There was a tremendous buildup of anticipation for the start of my sophomore year with the Vols. The Ernie and Bernie Show had attracted a lot of attention in the NCAA and given Stu Aberdeen a great recruiting hand in the offseason. As a freshman, I’d played the post because we did not have a true center. But now, we gained one in six-foot-nine Irv Chatman, a New York kid with an incredible nine-and-a-half-foot arm span. We also had Johnny Darden, a pure point guard who’d go on to hold the school record for assists, and Terry Crosby, an outstanding wing player to back up Mike Jackson.
We started out of the gate at a running clip and never slowed down, lighting up the Southeastern Conference.
Two of that season’s games stand out in my memory. The second, a late February game in Tuscaloosa, was against Alabama for the conference lead.
But the one I recall most clearly fell a month earlier on the schedule, on the road versus the hated Kentucky Wildcats.
Our team, coaches, and other personnel had flown to blustery Lexington on Friday, January 10, ahead of the next day’s grudge match. During the flight from Knoxville on our private plane, we relaxed by playing cards, spades being the game of choice.
I’d never heard of the game before college. Back in Brooklyn, we only knew about dice games. But in Tennessee, it was part of campus life. I learned to play and became good at it.
At the airport, we boarded the bus for a short trip to the Hyatt Hotel. Coach Mears believed in first-class travel arrangements, and that meant each player had his own room.
I enjoyed the privacy that afforded. A close-knit group from diverse backgrounds, we all genuinely liked each other. But we spent an inordinate amount of time together traveling, attending publicity functions, practicing, and, of course, playing games. For a person to think clearly, he must have moments of solitude. I knew it as a fifteen-year-old riding the subway on Friday nights, and I haven’t changed my view.
After check-in, we always dined as a group at the best spot in town. Well traveled, well fed, thank you, Coach. That Friday night, I dug into some great Southern cooking in Lexington. As a country singer performed, we clapped our hands, tapped our feet, and had a good old time.
Then it was back to the hotel for an early night’s sleep. We aimed to be fresh for the big game.
Saturday afternoon, we had a quick pregame meal, went over the game plan, and, yes, finished off with our usual milkshakes, oatmeal cookies, and Jell-o. While an excellent team, Kentucky was no longer quite the dynamo it had been the year before. Even as we’d improved, the Wildcats were recovering from the loss of senior Kevin Grevey, who was drafted into the NBA by the Washington Bullets.
The Vols weren’t going to miss him. And we still had to contend with All-SEC big man Mike Phillips, forward Jack Givens, and six-foot-ten forward Rick Robey.
We entered the game ranked ninth in the country and winners of our last two games. I’d fully recovered from my offseason knee surgery and was fortunate not to experience any loss of quickness or leaping ability. Memorial Coliseum was a new arena, a Kentucky jewel, and the Ernie and Bernie Show intended to christen it with a command performance.
The game’s intensity was high from the tip-off. Kentucky held a major size advantage in the post because of Mike Phillips, their six-foot-eleven big man, who grabbed rebound after rebound as our bodies collided under the backboards. That was UK’s tradition—fight for every possession.
They played us hard. But with Grevey gone, the Wildcats had no solution for Ernie. He carried us in the first half, shooting pull-up jumpers and making power drives to the basket. Our team saw what was happening and rode his hot hand, feeding him the ball whenever we could. There was no sense getting it inside to me. He was blazing past whatever Kentucky threw at him, knocking down shot after shot.
But this was Wildcats–Vols. Every game a seesaw. We got to intermission with the score 43–42 in our favor, knowing we’d have to battle for every point the rest of the way.
The second half resembled the first, the Kentucky crowd cheering louder and louder, our two teams making tremendous physical contact under the basket.
In the fourth quarter, the Wildcats surged. Phillips was a banging, crashing beast under the basket. I think he pulled down a record 28 rebounds before the game was over, and they led to several fast-break scoring opportunities for his team. At one point in the final quarter, I glanced up at the scoreboard and saw we were down 75–61.
Fourteen points. More than we had minutes left in the game. And there were no shot clocks to limit the time of possession.
We needed to get the ball into our hands and score.
