Butler and head coach Don Donoher about me, and they wanted to arrange a visit.
Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, was another school that expressed interest. The Warriors was a competitive team that had recently recruited one of the top forwards in the country, Maurice “Bo” Ellis, for what it was hoping would be a championship push. Although the school wasn’t high on my list, it felt my talents would add to the team’s chances, and I agreed to tour its campus and facilities in June after visiting the rest.
Then another opportunity came in an unexpected way.
Right around Easter break, I was asked to play in a tournament by talent scout Mike Tynberg, who coached a team called the New York Gems that brought together elite players from around the city. Tynberg’s offer was a high mark of respect, and I was honored to be considered. But I’d already committed to a tourney in Baltimore—the Baltimore Shootout—with Lester Roberts’s Brooklyn USA team and knew I might have to miss one or two of the games. When Tynberg said he’d be okay with that, I joined his squad.
The tourney was at the Hoboken YMCA and pitted us against New Jersey’s best. The Gems had a big-name front court—Mike Pyatt, an All-City player at Bishop Dubois High; Bernard Toone, a junior at Gordon in Yonkers; and myself. Our guards were supposed to be Butch Lee and Jackie Gilloon, a kid from Memorial High School in Hudson County, but for one reason or another, both were no-shows.
Tynberg needed replacements fast and turned to Konchalski to plug the holes. Konchalski picked Paul Eibeler from Holy Trinity, and Andy Sabo, who’d been on a Forest Hills, Queens, team with All-City player Ernie Grunfeld.
Just the year before, Konchalski had helped the University of Tennessee recruit Grunfeld for its basketball team, the Volunteers, based on his tight relationship with its assistant coach, Stu Aberdeen. Though I didn’t know it at the time, Howie Garfinkle’s nickname for Konchalski was “Tennessee Tom” because he attended so many high school and youth league games as a scout for Tennessee.
When it comes to basketball, it’s a very small world.
A worn red-brick building that was over a century old, the Hoboken YMCA had a typically small gym with an overhead track so it could be partitioned for half-court games. Without Lee and Gilloon to help with the scoring, I knew I’d have to lead our offensive charge and had a great series opener that helped carry the team to a win.
Right afterward, I headed down to Baltimore with Lester Roberts and couldn’t play in the tourney’s second game—what turned out to be a tough loss for the Gems. But I came back with an MVP in time for the finals.
Our opponent in that round was a team from Jersey City. Its two best players were sophomores—Mike O’Koren, a small forward, and Luke Griffin, a guard. O’Koren was a sharpshooter and presented the biggest threat.
I had another hot game coming off the Shootout, holding O’Koren in check and scoring almost at will. Our team won the series two games to one. We were still celebrating our victory when a thin, gray-haired man in a cardigan sweater and loafers came straight over from the bleachers. I’d seen Konchalski and his legal pad before, and recognized him as a scout. But he’d never approached me.
“You were terrific, Bernard,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I think you would’ve gotten the MVP if you’d played the second game.”
I thanked him for the compliment. His hand was still locked around mine; Konchalski had some kind of grip.
“Feel like grabbing some dinner?” he asked. “My treat. I’d like to discuss an excellent college basketball program.”
That was all I needed to hear.
After changing into my street clothes, I let Konchalski lead me over to a nearby diner, where I think I ordered a sandwich or burger. It was my first time eating out anywhere.
“Bernard,” Konochlski said from his side of the booth. “You familiar with the University of Tennessee Volunteers?”
I shrugged. It barely rang a bell.
“Most people have heard of the football Vols,” Konchalski went on. “But the basketball Vols are really coming on strong in their conference. I can vouch for its head coach, Ray Mears, being top notch. And his assistant, Stu Aberdeen, would very much like to discuss their plans with you.”
Aberdeen was already in town, he explained. He’d been seeking a complementary player for Grunfeld, the Forest Hills kid, and Konchalski had told him all about me. In fact, he’d told him I was better than Grunfeld. But I wouldn’t find that out till later on.
What I did know was Konchalski’s reputation as a decent, trustworthy man. He loved the game of basketball and had flawless instincts for pairing up players and coaches. I was also impressed that Aberdeen had flown up to meet me in person. No other recruiter had gone that extra mile.
I told Konchalski I was interested, but wanted to discuss the offer with Ken Kern, my coach at Fort Hamilton, before setting up a meeting. Konchalski agreed that was a good idea and said he’d wait to hear back from me.
When I asked Kern’s advice, he brought up Grunfeld right off.
“Sounds like a good fit for you,” he said. “It would be fantastic having another player on the team with New York basketball acumen.”
