Unguarded

by Lenny Wilkens

  I wish they hadn’t needed that kind of signal, but it felt awfully good when it finally did come.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS NOT LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT.

  I was the athlete, she was the friend of a friend. She thought I was trying to take my friend away from her friend, trying to take my buddy to a party with me where there would be other girls, instead of allowing him to go out with his regular girlfriend, who was also her girlfriend.

  Complicated?

  When people see Marilyn and me, they assume we have been together forever: that I saw her, she saw me… bells rang…fire-works exploded… and we lived happily ever after.

  There’s a lot of truth to that, because we’ve been married since 1962. But the first time Marilyn met me, she thought I was a jerk. And I barely paid any attention to her at all.

  I was a junior at Providence College. My friend was John Woods, and we had just played a game at St. Francis College in Brooklyn. I asked if John wanted to go to a party with me.

  “OK,” he said, indicating he didn’t have much else to do.

  “There are some people waiting for me after the game,” I said. “Some girls I know are having a party.”

  That sounded good to John.

  After the game, we headed out of the dressing room. Waiting for him was a girl named Althea, who I later learned was John’s girlfriend. And with Althea were Marilyn and Marilyn’s sister.

  This created a problem for John.

  “You can go with them,” I said. “Or you can go to the party with me. What do you want to do?”

  After some hesitation, he came with me.

  I later learned that Marilyn was outraged that I’d asked John to go to the party with me. I didn’t know that John and Althea were that serious, and John sure hadn’t told me. Later, John and Althea got married, and I was his best man. But back then, I had no clue about their relationship.

  As for Marilyn, I barely noticed her, and I didn’t think twice about her. She had no idea whom she’d marry back then, but the one person she was sure it wouldn’t be was me.

  A year later, I saw Marilyn again.

  She was dating a guy named Dennis Gurmores, who also played basketball for Providence College. He was a year behind me, and we were pretty good friends. Marilyn was at the school for the junior prom, and I met them at a party. That was the first time I really remember seeing her, and I thought she was attractive—but I also knew she was with someone else. I had no idea she was the same girl who was with Althea after that St. Francis game.

  I didn’t think a lot about Marilyn because she was dating someone else.

  She told friends that I was “stuck up” and “aloof,” and “I walked around with my head stuck up in the air.”

  Other than that, she liked me a lot.

  The next time I saw Marilyn was after I had just completed my rookie year with the St. Louis Hawks. I’d been in the ROTC program at Providence, and I had some active military duty coming up. I was supposed to report on May 25.

  Along about the end of April, I got into another one of those convoluted dating stories.

  A friend of mine wanted to date a girl named Lori.

  He didn’t have a car.

  I had a car.

  He wanted me to go with him on a double-date, especially since Lori had a friend and she wanted to fix her up with someone.

  I had no date for that night.

  And Marilyn was the girl.

  I found this out before I met her, from talking to Lori about her friend. I didn’t think the double-date was such a good idea, because I remembered Marilyn from that party at Providence, and I knew that I wasn’t her dream date. I called Marilyn on the phone to explain—exactly what, I wasn’t sure—but I thought I owed her a phone call, because Lori had set up this date and Marilyn did know me from before. I realize this may not sound logical or mature, but I was only twenty-two, and dating often isn’t rational at any age.

  Marilyn was very nice and polite on the phone. We talked a little, and I just liked how she sounded. She was attending Hunter College in Manhattan. I still lived with my family in Brooklyn, and she lived in the Bronx. We had most of New York City covered.

  Anyway, I mentioned that I was going to be in Manhattan the next day; I was going to lunch with Larry Fleischer, who was the head of the NBA Players Association. I asked Marilyn if she wanted to meet me after her classes for a cup of coffee, and I’d give her a ride home to the Bronx. Having a car was a real advantage, because most New Yorkers travel by subway. I don’t know if Marilyn had changed her mind about me, based on that one phone conversation. I suspect she mostly wanted to avoid that subway ride home to the Bronx.

