Trouthe, Lies, and Basketball

by Charley Rosen

  Lee’s in-game strategies were also awful.

  He was in the habit of substituting five new players at a time. Since getting any one player warmed up and in sync with his teammates usually takes about two to three minutes, putting five guys in this situation invariably resulted in stretches of a few minutes at a time when we’d be noticeably outplayed. But whenever I protested, Lee would simply wave me away.

  Also, his freelancing passing game made it impossible to get the ball to the right player in the right space whenever we needed a clutch score.

  For sure, many of the players approached me for personal advice. How to smooth their shot release, or make their change-of-direction dribbles more effective. Since they tuned out everything I told them about the benefits of team play, engaging in this one-on-one teaching was really the only positive effect I had on the players.

  To these new-age players, the pointers offered by any coaches who lacked the same athletic ability that they had were totally ignored. Which was why they paid no attention to anything Paul told them.

  Although Sidney was an NBA veteran, he was afraid to undergo surgery to replace an arthritic hip, so his limping movements made his low-post instructions inept. As such, his NBA glow had already dimmed to the vanishing point.

  We had enough sheer talent to beat the bad teams we played, but the better teams routinely roasted us.

  No wonder we finished at 12–13 and lost our initial game in the conference playoffs. Yet, the athletic director still voiced his support for Lee and his staff.

  However, after the season, the shit storm became a Category 5 shit hurricane.

  Remember Shabazz Winslow, the big kid from Dayton? Whose mother Sidney had to sleep with to get him to USA?

  Well, during the natural gabfests among the players during all the time they spent together on bus rides, in airports, hotels, and locker rooms, the black kids were dismayed to discover the difference in the illegal bribes they had received against those dished out to the white recruits. Whereas Sidney pocketed half of the $20,000 he carried, Paul only kept one or two thousand. The kids didn’t know this, of course. But they did mark the difference between the $10,000 the brothers got and the $18,000 or $19,000 the white kids got.

  They figured that the only reason for this discrepancy was racism on the part of the athletic department. But what could they do about this?

  Report to the police? The NCAA? The athletic director? Coach Lee?

  Never.

  Instead, they came up with a plan that devastated USA’s basketball program and dramatically changed my life.

  Shabazz’s mother charged Sidney Johnson with rape.

  Dayton’s district attorney dismissed the charge without even convening a grand journey on the grounds that had she indeed been raped, it would have been inconceivable that she would have allowed her son to enroll at USA.

  Even so, the NCAA’s sleuths were activated, and quickly discovered a huge slush fund left over from Coach Woody’s reign, which Lee had amplified. The procedure was to greatly overestimate the funds required by the basketball program for equipment, travel, and hotel expenses. For example, $350,000 was annually allocated to a local sporting goods company to pay for basketballs, ball racks, uniforms, jocks, socks, tape, Ace bandages, and the like. But, in actuality, the total bill came closer to $250,000. The company issued a bill for the 350 grand, then split the leftover money with Coach Woody and, later, his successor.

  However, because of Coach Woody’s universal canonization, only Lee’s crime was revealed.

  As a result, everybody in the basketball program except the trainer and me were summarily fired. Moreover, the full scholarships available to the program were reduced from seven to a measly three.

  Two days after Dr. Jeffrey R. Randolph, the new athletic director, took over, he summoned me to his office.

  He was a crisply neat, middle-aged man, who had steely eyes, manicured fingernails, and a tailored gray suit that made him look more like a dollars-and-no-nonsense businessman than someone whose primary interest was sports. Accordingly, his stern manner made sure I knew that he was the boss and I was just another employee.

  “I’ve heard nothing but good reports about you, Coach Hersch. Nothing about you getting involved with any of the program’s rather shady dealings.”

  “Thank you, sir. I just try to do my job the only way I knew how.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Of course.”

  Then he was silent as he stared down at his watch and then his cluttered desk.

  “What I’d like to do, Coach Hersch, is to offer you the head coaching position in light of the recent unfortunate developments in the program.”

  “Wow! That’s a tremendous honor!”

  Yes! I’d be free to install an honest, truthful program! This was it!

  “Dr. Randolph, I’d be thrilled to accept.”

  “Wonderful,” he said as he stood and reached out to shake my hand. “Make an appointment with the bursar—I’m not sure I know his name—to be apprised of the financial and other details.”

  Still gripping my hand with surprising strength, he said, “But know this . . . There are many wealthy alumni who were terribly disappointed with last season’s results. It was the team’s first losing season in fifteen or so years. And as I’m sure you know, the athletic department greatly depends on generous contributions from these proud USA grads. This university is not a charitable institution. The duty of the athletic department is to make a sufficient profit to help pay for other, nonprofit departments like the sciences and the humanities. That’s the bottom line.”

  Still crunching my hand, he continued, “So, it’s incumbent on you to do everything possible to achieve a winning record.” Then his eyes twitched in what might have been the suggestion of a wink. “Everything, of course, in compliance with NCAA regulations. If you have any problems or questions, please feel free to consult me. Thank you, Coach Hersch. Glad to have you aboard.”