That was all the encouragement I needed. Soon afterward, I spoke to Aberdeen on the telephone. He suggested we have dinner at a place called Mama Leone’s.
Wow.
The closest I’d ever come to eating at a restaurant was the diner in Hoboken. But Mama Leone’s was a famous Italian restaurant in Manhattan’s theater district. It had been around for almost a hundred years and was an unofficial landmark. I accepted the invite in a heartbeat.
Before we got off the phone, Aberdeen said he would make dinner reservations and pick me up that evening. I told him that would be great, gave him my address, and asked him to wait outside the main entrance. I was glad he didn’t ask about coming upstairs to meet my parents. I wouldn’t have known how to explain that we didn’t have visitors.
A few hours later, I left the apartment in a dress shirt and my comfortable suede Playboy loafers—bunny logo, and all—and went to the twelfth-floor hallway window where I’d once spent Sunday afternoons gazing down at the players on the front basketball court.
Aberdeen was waiting near the big glass entry doors. Although we’d never met in person, and it was already getting dark out, I had no trouble recognizing him. A short, bald white man in an orange blazer, he definitely couldn’t have been mistaken for anyone from the projects.
But I should give you the full, crystal-clear picture.
When I say short, I mean extremely short, as short a man as I’d ever seen—possibly five feet one or two in his shoes. When I say bald, I mean shiny bald, his head smooth and round as a cue ball. And when I say orange, I mean bright orange, the official color of the University of Tennessee. It was a tradition for UT coaches to wear orange blazers at games, but bringing that custom to the streets of Fort Greene, Brooklyn, was not something I’d have recommended. Not in a million years.
The jacket might as well have screamed VICTIM.
And I haven’t even mentioned his trousers.
They were plaid.
Orange, yellow, and blue plaid.
I remember staring downstairs for about thirty seconds, frozen with disbelief. Then I snapped myself out of it, rushed to the elevator, hit the lobby button, and waited nervously for the car, hoping he wouldn’t get jumped before I reached him.
I felt like slapping my forehead. Does the man know where he’s at?
Stu had no more trouble recognizing me than I did him. At six feet seven, all arms and legs, I wasn’t easily confused with anyone else, although, funny thing, it would happen later that night.
We took a car service into Manhattan; he’d had the driver wait for him outside my building. I had only ridden in a car once or twice before, and felt like I was going off on an adventure.
With its troops of busy waiters and red-and-white checkered tablecloths, Mama Leone’s seemed like another world. I could hear murmurs of conversation, and the clicking of silverware against plates. It was a bright, lively place with diners laughing, smiling, and enjoying one another’s company. I could not help but compare it to the inhibited silence around our table at home, my father eating alone and apart from us in the back room.
This was something new. Something I’d longed for without even knowing it existed.
People looked around as the long and short of us walked into the crowded dining room, Aberdeen in his neon orange blazer, his head barely reaching my chest. I sported an afro at the time, which made me look even taller alongside him.
Then I heard one of the guests blurt out, “Oh! Hey! It’s Moses Malone!”
If anyone in the place wasn’t staring at us yet, that clinched it.
That year, Moses Malone, a six-foot-eleven center from Virginia, had become the first basketball player in history to vault directly from high school to the pros, signing with the American Basketball Association’s Utah Stars. His breakthrough made headlines around the country and would open the way for young phenoms like Kobe Bryant and LeBron James to do the same in the future.
Since we were both black, tall, and wore ’fros, I guessed the mix-up was understandable. I really didn’t mind; I’d played against Moses in a tournament upstate called the Seamco Classic and thought he was a great athlete and nice guy. If people were going to mistake me for another player, I was okay with it being Moses Malone.
Curious eyes stuck to us like glue as we were led to our seats.
I’ll never forget that meal. The baskets of bread and rolls, the giant platters of antipasto, the heaping portions of spaghetti in meat sauce… the tastes, the smells, and the cheerful professionalism of the wait staff as they served us.
At first, the place settings confounded me. I saw all the different utensils, the multiple forks and knives, and ate with trepidation, not knowing when to use them. But I watched the other diners out of the corners of my eyes and discerned the order. They were working inward toward the plates. Once I realized that, I could settle down to eat and enjoy myself.
Aberdeen was a smart, charismatic guy with a brain full of basketball knowledge. It made him a great salesman for the Volunteers and UT in general. He hardly mentioned finances, but explained the college’s commitment to academic and athletic excellence. He discussed Konchalski’s enthusiasm for me and underscored how much weight that carried with him and Head Coach Mears. The team wanted to build on the tough, lightning-quick style of basketball that Grunfeld had brought from New York, and they saw tremendous possibilities in our sharing the court. I would have a chance to grow as a player even as the Vols benefited from my talents.
