Unguarded

by Lenny Wilkens

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I WANTED TO BE THE HEAD COACH of the first Dream Team.

  Few people know that. Few people understand that I had to swallow a little pride and take a deep breath before I accepted a spot on Chuck Daly’s coaching staff for the 1992 Olympic team. That’s because I mentioned my true feelings to only a few close friends.

  I didn’t want to sound as if I was whining, or was somehow playing the race card. That’s not me. It’s not what my life has been about. But when the decision was made to build a roster for the 1992 Olympic team with NBA players, I thought I would be the natural choice to coach that team. Between my playing and coaching careers, no one had been around the NBA any longer. I believed I had the respect of the players, and that I had been doing a good job as the head coach of the Cleveland Cavaliers.

  Deep in my heart, I thought I deserved it.

  But just as deep in my heart, I knew it would never happen. Maybe that goes back to my being slighted by the Olympic Committee back in 1960. But when it came to a head coach in 1992, my name was being mentioned, along with the likes of Chuck Daly and Don Nelson. I knew they were going to name a pro coach, because eleven of the twelve roster spots would go to NBA players. It made no sense to have a college coach in charge, because he wouldn’t know the players, and even more important, the superstars wouldn’t know—and perhaps wouldn’t respect—a college coach, at least not compared to a veteran NBA coach. A pro coach was the logical choice, but I just didn’t think the first coach of America’s first Olympic Dream Team would be black.

  And he wasn’t.

  The job went to Daly, who had just won back-to-back titles with Detroit and is an excellent coach. When I talk about my feelings of being passed over, it has nothing to do with Chuck Daly. He was recently voted into the Hall of Fame, and he deserved it. Perhaps race had nothing to do with it. Chuck was a good choice. I told myself that to cushion the disappointment.

  Then Chuck Daly called and asked me to be his assistant.

  There are times in life when all of us have our feelings hurt and we’d like to tell the world to just shove it, I don’t want to play your game. For a moment, I wondered if Chuck really wanted me as his assistant, or if the Olympic Committee just wanted a black face on the coaching staff for racial balance. Or maybe they were throwing me a bone, because they knew I should have been named the head coach. All these things and more ran through my mind, and I was still a little angry about being snubbed for the head coaching job. A small part of me said, “If they don’t want me to be the head coach, then maybe I don’t want to be a part of the staff.”

  Then I took a mental timeout and thought about it.

  That’s always a good idea when you’re angry. Don’t make a snap decision. Don’t lash out. Take time to consider all the factors, the people involved. I thought about Chuck Daly, whom I knew reasonably well: I respected him, and I knew he respected me. I use that word—respect—carefully, because it’s very important to me. If the respect didn’t run both ways between Chuck and me, then it made no sense for me to be his assistant. But I knew it did. His Detroit Pistons and my Cleveland Cavaliers had some great games in the late 1980s and early 1990s. We were competitors in the Central Conference. I liked Chuck. And I knew the 1992 Olympic team would be something special. I also had always wanted to represent my country.

  “Well?” I asked myself. “Here’s a chance.”

  Did I want to be on the coaching staff with a roster that included Magic Johnson, Michael Jordan, Larry Bird, David Robinson, Patrick Ewing, and all these other future Hall of Famers?

  When I put it in that context, the answer was easy: I’d have been out of my mind to turn it down. From the moment I accepted the invitation, I put whatever bitterness I may have had aside and concentrated on enjoying the experience and being the best assistant I could for Chuck Daly.

  It was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

  It didn’t take me long to learn something about Chuck Daly—he worries about everything.

  I mean, everything.

  Chuck worries when he can’t find anything to worry about—because he figures he missed something, and something had to be going wrong if only he could find it. No wonder the Boston Globe’s Bob Ryan nicknamed him “The Prince of Pessimism.”

  But coaching the 1992 Dream Team left no reason to worry. I wish I had a dollar for every time I told Chuck that.

