The magic began with the All-Star Game.
The first half of the New York Knicks’ 1983–1984 season was good but not great.
Our team had essentially the same personnel as the year before, though we’d picked up Ray Williams, a big, strong player with a smooth mid-range jump shot. He improved us on both sides of the court, and we were playing hard every night. But our 24–18 record reflected inconsistency.
Hubie always broke the season down into increments. He didn’t want us to look at having to win the majority of eighty-two games over half a season.
“Win three out of four,” he preached. “Do that and we’ll be okay.”
We bought into his philosophy, taking small bites out of the schedule. I know Rory Sparrow and Darrell Walker felt it helped them handle the pressure of a basketball season.
Three out of four. That was our aim. Even so, we had a couple of losing streaks we couldn’t afford, not with the Sixers and Boston Celtics in our division. They were two of the best teams in basketball, and we needed to stick close to them.
I’d had a solid start, my play during those first months of the season earning me a second All-Star selection as a reserve for the Eastern Conference team. The game was at McNichols Sports Arena in Denver, and almost every great player in an era of greats was there.
During my career, I played against fifty-one Hall of Famers. Many would be in the game. The starters for the East were Julius Erving, Larry Bird, Robert Parish, Sidney Moncrief, and Isiah Thomas. The West’s starters were Alex English, Adrian Dantley, George Gervin, Magic Johnson, and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.
My team’s coach was K. C. Jones of the Boston Celtics, who had the best record in the conference. He’d seen me play often enough to know what I could do.
In the All-Star Game, players share minutes to showcase everyone’s talents. A lot of mine came in overtime, when K. C. inserted me with the game on the line. I remember getting into a scoring duel with Mark Aguirre, the small forward representing the Dallas Mavericks. That was fun, but I didn’t take the challenge lightly.
I played to win.
In my twenty-two minutes on the court, I scored 18 points.
Mark hit 13 for the West after giving me plenty of competition.
The East won 154–145.
But something else happened. Something much more important than my performance in that game.
I’d always known I was good. You have to believe in yourself between the lines. I’m not talking about ego off the basketball court. I’m talking about belief and confidence on the court. You need to have it.
In Denver, I felt a switch turn on. That’s the only way to describe it. I looked around at some of the best players in basketball—the very best players—and it dawned on me that I was one of them. I had played in an All-Star game as a Warrior, but I hadn’t experienced anything close to these thoughts and feelings.
All my hard work had finally paid off. It was magical!
I was one of them.
THE KNICKS WEREN’T GOING TO HAVE an easy ride after the break. We opened the second half against the Spurs, one of the top teams in the West. George “The Iceman” Gervin, one of the league’s top players—and an all-time favorite of mine—was their small forward. And there would be no letup as we swung across Texas to face the Dallas Mavericks and Houston Rockets.
I met the team in San Antonio. Aboard the flight from Denver, I sat next to Rick Pitino, our assistant coach, who’d been at the All-Star Game with me.
“It’s imperative we get off to a great start in the second half,” I told him.
Rick understood. Ray Williams and Louis Orr, my backup forward, were unavailable to us. Louis had the flu; and Ray, an ankle injury. He was one of our best shooters and defenders, and might be sidelined for a long stretch.
I knew that meant we’d have to alter our usual game. San Antonio had a wide-open offense. They played fast-break basketball with very few structured plays. Shorthanded as we were, we couldn’t use our usual half-court press to wreak havoc with their transitions. We’d be chasing them up and down the court all night.
I was okay with that. More than okay. I loved running the open floor. That was my game with the Warriors. If my teammates’ absence meant scoring more points, I would score more points.
My mind-set for the remainder of the season began on that plane.
I would do whatever was required to win.
I DIDN’T GO OUT FOR WARM-UPS before the game in San Antonio.
Instead, I had a turkey sandwich and vanilla milkshake, and stayed in the locker room. A minute before the team meeting, I stepped out onto the floor, took a single shot, and then returned to the locker room.
After just playing in Denver, and then the flight to Texas, I wanted to conserve my energy. I would need every iota to cover Iceman.
George Gervin was playing phenomenally well at that point in his career, and he got off to a quick start against us in San Antonio.
As I’d promised myself, I did everything possible to keep us in the game. I finished strong in transition, and I hit my mid-range jumpers. George and I went point-for-point all night.
By the fourth quarter, I was getting tired. Then I glanced up at the scoreboard and saw the Spurs were ahead. Iceman had scored 41 points. He could put us away at any time.
We cannot lose this game, I thought.
I picked it up offensively. It’s a great feeling to know you can do that at will.
I was in that space.
I hit double-digit points in the final frame. I actually didn’t think I was scoring that many. It’s that way when you’re fixed on executing rather than on a number.
We defeated the Spurs117–113. I’d hit 20 of 30 shots from the field and scored the rest in free throws. Walking into the locker room, I still had no idea about my point total for the night. I hadn’t checked the stat sheet at halftime and tended to score in bunches, so it was hard to keep track. No one on my team had mentioned it during the game; they didn’t want to jinx me.