  I don’t remember much about that first get-together other than Marilyn just was very different than I had remembered. People who know her now have a hard time believing that Marilyn was quiet, a great listener, and almost shy. Today, Marilyn says exactly what’s on her mind and really doesn’t care what anyone thinks. I love the Marilyn of today as much as I appreciated the reserved Marilyn whom I really met for the first time in that coffee shop. She told me that in addition to attending Hunter College, she was going to night school at Mandell Medical Center, studying to become a lab technician. I appreciated the fact that she was hard-working and ambitious. I knew she was surprised that I was different from the Lenny Wilkens whom she’d first met, that I wasn’t just some jock looking for the next party.

  Soon we were going out several nights a week. I was so taken with Marilyn that I sort of forgot that I was due to report for military duty on May 25, 1961, in Fort Lee, Virginia. On that same May 25, I had a date with Marilyn to go to dinner and a Broadway show. We were in Times Square when I remembered I was supposed to be in Fort Lee. I noticed a Western Union office, and I thought I’d send a telegram to the base, saying I was sick and needed a few more days of rest before I reported.

  The Western Union lady understood my situation.

  “What rank are you?” she asked.

  “Lieutenant,” I said. I had that rank from being in the ROTC.

  “I wouldn’t say I was sick if I were you, sir,” she said. “You being an officer, they’d send an ambulance for you. I would suggest that you ask for a delay due to car trouble.”

  It sounded as if this lady knew more about it than I did, so I went with the car-trouble story. We sent the telegram off, and within a half-hour, had a reply granting a three-day extension before I had to report. Marilyn always says it was that day when she knew she had me, that day in the Western Union office where I was trying to figure out how to stall the military so I could be with her.

  At Fort Lee, I was placed in an eight-week Basic Officers Orientation Course. Once in a while, I had a free weekend. I immediately drove to New York to see Marilyn, even though I wasn’t supposed to drive any farther north than Washington, D.C. They didn’t want me having car trouble or being delayed coming back for any other reason. I didn’t tell them about New York, I just went; I had to see Marilyn.

  Her father was a cab driver in New York. If you can imagine a blustering New York cabby who liked to talk, had plenty of opinions, and wasn’t afraid to give them to you—in depth!—that was Ashley Reed, Marilyn’s dad, who drove a cab for over twenty years, an incredible guy who could talk to anyone about anything. He’s one of my favorite people. And today, Marilyn is just like her father.

  Back then, she was more like her mother, who was a quiet, thoughtful woman who also worked as a registered nurse. Her father worked a night shift, so I saw more of her mother. Both parents were very nice, very receptive to me.

  When it became obvious that Marilyn and I were getting serious about each other, her father asked, “What does he do again?”

  He knew I was in the military, but he also knew that was a temporary situation.

  “Oh, he’s a basketball player,” Marilyn’s sister said.

  “Great,” said her father. “When is he gonna get a real job?”

  He loved baseba
ll, but he didn’t follow pro basketball. Marilyn and her sister explained that I really did get paid to play basketball, and was paid pretty well. He liked me, so he accepted that.

  I loved her family because they were very close; there were always brothers, aunts, and sisters around. Marilyn’s mother is from St. Croix in the Virgin Islands, her father is a black man from Kentucky. They considered themselves African-Americans and never said anything about my race, or me not being “black enough” for their daughter. They appreciated who I was, and there was no debate about race. My family situation, the strain of losing my father so young, and the division that my parents’ interracial marriage had caused with some members of our family only made me love Marilyn and her family even more. It was the kind of family where I saw I’d be accepted and loved, and that meant a lot to me.

  It was an eight-hour drive from the base in Virginia to New York. I spent Friday night driving, Saturday and part of Sunday with Marilyn, then Sunday night driving back to the base. I was supposed be back by midnight, and sometimes I was a little late, but I had a friend who made sure that he signed me in on time.

