Life on the Run Read online

  “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 particularly devastating because conventional defensive wisdom urged that the defender never leave his feet. Bill Russell, the Boston Celtic great, changed the game by demonstrating that a player could not only jump to block shots successfully but could also control the game by selecting when and where to block shots. Now players regularly attempt to “reject” (block) opponents’ shots, an act that has added more grace and excitement to the game. But, the shooter still has the advantage of knowing when he will release the ball.

  A screen and roll is a basic basketball play. One player “screens” or “picks” (impedes with his stationary body) the defensive man of his teammate, who is then free to shoot unmolested in the open space behind the screener. If the screener’s defensive man “switches” (jumps from guarding the screener to guarding the newly freed man), the screener rolls (moves in a straight line) to the basket before the other defensive man can get into his path. While in motion, he receives a pass for what should be an extremely easy shot. Thus the screen and roll is complete.

  Sometimes a screen is set for the purpose of freeing a player to receive a pass. Team patterns can be designed so as to spring open men at any point on the court. Proper timing and placement (when and where to set screens, when and how to use the screens, when and how to pass the ball to the newly freed man) can make defense very difficult.

  If team defense is to be even partly effective, it requires determination, considerable effort, and group coordination. The Chicago Bulls display all three. Under the leadership of their coach, Dick Motta, an iron-disciplined Mormon who frequently reminds me of Holzman in his pugnacity and competitiveness, the Bulls harass players all over the court. While it is usually easy to dribble the ball three quarters of the court deep into your own offensive zone, the Bulls make it difficult to dribble anywhere. The players guard their men chest to chest for the full length of the court. They dive to the floor for loose balls and into the stands for lost balls. They fall down in front of offensive players at the slightest brush and if a charging foul is not called they bounce up and continue hounding. They communicate effectively among themselves. They know when and how to switch. If a screen is set, the man who switches tries to smother the ball handler so that he cannot pass the ball to the man rolling. If the screen is away from the ball, they frequently see it far enough in advance to alert each other and prevent receipt of an uncontested pass.

  Ironically, the Chicago offense revolves around the assumption that defenses make mistakes. They run rigid offensive patterns. They remain patient until the defense’s concentration or determination lapses and then they exploit it. For example, they run a simple screen away from the ball and wait until the defense either doesn’t switch, which gives the shot or switches too soon, which gives the roll. Only on rare occasions can a defense prevent both options, particularly when the offense sets good screens and has the patience to take only good shots. Many of their baskets come from “offensive turnovers” (mistakes, such as bad passes, and violations, such as steps, double dribbles, and offensive fouls). One of the anomalies of their offense is the presence on the team of Chet Walker, who is one of basketball’s great one-on-one forwards. Not a flashy player, he makes his moves with such perfect timing that his one-on-one action does not disrupt Chicago’s patient offense.

  One-on-one is a game within a game. Every pro has played it. Sometime before his involvement with the complexity of team ball, the need to develop pride and confidence made individual confrontation necessary. A few players continue to feel such soaring confidence in their abilities that they prefer to duel with a single opponent rather than coordinate their movements within the team. When two one-on-one stars play against each other, there is a lot of “get-backing” (when one scores, the other must reciprocate). Screens bother them, for screens crowd at least two more people (the screener and his defensive man) in upon them. One-on-one stars want the ball, an open court, and a single defensive man. Then they operate with imagination and uncanny skill. There are nights when one-on-one players can so easily beat any defense that they seem to be reaching heights of invincibility unknown to other mortals.

  “When I was younger coming up, everything was a constant one-on-one battle,” says Dick Barnett. “Even if you were in a game you were still playing against your man in a one-on-one situation. As you mature in the pros, you no longer feel like you have to go out and build a reputation. The game isn’t as personal. You have so many games that your approach is more workmanlike.” A more controlled one-on-one is practiced by Walker and by most veterans. They don’t shoot every time.

  Walker is an excellent basketball player standing 6′6″ and weighing 230 pounds. He is a handsome man with a close-cropped Afro. I first saw him play in college, and even then his body and mind seemed in balance. He does pretty much what he wants on a basketball court, getting a good shot at his whim. He will dribble to the middle of the court or to the baseline, and will go into his shooting motion as if he is going to jump and shoot. If the defender does not jump, Walker will “fake his shot” another time and perhaps even a third time. By the last fake, the defender will at least be off balance and will probably have jumped into the air to block the anticipated shot. Walker will then take his jump shot unmolested, or will be fouled as he shoots.

  If he chooses to fake his shot before he dribbles, he retains the option of driving to the basket when his defender jumps for the faked shot. In addition to Walker’s mastery of these basic moves, he is a very smart player. He senses when to make the explosive drive to the basket and when to play nonchalantly within the pattern of the team. He senses when he has the advantage and he knows that he has to be patient to use it most effectively. Above all, Walker is confident in the clutch—shooting during the last quarter—and, eight times out of ten, if there is a last-second shot, he is the one to take it.