Only when the beat reporters asked me about scoring 50 points did I know. I realized I’d had an exceptional night, but the number surprised me. It was more than double my season average.
The bottom line, though, was that we’d won. I didn’t even think about scoring 50 after the beats drifted away from my locker.
We were flying straight to Dallas in the morning for our next game.
THROUGHOUT MY CAREER, I challenged myself to perform better in the second of consecutive-night games. It was a personal achievement that helped my team’s success. Many players had a falloff in performance. On the Knicks, I especially couldn’t allow it. The guys relied on me to be a prolific scorer. It was never truer than on that road trip.
Without Louis and Ray, I would need another big night against the Mavericks. I’d be matched against Mark Aguirre, the forward who’d dueled me at the All-Star Game.
Mark was always difficult for me to guard. A big, wide-bodied post-up player, he outweighed me by twenty-five pounds despite being an inch shorter. He used his lower body like a bulldozer, moving guys like me out of position as though we weren’t even there. A DePaul alumnus, he’d been selected by Dallas in the first round of the 1981 draft and, in his mind, was the greatest player in basketball. He would know about my hot night in San Antonio and be determined to cool me down.
That night, I followed the same pregame routine as in San Antonio. A turkey sandwich, vanilla shake. No warm-ups. Then, a single shot before the team meeting and back to my locker.
Never mess around with what works.
It’s odd how some things will stick in your memory. As we took the floor, Hubie tore into Bill Cartwright for no reason I could fathom.
“Your man’s Pat Cummings tonight. Are you going to goddam play him hard, dammit?”
Cummings was a six-foot-nine big forward who was several inches shorter than most opposing centers, Bill among them.
Hubie tended to berate Bill a lot, and Bill, with his quiet good nature, would tolerate it. But he didn’t require that type of motivation. Bill could handle Cummings just fine. I knew I was still in a groove from the tip-off and moved on the floor with utmost confidence.
At one juncture, I rebounded the ball on the defensive end and power-dribbled up the floor. As Mark attempted a steal, I put the ball behind my back without losing the flow of my dribble, and pulled up for a jump shot just above the foul line.
Swish. Nothing but net. Aguirre looked at his hand like a kid who’s been caught reaching into the cookie jar… and then had the cookie snatched away from him.
Like my move against Dr. J and Moses in the playoffs, that one was new to my repertoire.
At that instant, I knew I wasn’t just on a hot streak. I wasn’t on a roll. I wasn’t even in the Zone, at least not as I’d known it before.
I was at my peak. I could feel it in my mind and body.
My peak.
I remember that we had a five-point lead in the game’s final seconds. Aguirre had fouled out. As we set up for what was going to be the last play of the night, I heard my teammates yelling to Rory Sparrow. Their voices seemed to come from far away, somewhere on the other side of a long, long tunnel.
“Give B the ball! Give B the ball! Give B the ball!”
With my peripheral vision, I saw that our entire second unit and coaching staff were on their feet.
Later I found out that the media behind the bench had told Hubie I’d scored 48 points. At that moment, I didn’t have a clue. I’d hit 19 of 27 shots and didn’t know that either. I only knew I had been on fire again.
“GIVE B THE BALL…!”
I received the pass on the left side of the floor. Oh, how I loved the left side of the floor. My defender was Jay Vincent, a six-foot-seven second-year forward who became my future teammate—briefly—on the Washington Bullets.
I drove left toward the baseline, but Jay cut me off.
Uh-uh.
Reaching into my bag of tricks, I spun back, squared up toward the rim, and rose from the floor. A split second before I released the ball, I thought, No way I’m missing this shot.
The basketball flicked softly through the net as the buzzer sounded.
We won. 105–98.
Spent, I began walking back to my bench. But before I got there, the whole team mobbed me. Bad ankle and all, Ray Williams had me in a chokehold. Guys were patting me on the back and teasing me. It was a truly unforgettable moment, not only because I’d scored 50, but because my teammates were so happy for me. I relished the feeling but knew I could still improve upon my game.
Then I was in the locker room, surrounded by reporters. One told me I was the first player to score at least 50 points on back-to-back nights since the legendary Wilt Chamberlain two decades earlier. A couple of others, Elgin Baylor and Rick Barry, had scored 50 or more in consecutive games. But Chamberlain and I stood alone with our record.
Though I never would have compared myself to the Big Dipper, I was honored to stand in his company for a night.
THE NEXT MORNING, we had an early flight to Houston for the third leg of our Texas trip. It must have been six o’clock, or one of those gritty hours when it’s still half dark out, and I was bleary eyed boarding our bus.
As I turned toward my seat, Darrell Walker rose and gave me an exaggerated bow. I laughed out loud. Meanwhile, the guys were all applauding. I was as stunned and moved as I had been when they mobbed me in the arena. It was fantastic to be appreciated, but we won each of the 50-point games as a team. I always emphasized that.
I arrived at my hotel room in Houston to a ton of messages (remember, this was before cellphones). The Knicks’ public relations team coordinated all interview requests, and there must have been dozens. Ladies I’d dated in the past were also calling the PR department with their phone numbers. Sports Illustrated was sending someone to Houston to interview me for a story—and see whether I could score 50 three games in a row. I was even invited on the David Letterman Show.
