Bird Watching Page 10

  During the All-Star game a few years ago, when they announced the fifty greatest players of all time, the league wanted us to sign these commemorative lithographs. David Stern told me I had to sign these things, and I told him I’d sign when I had time and when I wanted to do it. They kept hassling me about signing, to the point where I almost didn’t do it. Finally I told them I’d do it before the game. So I go to sign the things, and come to find out Shaq didn’t sign, because he wasn’t even there, and neither did Jerry West, because he wasn’t there. They made this big stink about me not signing, but it was okay for these other guys to skip out? They made me out to be the bad guy, and that’s fine. I don’t really care.

  I know some people feel I’m unapproachable, but the one thing they don’t understand is that I get very uncomfortable around crowds. I always try to stay away from situations where I might run into a group of people. What I never liked was when I’d go somewhere thinking there wouldn’t be much of a fuss, and then all of a sudden there’s a hundred kids all around you, pressing toward you. That’s when I become jittery. Unfortunately, that happened all the time when I was playing.

  One thing I always hated when I was with the Celtics was trying to get home after the game. The way I would get out of Boston Garden was to walk down a ramp and out through the back of the building. I’d always peek out, and I wouldn’t see that many people, but the minute I stepped into view all these people who were sitting waiting in their cars would jump out and start running at me. I never did like that. So I started hanging around late after the games, having a soda in the locker room, waiting for the people to go home. Sometimes I’d even order out for a pizza. After a while, the Garden security figured out a way to get my car for me, pull it around back, and sneak me out a door right next to the train station. Even so, there was always somebody there who would figure out it was me. Sometimes they’d even follow me home.

  People in Boston really did amaze me sometimes. I lived in a house in Brookline, which is a suburb of Boston, and my street was a shortcut through to the interstate. The first few years of my career I mowed my own lawn, and I’d always be able to get the back and the sides done pretty good, but whenever I tried to finish the front, people always stopped. One after another, they’d see me and put on the brakes, right in the middle of the street sometimes, and come over and try to strike up a conversation. After a while, I realized I couldn’t mow my lawn anymore. It wasn’t safe! For the most part, the people were pretty respectful. Most of ’em would drive by and honk the horn, and Dinah would say, “There go the fans.” Once in a while someone would run up and ring the doorbell after we went to bed. Dinah and I got used to spending most of our time in the back of the house. We had a screened porch, and it was nice and quiet, and sometimes it felt like we lived in the country. Our neighbors weren’t much of a problem either. Bob Woolf, who handled my first contract with Boston, lived right near us, and then on the other side there was an older couple. We didn’t hear much from them at all, except one day the guy came over and complained about one of our tree branches sticking out on his property.

  I can pinpoint the day I lost my privacy forever: when Sports Illustrated put me on the cover of their magazine and called me college basketball’s best-kept secret. At the time, our Indiana State team was surprising everyone. I was a junior, I had never felt better about my game, and it should have been an exciting time. But that cover took care of that. My life was never the same. Within days, the phone at the school was ringing off the hook. Everyone in America wanted an interview. Back then I was sort of self-conscious, and I really didn’t want to talk to anybody. The other thing I couldn’t believe was how long it took for those photographers to get the shot they wanted for the magazine. We were there for ten hours with Sports Illustrated. I don’t know why anyone would need so many pictures. They kept taking them and taking them. The one they decided on for the cover was me standing in my uniform, surrounded by these cheerleaders who were saying, “Ssshh,” because I was this secret weapon. But they took pictures of me in a lot of different poses. In one of them they had me run through a hoop. I was so fed up. I told our sports information director I would never pose for another magazine cover—ever! When I got to the pros, my rule was, “One hour. If you can’t get what you need by then, you’re out of luck.”

  About the time of the first Sports Illustrated cover, the media and other people started calling me the Great White Hope. It seemed like a silly thing to me, but I just never thought about it that much. I wasn’t going to get caught up in it. Once in a while some guy on another team might make a crack about it, but for the most part I ignored it.

