Love and passion can be intertwined. But they aren’t the same.
I was eight when I fell in love with basketball. A boy. At that age, I thought it was all I needed. It allowed me to express myself, gave realization to my creativity. The court was a safe haven, a place of joy where I could block out everything around me: the crime, drugs, and desperation on the streets, and the constricting environment at home. When I had the ball, I felt complete. The world couldn’t touch me.
That’s the love.
My passion for the game was deeply ingrained in my spirit, burning through every tissue of my being. The passion drove me to compete, to be the best, and to overcome any obstacle, no matter what I might face.
Nothing could ever take that fire from my belly.
But when I was eighteen, in the winter of my heart, the love waned.
I kept bringing Brooklyn to the basketball. The stat sheets show my junior year at Tennessee was consistent with the previous two. I averaged 25.8 points a game and a career high 14.3 rebounds. I was once again a Consensus All-American and SEC Player of the Year. I played in twenty-six of twenty-eight games and set a school record of 22 double-doubles (points and rebounds). Nine of them came in a streak from January 8 to February 1, when our team went 9–1 against our toughest opponents.
With Ernie, I was co-captain of the team. He came into the season as an Olympic gold medalist; Dean Smith’s team had squashed Yugoslavia for the prize in Montreal. Back in Tennessee, he continued the charge.
Ernie was a senior, graduating at the end of the year to embark on an NBA career. After three seasons, our tear through the Southeastern Conference would be over. The Ernie and Bernie Show was nearing the end of its run. Two New Yorkers, one Jewish and the other black, had changed Tennessee basketball forever. We’d had a wild ride, and wanted its climax to be a championship for Big Orange Country.
Although I didn’t tell anyone, it was also going to be my last year at UT. As a sophomore, I’d submitted my name for NBA draft eligibility as a hardship applicant, which allowed non-seniors with financial need to turn professional. The hardship exemption had started in 1972, and players like Dr. J, George McGinnis, and Bob McAdoo were among the first to enter the draft as underclassmen.
NBA rules allowed you to withdraw until twenty-four hours before the start of the selection process, and in 1976 I’d pulled out at the last minute. In the end, I didn’t think it wise to leave school as a sophomore. I felt I could improve my game more by staying and thought Ernie and I still had something to accomplish as teammates.
This year was different. I was leaving my name in consideration. It wasn’t for the monetary gain. I never played basketball for the money. I wanted to join the NBA for the same reason I’d once sought out the court where the older kids played in Fort Greene. My omission from the Summer Olympics team had stoked my competitive fire. I wanted to prove myself, to compete against the best.
There were certainly other factors. I’d continued partying heavily on weekends. It hadn’t affected my game, so no one said anything to me.
I didn’t think I had a problem with excessive drinking. But for the first time in my life, basketball wasn’t giving me happiness. My inner being craved something more to fulfill it. I also knew my difficulties with the police weren’t going away.
I needed a change.
My decision wasn’t impulsive. I’d thought it through very carefully. As a student athlete, you weren’t allowed to engage a representative until the draft. But you could consult with knowledgeable people around the game and solicit their unofficial advice.
Tom Konchalski had kept in touch with my parents after I went off to college. He didn’t expect anything in return. He wasn’t trying to benefit financially. He just cared about young basketball players and their families, understood their struggles, and wanted to make a difference in their lives. I respected Tom immensely and sought out his guidance as a friend.
In his opinion, I would be drafted in the top eight. He’d independently assessed the needs of different teams around the league, and felt the New Jersey Nets might have significant interest in me if I remained eligible. It was just an educated guess from what he’d observed, he said. Don’t count on it. But I knew him well enough to take his hunches seriously.
The Nets played just across the Hudson River from Manhattan. They weren’t the storied Knicks I’d loved as a kid. But it excited me to think about performing in front of New York area crowds, so close to my home turf.
None of the Vols’ players or coaches were aware of my desire to turn pro as our season barreled along. There had been speculation about it in my sophomore year, but I never really considered it. Nor did I speak of it as a junior. I didn’t want to answer questions from the press and create a distraction for my teammates or myself.
On March 5, the Ernie and Bernie Show faced Kentucky for our fifth and last time. The SEC title was on the line; if the Wildcats won, they would play a first-round NCAA tournament game at home in their brand-new twenty-three thousand-seat Rupp Arena. A loss would give them an at-large berth on the road.