We had a couple of days off before our game with the Rockets, and I attended the one they played the night before ours. I was astonished when the announcer introduced me, and the crowd rose in a standing ovation.
Oh my, I thought. What have I done? This is huge.
The truth is, I felt a little uncomfortable about the SI piece. I never tried to manufacture points unless the outcome of the game was on the line. The idea of padding stats was contrary to everything I believed. I was simply a very consistent player with a high basketball IQ.
I wondered if the SI reporter had considered the quality of the opponent we were about to play. Houston was one of the elite teams in the Western Conference. They were led by the heralded rookie center Ralph Sampson, who had been the number-one pick in the 1983 draft. He was supported by a solid group of teammates, including long-forgotten guys like Allen Leavell and Lewis Lloyd. There was also Caldwell Jones, and the magnificent Elvin Hayes playing his fifteenth and final season in what would be a Hall of Fame NBA career. I would face Robert Reid, someone I thought was the best defender in the league among forwards.
Three 50-point games in a row?
Even as I took in the applause at the Summit, I knew we’d have our hands full trying to get out of there with a win.
I DON’T THINK ENOUGH IS SAID about Robert Reid’s career. He’d been a second-round pick from St. Mary’s University, a school not known for producing high-caliber basketball talent. But Robert played in the league thirteen years, mostly with the Rockets. He twice helped them reach the NBA finals, in 1981 as a teammate of Moses Malone, and in 1986 on a squad anchored by Hakeem Olajuwon and Sampson. Robert’s presence is sometimes overshadowed by those incredible players, but he was instrumental to the team’s success.
Robert brought his defensive A-plus to the Summit after my consecutive 50 pointers. The day before, he’d told the press he was about to face the Moses Malone of small forwards. It was high praise. Malone’s relentless physicality exhausted his defenders. I would play in a similar mode, beating you up even when I had the ball. Guys around the league came to expect it.
Robert knew the spotlight was on our matchup. He didn’t want to become a footnote in the first 50-point scoring trifecta in NBA history and forced me into my secondary moves all night long. He was six feet eight and had great defensive anticipation.
My own focus wasn’t on meeting the hype. Dallas was probably the best game I ever played. I’d done some things on the court that I’d never done before. In that game, I had a certain mindset, a feel, a rhythm, that allowed me to see through everything around me. The seams in the defense appeared much larger than they were.
I wasn’t going to try and duplicate that performance. It was a trap to think I could. I wasn’t about that. I was about doing whatever I could to help my team win. Only the amazing Wilt Chamberlain could score 50 points a game!
I expected Robert to give me fits defensively. But there was another thing that limited my points that night—and it was unexpected.
I’ve mentioned the Knicks under Hubie Brown were a set offense team. Each play had a number, and Hubie would shout them from the sidelines as the action on the floor developed. Some were designed specifically for me. Say an opposing player scored from the free-throw line. As we walked the ball back up the court, Hubie would shout out the play.
“Forty-two!”
That was my number. I’d run down the left-hand side of the floor and cut across the lane as my teammates set a screen. When I arrived at the low block on the right-hand side, there would be an entry pass, and I’d take my shot.
Forty-two, thirty-three… they were numbers I’d hear every night. But I rarely heard them in Houston.
I was baffled when Hubie didn’t ride my hot hand. He used a highly structured offense that didn’t give me many scoring opportunities.
I’ve since wondered if he was sending a message that I wasn’t bigger than the team. I didn’t need it. But he was the coach, and we were young men. He probably worried I’d be susceptible to all the attention I’d gotten after the back-to-backs.
As it turned out, we won the game 103–95. That was what really counted. I scored 25 points, and Ray Williams, coming off his injury sooner than anticipated, hit 19 points off the bench in as many minutes. Ray was one of our team’s unsung contributors that season.
That ended our road trip. We’d gone 3–0 against the stiffest competition out west, exactly what I had in mind when I told Rick Pitino we needed a great second-half start.
But it was only back in New York that I truly realized how much had changed for me.
Our first home game was against my old team, the Golden State Warriors. The Garden crowd buzzed when I stepped out onto the floor for warm-ups, and I got a roaring welcome during John Condon’s introduction. It was like the ovation I’d received in Houston times a hundred.
I was no stranger to recognition, but this was different. I knew the fans looked forward to me scoring another 50. It was like a lid had been blown off the box in which I’d spent my entire career. Listening to the cheers, I knew there was no climbing back inside.
I moved the ball around that night, going out of my way to incorporate my teammates into the offense. I wanted to be sure they understood all the attention would not turn me into a ball hog.
The box score reflects how evenly the points were distributed. I scored 19 points. Sparrow scored 12. Truck Robinson and Bill Cartwright each scored 22. The remaining points were spread out among our second unit.
But I couldn’t ignore the fact that things were different. I was a superstar. An NBA superstar. A new level of expectation had been put on me.
I would do whatever it took to live up to it.