When Aberdeen dropped me off at home, full of good feelings and incredible Italian food, I thanked him profusely for dinner and assured him I’d be continuing the evaluation process with his school.
He and his flashy getup had left quite an impression on me. I knew it wouldn’t be long before my eyes burned from the orange-and-plaid again.
FIRST, THOUGH, I PLANNED TO FOLLOW THROUGH on my standing agreements. Arizona State had already purchased an airline ticket for me. I owed it to the school—and myself—to fly out and see the campus.
Back then, NCAA regulations prohibited official visits until the high school basketball playoffs concluded in late March. Since classes were still in session, the trips had to be scheduled for weekends, so the whole thing was whirlwind.
I left from LaGuardia Airport in Queens. It was my first time flying, and I recall feeling amazed that a large commercial plane could become airborne with hundreds of passengers and their stowed luggage aboard, and then have enough fuel in its tanks for the five-hour flight to Arizona. As we taxied onto the runway, I paid nervous attention to the flight attendant’s safety instructions for buckling our seatbelts, putting on the oxygen mask in an emergency, and using the seat cushion as a life preserver.
None of it exactly settled me. I didn’t enjoy takeoff. The loud whine of the turbines, my popping ears, the g-forces shoving me back against my seat. It was a far cry from how I felt riding the J train.
Once we were up, I grew calmer. It was a beautiful sunny day, and I had a window seat. Looking down at the city from the air took my breath away.
I slept for the bulk of the flight to combat my recurring anxieties. My seatmate was a professor from the university, and she must have picked up on my nervousness as a rookie flyer. When I wasn’t dozing, she made pleasant small talk. It helped the trip go by faster.
The visit itself wasn’t very memorable. A delegation of school coaches and officials met me at the airport in Phoenix and drove me out to the Tempe campus. Then we went somewhere for lunch.
They mostly talked finances. I was offered a full academic scholarship and various stipends and grants that could legitimately slip through NCAA loopholes. But there was hardly a word about academics or their long-term goals for the basketball program.
Scholarship packages are a big part of every college recruitment offer. I couldn’t afford tuition. My family didn’t have any money. So that was an important consideration. But their hard sell was a turnoff. I was interested in learning how they’d make me a better person and player. They only seemed interested in the player.
I remember a strange thought crossing my mind. What if I went to the school and something happened to me? If I was injured on the court or had some other serious issue? Would I receive the proper help?
My misgivings weren’t strictly logical, but I trusted them.
I struck Arizona State off my list even before getting on my morning flight back to New York.
DAYTON WAS SCHEDULED for a week later. The school made an earnest offer and had a reputable basketball program, but nothing stood out about it or convinced me we’d be a good match. For one reason or another, I wasn’t confident its system would aid in my development.
Back at Fort Hamilton, I asked Coach Kern to let Dayton know I wouldn’t be signing there. I’d done the same right after my trip to Arizona. I respected the schools’ interest in me too much to keep either one hanging.
That left two colleges on my list, Tennessee and Marquette.
Tennessee was up first. I would fly down to visit its campus the very next weekend.
KNOXVILLE SITS DEEP in the Tennessee Valley, and the countryside around it was awe-inspiring from the air. I’d played in tournaments in the Catskill Mountains, but had never seen anything as vast and green as the Smokies. The range sprawled on and on below as my plane banked toward the airport.
The mild Southern weather was no letdown. It had been chilly in New York and I’d worn a coat heading to LaGuardia. But I could sling it over my shoulder stepping off the plane.
I can still see my greeting party—city officials, representatives from the school’s athletic department, Stu Aberdeen in his full orange-and-plaid glory, and a young woman who played for the Lady Vols, UT’s female basketball team. Aberdeen had wanted me to have a student’s perspective on the school and arranged for her to be my chaperone for the entire visit.
You wouldn’t think anything could have made me feel more welcomed. But the biggest eye-opener by far was a banner held up by the group declaring it Bernard King Day in Knoxville. Before I could recover from my surprise, a town leader with the delegation read the official proclamation. Right there at the terminal.
Bernard King Day.
For a kid from Fort Greene, it was like being reborn from one life into another. But I didn’t have a chance to soak everything up. No sooner was the proclamation read than I was loaded into a car and then driven straight to the university under police escort.
The ride was like being inside a kaleidoscope, with all kinds of sights and impressions rushing over me. I remember the clean, fresh air pouring through my window, the trees lining the road, the blue Tennessee River on my right, and those emerald-green Appalachian slopes in the background.