  One spring weekend, Marilyn was able to go to Washington, D.C., to visit some relatives and also make it easier for me to see her. I drove to D.C., picked her up at her aunt’s home, and took her to the base. We had lunch with some officer friends of mine, some of whom were married. That night we drove back to Washington and went to a show. Then we went for a walk along the Potomac River. I can still see the light on the cherry blossoms, the moon reflecting off the Potomac. At that moment, Marilyn was the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen. I couldn’t imagine her being anything but my wife. We walked past the different monuments, and we came to a place near the river where there was a big spotlight on the Potomac.

  I had been nervous all day, knowing that I wanted to ask her to marry me, but not sure if I should. Or when I should. Or how I should do it. I thought she’d say yes, but there was a little doubt. I was just nervous about the whole thing, and I had been waiting for the right time that entire day.

  Finally, by the Potomac River, I just asked, “Would you marry me?”

  She said yes.

  We kissed.

  And that was it, we were engaged. I didn’t have a ring yet, so we didn’t make it formal until Christmas.

  On Christmas Day, I gave her a big box. I could tell she was disappointed. She was looking for a little box, a ring box.

  “It was delayed,” I said. “It’s going to be another two or three weeks.”

  She wasn’t really happy as she opened that big box.

  And found a smaller box inside…

  And she opened that box…

  And found a smaller box…

  And inside that box was an even smaller box…

  Finally, after opening five boxes, there was a little box, a ring box.

  And inside was her engagement ring.

  All the while we were dating, even after we were engaged, I had to have Marilyn home by midnight. We didn’t think twice about it. They were in charge, they meaning Marilyn’s parents. They wanted Marilyn home by midnight, so we made sure Marilyn was home by midnight. The U.S. Army I could finesse; with Marilyn’s parents I wouldn’t dare.

  When it came time for us to get married, there was a problem, since I was a Roman Catholic, and Marilyn was an Episcopalian.

  Our wedding date was July 28, 1962, fourteen months after we started dating. But in 1962, the Roman Catholic Church was not as open to its members marrying someone from another denomination as it is today.

  When we decided to get married, I wanted it to be at Holy Rosary Church, my home parish in Brooklyn. Father Mannion had been transferred to a different parish, but he was coming back to do the service.

  Well, the Catholic Church had a lot of red tape about marriage in 1962. Marilyn was supposed to take “instruction” at the church. She also had to sign a document saying her children would be brought up as Roman Catholics, or we couldn’t be married in the church. She lived in the Bronx and was still attending college in Manhattan, so it was a long trip to Brooklyn for these “instruction” classes. Futhermore, I was still in the military in Virginia, so I couldn’t drive her there because they were held at night during the week. Marilyn went once or twice, but that was enough for her.

  My mother was a little cool to our wedding plans—not because she had anything against Marilyn personally, but because Marilyn wasn’t Catholic. She wasn’t about to say anything, but my mother wasn’t quite her warm and friendly self when Marilyn was around, and I knew why; back then, to marry a non-Catholic wasn’t exactly a sin, but it was close. A good Catholic just didn’t do it.

  At the time, I wished I had the presence of mind to tell my mother, “Listen, when you married my father, he wasn’t Catholic.” (My father had later converted.) Instead, I just let it go, hoping my mother would come around. She did, but it took her a couple of years.

  I didn’t worry about Marilyn’s religion. She was a good person, and I knew she’d be a good wife, a wonderful mother. I had matured in my faith to the extent that I knew that God would judge us on who we are and what we do, not on our race or religion. If God is who He says He is, then He isn’t going to hold Marilyn’s not being a Catholic against her or our marriage.

  So the wedding plans moved on. I had saved up some leave so we could be married and have a honeymoon. I stopped by Holy Rosary to make sure everything was in place for the ceremony.