  “Our guys could take these other teams too lightly,” he’d say.

  “Chuck,” I’d say, “look who is on your team: Magic, Michael, Larry. All those guys. Do you think they’re going to lose?”

  “I know,” said Daly. “But what if…”

  “Chuck, there won’t be anything that goes wrong,” I said. “If one or two guys are cold, just put in someone else. You’ve got a bench full of ’go-to’ guys. This is the greatest basketball team ever assembled.”

  Chuck would agree, but he’d still wrinkle his brow, shake his head, and look as if all he had was 50 cents in his pocket and he needed a dollar to get his car out of the parking lot.

  He worried that the players might be too tired from the NBA season.

  He worried they wouldn’t feel like training again in the summer, especially since it came right after the playoffs.

  He worried that our great players would take one look at some of the teams from the other countries and decide all they had to do was walk onto the court and win.

  There was something else Chuck worried about, something that he never said out loud: If that team lost, the finger of blame would be pointed right at him. It didn’t take much imagination to hear the critics saying, “The guy has Magic Johnson, Michael Jordan, Larry Bird, Karl Malone, and John Stockton—and he loses to Spain? Are you kidding?”

  In a sense, Chuck was right about one thing—he was in a no-win position, coaching a team that was the most lopsided favorite to win, not just in the history of the Olympics, but in the history of sports.

  I felt just the opposite from Chuck. I was extremely confident. Obviously, talent is one of the reasons the members of the Dream Team were superstars, but there was something else: pride. Those guys wanted to show the world they were the best. That was their motivation. They weren’t about to lose. These were some of the most competitive, driven men in the history of sports. They knew the eyes of the world were upon them and they knew the stakes were high.

  In my mind, there was no reason to wonder if they’d lose… because there was no way they’d allow that to happen. That team had too many great leaders, too many players of tremendous character to fail to win a gold medal.

  At one of our first press conferences, our players noticed that some of the British reporters were very smug, as if they didn’t think our team was anything special. Remember, the United States had lost in the 1987 Pan Am Games, then again in the 1988 Olympics. Of course, those were teams composed of our college kids. But some of the foreign reporters weren’t knowledgeable enough to realize that. To them, those kids were the U.S. team. To us, they were a bunch of college kids who had been physically overpowered by men. The days when the United States could throw together a bunch of college players in a few months and beat some thirty-year-olds who had been playing pro ball in Europe… those days were over. European basketball had progressed a great deal, especially during the 1980s. I’d conducted coaching clinics in Europe; a lot of U.S. coaches had, and it showed. The coaches and players overseas were hungry for our basketball knowledge, and they soaked up everything we told them. Not only did the coaching improve, but so did the skill level—especially the outside shooting and the low-post moves of the big men. You see that today in the NBA, where so many centers are from Europe. Their big guys are well-schooled, with excellent footwork. They don’t just rely on natural jumping ability, they practice those inside moves. That’s why our college players no longer could beat them with their sheer running, jumping, and athleticism. The 3-point shot put an emphasis on outside shooting, and the best Euro
pean teams had guys who could drill it with ease.

  In 1991, I scouted the European championships with Chuck Daly. The atmosphere was fantastic. I loved how the fans waved flags, sang songs, whistled at the officials, and really loved their teams. You could sense the nationalism. Chuck sat there, creating scenarios in his head how Italy could beat us… Spain could beat us … anyone could beat us. I saw that European basketball had really improved, and right away, I could see why our college kids struggled against them.

  But there was no way the Dream Team would lose. All the coaches had to do was make sure we had the opponents scouted and our guys prepared.

  “If we all do our jobs, we have nothing to worry about,” I told Chuck Daly.

  He nodded as if to agree, but he was still worried.

  The Dream Team opened its training camp in May in La Jolla, California. I arrived a few days late, because my Cleveland Cavaliers were involved in the 1992 Eastern Conference playoffs. That year, we had what I thought was the second-best team in the NBA; unfortunately, we were still in the same conference as the greatest player in the history of the game, and the Bulls beat us in six games. Then they eliminated Portland to win the title.