  When I got to Boston I started hearing about it again. I had never been there before I got drafted by the Celtics, and I didn’t know much about the place, but I knew the Celtics and the people in the city were following me after I got drafted by them. I knew there was talk about me going to Boston and doing this and doing that, but I had no idea how high the expectations were and how that would affect my new teammates.

  So I walk into camp, and it’s my first day, and there’s Sidney Wicks and Curtis Rowe waiting for me. Cedric Maxwell, who was sitting with those guys, says, “Here comes the Great White Hope.” I’m standing there thinking, “Oh no, not this stuff again.” Luckily it didn’t last long. Once I started playing and proving to them I belonged, I didn’t hear anything about the Great White Hope anymore. That was true all through my first NBA season. Once I got on the court, I took care of the stereotypes. I was a basketball player. Period.

  I never understood why people made so much of race. I remember when I first got to Indiana State. I had to sit out a year to regain my eligibility, but I would go up to the gym all the time and work out. Every day around two o’clock during the off season, a group of guys would meet at the gym and play pickup games. They were all black. I was always up at the gym shooting around during that time of day. One afternoon, one of my teammates said, “Hey, why don’t you come over here and play some games with us?” I could tell the other guys didn’t want me to play. They had never really heard of me at that point, and they were really good players. So I waited my turn and got into a couple of games, and after about three days kicking butt out there I was in charge of the whole thing. That was the only way to do it—to go in there and show them what you got. Now all of a sudden these guys are asking me, “Can we have the next game, Larry?” Those guys were good. They could get up and down, and make passes. They didn’t care what color you were—as long as you could play.

  But I found that out a lot earlier than in college. Back when I was in the eighth grade in French Lick, I used to get on a bus after school and go to the West Baden courts, because all the guys that worked over at the hotel played there on their breaks. They always let me play. They were big guys, in their twenties, most of them, and they were all waiters. They let me play because I was good enough, even though I wasn’t as big as them. Getting on that bus was a total joy for me. It was pure enjoyment. I couldn’t wait to get over there. As soon as I got off the bus, these guys would say, “Hey Larry, hurry up, come on over here, you’re on our team.” That was the first time I ever really played with any black players. It wasn’t even an issue to me at all, really, because all I knew was these guys were big and strong, and I could learn from them, so I wanted to be around them.

  I’m not naive. I know some fans loved me even more because of the color of my skin. They can think what they want. My main concern was to make sure it was never an issue with my teammates, and as far as I can tell, it never was. We never had one problem like that in our locker room during the thirteen years I was with the Celtics.

  As much as I loved Boston, I know it could be a tough place for black players. Robert Parish and D. J. and those guys would never say anything to me directly, but you could hear them talking in the locker room once in a while. They’d be talking about how they were stopped by the police for no reason, or how they’d be walking through the North End after ha
ving dinner and they’d hear comments. I remember Ed Pinckney coming in all upset once. Ed is one of the greatest guys you’ll ever meet, and he had been stopped by the police, with his kids in the car. That kind of stuff is horrible. I really felt for those guys. It makes you sick.

  When I came to Boston to play for the Celtics, I called myself the Hick from French Lick. It’s just something I said, but before I knew it, that’s who people wanted me to be. The reason I said that was I was coming from the country, and I had never lived in a big city, and I felt out of place at first. I was wondering about it the whole time I drove from French Lick to Boston. I had no idea what to expect, and it made me uncomfortable. I wasn’t worried about the basketball. I was worried about everything else.

  But once I got there it was fine. I lived on the outskirts of the city, which I think was a good idea, so I didn’t have to deal with the everyday hustle and bustle. Before long I was finding my way around and getting more familiar with the roads and stuff. It certainly helped that everyone was so excited about the Celtics. People made me feel welcome right away. The Boston fans were the best. Maybe that’s because we were winning.

  After being in Boston a couple of years, we had already won a championship, and I was getting my fair share of attention. The only problem with that was they forgot you were human after a while. They expected you to be perfect every night, and that’s hard to do. That’s the one thing I didn’t like as a player. Sometimes I’d get off to a slow start, and the fans would get impatient. They expect greatness all the time. I expect it too, but some nights it’s slow developing, and some nights it’s not there at all. On those nights, you know what’s coming. You know they’re going to get on your case and tell you, “Wake up!” or “Hey Larry, get moving!” It’s the nature of the business.

