There’s really no such thing as a quiet Friday night in New York. But as far as they went, April 10, 1987, didn’t have a whole lot going on besides the Knicks-Milwaukee game.
A quick check of the sports pages told me the Yankees would be on the road in Kansas City. Coming off a frantic World Series championship run that captivated the city, the Mets were at home playing the Atlanta Braves. But it was just a few days into baseball season, and the weather out in Flushing, Queens, was chilly. People would not yet flock to Shea Stadium for an evening game.
Out in the Meadowlands, meanwhile, the Nets were hosting the Boston Celtics with nothing at stake for the home team. After a woeful losing season, they would struggle to bring fans into the arena.
What else?
I flipped through the concert listings. Nothing stupendous. Paul Simon’s run of shows at Radio City Music Hall wasn’t starting for another couple of weeks.
So far, so good, I thought.
I considered the date in terms of the Knicks’ remaining schedule. I noticed they only had one other Friday home game, and that was on the next-to-last night of the season. On the other hand, an April 10 return would give me a full week of games to get the feel of NBA hardwood back under my sneakers.
Unfortunately, the Knicks weren’t exactly big news at that time. They’d done as poorly as their Jersey rivals that year, sharing the Atlantic Division’s cellar.
But the Knicks weren’t just about basketball. They were Broadway, show business, and bright city lights. As a player, you had to understand that.
I was a New Yorker. I had always understood. I’d embraced it.
I set the date in my mind and phoned the Knicks.
With no one to share the stage on April 10, the spotlight would be turned squarely on Madison Square Garden for my comeback.
I HAD ANTICIPATED THE FANS’ RECEPTION when I took the court; we’d always had a special connection. What I didn’t foresee was how it would affect my play. Letting them through my armor threw me out of step. I couldn’t control my emotions.
I distinctly recall Bob Hill inserting me into the ball game very quickly—in the first five minutes of play. I got a tremendous roar from the crowd when I walked onto the court. It was even louder than the one I’d heard when I was introduced.
I thought, “I have to make this happen. The fans are here. My teammates are standing and applauding me…”
I didn’t want to let them down. But it wasn’t just that. I was a free agent at the end of the season. I’d been gone for two years, with an injury from which no one had ever recovered. I had to prove to the league that I could still perform. My career was on the line.
I took the first shot that came into my hands. It was a jumper on the left-hand side of the floor, angled just away from the foul line. I didn’t get a great look. I normally might have passed the ball or driven down the line. But I needed to get the shot out of the way and took it… and missed.
It wasn’t my only bad shot that night.
I still believe I would’ve had a good game if I made that first basket. It probably would have settled me down. As it was, I scored 7 points and shot for a low percentage from the floor. Some of it had to do with Don Nelson isolating me, putting Paul Pressey on me man-to-man. Nelson hadn’t watched my warm-ups out of idle curiosity; he saw the rust on me and knew I always had trouble with Pressey.
Still, I left the game feeling good about myself. It wasn’t my shooting that encouraged me, it was my movement. Running up and down the floor with everyone else. Being able to defend—not very well, because I was isolated—but defending within a team concept.
I did okay and felt I would only get better.
Walking off the court, I did something I’d never done before in my career. I’d always kept my Game Face on until I was back in the locker room. I didn’t need to think about it. It was automatic.
That night, I walked straight over to Dania and Ron and hugged them.
I didn’t need to think about that, either.
There were thick lines of fans waiting outside as my limo exited the arena’s parking area. They applauded, gave me the thumbs-up, held out autograph pads.
“Way to go, Bernard!” one guy shouted.
I broke down crying in the car. It wasn’t just the emotions of the game. It was two years’ worth of emotions surging up in me.
All my hard work had paid off. I knew I could do it. Knew I could play.
At long last, I was back.
MY PLAY IMPROVED WITH EACH GAME. The next night in Boston, I scored 20 points as a reserve in twenty-eight minutes. I was the second-highest scorer on the team after Gerald Wilkins, the starting small forward, and he was on the floor almost ten minutes longer.
I’d been icing all day before that game and would do it for the rest of the season. Before games, after games, during flights, in the hotel, on the bus, in the locker room—I would get a towel and ice pack, put them on my right knee, and then wrap an Ace bandage tightly around them. I didn’t want to risk having my knee swell up. If that happened, I would be done.
Rory Sparrow was the only member of our 1984 playoff team still on the roster, and we were pretty close. He sat down beside me on the plane out of Boston and nodded his chin at the huge, freezing bundle on my knee.
“B,” he asked, “Is it worth it?”
I didn’t need to think about my answer.
“Yeah,” I said.
I AVERAGED 22.7 POINTS over my six games back and went into the offseason feeling confident I would continue to improve and eventually put up All-Star numbers again.
The Knicks didn’t share my confidence. They had no faith that my knee would hold up and showed only half-hearted interest in a new deal. Ultimately, they passed on signing me.
I was disappointed. At the end of that season, I’d been publicly verbal about wanting to stay in New York. That wasn’t like me. I always let my play do the talking. But I wanted to be a Knick until I retired. I’d worn the jersey with unsurpassed pride. I was sure that if I stayed with the team and had a chance to play with Patrick Ewing, we would win a championship together.
However, management had changed. Dave DeBusschere was gone, Hubie was gone, and even Bob Hill was gone after the season concluded. A new regime took over, and they thought what they thought.
I had no problem with that. I’d lived my dream and had been captain of the New York Knicks. They made a business decision, and I was ready to move on.
Did I want to prove their decision wrong? Of course. I was a competitor. And I was determined to show the world it was a mistake to doubt my skills and passion.
As a free agent, I received interest from several teams. Ironically, one was the Celtics. During the offseason, I even traveled to Boston to meet with Red Auerbach.