  Holzman finishes his pregame talk. Everyone claps and we walk down a linoleumed hallway, up a set of steps, and into a still empty Chicago Stadium. The three tiers of seats are newly painted in red, white, and black. The steel beams cross the ceiling and disappear into the sides of the building’s old brick walls. Radio booths hang at the Bulls’ en
d with the station’s call letters, WGN and WMAQ, embroidered on the giant banners which cover the bottom half of the booths. Concession stands sit at the same spot on each tier, looking as if they were carefully stacked toy blocks. The old pipe organ with its red and white ornate wood decoration high above the visitors’ end soon will be raised into position and the organist will play the national anthem. We go through our warm-ups. People start to fill the midcourt area seats.

  DeBusschere looks distracted and tired. He takes a warm-up hook that misses the rim. Chicago for Dave is the best and worst of cities. He played baseball here with the White Sox. There isn’t too much left from those years but the friends. There’s one in particular, a Greek-American with whom he usually spends most of the night before the game, drinking in “just a few joints Nick and I found.” DeBusschere sometimes surprises me the next night by playing a great game, but often he is fatigued. He is 33 years old. Still, he prepares for the game and expects himself to perform as if he had rested for two weeks.

  DeBusschere is the best defensive forward in basketball. There is always physical contact between him and the man he is guarding. Resting his forearm on his opponent’s chest or waist, he rarely gets screened; sometimes pushing his man in order to get past the screen and not to switch. He places his body chest to chest with his opponent’s, somehow avoiding a foul and still preventing his man from beating him on a drive. DeBusschere plays the percentages. He knows he can’t block the shot of a good jump shooter, so he tries to force his man to shoot while off balance. There are areas of the court in which he allows his man to maneuver uncontested and other areas in which he fights his man for every inch. He channels a player toward areas of the floor that are out of that man’s optimum shooting range. Given the choice of battling Dave for 48 minutes to get good shots or of taking more difficult shots farther from the basket, many players resign themselves to the bad shots. When DeBusschere guards a taller player or a great one-on-one player, he tries to deny him the ball by “overplaying” (placing his arms or body between the offensive man and the passer rather than between his man and the basket). If the ball moves quickly to the opposite side of the court, DeBusschere beats his man to the spot on that side of the court at which the player is most likely to receive a pass. Like all great defensive players, he enjoys playing defense. “You are always in a game when you play good defense,” he says. “I like to hound my man constantly—make him feel like I’m never going to let him breathe. I don’t want him to feel I am ever an inch away from him. Wherever he goes, whatever he does, I anticipate first. I start in the afternoon before the game, thinking about how I can upset the man I guard. It is hard work, but you can make it fun.”

  Tonight, as usual, DeBusschere will guard Chet Walker. Theirs is a rivalry which dates back to high school. DeBusschere was from a Catholic, all-boys high school in Detroit. Walker grew up in Benton Harbor in southwestern Michigan and went to the public high school there. DeBusschere shot well from the outside and played with good fundamentals. Walker was the first player in his high school’s history to dunk the ball. They met in the Michigan State High School Finals at East Lansing before a crowd of 15,000. Both played well. DeBusschere, who had a stronger supporting cast than Walker, fouled out with five minutes left in the game, but his team pulled it out for the 1958 state title.

  In professional basketball two athletes’ careers often become intertwined. They may be friends and may even have come from the same city or neighborhood, but only when they are on the court do they feel the intense rivalry that exists between them. The more times one player meets another, the better he gets to know not only the other’s abilities, but also his personality. Subtle weaknesses become glaring shortcomings to one who knows how to exploit them: a tendency to lose your temper, a hesitation to take a pressure shot, a preference for the flashy low-percentage move, a fear of losing, an inability to cope with changing tactics. Mutual respect develops between many pairs of players. Mutual enmity festers between others.

  The buzzer sounds to start the game, and DeBusschere, unstrung by the warm-up, is already on the bench drinking water. I ask him how he feels. He says he’s ready. I’m not convinced. Holzman and Barnett suggest an opening play. The game begins.

  The Bulls are at their best, and soon they lead us by ten points. Walker takes DeBusschere to the baseline twice, fakes, and scores easily. Dave does not discourage him with aggressiveness. He is a step behind as Walker flashes across the lane and takes a pass for an easy lay-up. He can’t seem to keep him away from the ball. The Knick guards do not move the ball to the open man, or go into quick one-on-one moves. Instead, they dribble without penetrating to the basket until the twenty-four second clock is about to run out. Then they force shots. I am smaller than the Chicago forward I play against so I try to overplay him. He takes me low, near the basket, and simply shoots over me. I draw three quick fouls. I also miss four open jump shots. Holzman replaces me with Phil Jackson, the Knicks’ third forward, who at 6′7″ and with extremely long arms, is a better defender.