  The other thing I always thought was kind of funny is how people think that just because you are famous you must know everyone else who is famous. That’s ridiculous when you think about it, but somehow that’s how it turns out. I’ll never forget the time John Cougar Mellencamp came to Boston for a concert. I love his music—he’s an Indiana guy, and everyone from Indiana loves him—so I told the guys on the team I was going to the concert. My teammate Jerry Sichting, who is also from Indiana, went to the show too. The next day we were talking about how great Mellencamp was, and Jerry said to me, “He stayed at your house, didn’t he?” That wasn’t true at all, but I couldn’t resist. I told him, “Yeah, Jerry, you found out. He stayed with me.” Next thing you know, Jerry told the whole team. He must have told some reporters too, because it was in the paper a couple of days later. Amazing.

  When I do have some free time, one of the things I enjoy most is fishing. I love to fish for bass. I prefer freshwater fishing, because I have problems when I go out into the Gulf and the water gets rough. I’ve never been able to handle it. I get seasick when I’m out there—probably half the time. It’s just a bad feeling. I’ve always been a little leery of water anyway, especially out in the Gulf, or in the Atlantic, because storms can blow up so fast, and you wouldn’t believe it if you were ever in one, how dangerous it can be. You just get this feeling that there’s no way you are ever going to make it. The farthest Conner and I have ever been is twenty miles out, and I don’t even like that. I have a real fast boat, but if we go out in the Gulf we’ll go in something bigger, like a Boston Whaler.

  When I was a kid we used to fish in little rivers or streams, or in the little ponds around town. We used to get up real early, because someone told us once that’s when the fish are biting, but as I got older I realized it doesn’t make any difference. What matters is you find a little peace and quiet.

  I don’t have stuffed fish hanging on my walls. I’ve never caught anything all that big, and besides, it’s not really my style. I don’t have my basketball trophies all over the house either. They’re nice, and I’m glad I have them, but that was never what was important to me.

  Let me tell you a story about when I played in the World University Games in the summer of 1977. It was a great experience. The team was made up of guys like Jeff Judkins, who played for the University of Utah and then went on to play a couple years with the Celtics; Dave Corzine, the center from DePaul who played for the Bulls in the pros; Darrell Griffith, who played his college ball for Louisville and went on to be a star for the Utah Jazz; and Sid Moncrief, who starred for Arkansas and later Milwaukee in the NBA. I had just finished my sophomore year at Indiana State, and we went down to Louisville to try out for two weeks. Denny Crum was the coach, and if he put your name up on the board, you made the team and got to go to Europe for a month. I made the team, and we played all over the place—Italy, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria. We traveled all over the countryside in a bus, and there were crowds everywhere we went. Everyone wanted to see the Americans play. Darrell Griffith and Freeman Williams were two of the bigger names on that team, as well as James Bailey, who was a big scorer from Rutgers. I hung around a lot with Jeff Judkins. He was my roommate, a real friendly guy, and we hit it off right away. After a couple of weeks of training, Jeff said to me, “Hey, you’re the best player I’ve ever seen. You are so much better than all these other guys with the bigger names.” I just said, “Yeah, yeah, Jeff, right.” So we get on the bus a couple of days later, and everyone is talking about college players and who thinks who is the best, and Jeff says, “Hey, Larry is the best player in college right now.” The other guys start saying, “C’mon, Jeff, you’re just saying that because he’s your roommate.” Now Jeff is all fired up. He’s really getting into it. He said, “I guarantee you one thing. If you play team ball in these tournaments, Larry will be the MVP in every game. He’s just better than all of you.” I’m sitting on the bus, ready to die. Talk about pressure!