  In one of the early scrimmages, we played a group of the top college players. It was very close, partly because many of our guys were just coming off their NBA seasons. Their legs were a little tired, and they probably weren’t as focused as they should have been. We weren’t keeping score, but if we had, the college players probably would have won by a few points. The college guys were making a big deal about it, and the pros were saying, “Wait until tomorrow.”

  The next day was the first glimpse of the real Dream Team. The score was 19-0 before the college players scored. Half the time, they couldn’t even get the ball past midcourt. Our defense just swarmed them, then took away the ball, and then their confidence. You could see it in the college kids’ eyes: the fear. The doubt. The awe. It was something we’d see in game after game once the Olympics began. When the greatest players in the world turned the intensity up a notch, no one had the slightest chance against them. These guys were all great athletes, as physically gifted as very few men ever have been when it came to quickness and strength. And they were also overachievers, obsessed with winning, and very smart players on top of all that. What happens when a great athlete is an over-achiever? You end up with a Michael Jordan, a Larry Bird, a Magic Johnson. True champions. Players who not only play great, but whose greatness lifts up their teammates. If you played with Michael, Magic, or Larry, you didn’t want to let them down. It would be embarrassing to not play at the top level of your game when you saw the best player on the floor hustle so much that he left pools of sweat on the floor whenever he stopped for a moment. How could you not dive for a loose ball when Jordan does? How could you not pass to the open man when Magic does? How could you not crash the boards when Karl Malone and Charles Barkley do?

  Our team breezed through the Tournament of the Americas, which was played in Portland. We beat several Latin American teams with ease. This was the first time the world saw a snapshot of the Dream Team, and no one appreciated our players more than our opponents. We’d beat them by 50 points, then they’d ask us to pose for pictures with them after the game. They wanted our autographs! I mean, the players from the other teams! I had never seen anything like it. To them, just being on the same court with our guys was a privilege. The foreign players knew that it was an honor to be close to such greatness, and they wanted to savor the moment.

  Our next stop was Nice, on the French Riviera, where we’d practice for a while before the Olympics. Some of the players were just relaxing, playing golf, spending time in the casinos of Monte Carlo. They loved to play blackjack, and they weren’t afraid to spend money. Some of our players gambled night after night, and that worried Chuck—not because of the gambling, but because he worried they didn’t get enough rest. We also were being wined and dined by local dignitaries. We met some royalty from Monaco. It was the red carpet treatment, and some of the players had their families along. That worried Chuck, too.

  “These guys don’t have their heads in the game,” he told me after one practice.

  His face was turning gray from all the worry. I told Chuck to relax, the players had been off for a week, they had their families along and were taking it easy. They knew how to pace themselves and they’d be ready when the time came.

  Chuck didn’t want to hear any of it.

  I mentioned to Magic Johnson that Chuck was concerned about the intensity level in practice. That was all that needed to be said. Magic had one team, Michael had another. They began to scrimmage, and Magic’s team jumped to a big lead. He began to talk trash to Michael. At this point in their careers, Magic and Bird had more championship rings than Michael, and they weren’t afraid to remind him of that.

  Anyway, Magic got Michael’s attention.

  Playing on Magic’s team was Clyde Drexler, who some media people said should be the MVP over Michael in 1992. Michael never said a word, but we all knew that really bothered him—even though he did win the award. In Michael’s mind, he was the MVP every year. In 1992, he certainly proved it by leading his team past Drexler and Portland in the Finals. Now he was being covered again by Drexler, and you could sense the hairs on the back of Michael’s neck standing up. His competitor’s antenna was up. Everything about that game was up, from the emotion to the way the players jumped. Michael seemed obsessed that day. It was like the scrimmage was the 1992 title game all over again. His energy was contagious.