“You know, we already have a pretty good small forward here,” he told me, chomping on a cigar.
“I know.” I realized full well Larry Bird was their franchise player, and that I would be a reserve off the bench.
Auerbach eyed me through a cloud of smoke.
“Then why would you want to play with us?”
Easy answer.
“I want to win a championship,” I said.
WHEN ALL WAS SAID AND DONE, the Washington Bullets put the best deal on the table. My old coach with the Nets, Kevin Loughery, was now head coach in Washington, and that may have had something to do with their excitement. Our mutual respect had never faltered, and we looked forward to our professional reunion.
My knees held up. I averaged 17.2 points per game in my comeback year and played sixty-nine games, starting thirty-eight. The following year, I started eighty-one of the season’s eighty-two games.
In my third year with Washington, I started all eighty-two games on the schedule. I played with the old chip on my shoulder, wanting to prove I was still the best in the NBA.
From 1988 to 1991, I averaged 20 points per game or higher each season. It culminated in me reaching 28.4 points a game in 1990–1991. At the end of that year, I was the third highest scorer in the league behind Michael Jordan and Karl Malone.
In the middle of the season, I received a phone call that would bring me to tears. It was Abe Pollin, owner of the Washington Bullets. His message was brief but powerful.
“Bernard,” he said, “you’ve been chosen as a starter for the Eastern Conference NBA All-Stars.”
The phone shook in my hand. When a reporter asked about my selection, I answered with tears of joy streaming down my face. I would be in the starting five with Michael Jordan, Charles Barkley, Joe Dumars… and Patrick Ewing.
It was the only time Ewing and I ever played together as teammates, a taste of what might have been. But it was far more than that.
I’d reached my goal. I was an All-Star again.
That night in Charlotte was one of the most special of my life. At thirty-four, I was, at that time, the oldest player to start an All-Star Game. I got the loudest cheers after Michael Jordan. Fans understood my accomplishment.
Bob Costas, the famed sportscaster, was at the game. He approached me afterward to congratulate me.
I nearly told him on the air that I wanted to retire after that night. I’d climbed my Mount Everest. I didn’t need to pursue a championship. I had nothing more to prove as a player. But I bit my tongue. I didn’t want to say anything in a state of high emotion. The next game on the Bullets’ schedule was one I’d eyed since my selection—the Bullets were playing the Knicks in New York. Part of me could hardly believe the coincidence. But another part of me wasn’t sure it even was coincidence.
It seemed, somehow, meant to be.
The New York media were abuzz about my All-Star appearance. It was all over the sports pages.
The first thing I did when I got to my hotel was call my mother.
“Mom,” I said, “I got you tickets to tonight’s game.” I paused. My parents had attended every game I’d played as a Knick. They’d refused special treatment and taken the subway, not letting me arrange for a car service or taxi. “Don’t be late… I’m hitting 40 tonight.”
She didn’t react much. Mom was mom. She’d never been demonstrative. I’m sure she was surprised, though. It wasn’t like me to predict point totals. But that night was different. As special in its way as the All-Star Game.
It was a close game, but I was on fire, scoring 23 points in the fourth quarter alone. The fans’ support was magical. Whenever I was at the foul line, they rose from their seats and cheered. The ovations got louder as the night went on.
It was a true homecoming and a vindication. I wanted to show my family and the fans why I’d been named an All-Star. I wanted to give back to everyone who’d cheered for me, believed in me, through the years. I pumped my fist in the air every time I scored in the fourth quarter, not to embarrass anyone but to make a statement. Just because nobody had ever returned from the kind of injury I’d suffered did not mean it couldn’t be done. People thought I was sending the Knicks a message. But that wasn’t on my mind. My performance that night was really a thank-you to the fans of New York.
And I was determined to win.
I scored 49 points and we won.
I SPENT FOUR GREAT YEARS IN WASHINGTON. But in the fall of 1991, before the start of what would be my final season with the Bullets, I returned to New York to have my right knee examined by Dr. Norman Scott. I’d been experiencing a lot of pain and was concerned about its stability.
Dr. Scott found nothing structurally wrong with the knee. His groundbreaking surgery had held up. But what little cartilage remained in my knee after two prior surgeries—I’d had the first in Tennessee—was arthritic and needed to be removed. I would miss training camp and the next two seasons.
I never suited up for the Bullets again, and would eventually sign with the Nets for the last three months of the 1993 season.
All elite athletes experience a moment when they know they are truly finished with the game. This reflection often happens when you’re in mid-season and you realize that you, your game, and your level of competitiveness have changed; it happens when players you’ve always beaten begin to dominate you, or when you notice that your body is winding down.
Mine came as I played for the New Jersey Nets in the final year of my career, when head coach Chuck Daly matched me up against Chucky Brown—who embarrassed me time and time again on my first day of practice.
But I’d already known it was time. The third knee operation had taken its toll on me. I ignored the signs for a while. But that day against Brown—with the media watching our practice—I couldn’t run anymore. Not from myself, age, or Father Time. When you’re on a team, you’re part of a system and can hide behind that. But one-on-one, you can’t hide. Everyone, including me, could see I’d soon be done as an NBA player.
I went home after each game that season and realized I was a scrub, something I had not been since the sixth grade. There was nothing I could do about it.
When the 1992–1993 season was over, I kept thinking about the moment in North Carolina, when I’d almost made my announcement to Costas. I could no longer compete to my standard.
It was time.
I retired following the 1993 NBA season with 19,655 career points. Twenty thousand was a nice round number, and I suppose I could have chased it down. But for someone with a reputation as a scorer, I’d never cared about points, though I ultimately did score them in my backyard.
Only the birds and squirrels witnessed it, and that was all right with me.