We entered the game with a record of 14–2 in the conference and 20–5 overall after a tough loss to Georgia. Kentucky was 15–1 and 22–2. That put us a game behind them for the SEC title, with each of our teams having one more left to play.
For us, all the chips were on the table. A win would give us a chance to tie the Wildcats up for a share of the conference title. If we went on to take the last game on our schedule, a home game against the weak Vanderbilt Commodores, we would earn sole possession of the title because we’d swept our season series with the ’Cats.
After practice the day before, Coach Mears had posed like a Bantam officer while addressing a crowd of reporters.
“This is the biggest game in my fifteen years at Tennessee, although we’ve had some other big ones against Kentucky,” he said. “You’re playing a team many people feel is number one in the country, and most others think is number two.”
We were ranked eleventh, which should have made them the hands-down favorite. Except this was Vols–Kentucky. The Wildcats hadn’t defeated us since my freshman year at UT. Back in January, we’d beaten them at Rupp in another overtime match, giving us a four-game winning streak against them.
Mears knew they would want revenge. During his press conference, a beat reporter asked, “Do you have any particular worries about the game?”
The coach cleared his throat. You could see him gearing up. “Its physical nature,” he said. “Coaches around the league are saying Kentucky ought to be in the National Football League.”
The reporters all laughed. Then a guy followed up.
“And what about Tennessee?”
Mears stood there looking like he’d rip the pad and pencil from his hands. But then he just smiled.
“We’re a finesse team with grace and quickness,” he said.
Our final contest with the ’Cats would play out at Stokely, giving us the home-floor advantage. “The Game” was all anyone was talking about in Knoxville. Earlier in the week, over twenty-four hundred students had slept out in the forty-degree cold for tickets; for some reason, we always seemed to face Kentucky in the dead of winter.
My team tried to block out the hoopla, but I could feel the tension in our locker room before the game. NBC was televising it nationally. We’d heard that the governors of Kentucky and Tennessee were in attendance. Ray Blanton, our state’s governor, loved to brag about UT’s teams.
I knew what was at stake, but didn’t think about it. As I mentally prepared to play, I marshaled my concentration and visualized, exactly as I would for every other game.
Then it was time. We made our way into the tunnel, pumped up, slapping five, ready. The Pride of the Southland marching band was in big-game mode, blowing the roof off the arena with “Rocky Top.” The crowd was on its feet singing along.
As I waited to be announced, I realized this would be the last chapter at Stokely for me and Ernie. But it was a fleeting thought. There was no time for it, no room in my mind. We had a game to play.
“… number fifty-three, the King of the Volunteers, BERNARRRD KINNNG!”
Like the band, John Ward was in peak form.
I went busting through the paper-covered T. The crowd cheered wildly, and I pumped my fist in the air.
Kentucky will not defeat us in our house this Saturday afternoon, I thought as Ward introduced my teammates.
The game started out at a breakneck tempo. Kentucky liked setting the pace as a plan of attack. They’d play a fast, physical eight minutes and hope to wear down the opposition. But we could match their energy and aggressiveness.
It was a ferocious dogfight under the boards, each team bumping, jostling, and crowding for position. With Robey and Phillips, the ’Cats had two powerful big men who didn’t leave much open space between them. Add James Lee in relief, and they had a six-foot-five forward who could come off the bench to score and rebound if either starter got into foul trouble.
Coach Hall’s second line was a Kentucky strength, and Phillips’s junior year play had allowed him to use Lee in the reserve role all season. That gave Hall ten fouls in the low post, freeing Robey and Phillips to do their karate routine.
And, no, Coach Mears wasn’t making that up. They would whack you whenever they thought they could get away with it. But where Ernie and I came from, if someone hit you, the thing to do was hit them back.
Karate chop us, we’ll kung fu you.
I still laugh when I remember how Ernie gave Phillips payback for one of the craziest fouls I ever saw on a basketball court.
We were battling under the net in a press of bodies when Phillips bit Mike Jackson’s arm. That’s right. Bit. Sinking his teeth into it. Mike couldn’t believe it. All of a sudden, he went down to his knees yelling, “He bit me! He bit me!” at the top of his lungs.