A lot.
Our defense went into clampdown. Mike Jackson and Irv Chapman stayed cool and held Kentucky back from scoring by blocking, boxing out, getting their hands up in shooters’ faces, grabbing hold of the ball and bringing it quickly up the court.
With seven seconds left in regulation, and the score tied at 79, we called a time-out.
The ’Cats had gone into a zone defense, giving up on man-to-man against Ernie, and I’d taken up the scoring charge in the final quarter.
“Coach, put in Austin,” I shouted in the huddle. The noise around us was deafening. “Throw me a lob pass.”
Austin Clark was our secret weapon on the bench in certain situations. Our best sideline lob passer. We’d made a play like it in another game; I think it was against Michigan at home.
Mears nodded. The ball was mine.
Oh, how I loved those pressure-filled moments. I could taste adrenaline at the back of my tongue.
I set up on the low right block as Austin was handed the ball. I moved up the lane quickly, faking as if I’d use a screen. I went backdoor behind the defender to our basket; the ball was in flight. Austin had thrown toward the right side of the backboard, exactly where I wanted it. But the alley-oop went high.
I skied as high as I could jump, barely getting my fingertips on the ball, then tipping it toward myself, gaining possession as I fell backward to the floor.
I’d practiced shooting while falling a thousand times. In the gym at Sands, I’d done repetition after repetition till it became muscle memory.
I released the ball as my left heel hit the floor and went flat on my back. It went cleanly through the net as time expired, giving us a 2-point lead.
But the Wildcats wouldn’t quit. With five seconds to go, they ran a perfect fast break. Kentucky’s guards started it, the ball going from Dwane Casey to Truman Claytor, who pushed it up the court in a hurry.
We went into a mild press, wanting to disrupt their tempo without fouling anyone and giving them a chance to win on free throws. Claytor went to Phillips, who snapped it to Merion Haskins, their forward.
Five seconds can be an eternity in basketball.
Haskins was my man. But when they started to run, I broke for the far end of the court, trying to keep the ball from going into the post.
I should have stayed on him. Should have taken care of him. Instead, he streaked past me and scored a wide-open layup.
The buzzer sounded.
Kentucky had tied the game and forced overtime. The arena shook with cheers and applause.
We didn’t get down. We never thought we were going to lose.
OT was furious, our teams trading baskets and turnovers. Ernie was fouled drilling a fifteen footer and went to the line. Kentucky’s coach Hall was livid, claiming nobody made contact with Ernie. Irv Chatman was hit, he argued. Okay. Chatman, a poor free thrower, playing with a broken cheekbone. The officials stuck with their call and Ernie made the free throw for a third point.
Score, 84–83.
But it wasn’t over. Joe Holland, a Kentucky forward, got fouled and tied the game with one of two. 84–84. Then I gave us the lead with a steal and layup. 86–84. Ernie added to it, 88–84. Then Phillips with another rebound. 88–86. With just over a minute left in the game, I flicked one in from underneath, 90–86. Still not over. Claytor, with a long shot, pulled the ’Cats to within two.
Seven seconds left. We had possession. They fouled Mike Jackson and he missed.
Four seconds. They had the ball. The noise around us earsplitting, Givens launched a long shot from deep on the floor.
His shot went wide of the basket and the noise stopped.
Except for the horn. Everyone in the place heard the horn.
Game over, Vols won. Final, 90–88.
Afterward at our lockers, mobbed by the press, we were effusive about our teammates.
“Ernie was carrying us that first half,” I told them.
“Bernard was amazing,” Ernie said. “That shot he took wasn’t lucky. He’s hit those kind of clutch shots before.”
“Give credit to Austin. He made a great pass,” I said.
“I thought for a second I threw the ball too high, but I forgot how high Bernard can jump,” Clark said.
As for Ernie’s controversial free throw, Coach Mears laughed off Hall’s complaint.
“It’s like a player stepping on the opposing player’s foot as he’s trying to rebound,” he said.
Our leader had spoken, and I’ll let his be the last word.