  We get to our first pre-tournament venue, and it was absolutely fantastic. It was in Palermo, Italy, and it was an outdoor basketball court, a wooden court with glass backboards. When you walk in, there’s a big concrete wall around the court, and they had armed guards standing up against the wall. They had about 10,000 people in the bleachers, and it was as calm as could be outside. The wall was about eight feet high, with apartment buildings all around it. It was unbelievable. People were hanging out their windows, or sitting on their balconies, watching us play. It was one of the greatest places I’ve ever seen for a basketball game.

  It was a round robin tournament, with four teams. We won all four games, and I was named MVP. The next tournament I was MVP again. At this point, we’re traveling all through Europe by bus, train, plane, and boat, and I’m carrying these trophies along with my luggage. I never knew how to pack, so I just took everything, and it was getting hard to lug all this stuff around. The trophies were just so darn big. One of them looked like an ashtray with some kind of strobe sticking out. We got to yet another train station, and I turned to Jeff and said, “You know what? I’ve carried these things for two weeks. I’ve had enough.” So I told Jeff, “Watch this.” I opened the lid of a trash can and threw the trophies in there. I said, “I’m not carrying these things anymore.” Then I got on the train. A few hours later we got to our next city, and the team is doing a head count, and they’re looking for Judkins. He shouts out, “Here I am!” I turn around, and he’s staggering off the train with the trophies. He looked like a pack mule. He came up to me and said, “I’ll carry these the rest of the way for you. You gotta take them home. They’ll mean something to you someday.” Every time I look at those trophies, I just start laughing, and think about how Jeff Judkins carried those things all over Europe.

  Back then I was still someone who could get around without being noticed all the time. Those days are long gone. I guess I won’t ever quite get used to people looking at me all the time, watching every move I make. I knew it would happen when I was a player, but I’m surprised that some of it has carried over to the coaching. Like the first real game I coached, at the Atlanta summer league in July of 1997. I walked out there for the first time and I could feel all the eyes on
me. It’s uncomfortable for me. Always has been.

  But the one thing I noticed in my first coaching season—and it’s completely different than what I expected—is how fans treat you differently than when you were playing. They actually holler and say hi. When I was playing, I never had a guy from Philadelphia saying, “Hey Larry, how are you doing?” But now it happens. I was expecting all the usual, the wisecracking and the smart-mouth stuff, but it really hasn’t turned out that way. The only thing I hear is, “Hey Larry, you better take off your suit and get in the game.” I’m not sure why they laid off me. Maybe it’s some form of respect. I know they give other coaches hell, because I can hear them.

  I do sometimes wonder what it would be like to be just another person. Most of my close friends aren’t famous at all. They’re working people, and they enjoy life as much as I do. There’s a part of me that wishes I never became famous. Maybe that’s why I enjoy the private time I have.

  I’ve got this idea in my head now that I want to move to Montana. I’ve never been there. I don’t like horses, and I don’t do any hiking. I’d just like to have a thousand acres with a cabin on it. But it’s got to be a cabin with a garage. That way I can go down to the garage and sit there all day and think about nothing.

  Sounds perfect to me.

  CHAPTER 6

  On My First Year As Coach

  Once I took the Pacers job, I couldn’t wait to get going. But there were a few things I needed to figure out. My first day of work, I showed up at the office before eight o’clock in the morning and the doors were locked. I had to hang around for almost an hour before anyone showed up. That afternoon I asked Donnie Walsh for my own set of keys. My second problem was I didn’t have my assistants yet. Both Dick and Rick had said yes, but they had things to finish up in Portland, and I was on my own. I’d come in, and I used to go right to Donnie’s office. After about three weeks I said, “Maybe this guy has other things to do besides having me sitting here looking at him.” I asked him, “Donnie, when are you going to show me the coaches’ office?” He said, “We don’t have a coaches’ office.” I said, “Why not?” He said, “We never had coaches that ever came in the office.” I said, “You’ve got to be kidding me. I know when Dick and Rick get here, we’re gonna need an office.” Donnie thought about it for a minute, then he took me to this room that had all sorts of equipment and papers and stuff in it. It’s where the Pacers put all their interns. “How big do you want this office of yours?” Donnie asked me. I said, “This is plenty big enough.”