As the official’s whistle shrilled, I saw a woman dive onto the court from the stands. It took me a second to realize it was Mike’s mom. She ran straight over to him, pushing through the players and referees.
“My son got bit!” she screamed, crouching over Mike.“Somebody help my boy!”
Phillips was called for a foul, and both players stayed in the game. But the look on Ernie’s face told me it wasn’t settled.
I won’t claim to have been shocked when, a few minutes later, his elbow found Phillip’s eye. Crack! Right under the brow bone. Phillips staggered with his hands over his face, and there was another whistle. You could see his eye swelling up as his trainers examined him.
Finally, order was restored, but neither team let up. The Kentucky defense had keyed in on Ernie with double and triple teams, so he concentrated on pulling down loose balls and finding me with crisp, excellent passes. I dominated inside, sailing through Kentucky’s front line. If I could get open for a layup, he would route the ball through Johnny Darden, and I’d break away to shoot a jumper from the key.
Ten minutes into the game, we were up 26–20. We’d done a good job holding back Givens, their leading scorer. But he and Robey made a few points late, and Ernie went cold from the free-throw line.
That gave Kentucky the lead.
At the break, we trailed 47–42. The game had been knotted eight times in the first half before the Wildcats capitalized on Ernie’s blown foul shots.
I could see him seething with anger and frustration in the locker room. It wasn’t just his free throws. Kentucky had keyed their defense on him all night. Double teams, three-on-ones, they were doing anything and everything they could to shut him down.
I’d scored 16 points, but knew I would have to deliver more in the second half. We wouldn’t have stayed close without Ernie’s rebounding. Now I needed to pick up the slack.
The second half was a test of wills. Neither team gave in. The lead changed twice, but Robey and Phillips were killing us down low. At one point, Kentucky pulled ahead by 11, 55–44.
I remember Coach Mears calling a time-out. We were going to a zone defense to try and stop Kentucky’s two hulks. Ernie, me, and Reggie Johnson, our freshman center, would clog the passing lanes to keep the basketball out of their hands.
There was a risk to that approach. One of the Wildcats best players was Jack Givens, a pure shooting guard. If he got the ball on the outside and found his jumper, we were in trouble.
But we never lost confidence. We’d had several comeback wins against Kentucky and were in their heads. I knew they half expected us to do it again.
The coach’s change of strategy worked. We clamped down defensively, cutting off the middle. The Wildcats’ guards kept trying to get the ball to the big men, but we wouldn’t allow it. That held their scoring in check and gave us an opportunity to claw our way back into the game.
I stepped it up. Suddenly I couldn’t miss a shot. With eleven minutes left, Ernie made a pickoff inside and fed me the ball for a spinning layup. We retook the lead, 62–61. Then I scored another layup, and Johnson added two more points. 66–61.
The Wildcats were rattled. I saw it in their eyes and postures. Hall must have seen it too and called time.
They were tough out of the huddle and scrambled back on top, making it 69–68 Kentucky with five minutes to go. But I pulled us back in front with a pair of foul shots, and we never let them pass us again.
With forty seconds on the clock, we led 80–77. Then Kentucky got possession and fed the ball to Givens.
We began trading fouls away from the basket, neither team wanting to give up a 3-point play. Givens went to the line, missed both shots. Our ball. We dribbled and passed, running down the clock. With fourteen seconds left, they fouled Darden. He dropped in one of two from the line. 81–77.
We gave them the next shot with the clock at ten seconds, knowing it would set us up for the final possession. 81–79.
Six seconds on the clock. Ernie inbounded to Crosby and two Wildcats converged on him, forcing him out of bounds.
I glanced up at the clock, my heart pumping in my chest.
Two seconds.
One.
Crosby raised the ball into the air with both hands and our bench erupted.
The noise from the seats rolled over us like a tidal wave. Our fans were amazing. We’d packed in the biggest crowd in Stokely’s history and you could hear it.
We celebrated the win by cutting down the nets, Ernie and the rest of my teammates mobbing me, hoisting me into the air, then carrying me to the basket. The next thing I knew, I was holding the scissors. I can still see them in my hand as I reached up to do the honors, jubilantly screaming, “We don’t lose to Kentucky!”