THE VOLS FINISHED THE 1975–1976 SEASON with an overall record of 21–6, but came in second in the SEC right behind Alabama’s Crimson Tide, who went 23–5, and whose conference record was 15–3 to our 14–4. For most of the season, we ran neck and neck for the top spot, but the deciding contest was in Tuscaloosa on February 28, with our schedule down to three games.
We went into that match a half game behind the Tide, with one less left to play, knowing it was probably for all the cards. The game was one of the hardest fought of the season, but we lost 90–93 in double overtime. Three points. The hardest thing was that both Ernie and I had to watch from the bench after fouling out in the last few minutes. We wondered what we could have done to change things on the floor.
It was a letdown to see Alabama move ahead of us in the standings and take the conference title. But the Vols had given their all and lost to a great team. We weren’t hanging our heads.
My personal numbers that year were on par with my first. I averaged 25.2 points and 13 rebounds a game, shooting .573 from the field, leading the league in rebounds and field goal percentage. By the end of the season, I was second in SEC scoring behind Ernie, who smirked when he saw that he’d edged me out by a tenth of a percentage point.
“Twenty-five point three, B!” he gloated over the stat sheet. “Point three!”
I laughed. Ernie and I had no jealousy between us. The only stats we cared about were team wins and losses. We’d helped the Vols build on the promise of our preceding year, and that made me feel pretty good about what we’d accomplished.
Then I got a shot at every young athlete’s dream.
In April, not long after the season ended, Stu Aberdeen phoned me. He said I’d received an invitation from the 1976 Montreal Summer Olympics Committee to try out for the United States men’s basketball team. Trials would take place at a weeklong camp at the University of North Carolina.
Oh boy! I thought.
I jumped for joy in my dorm room, feeling like the eight-year-old kid who made his first-ever basket in P.S. 67’s cafeteria. And things got better. Stu had told me Ernie was also invited to camp. I envisioned the two of us representing our nation together, competing against the best in the world…
But to do that, I’d first have to outperform America’s best. What a challenge. This was why we played. It would be the biggest test of my basketball life.
Once my initial excitement died down, I put on my gear and immediately started to train. I went to the outdoor track where the UT sprinters practiced daily, asking to participate in their sessions. I’d run track growing up in Brooklyn and loved it. The guys happily accommodated me and were probably a little surprised to see me keep pace.
After every session, I went to the basketball gym and worked alone for a couple of hours, pushing myself harder than ever before. I left for North Carolina mentally, emotionally, and physically ready to go, filled with a burning desire to make my dream a reality. I had confidence in my work ethic, and was sure my performance at camp would show I belonged on the team.
On the flight to Chapel Hill, I thought, I’m a two-time SEC Player of the Year. I led the conference in scoring and rebounding two years in a row. And I’m a Consensus All-American.
The NCAA Consensus award was a distinctive honor. You had to earn it from four All-American teams: the Associated Press, United Press International, the National Association of Basketball Coaches, and the U.S. Basketball Writers Association. Only ten players in the country qualified.
I can do this, I repeatedly told myself. I would make my parents proud of me.
At the opening of camp, Dean Smith, the head basketball coach at the University of North Carolina, and coach of the U.S. team, put all the attending players through the paces to gauge our fitness, requiring us to do a timed one-mile run on the campus track.
I was glad I’d included track work in my preparations and grateful for my years of running across the Brooklyn Bridge. Now it would all pay off. The timed mile was a stiff undertaking; a few players vomited on the track and decided on the spot to go home.
I finished in fifth place. Walter Davis, a star forward from North Carolina—he would later spend fifteen years in the NBA—won the event. Walter wasn’t a college All-American, but he certainly caught my attention.
Camp was very competitive, with a rigorous slate of offensive and defensive drills. We also played half-court and full-court games. After workouts, I would head straight back to my hotel, order room service, and review my performance on the court, pinpointing areas of improvement for the next day’s drills.
At one point during the week, Coach Smith pulled me aside and complimented me on my defense. I was overjoyed; it was as encouraging a sign as I could’ve wanted. Then, on the final night of camp, the players were split into two squads for a formal basketball game, complete with referees. I knew it would be our final test, and I willed myself to dominance, outperforming every other forward on the court.