  Phil envelops opponents. His specialty is the “double team” in which, flailing his arms, he drives the man with the ball toward one of the corners, preferably where the half-court line meets the out-of-bounds line. Once there, a second defender leaves his man and plugs the only outlet, thus trapping the man with the ball. A bad pass or a steal often results. When Phil makes his move, you can see panic on the face of an inexperienced player. Generating pressure and threatening contact are at the core of Phil’s defensive game.

  John Jackson, a shipbuilder from Bristol, England, came to America in the 1660s with his brother, Jay. They settled in what is now Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where the family practiced its trade until the American Revolution. At that point John’s grandson sided with the English and, as a loyal Tory, chose to leave the newly formed United States of America. King George III of England deeded 50,000 acres to him on the Ottawa River in Pembroke, Ontario. There, the offspring of John Jackson farmed the fertile river valley soil, and intermarried with neighboring O’Briens and Clemonses. To this day, Joe Jackson, Jr., Phil’s older brother, retains the deed to the Jackson home in Portsmouth which they held throughout their years in Canada. It has been preserved as the oldest frame house in the state.

  Joe Jackson, Phil’s father, is part of the John Jackson branch of the family. He quit school in Ontario at fourteen and worked on the farm, which, after generations of split inheritances, had dwindled to 200 acres. Winters, he traveled north to the lumber camps at Hudson Bay, where he labored first as a cook’s assistant and later as a lumberjack. He devoted more and more time to his work as a lay preacher in the Lutheran Church. He married and had one girl. During a second pregnancy, both mother and child died. Simultaneously, the Great Depression hit the farm, bankrupting him. Mr. Jackson took these events as signs from God. He headed west to become a lay preacher in Montana. There he met an evangelist named Elizabeth Funk.

  She was the daughter of Peter Funk, who came to Montana from Weyruth, Saskatchewan, when strong anti-German sentiment during World War I had forced him and his family to leave. Mr. Funk set up a stable and boarding house business for Indians at Wolfpoint, Montana. He worked as a wrangler of wild horses. After breaking them he would sell them to individuals for riding or to the U.S. Army for meat. “My gramps was out to make his fortune,” says Phil, “which he never did. It was a tough land to make money in.”

  Elizabeth Funk was valedictorian of her high school class and captain of the girls’ basketball team. She received a teacher’s certificate and worked in a one-room schoolhouse for two years. At 22 she went to a Pentecostal seminary in Winnipeg, Manitoba. After leaving there, she joined her brother Peter and sister Nell, and formed a team of traveling evangelists. Nell would later become a missionary in China, be placed in a concentration camp by the Japanese, and, after World War II, teach on rooftop schools in Hong Kong, but now she was busy telling the people of Montana about Pentecostalism. The procedure for the
Funk family was the same in every prairie town. They stood on street corners playing the accordion, proclaiming the imminent arrival of Christ, and asking people to come to a service that night. In the upper room they had rented for the occasion, they sang. They played the piano, the guitar, the accordion; they encouraged the “spirit of the Lord” to move among the congregation. Sometimes they spoke in tongues. The Funks became well known throughout Montana during their seven years of constant travel. Once, it is said, Betty Funk, the blond, blue-eyed proselytizer, even performed a miracle on a boy born without eyes.

  When Joe Jackson met Betty Funk, they fell in love and married. Phil Jackson was their third child. The Jacksons were a ministerial couple “living for the Lord.” Their first parish was in Haver, Montana, followed by churches in towns of the Northwest such as Hamilton, Anaconda, Miles City, Great Falls, Williston, and Fairfield. Betty preached Sunday night. Joe preached Sunday morning and took care of the church finances. “My father was compassionate and thorough,” Phil says. “My mother was competitive and brilliant—a prophetic evangelist who dealt with the books of the Bible like Revelations and Isaiah and the concept of the world’s end. Every Sunday since I was born the apocalypse has been coming next year. My parents saw it as their job to get everyone ready.”

  Phil didn’t see a doctor until he was six, and he did not receive a penicillin shot until age fourteen. When he was injured, the first act, in accordance with Biblical tradition, was the laying on of hands and the rubbing on of olive oil. Other than eyewash, Mercurochrome, and band-aids, the only treatments for illness were the herbal remedies of the old West. For example, a staph infection was treated by a poultice of old bread crusts, onion, oatmeal, and milk wrapped in a hot towel. Every fall for one week each Jackson child had to take a cold preventative made of sulphur, honey, and deer lard.