If I’d paid closer attention, I probably would have noticed my old love for the game stirring in my belly. I scored 20 points in the second half for a total of 36, pulling down 11 rebounds. Best of all, I’d delivered on the promise I made after that loss in Kentucky two years before.
The Wildcats had never again beaten us while I was on the team.
Back in the locker room, a towel draped over his shoulders, Ernie played to the reporters and got in a parting jab at our rivals.
“I just hope Joe B. Hall doesn’t come up with some reason why Kentucky lost today!” he said. “First it was injuries, then the officiating, then someone shooting someone else’s free throws. While Hall’s making up his excuses, we’ll just cherish the win!”
I remember looking over at him and seeing a huge grin on his face. It put one on mine as I replied to a reporter’s question about how I felt.
“Man, I’m tired,” I said. “But not too tired to get measured for a ring.”
Of course, I added, we still had to beat Vanderbilt in a couple of days to earn those SEC Championship rings.
But I knew we were ready.
VANDERBILT WOULDN’T MAKE IT EASY ON US. They were grittier than their record showed and came into Stokely on a full tank of pride. No one was walking over them.
It was a tough game for our team, even with the loud cheers we got when our names were announced. We had trouble getting up for it after beating Kentucky, and Ernie was still pretty bruised from wrestling with its two giants. I can’t recall how many turnovers we had, but think there were over 15. We were sloppy and Vandy took advantage.
Thirty-three minutes into the game, the score was tied 45–45.
I told myself that was unacceptable. If we let things slip away and lost, the Wildcats would become SEC Champs and we’d be looking in on the NCAA tournament from the outside. Saturday’s win would have amounted to nothing.
I poured it on. 24 points. 20 rebounds.
We won 65–55. It gave us twenty-two regular season victories, a Tennessee record.
The Vandys were gracious enough to give us hugs and wish us well. In a few days, we would play the Syracuse University Orange, holders of a 26–2 record, in a first-round NCAA Mideast Regional at the University of Louisiana, Baton Rouge.
But what sticks out most in my mind, in addition to the win, was the standing ovation I got coming through the T before the game. At the time, I thought it was because of my performance against Kentucky. But I’ve since wondered if the fans realized I might be gone after the season.
The standing Os for Ernie and Mike Jackson were understandable. They were seniors, so it was a given that they wouldn’t be back. In my case, it wasn’t certain, not for the fans. But under the NBA’s relaxed hardship regulations, a lot of underclassmen were making the early jump from varsity hoops to the pros. I was one of the nation’s best college players.
I think they knew it was goodbye. Their applause touched me. I soaked it in and filed it into memory.
The Ernie and Bernie Show had closed in Old Rocky Top.
What a ride, I thought. What a ride.
I WISH I COULD SAY that ride had a storybook finish. That we took it all the way to an NCAA National Championship or even a Final Four appearance. But in reality, it came to a jarring first-round halt.
The single-game elimination format is a cruel heartbreak for the loser. You play all season for an invitation to the dance. Then, suddenly, it’s over. But you take whatever lessons you can and move on. It’s part of competitive sports.
Syracuse University was an independent Division 1 school in the Eastern area. Eastern teams were considered the weakest in the NCAA, and their excellent season record didn’t impress the odds makers. They had us as the heavy favorite.
The Orange deserved more credit than they received. Their six-foot-eleven center was Roosevelt Bouie, an All-American and one of the best players in Syracuse history. Jimmy Williams—they called him “Bug” because he was only five foot ten with his shoes on—was their point guard and top scorer. Their captain and power forward, Marty Byrnes, was a smart, physical player and solid leader on the court. Larry Kelly, a marksman from the outside, was having his best season with the team. Ross Kindel, Dale Shackleford, and Billy Drew could score twenty off the bench any given night. The exceptional reserve corps also included freshman Louis Orr, a tough, light-footed forward who would become a future opponent and my eventual teammate in the NBA. As a late-game scoring option, Orr was a deadly secret weapon.
As for their first-year head coach, I suppose you could say he was Ray Mears’s opposite number. He certainly wasn’t fiery or a showman. With his Coke-bottle glasses and quiet manner, he could have been mistaken for a certified accountant. But he paid close attention to detail, stressed discipline and preparation, and was popular with his players. Like Hubie Brown, my future coach with the Knicks, he believed in using a platoon system and was masterful deploying his bench. That year, its depth of talent had allowed him to utilize a ten- or eleven-man rotation.
