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Authors: Bill Bradley
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mountain of Depression concrete, in the center of urban decay. When I first started playing professionally in 1967, there was an operating McDonalds restaurant across the street. Now, all that remains is the sign with the golden arches. The rest was leveled. Outside the arena black kids ask for tickets. Stores in the area are boarded up. Those that remain won’t last long. The crime rate in the nearby housing projects is high. One of the reasons that Chicago never draws well is the physical danger involved in parking. There are three lots near the stadium with spotlights shining on them. For those who come late, there are more distant lots which are safe only if you leave with the crowd. A year ago, two friends waited for me after a game for half an hour and as we approached their car, a young kid robbed us at gunpoint.
Inside the stadium, things look as if they hadn’t changed for twenty years. Vintage popcorn smells permeate the arena. Vendors in blue uniforms load their boxes with an evening’s supply of hot-dogs, beer, and soda. The court and hallways are so dirty I change shoes after we play here. The arena itself is cold and the locker rooms are cramped. It is difficult for twelve players to dress or shower at the same time.
Chicago is a city in which many of our players bump into their pasts. Barnett’s father shows up from Gary occasionally, or some long-lost Tennessee State friend, living in Chicago, says hello. Frazier’s wife lives in Chicago. He always arrives at the stadium separately from the team after spending the day with his son. The mother of Cazzie Russell (a former Knick) sometimes stops by to say hello to Cazzie’s old teammates.
As we change into our uniforms, Danny opens the evening’s banter. “I knew a boy who came to the clubhouse one day in San Francisco in the old Pacific Coast League. He complained of a stomach ache. The doctor said it was overeating. He continued to complain. His father took him to another doctor who diagnosed it as a sore throat. The kid died that night of a ruptured appendix.”
“Doctors are just like anybody else,” I offer. “There are good ones and bad ones.”
“Yeah, and some of them are terrible,” says Danny. “You ever hear what happened to Jeff Chandler? He had a simple operation but the doctor left some tool inside him. He bled to death. Sinatra sued the hospital for I don’t know how many millions, which went to Chandler’s wife, but that didn’t do fuckin’ Jeff any good. He’d already gone West.”
“Some doctors are as counterfeit as wrestlers,” says Clyde, who has just arrived. “You know my grandmother used to believe that wrestlers were for real on TV.”
“Yeah,” says Barnett, “all those wrestlers rehearse. Man, some of them cats make the big bankroll, $100,000 or $200,000 a year. Ernie Ladd, my man, is making more now wrestling than he ever did in football.”
The door of the locker room opens and in walks Ernie Banks, the Chicago Cubs baseball player who does sports broadcasting in the winter. His Afro is clipped close and the slightness of his build is surprising. He has a wide smile and a button on his lapel that says “Get Excited.” He opens with “Hey, how you doin’? You’re real professionals now; right, how you doin’?”
As Banks walks over to Frazier for an interview, Barnett turns away and says, “No motherfucker’s suppose to be
that
happy, man.”
Effective defense in basketball requires good body position (keeping yourself between the offensive man and the basket) and knowledge of where the ball is—all the time. Each player must remain alert to help if a teammate’s man breaks free. No player, though, can stop another player every time down the court; that’s just the nature of a game played by talented individuals. Two offensive maneuvers, the screen and roll and the jump shot, one old and one new, decrease every team’s defensive capabilities.
When the jump shot was first introduced, it was
Inside the stadium, things look as if they hadn’t changed for twenty years. Vintage popcorn smells permeate the arena. Vendors in blue uniforms load their boxes with an evening’s supply of hot-dogs, beer, and soda. The court and hallways are so dirty I change shoes after we play here. The arena itself is cold and the locker rooms are cramped. It is difficult for twelve players to dress or shower at the same time.
Chicago is a city in which many of our players bump into their pasts. Barnett’s father shows up from Gary occasionally, or some long-lost Tennessee State friend, living in Chicago, says hello. Frazier’s wife lives in Chicago. He always arrives at the stadium separately from the team after spending the day with his son. The mother of Cazzie Russell (a former Knick) sometimes stops by to say hello to Cazzie’s old teammates.
As we change into our uniforms, Danny opens the evening’s banter. “I knew a boy who came to the clubhouse one day in San Francisco in the old Pacific Coast League. He complained of a stomach ache. The doctor said it was overeating. He continued to complain. His father took him to another doctor who diagnosed it as a sore throat. The kid died that night of a ruptured appendix.”
“Doctors are just like anybody else,” I offer. “There are good ones and bad ones.”
“Yeah, and some of them are terrible,” says Danny. “You ever hear what happened to Jeff Chandler? He had a simple operation but the doctor left some tool inside him. He bled to death. Sinatra sued the hospital for I don’t know how many millions, which went to Chandler’s wife, but that didn’t do fuckin’ Jeff any good. He’d already gone West.”
“Some doctors are as counterfeit as wrestlers,” says Clyde, who has just arrived. “You know my grandmother used to believe that wrestlers were for real on TV.”
“Yeah,” says Barnett, “all those wrestlers rehearse. Man, some of them cats make the big bankroll, $100,000 or $200,000 a year. Ernie Ladd, my man, is making more now wrestling than he ever did in football.”
The door of the locker room opens and in walks Ernie Banks, the Chicago Cubs baseball player who does sports broadcasting in the winter. His Afro is clipped close and the slightness of his build is surprising. He has a wide smile and a button on his lapel that says “Get Excited.” He opens with “Hey, how you doin’? You’re real professionals now; right, how you doin’?”
As Banks walks over to Frazier for an interview, Barnett turns away and says, “No motherfucker’s suppose to be
that
happy, man.”
Effective defense in basketball requires good body position (keeping yourself between the offensive man and the basket) and knowledge of where the ball is—all the time. Each player must remain alert to help if a teammate’s man breaks free. No player, though, can stop another player every time down the court; that’s just the nature of a game played by talented individuals. Two offensive maneuvers, the screen and roll and the jump shot, one old and one new, decrease every team’s defensive capabilities.
When the jump shot was first introduced, it was
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