running for Congress in Chicago if he can get the Daley machine’s endorsement. The talk is of fund-raising, political intrigues, and political organization.
After breakfast, I go to a luncheon put on by the Chicago Bulls Boosters, where I am scheduled to be the principal speaker. It is held in a downtown Chicago hotel and about 200 men attend. Part of being a professional basketball player is speaking at many kinds of affairs: shopping center openings, charity fund raisers, sports banquets, high school and college assemblies, bar mitzvahs, annual company dinners, and church services. You learn to sense the mood of an audience. The element of performance in a speech often outweighs substance. The hard thing for me is to strike the balance between preaching on the one hand and slapstick on the other. Somewhere between those two extremes lies the craft of a professional speaker, be he lawyer or teacher, politician or basketball player.
The expectations of an audience to which one speaks are much different from those of 20,000 basketball fans. They aren’t nearly as demanding. During my senior year at college, I spoke in the area of New Jersey around Princeton. When my college coach would accompany me, he’d say the audience laughed at my jokes, not because they were funny, but because I told them. In a way he was right. I have often heard Walt Frazier or Willis Reed or Red Holzman tell stories that are not side-splitting but that made audiences roll in the aisles. The temptation as a speaker is to adopt a standard pose and to work from it to any audience. Willis acts as if he were a politician at a county fund-raising dinner, giving recognition to all the other politicians in the audience. He unfailingly directs compliments to the Knick organization—owners, general manager, coach, publicity man, and secretary—and to the fans, and to his hosts of the evening. Frazier, on the other hand, always conveys a cocky aloofness with an occasional good-natured jibe at Holzman, other players, or the toastmaster. For example, he will say, “Red Holzman is a smart coach. Smart enough to draft me.” Holzman’s approach is self-deprecating. He becomes the put-upon little guy who just tries to get by against all the odds. He will say, “I heard what the toastmaster said about baldness. I don’t think that’s so nice. [Pause.] I feel lucky to be here tonight. Out of place with all these stars, but lucky. [Pause.] And that’s why you people shouldn’t make fun of me. Besides, Willis Reed said it was okay if I came tonight. [Pause.] He knows I need a free meal.”
For me, the challenge of improvisation is the most important element of public speaking. I will arrive at the dinner or luncheon without specific preparation and, as the meal progresses, I’ll write my speech, particularly the humor. Sometimes I surprise myself. Occasionally I fall flat, like the time I got up at a formal dinner and introduced Mr. Vanderbilt as Mr. Rockefeller.
The luncheon lasts two hours. The businessmen seem to be entertained with my locker-room humor and informed about the inequities of the reserve clause. I return to the hotel room, where I find DeBusschere asleep with the television on. The room is strewn with the residue of our stay: soda cans, books, odorous drying uniforms and gym shoes, an emptied suitcase, and a promotional packet from McDonalds. I undress and sleep for an hour. The TV awakens me. A talk show, one of America’s consciousness raisers, blasts away into the late afternoon. The guest is Woody Hayes, the football coach at Ohio State University. He says, “Anyone who will tear down sports will tear down America. Sports and religion have made America what it is today.”
“Why doesn’t he tell that to the official he kicked,” DeBusschere says as he changes the channel.
Most arenas in the league are modern structures built in the path of urban growth. Chicago Stadium is a relic from the past. Built in 1929, it stands like a
After breakfast, I go to a luncheon put on by the Chicago Bulls Boosters, where I am scheduled to be the principal speaker. It is held in a downtown Chicago hotel and about 200 men attend. Part of being a professional basketball player is speaking at many kinds of affairs: shopping center openings, charity fund raisers, sports banquets, high school and college assemblies, bar mitzvahs, annual company dinners, and church services. You learn to sense the mood of an audience. The element of performance in a speech often outweighs substance. The hard thing for me is to strike the balance between preaching on the one hand and slapstick on the other. Somewhere between those two extremes lies the craft of a professional speaker, be he lawyer or teacher, politician or basketball player.
The expectations of an audience to which one speaks are much different from those of 20,000 basketball fans. They aren’t nearly as demanding. During my senior year at college, I spoke in the area of New Jersey around Princeton. When my college coach would accompany me, he’d say the audience laughed at my jokes, not because they were funny, but because I told them. In a way he was right. I have often heard Walt Frazier or Willis Reed or Red Holzman tell stories that are not side-splitting but that made audiences roll in the aisles. The temptation as a speaker is to adopt a standard pose and to work from it to any audience. Willis acts as if he were a politician at a county fund-raising dinner, giving recognition to all the other politicians in the audience. He unfailingly directs compliments to the Knick organization—owners, general manager, coach, publicity man, and secretary—and to the fans, and to his hosts of the evening. Frazier, on the other hand, always conveys a cocky aloofness with an occasional good-natured jibe at Holzman, other players, or the toastmaster. For example, he will say, “Red Holzman is a smart coach. Smart enough to draft me.” Holzman’s approach is self-deprecating. He becomes the put-upon little guy who just tries to get by against all the odds. He will say, “I heard what the toastmaster said about baldness. I don’t think that’s so nice. [Pause.] I feel lucky to be here tonight. Out of place with all these stars, but lucky. [Pause.] And that’s why you people shouldn’t make fun of me. Besides, Willis Reed said it was okay if I came tonight. [Pause.] He knows I need a free meal.”
For me, the challenge of improvisation is the most important element of public speaking. I will arrive at the dinner or luncheon without specific preparation and, as the meal progresses, I’ll write my speech, particularly the humor. Sometimes I surprise myself. Occasionally I fall flat, like the time I got up at a formal dinner and introduced Mr. Vanderbilt as Mr. Rockefeller.
The luncheon lasts two hours. The businessmen seem to be entertained with my locker-room humor and informed about the inequities of the reserve clause. I return to the hotel room, where I find DeBusschere asleep with the television on. The room is strewn with the residue of our stay: soda cans, books, odorous drying uniforms and gym shoes, an emptied suitcase, and a promotional packet from McDonalds. I undress and sleep for an hour. The TV awakens me. A talk show, one of America’s consciousness raisers, blasts away into the late afternoon. The guest is Woody Hayes, the football coach at Ohio State University. He says, “Anyone who will tear down sports will tear down America. Sports and religion have made America what it is today.”
“Why doesn’t he tell that to the official he kicked,” DeBusschere says as he changes the channel.
Most arenas in the league are modern structures built in the path of urban growth. Chicago Stadium is a relic from the past. Built in 1929, it stands like a
Similar Books