His name?
Jim Boeheim.
If you’re a college hoops fan, enough said. But for those who aren’t, here’s a quick career summary:
Forty-one years after our game in Baton Rouge, Boeheim’s record would show ten conference championships, thirty-two tournament appearances, five Final Fours, and a National Championship. As I write these words, he’s still leading his team as one of the NCAA’s most successful and longest-tenured coaches.
His team came to the tournament tired of being called second rate. They were out to prove they could play with anybody. And we weren’t just anybody. We were the ballyhooed Tennessee Vols. Coach Mears was so confident of our chances to start the season that he’d had a picture of the Atlanta Omni Arena, where the NCAA Championship game was to be played that year, printed on the backs of our warm-up uniforms. A month earlier, Ernie and I became the subjects of a cover story in Sports Illustrated.
It was supposed to be a mismatch, but I took nothing for granted. This would be the Vols’ second trip to the NCAA tournament in my three seasons with Tennessee. At the close of my sophomore year, we had played Virginia Military Institute in the round of thirty-two at Charlotte Arena. But I’d been sidelined for the game.
A week or so earlier, I was running a warm-up drill with Johnny Darden and Terry Crosby. The three-man weave was a basic passing exercise. But freak injuries happen. Crosby was a burly former football player. My thumb hit his shoulder and snapped backward. I thought it was only jammed until I saw the white jag of bone poking through the flesh of my hand.
It was a compound fracture. I needed nine stitches at the hospital to close the open wound, and a cast to set the bone in place.
I couldn’t believe it. I’d done that exercise countless times. How could this happen a week before my first NCAA playoff game?
I insisted I could play. But the doctors told my coaches I would risk permanent damage to my hand if I took the court.
Coach Mears and Stu Aberdeen understood what keeping me out would spell for the team’s prospects. They knew they’d be at an extreme disadvantage without their leading scorer. But they wouldn’t take the chance that I’d ruin my future. They put my long-term welfare ahead of everything.
I kept hoping my hand would miraculously heal in time for the game. That I could somehow contribute, even off the bench.
Of course, it was wishful thinking. Compound fractures don’t mend in a week. When the coach told me to suit up halfway through the game, he made it clear I wasn’t leaving the sidelines. He was just hoping to lift the team’s morale and get the Tennessee fans going in the stands.
We lost 75–81. All our starters were in double digits, with Ernie scoring 36 points, and Mike Jackson, 14.
I felt helpless watching from the bench, knowing the difference I could have made for my team. I’d waited a year for us to reach the NCAA playoffs again.
The Vols team that arrived in Baton Rouge to play Syracuse on March 15, 1977, was much better than the 1976 version. More talented, more balanced, more experienced. We were a confident bunch.
Syracuse probably would have conceded that its starting five didn’t compare to ours. But we let up after pulling to an early lead. For most of the afternoon, it was a four-, five-, or six-point ball game. We never gained separation, and it gave the Orange a boost of confidence.
In the final ten minutes, Ernie, Mike Jackson, and I were all in foul trouble, playing right into Boeheim’s hands. He was masterful using his bench.
With under three minutes to play, and the score 72–68 Syracuse, Mike committed his fifth personal foul on an attempted steal and was out of the game. He was our third best shooter.
About two minutes from the end of regulation, our freshman center, Reggie Johnson, pulled us to within a couple of points, 74–72. Then both teams scored again. 76–74.
The clock ran down to under two minutes.
With a minute and a half left, I fouled out trying to block a short jumper by Shackleford. He made his shot and the free throw. A three-point play.
The score was 79–74. A 5-point deficit. But it felt bigger than that. I knew I could’ve helped make it up. Except I was relegated to the bench.
I was shaking my head as I walked off the court. There hadn’t been much contact on the play—if there was any at all. But I wasn’t upset at the referee. I was angry at myself. The officiating was tight throughout the game, and my team never adjusted. Our best players needed to stay aggressive and, at the same time, stay on the court. We didn’t, and we paid the price.
If we’d gotten blown out at that point, the loss might sting less than it does. But we rallied in the remaining minute of regulation, and Reggie Johnson hit another jumper to force overtime.
Ernie and the guys on the floor played their hearts out, but the Vols were built around our starting five. With Mike Jackson and me sacked, Syracuse gained the advantage.