  “Thank you, sir. For the wonderful opportunity.”

  My contract called for two guaranteed years at $500, 000 per, plus the off-campus house and Lincoln Town Car that were no longer Lee’s. The bursar’s office would henceforth dispense any monies that the program required as well as arranging for the purchase of equipment. And I was allotted another $90,000 to hire two assistants—who had to be hired ASAP to be able to bring in three recruits who could make a difference.

  Terrific! Wonderful!

  I didn’t know who the fuck-all to hire, so I called Collison. He had two suggestions. One was Harvey Carmichael, an elderly gent with vast NBA experience who had been forced to retire when the Memphis Grizzlies hired a new general manager. “Harve knows everybody and everything worth knowing,” said Collison, “and he can’t stand being retired.”

  The other was Ray Gilbert, a young kid looking for a break. “His dad did college scouting for the Nets, Pacers, Sixers, Clippers, and Spurs for nearly thirty years. So the kid is well connected, will work hard, and his dad can help him.”

  Meeting with these two guys wasn’t really necessary and, after two ninety-minute phone calls, both of them agreed to join my staff as assistants-cum-scouts.

  But Carmichael had a warning: “I’m sure you understand, Coach, that literally all of the blue-chip prospects are already signed. So, finding three . . . or even one, impact player won’t be easy.”

  Okay. Two weeks later, Gilbert called to say that he had connected with a pair of junior college players who had both been accused of assaulting girls who came up to their apartments but wouldn’t sleep with them. One of the guys punched the girl in the face and broke her nose. The other guy just slapped her around. Drugs were involved, but not rape. Just a few days ago, the charges against both had been dropped, presumably because their respective agents had paid the girls hush money.

  “They’re both good enough to st
art,” Gilbert said. “One of them could be a third scoring option, the other a rebounding, nonscoring center. Since their arrests scared off everybody, they’ll commit without making a visit. They’re the best that’s available, and they’re technically clean.”

  Oh, well. Okay. Two down and one to go.

  Shortly thereafter, Gilbert called to say that he had connected with a player who had NBA talent. “But there’s a reason why he hasn’t signed with anybody. He’s a heroin addict.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. Other scouts know that he’s heavily involved with drugs, but they don’t know that it’s heroin.”

  “So why should I be interested in him?”

  “Because I’m familiar with your roster and, with last season’s three top-scorers all gone and playing overseas, what you have left is garbage. You’ll be lucky to win ten games, and from what I know about your new AD, you’ll be shit-canned the day after the season ends. Okay?”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “But with this guy, Lamar Sweeney, I guarantee you’ll win twenty games and at least get an invite into the NIT. However, to get him, there’s a big catch. . . . You’ll have to have somebody supply him with his heroin.”

  “What? That’s crazy!”

  “Not so crazy, only because Marty Taylor could get that done with no problem.”

  “I can’t agree to that.”

  “It’s up to you. Either get canned in March or not. I should also tell you that there was another player a few years back who played for a powerhouse top-ten team who was also a heroin addict. And the school . . . which will not be named . . . made sure his hypodermic needle was always loaded with grade-A stuff. The guy . . . who also will not be named . . . went on to have a decent five-year career in the NBA, where he had enough money to keep his habit going. Until he was so loaded that he drove his car into a telephone pole and killed himself.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Listen, young man. Everybody’s dirty. Everybody’s lying. That’s the name of the game in top-tier D-One basketball. Look at what Woody had been doing, that fucking hypocrite. Believe me, the only D-One schools who run honest programs are the Ivy League schools.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Okay. I’ve got this kid on the hook, but if we don’t reel him in in a couple of days, there’s a school up north that’s interested. But he’s from California, see, and doesn’t like cold weather. So . . .”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  Holy fucking shit! Was this kind of stuff merely business as usual in the college game?

  What to do?

  I certainly didn’t want to get fired after only one season. But the only alternative was disgusting.

  This conundrum almost made me forget about the soul-deep wound caused by Monica’s sudden and mysterious disappearance.

  Then I got a brainstorm.

  “Hofstra University. How may I direct your call?”

  “The English Department, please.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  . . .

  “English Department. How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Dr. John Roth. Or maybe leave a message for him.”

  “Sorry, sir. Dr. Roth is no longer a member of the department.”

  “What? I mean what happened?”

  “He resigned and went to another school.”

  “Where? I mean, when?”

  “Sorry, sir. I can’t divulge where he is now, but I can tell you that he resigned on August first.”

  “Oh . . . Okay. Could you tell me, then, about Monica Raymond? She was a PhD candidate working under Dr. Roth.”

  “Yes, I remember her. Let’s see . . . She got her degree on . . . ummm. . . . August fifteenth.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Why would I do that, sir?”

  “Ummm. Any idea where she is now? Did she leave anything like a forwarding address?”