As we rode along, flanked by police cruisers, my hosts explained they’d booked a room for me at a downtown hotel. The Hyatt Regency. A hotel? The other two schools I’d visited had put me up overnight in dorm rooms.
But we weren’t heading over there yet. There’s a football game at the school this afternoon, and we want you to enjoy it, Bernard. Don’t worry about your bags. We’ll retain them for you till after the game, and then make sure they’re brought right over to the Hyatt. If that’s okay.
Oo-kay, I thought. Got it.
Neyland Stadium, where the Tennessee University Football Vols play their home games, holds over a hundred thousand spectators and is the sixth-largest outdoor sports arena in the world. When we arrived that afternoon, it was filled to the upper deck with fans from the area. Although it was spring break, Aberdeen’s blazer had loads of company. I saw orange jerseys and T-shirts all around me.
Earlier that year, the New York Daily News had selected me as one of the city’s top-five high school players. As part of the awards presentation, we’d walked onto the court at Madison Square Garden during halftime at a Knicks-Celtics game. We also were given tickets to the game. It was the final year of the legendary “Rolls-Royce Backcourt,” with Walt Frazier and Earl Monroe, who’d won a championship with the team in 1973. Along with Dave DeBusschere, they were two of my favorite players while I was growing up. Although our seats were in the upper deck, I’d savored every minute of that experience.
When we arrived at Neyland Stadium, I was given a VIP seat near the field… no nosebleeds this time. Looking around, I was amazed by the bowl’s enormity. It was hard to imagine a more imposing sports arena than Madison Square Garden; it had seemed huge to me. But Neyland dwarfed it by comparison. I could hardly believe a school could have a venue holding that many spectators. Not somewhere off campus, but on campus.
The game was deafeningly loud from start to finish. Led by black quarterback Condredge Holloway, the football Vols were on their way to a 7-2-3 season that would climax with a victory over the Maryland Terrapins in the Liberty Bowl, their second bowl appearance in two years. The fans expected a win and showed it by making an uproarious racket.
At the end of the second quarter, I was brought downstairs into the area beneath the stadium and then walked out onto the field at halftime to be introduced to the fans. It was the largest crowd I’d ever seen. Hearing my name on the public address system, followed by the cheers rolling down from the stands… cheers for me… I was blown away.
After the game, I received another introduction—this one to Holloway, who hadn’t just gained fame as a star quarterback, but as one of the first African American quarterbacks to play college football. Back then, the Vols were one of the best teams in the nation, and that made Condredge not just a big deal, but the Big Deal, at Tennessee. Meeting him was an honor.
Next stop, the Hyatt so I could check into my room. I don’t know if my hosts noticed me staring out my car window at the hotel. The last time I’d stayed at one was when I was fourteen or so—the night Lester Roberts and our whole Sports Unlimited team jammed into two rooms at a small, no-frills place in Baltimore.
This was something else. Modern and upscale, with rows and rows of windows. I craned my head to see how high they ascended, thinking the hotel’s design resembled a manual typewriter with several tiers of keys.
I spent the next few hours touring UT’s campus. I’d never seen anything like it. Classes were not yet in session, and with very few students around, the grounds seemed even more spacious than they were. Everything was clean and pristine. You didn’t see a scrap of litter anywhere. Not on the grass, the footpaths, or the sidewalks. I was overwhelmed by the expansive majesty of the campus and charmed by everyone’s friendliness and graciousness.
Another life.
I recall being brought to the basketball stadium, Stokely Athletic Center, all while school representatives talked about how well the Vols were doing and outlined their plans for making the team even better. They said they were intent on improving its national profile and guaranteed I would be a starter in the upcoming season. Then they went on to discuss the academic side of things.
The presentation was balanced and well rounded. I was skeptical of their promise of a starting role with the team—I didn’t think any coach would, or could, make that decision till he saw me in an intra-squad scrimmage—but was convinced I would have the opportunity to contribute.
Last on the agenda was Knoxville’s finest restaurant. I had a nice, easy time at dinner with Stu Aberdeen and the chaperone from the Lady Vols, both of whom shared their thoughts about the school and city.
When I finally returned to my room, I felt equal parts excitement and exhaustion. It had been a long, long day, and I dropped into bed like a rock.
My flight back to New York left early Sunday morning. By the time I boarded it, my mind was made up.
There would be no trip to Marquette. I knew my future was with the Tennessee Vols basketball team.
No one could have predicted that I was about to become half of the biggest show in its history.