Larry Kelly probably had his best game with Syracuse that afternoon. He’d been bucketing jumpers all game and started overtime by putting one in from the key. Then Kindel, a replacement, scored another two.
It’s hard to come back when you’re down by two in limited extra minutes. Ernie started OT with four fouls. Once he was called for his fifth, it wasn’t to be.
Syracuse won 93–88.
Our team was stunned. We’d let the game slip out of our hands.
It was a quiet flight back to Knoxville. Ernie knew he’d played his final game with the Vols. Secretly, I knew I wouldn’t be back either.
But no one on that plane suspected Ray Mears’s brilliant, innovative coaching career also came to an end in Baton Rouge. After the curtain fell on the Ernie and Bernie Show, he resigned his position as head coach of the Vols after fifteen groundbreaking years.
Mears had suffered from clinical depression most of his adult life, and the incessant pressures of coaching basketball could not have helped his condition. He didn’t just get his bearing and mannerisms from his hero, General Patton. He had the same militant attitude. A basketball season, he’d tell us, was like going to war with the enemy. As our leader, he took every loss to heart.
Did that weigh on the coach? I sometimes wonder. I wonder if he suspected my own problems stemmed partly from grappling with institutional racism of a sort I’d never experienced growing up in Fort Greene, where the majority of people were black. We never discussed it, leaving the question unanswered.
Mears was eighty when he passed away in 2007. He’d been Tennessee’s most successful coach ever and remains one of the top-fifteen winningest in the history of NCAA basketball, with a record of 399–135. After resigning from his position as the Vols’ head coach, he spent a decade as the athletic director at the UT system’s Martin campus outside Memphis.
We stayed in touch over the years, and I believe he was as proud of me as I was to have played under him. I wish he’d lived long enough to attend my induction into the NBA Hall of Fame. I would like to have shared that experience with him and thank him in person for helping to bridge my way from the playgrounds of Brooklyn.
Ray Mears was a great coach and better human being. He went out on top.
THERE WERE NO EMOTIONAL GOODBYES after our loss to Syracuse. When the professional basketball season ends, guys clean out their lockers and go their separate ways. It’s different in college. You all live in the same athletic residence. Classes are still in session. Nobody’s going anywhere for a while.
But things had changed. Ernie was about to graduate and move on to an NBA career; everyone knew he would place high in the 1977 draft. Mike Jackson was also getting his diploma, though as a complementary player, he had more uncertain prospects.
My time at Tennessee was also over. I hadn’t told anyone, but my mind was made up. I was leaving my name in the draft.
I dropped out of school shortly after we returned from Louisiana. It wasn’t official, but I didn’t see any point in attending classes or staying on campus. Having managed to put away enough money for a few months’ rent, I found an inexpensive apartment in Knoxville and left the dorm without telling anyone. I wanted to quietly cut ties with the past.
The NBA draft was on Friday, June 10, that year. Thursday morning, the deadline for withdrawing my name from the pool, I called a press conference to announce my decision to leave it in. Coach Mears wasn’t really surprised. He’d suspected I might not be back and recruited for the next season based on that possibility.
That Friday, I didn’t wander more than a few feet from my phone. I’d hired a sports management firm to negotiate with whoever drafted me. My representative, Bill Pollak, would call when my selection occurred.
When the phone rang, I almost dove for the receiver.
Bill informed me I’d been chosen by the New Jersey Nets as the seventh first-round pick, confirming what I was told in advance. What I did not know, and would not for many years to come, was that Kevin Loughery, the Nets’s head coach, had visited Tennessee during the season to scout Ernie Grunfeld, but decided he wanted me instead. If he’d stuck to his original plan, I would have drafted eighth, one slot below Ernie, and gone to the Denver Nuggets.
Ernie was drafted eleventh in the first round. Still a high pick. But his immediate future in the NBA would be with the Milwaukee Bucks.
And that was that. I was ready to start earning a living as a pro basketball player. Except for a few all-important things.
Finalizing the contract would take time, and my cash had just about dried up. Though my landlord in Knoxville offered to hold off asking for rent till I could pay him, I felt it was time to get started on my future. That meant leaving Tennessee.
Of course, being broke, I knew it was going to be easier said than done.