  Michael’s team was down by 15 points, and he went right at Drexler, scoring time after time. He destroyed Drexler, much as he did in a couple of those 1992 playoff games. Of course, Michael would destroy anyone when he was in one of those grooves. Fans know about his driving and dunking, but Michael’s outside shooting has always been underrated, and it improved with age. If you backed off him to guard against a drive to the basket, he made a jump shot right over you. Climb up on him, and he drove past you. Michael looked lean, but he was very strong. It was hard to knock him down, and he could bull his way through a double-team, just put his shoulder down, see a crack of daylight, and dribble between two defenders without losing control of the ball. His dribbling was another underrated part of his game. After he had his way with Drexler, other players tried to defend Michael. No chance. Not on this day.

  David Robinson was playing center for Michael’s team, and Patrick Ewing was the center for Magic’s team. Those guys were just pounding on each other. It wasn’t dirty, no one wanted to injure someone else, but the elbows were out, the picks were hard, the teeth were rattling, and the sweat poured off their bodies. These guys were nailing each other. For a basketball fan, this was a dream game. The practice was so good, I think I saw Chuck Daly almost smile—I said, almost. At least, he wasn’t frowning like some guy who’d just found a letter from the IRS auditors office in his mailbox.

  Michael’s team won that scrimmage by two points. The guys wanted to play some more, but we decided to end practice. The last thing we wanted was anyone getting hurt. I always wished there had been a tape of that practice, because it was better than any of the Olympic games, better and more intense than any All-Star game you’ve ever seen because it wasn’t for show. It was for pride, and for the joy of playing hard at the highest level there is.

  Our next stop was Barcelona, Spain, where the Olympics were held.

  No matter where the Dream Team played, it would have been an event. But having these Olympics in Europe just added to the aura of the team. I was shocked to learn that the Europeans loved basketball. They not only knew the players, they knew what all the players looked like. Granted, tall black men in Barcelona weren’t exactly going to be confused with the guy who cooked in a neighborhood restaurant, but even I was recognized everywhere. I had more people stop and talk to me in Barcelona than I did in Seattle, Cleveland, Atlanta, or anywhere else I’ve played or coached. That just amazed me.

&nbs
p; I was overwhelmed by the attention, and I was just an assistant coach. It was ten times that for the players. After a while, we found it difficult to walk the streets. So many people wanted us to sign autographs and pose for pictures, we couldn’t accommodate everyone. It was the first and only time in my life that I felt like a rock star. When we traveled to practice, there were three police cars in front of our bus, three police cars behind it. Still, we had to go a different route each time because people found out where we were headed and blocked the streets. They just wanted to wave at the bus…see the bus… take a picture of the bus! They couldn’t see who was inside, but they still wanted to see the bus! People lined up behind police barricades as we walked into and out of the arenas. They yelled our names. They waved. They took our pictures. As the Olympics went on, our security force got bigger and bigger until it seemed that we had an army protecting us—not because any fans wanted to hurt us, but for fear they might smother us with their love.

  We had only a couple of rough spots.

  One day, I saw that Karl Malone looked really down in the dumps.

  I talked to him for a while. At first, he said that nothing was wrong. We made some more small talk. Finally, he said he’d heard that Chuck Daly didn’t like him as a player.

  The more he talked about that, the more upset he became. People see Karl Malone as this huge man with rippling muscles, possibly the strongest man in the NBA, but he is a very sensitive man. I think he’s felt underappreciated for much of his career, partly because he played in Utah and most of the country didn’t get a chance to see the player he had become. This was especially true in 1992, because the Utah Jazz had yet to make it to the NBA Finals.

  Astute basketball people knew of Karl’s greatness, but the average fan probably didn’t. That bothered Karl. And now, he had heard that Chuck didn’t like him.

  I assured him that wasn’t the case, that I had never heard Chuck say anything negative about him, and all the coaches were thrilled to have Karl Malone on the Dream Team.