  “I do know that she had her grade transcripts and a recommendation by Dr. Roth sent out, but I can’t divulge any further information.”

  “Okay. Thank you anyway.”

  “Have a great day, sir.”

  A great day, right?

  She fucking lied to me up, down, and sideways. Ha! For sure she ran off with the Roth guy. She called him “John,” right? And said he was good-looking.

  Let me fuck you and I’ll pass your dissertation. Then come away with me and I’ll get you a good job and we’ll live happily ever after.

  So where did it all leave me?

  Not as brokenhearted as expected. Maybe I was bullshitting myself all along. Maybe I was really in love with love. How does anybody know what real love is anyway? Right?

  Or maybe I really did love her and was trying to protect myself with some kind of “sour grapes” attitude.

  I was more angry than soul-struck. And I vowed never to trust anybody again. Including myself.

  Which, of course, was inherently absurd, because by definition I couldn’t trust myself to honor these vows.

  Anyway, the show had to go on.

  So in addition to having had my “love” being so ruthlessly assassinated, I had to arrange for a kid to be supplied with heroin if I wanted to have anything resembling a career at USA.

  By the next morning I came to a decision.

  Fuck all of it.

  I submitted a letter of resignation to Dr. Jeffrey R. Randolph. Bought still another car—a two-year-old BMW—and headed back to New York.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Driving through Kansas during the second day of my trip, I called Collison.

  Of course he’d heard about the bogus rape charge and the cash handed to potential recruits. “But none of that had anything to do with you, Elliot. You’re clean, so why do a stupid thing like resigning? I mean, you’ll never even come close to getting a big-time coaching job.”

  However, after I explained the win-now pressure and the entire heroin situation, he said he understood. “The trouble is that you can’t put that heroin story on the wire, so you’ll still be blackballed.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Anyway . . . where do you go from here? I don’t see any way that I can I help you.”

  “This is what I’m looking for . . . I’m done playing, but I think I still want to coach. Somewhere where money isn’t an issue. Where everything is totally honest. Where nobody has to lie about anything. Where the pressure to win doesn’t twist the game into a carnival. I don’t know, man. Maybe I’m just looking, hoping, for something that doesn’t exist.”

  “Ha! Not at all. I mean, the only really above-board programs in D-One are in the Ivy League, and you have no chance there. But I think there is one situation that might suit you. . . . D-Three basketball.”

  “Really? I don’t know anything about it. Tell me.”

  “Well, I don’t know much, because I’ve never represented a D-Three player or coach. I know that they don’t give athletic scholarships and that there are a lot of them, mostly in the Northeast.”

  “Sounds good so far.”

  “Still, there’s only six days to go before preseason practice begins, so it’s extremely doubtful that there’s an opening somewhere. However, I will make some calls and see what’s what. Okay?”

  “Yeah, man. Thanks.”

  Driving that BMW was dangerous because the car was so stable and the ride so smooth that zooming along at 80+ mph felt like I was barely approaching the various 65 mph speed limits. Although I fed a couple of Grateful Dead and Neil Young CDs into the player, my mind was buzzing too much to pay much attention to the music. Ditto for whatever scenery I passed.

  “Trucking back where I belong.”

  Wherever that was or would be.

  I was picking at a burger-and-fri
es plate that was soggy with grease at a diner across the highway from a cheapo motel, when I got a call from . . . guess who?

  Monica.

  “Elliot. It’s me. Monica.” She was sobbing, trying to keep from all-out crying.

  “Monica.”

  “Elliot! Oh, my god. Elliot. I fucked up big-time. I betrayed you. I betrayed us.”

  Of course, I knew what she was talking about. The fucking cunt.

  ”I don’t know why it happened. It just did. It only lasted two weeks and, I swear, I never loved him. . . . I’m a fucking idiot, I know.”

  Now she was noisily slobbering.

  “Monica.”

  “No, no. Let me finish. . . . But I was the one who broke it off, and do you know why?”

  I couldn’t, and didn’t really want to, think of something hurtful to say.

  “Because it made me realize how much I love you and how much I really want to be with you. It’s true . . . Elliot. Oh, Elliot. I love you so much!”

  “Monica. I don’t know what to say. But you really did hurt me.”

  “Say that you still love me and that you’ll forgive me. Please, Elliot. Forgive me. I beg you to forgive me. You must forgive me because I know that you still do love me. Elliot! Please!”

  Ah, shit. Could this be true? Was it possible, probable that I did still love her? What the fuck am I going to do?

  “Where are you, Monica?”

  “In San Diego. Substitute teaching in a couple of high schools and trying to get a college job for next September. . . . My god, Elliot. . . . I’m lost without you.”

  “Monica . . . I mean, I really don’t know what to say. This is all so sudden, you know?”

  “Where . . . where are you?”

  “I quit a head coaching job at USA and I’m driving back to New York. I guess I’m like you. Also looking . . . Fuck. There’s another call. . . . It’s, uh . . . from my agent. I recognize his number.”

  “Elliot! Please! Forgive me!”