LARRY BIRD’S Hall of Fame induction, Springfield, Mass. Two summers ago. There I was, an hour or so before the ceremony was to begin, a nobody from Hollis, Queens, invited to hang out in an enchanted forest teeming with premium players right off the pages of basketball history. The respectful mingling instantaneously deviated into lockerroom humor the moment Wilt Chamberlain lowered his head through the door.
“George Gervin!” he bellowed at the first target trapped in his sights. “If it isn’t the world famous Iceman!”
Wilt’s affectionate mocking fractured Gervin, sending him into hysterics. It was an honor (and a hoot) to be saluted by the NBA’s most daunting constellation even if the tone was irreverent.
“What’s happenin’, Dipper. What do you know?” hailed Gervin as Chamberlain sidled up for some conversation to a small group that included Bob Lanier.
“I’m not at liberty to tell you that,” Wilt huffed. “But I’ll tell you what I’d like to know:
“How come you’re doing all the commercials, making all the money, and getting all the credit for the finger roll, and I’m not making a dime? And I’m the one who originated it! Can you explain that to me, please!”
It seemed like a good time to get sufficiently nervous, but that would’ve conflicted with the Iceman’s style. Anyway, he was laughing too hard to get tense.
“You right … you right .. you the man,” Gervin squawked in between gulps for air. “No question, Dippy, you originated the finger roll. But I perfected it!”
Now it was Wilt’s turn to go into convulsions. Renowned for taking himself deliriously serious, he showed us he could fully appreciate the joke being on him as well.
* THIRTY-ONE seasons have passed since I started covering pro basketball, though I’ve watched the NBA almost from its inception. The absolute highlight of my 50-year love affair with the game was the league’s silver anniversary celebration during All-Star weekend (’97) in Cleveland, in which its all-time 50 greatest players were put back on their pedestals.
What was particularly remarkable about that regal roundup is that 49 of the 50 were still alive, although Jerry West and Shaquille O’Neal chose not to attend. Wilt Chamberlain now joins Pete Maravich as the two who’ve died long before it was time to come out of the game.
The last time I saw Pistol Pete was at Kutsher’s Country Club a few months before his death. We had just participated as teammates in the Maurice Stokes charity game, in which he’d located me with an around-the-back pass on a fast break for an unmolested lefty layup.
“Don’t ever say I didn’t give you anything,” he kidded afterward. Those were the last words I ever heard him say.
My final conversation with Chamberlain occurred a couple of summers ago in Harlem. Both of us were to receive awards for our affection and connection to the Rucker Tournament. I only had to travel in from Long Island. Wilt lived in Los Angeles. Thus, I was initially astonished when he sauntered into the gym wearing his customary black tank top shirt, acknowledging the homage coming his way every step of the way. Surely he had more important things to do with his time, I told myself.
On second thought, of all people, I should’ve known better. After decades of being around him, if not close to him, I should’ve realized this was exactly the kind of function that appealed to him. A place he’d prefer to be above most others.
Being back in New York, where he actually lived on Central Park South while playing for the Warriors in Philadelphia. After games, he’d scoot in and out of the shower, grab a bunch of lukewarm hot dogs, throw ’em into his smelly duffel bag along with his sopping wet uniform, socks and sneakers, and catch the last train to the city. His teammates called him Big Musty. Behind his back.
Being back in Harlem, where he once owned a club called Wilt’s Smalls Paradise and played summers in the Rucker. Connie Hawkins once made the horrifying mistake of pinning Wilt’s shot in a championship game between New York (Cal Ramsay, Satch Sanders, Al Barden, Russ Cunningham) and Brooklyn (Jumpin’ Jackie Jackson, Eddie Simmons, Bruce Spraggins and import Walt Bellemy) … probably the real reason it took so long for The Hawk to matriculate into the NBA.
Being back among friends, players and street people whom he’d been socializing with since the early ’60s. Many of whom he’d remained faithful to since high school and college. Guys like Carl Green, recently inducted into New York City’s Hall of Fame, who played with him on the Globetrotters.
There was all that, of course. But there was also the undeniable truth, except for bragging about his promiscuity (something he didn’t dare do until his mom had died; he later apologized to women for reducing them to notches on his bedpost), Wilt cared about doing the right thing. Cared about doing right by people who were trying to do the right thing, either for themselves, or for others.
That’s why he made himself available from the outset when funds were needed to help Maurice Stokes after the Cincinnati Royal forward contracted encephalitis and fell into a coma. For years, thereafter, you could count on Wilt to play in the charity game at Kutsher’s. When Stokes died, and the game transformed into a benefit for indigent former pro players, Wilt remained a loyal presence at the event right up until his death.
That’s why he became a benefactor of sports for young women before it became fashionable, sponsoring track and volley ball teams out of his pocket. At the same time, despite not being willing or able to control a mouth big enough for two sets of teeth (opinions which infuriated, if not alienated nearly everyone in the NBA Guide) he cared passionately what people thought about him. As evidenced by his inferior performances and effort sometimes in elimination playoff games against the Knicks (to this day, you’ve got to ask the question, why didn’t he attack gimpy Willis Reed in Game 7 when the opportunity presented itself?) as well as the Celtics.
When some of his more ardent Celtic critics branded him a loser-merely because Bill Russell was en route to accumulating 11 titles to Chamberlain’s one while both were on active duty- it bothered him greatly.
So testifies long-time friend Tommy Kearns, who, at 5-11, at Frank McGuire’s command, jumped center against Wilt in UNC’s famous triple OT victory over Kansas in the 1957 NCAA championship game, and later became his stockbroker while a partner at Bear Stearns.
He once told me the one regret he had was that he didn’t play more aggressively against Russell. Red Auerbach would say stuff and get into his head, and the papers would write stuff and get into his head. He let the criticism affect him.
Following the Jayhawks’ 1-point defeat to unbeaten UNC, Wilt never could seem to shake his loser’s image. A couple insufferable setbacks in championship games to the Celts and everybody readily bought into the perception. Maybe even Wilt himself, who became more insecure and defensive as Russell’s hands swelled with rings.
Somewhere along the way, Wilt, like everybody else, got numbed by his numbers, blinded by his brilliance and spoiled by the spectacular.
Although objective observers clearly could see Russell’s teams were more talented than any other team in the league, not just Wilt’s, the fans and the media demanded titles. Because of his staggering size, massive ego and unpopular convictions, anything less was intolerable. So much for ever receiving the recognition he merited.
That’s what you get for living large. Rather than bully people, he badgered them. Instead of becoming vengeful, Wilt often got passive. Instead of piling it up from point blank range, he upgraded his degree of difficulty. Instead of dunking on people’s domes, he aided them by adopting a fadeaway. Other times, he hardly shot at all in an attempt to prove critics he could accomplish anything he wanted. One season he decided to become league leader in assists, refusing to pass the ball to cutters whose field goal percentages didn’t warrant the risk. Wilt became consumed with proving his success wasn’t based on brute force, but elan and aptitude.
Kearns summarily rejects the misguided notion Wilt was a loser.
“He was anything but a loser. What qualifies him as a winner? He was one of the greatest athletes in all of sports. People feared playing against him. Opponent were in awe. The record book speaks for itself. And he did win two titles.
“As far as I’m concerned, Wilt was the best player of all time. Since I graduated from UNC, maybe I shouldn’t say that. But I’m sure Michael will understand.”