The next morning, I flew back to Tennessee. Classes were out for summer recess, and I again stayed on campus, working for the same oil distributor who’d hired me in my freshman year. I waited each day for a telegram from the Olympic committee, knowing they would have to contact me before too long. Opening Day ceremonies were July 17, with the players reporting to training camp in June.
One day, I returned from work to find a note slipped under my door—there was a telegram for me at the front desk. My pulse racing, I ran out of my room, bounded up the steps two at a time, and asked for the flimsy, yellow Western Union envelope.
I wanted to rip open the envelope right there at the reception desk. But I restrained myself, hurried back to the privacy of my room, and very gingerly opened it, careful not to tear apart the enclosed message.
Its first sentence stopped my heart in my chest:
We regret to inform you that you are not being selected for the 1976 Olympic team…
I cried like a baby. How could it be? I’d had the best camp of any forward there.
Slowly, I sat down on my bed, staring at the telegram, my eyes hot with tears. Waves of sadness passed over me. I stayed there for hours, not moving a muscle as day turned to night outside my window. I rationalized that the coaches must have noticed a flaw in my game, a weakness I’d somehow missed.
I would subsequently find out that Mitch Kupchak, a center, and Phil Ford, a guard, fellow Consensus All-Americans, made the cut. They played for Coach Smith’s North Carolina Tar Heels. Forward Walter Davis and center Tom LaGarde were also Tar Heels selected for the Olympic team, though neither were All-Americans.
Of the twelve players selected, four—a third of the twelve-man roster—were Tar Heels. Ernie Grunfeld’s selection as the only UT Vol would be stunning to me. I’d naively believed there was room for both of us.
But I was still unaware of all that as I sat with the telegram in my hands, barely noticing the room had gone dark; hours had passed since I opened the envelope. Finally I stood up, switched on the light, dropped the thin slip of paper into the wastebasket… and put the old chip squarely back on my shoulder.
My eyes were clear and my sadness had turned to resolve.
I resumed training the very next day. But not for the Olympics. That was behind me.
Although I would not tell anyone, I decided that my junior season would be my last as a college player. I began preparing for the next step forward in my life and career.
My sights were set on the NBA.
Game on.
IN JUNE, I WENT TO A ROCK CONCERT at the Knoxville Civic Coliseum, a few minutes from UT. I had a good time at the show and was slowly driving back toward campus with the heavy outflow of vehicles from the arena’s parking lot, when the police stopped traffic so people could cross the street.
As I sat with my foot on the brake, a guy in the crowd banged his hand down on the hood of my Pontiac.
WHAM!
I looked out the windshield, startled. Was he drunk or just a troublemaker? I’d done nothing to set him off.
He slammed my hood again. And kept slamming it.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
I pushed open my door and got out. It didn’t faze him; he kept banging away. Thinking enough was enough, I started in his direction.
“Nigger, get back inside.”
I turned toward the voice. It was one of the officers who’d halted traffic for pedestrians.
I motioned at the guy pounding on my hood. “He’s bang—”
The officer interrupted me. “Bernard, get back in the vehicle.”
I froze, dumbfounded. I was shocked. I had never been called a nigger before. I angrily turned toward the voice. This was like a replay of the time I’d gotten pulled over at the stop sign. And now another guy was involved and getting different treatment.
It did not escape me that he was white.
I didn’t say anything to the officer. I knew better than to put up an argument.
Instead, I slid back into my car.
At last, the cop turned toward the guy in front. “All right,” he said. “Move on.”
The guy obeyed, but not without giving me a parting gesture. Stepping toward the opposite side of the street, he turned toward my windshield and flipped up his middle finger.
The officer didn’t say a word. I hadn’t expected he would.
I drove on toward the campus, the good spirits I’d felt leaving the concert gone. It was as if they’d dissipated in the hot Southern night.
I knew then that the police harassment would not go away. I’d have to live with it as long as I was in Tennessee.
I continued to train hard for the coming season and NBA draft. But my armor had thickened around me. I kept my emotions inside and allowed no one to penetrate.
Bernard King, the player, would not be denied.
But Bernard, the young man who loved the game of basketball above and beyond all else, was in icy hibernation.