  Then a priest said, “You can’t marry Marilyn.”

  “Why not?” I demanded.

  “She didn’t complete her instruction. You don’t have a dispensation,” he said, meaning I didn’t have permission from the Church to marry a non-Catholic.

  I looked the guy dead in the eye and said, “Either we get married here, or it will be downtown at City Hall.”

  We were supposed to be married the next day, and I was not going to let this guy and his petty rules disrupt our wedding.

  Immediately, his demeanor changed. He called the bishop, and the bishop knew who I was. The bishop told the priest, “Give Lenny my congratulations, tell him that I’m happy for him.”

  That changed this priest’s whole approach. Suddenly, everything began to fall into place.

  But still it was 1962, and the Roman Catholic Church had its rules: We could be married in the church, but not at the altar. Go figure that. I had Father Mannion doing the service, I had the blessing of the bishop, I had six Dominican priests who were friends of mine attending the wedding—but we had to be married outside the altar rail. It was completely ridiculous, but those were the rules. I wanted to be married in the Catholic Church and at Holy Rosary because that was important to me. Even though I didn’t like some of the rules that the men of the Church had made, I never let that interfere with my feelings toward God; I knew He was right, even if what men did in His name was sometimes wrong.

  Not long after I was married, my mother came to visit us in St. Louis. Marilyn and I were squabbling about something, and my mother immediately rushed to my defense. At that point, I should have said, “Mom, keep out of this, it’s between my wife and me.” But I didn’t say anything. Marilyn got upset and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. It was Sunday morning, and we were supposed to go to church. So my mother and I went to church. I knew what was happening: My mother was still not thrilled that I had married Marilyn. Because my father had died so young and I was the oldest boy, I had been the man of the house, and when I got married she felt more like she’d lost me than that she’d gained a daughter. That was especially true because Marilyn wasn’t Catholic. If you don’t become a priest, then every Catholic mother at least wants her son to marry “a good Catholic girl.” My mother was fighting all of that, and I suddenly realized it after Marilyn stormed out of the room.

  As we drove to church, I told my mother, “I love you very much, but you have to understand that Marilyn and I are married. Nothing will ever change that. She is my wife. I
love her with all my heart. She is number one in my life. I will always love you, but I can’t put anyone in front of Marilyn.”

  My mother didn’t say anything for a while, and I could tell that she was thinking about what I’d said. In her heart, she knew I was right. After that, things became much better between Marilyn and my mother. Eventually, she realized that we’re all family.

  I tried to prepare Marilyn for St. Louis. She had never been in the South before. I was starting my third season with the St. Louis Hawks, and I knew it was going to be a big culture shock for her.

  The first time I saw the South was in my sophomore year at Providence. We played in a tournament in Virginia, and I saw bathrooms with signs reading COLORED on the doors. I had heard about Jim Crow; I had read about separate washrooms and swimming pools and drinking fountains, but it was never real to me until I saw it. That was when I realized that certain places divided everything into WHITE or COLORED. I had this terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was radically wrong with us as a people when you saw that. We were playing that basketball tournament on a military base where the facilities were open to everyone, but when you stepped outside the base it was another world, an ugly, prejudiced world. I thought about the guys on the base who were black, guys who were willing to die for our country if there was a war—and black men had died in World War II, Korea, and all the other wars—and how they couldn’t eat in some restaurants, or even use the same bathroom as a white man.

  It got crazy sometimes. Once I was driving alone through Petersburg, Virginia, and I stopped at a small restaurant for a cup of tea. It was just a little place, nothing special. When I sat down, the waitress looked at me, then quickly went into the kitchen. I saw this black head peek out the kitchen door, then go back in. The guy and the lady looked at each other, then the waitress came out, took my order, and served me the tea. Back then, I wasn’t sure what was happening. Now, I know that the lady was asking the black cook if I was a black man. She couldn’t tell from looking at me. He must have said I looked white, because she served me.