One night after the break, our families went out for dinner together. In the summers George and I went out to Arlington in Chicago to watch the crowds and bet on a few horses. We would come back and take the girls out for dinner.
As time went by, we became completely relaxed around one another, laughing, joking, talking.
When the season picked up, we found our groove. During the months of February and March, the Bucks simply did not lose. Twenty straight games—a new league record, eclipsing by two games the record New York had set the previous season. I could see our attitudes on the court evolving, watched that killer instinct developing. For the most part it was beautiful, as pure and close to the ideal of what basketball should be as anything I ever was a part of. At the same time, when I look back at it now, I also understand how much this perfection affected me. While I played the game with a serious, concentrated expression for the most part, if a teammate dogged it, I let him have it. It didn’t matter how much we were up, or who we were playing. If a player started getting too out of control in our halfcourt set, he was going to hear about it. If Lew or Bob set a careless pick, that couldn’t happen again. We had to get it right.
Maybe I acted this way because I saw how good a team we were becoming, maybe because I finally had a chance at a title and did not want things to go sour. Maybe part of it was because our coach had a tenuous relationship with a few of the guys, and I would rather have dealt with Bobby and other guys out there—I knew they would listen to what I said without checking, without an uproar. Basketball is a strange game. One injury can dismantle a season. One bad trade. A locker room shift in attitude. The press can create a controversy, or something can just go wrong. Little things come up, of course; that’s natural during the course of the season. But the better we played, I think, the more I believed, or maybe wanted to believe. And the more I believed, the more confident I became.
“I got to be glad when time-outs were over,” Lew told one interviewer, as the regular season wore down. “I couldn’t believe it. Oscar would stomp around for a solid minute when things weren’t going quite right, and scream at us, ‘What the hell is goin’ on around here?’ He puts the fear of God into me. Gets on guys right on the floor. For not putting out. For acting flaky. He tells us. And that’s good. Because a team has to have somebody like that. I won’t do it myself. I’m a little too humanitarian. But Oscar doesn’t have that problem. That’s another good thing about Oscar: He wants that championship. Oscar wants it right now. Right this year. And he’s got us all feeling this way.”
With more than a month left in the season, we had a 53–8 record. Emphasizing execution and the simple, mechanical skills of the game gave the Bucks the best offense in the league. We were twelfth in field goals attempted and eleventh in free throws attempted, but we set a record for shooting accuracy and were the first team in NBA history to average more than fifty percent from the field for a season. We topped the league in points scored, with an average of 118 points a game. Just as importantly, by the time the regular season was nearing its end, our defense was playing as well as anybody in the league.
With six games left in the regular season, we had a 65–11 record, had won our division, and were fourteen games ahead of our nearest competition for home-court advantage. We’d dominated the league to such an extent that Coach Costello rested Lew and me and Bobby for the last six regular-season games, and yet we still finished with a 66–16 record—at the time the best in NBA history—and tied the 1964–65 Celtics for the greatest regular-season victory margin in NBA annals. If Coach Costello had decided not to rest us, the way Phil Jackson kept his 1995–96 Chicago Bulls starters in the game, there’s no doubt in my mind we could have won seventy games.
Lew’s thirty-one points a game led the league in scoring that season, and his sixteen rebounds per contest were fourth best. In just his second year in the league, he was the runaway winner in most valuable player voting, an award he richly deserved. But every starter on our team had an excellent year, averaging more than ten points a game (Lew—31 points per game, Bobby Dandridge—18.3, Jon McGlocklin—15.8, Greg Smith—11.7). In fact, other than myself, Jon McGlocklin was the only starter who did not raise his scoring average from the previous season, and he actually shot a better shooting percentage than he had in either of his first two years.
During my previous ten seasons in the league, I’d averaged twenty-one shots a game. This season, that number was cut by almost a third. But after ten years in the league, I had enough statistics to last me a lifetime. If my averages didn’t leap off the page anymore—19.4 points, 8.2 assists, and 5.7 rebounds—they were more than fine. More important to me was that our team had just finished the best regular season anyone had ever seen. Our starters were rested. Our reserves, Bob Boozer and Lucius Allen, were ready to go. Our team was pumping on all cylinders—that was what I cared about. I cared about the playoffs.
We won our first three games against San Francisco in the first round, dropped game four by two points, then returned to Milwaukee and finished the series in a fifty-point rout. Next came a matchup against the Lakers. For the first time, Wilt would be squaring off against Lew in a playoff series.
Wilt was thirty-three now, and while he wasn’t the dominating force he once had been, he’d still averaged twenty points and a league-leading eighteen rebounds. Wilt had befriended Lew and acted as something of a mentor during Lew’s high school years, going so far as to give him his old shirts to wear. But of late they had become rivals. I think Wilt got tired about hearing that the new kid had replaced him as the top center in the league. Nobody doubted that he would be ready for Lew and would come out ready to play.
The real key to the series was Jerry West, because he had torn ligaments in his knee and wouldn’t be playing. Jerry was still Mr. Clutch. Keith Erickson couldn’t replace what Jerry brought to the floor.
To be honest, it wasn’t much of a series. We blew out Los Angeles in each of the first two games, 106–85, and then 91–73. Before game three began, Erickson had to be rushed to the hospital for an emergency appendectomy, but Wilt still managed to carry the Lakers on his back, and he and Elgin Baylor pulled that game out, 118–107. That was Los Angeles’s final stand. We crushed them in the next two games—117–94 and 116–98. Wilt always said he played some of his best basketball against Lew in that series, and after game five in Milwaukee, the fans gave him a standing ovation for his effort. Since we won the series by an average margin of nineteen-plus points, I don’t think Lew cared. The win put us in the finals, so I certainly didn’t. And Wilt must not have been all that broken up either, because not long after the series ended, he signed a contract to box in an exhibition against Muhammad Ali.
Wilt’s fight against Muhammad never came to pass, which was too bad, because I would have paid to see it. It wasn’t the only disappointment for us. While we rested and practiced, our rivals, the defending champions, the New York Knickerbockers, were in a brutal war with the Baltimore Bullets, a physical seven-game series that saw the two teams knock the living hell out of one another. Somehow Baltimore emerged from the deciding seventh game. Our locker room was stunned. All season long Lew and the guys had been looking forward to a series with the Knicks, our only real aggravation or challenge. Disappointed remarks came out of our locker room. Nobody disrespected or disparaged the Bullets, but the truth was, they weren’t who we’d been gunning for. Hell, our programs for the finals were already printed—the cover featured Lew shooting a skyhook over Willis Reed and Dave DeBusschere. In a column entitled, “Knicks Will Be Missed in Final Playoff,” a local columnist summed up everyone’s frustration, writing, “It is as though Muhammad Ali had stumbled somewhere earlier in his comeback attempt and Joe Frazier had been forced to conduct his fight of the century against Oscar Bonavena.”
We honestly didn’t think Baltimore would beat the Knicks. They’d just won two consecutive series in deciding seventh games. But because of expansion and scheduling quirks, we hadn
’t played them in more than three months. Coach Costello and assistant coach Tom Nissalke had to lock themselves in the film room and watch tapes of the Bullets, going over each of their playoff games in order to properly scout their tendencies. Earl Monroe had been hurt against the Knicks. Gus Johnson—the player that Cincinnati had tried to trade me for—not only had chronically bad knees but also had been injured during the New York series. And Wes Unseld, their six-foot-eight, huge-shouldered rebounding machine, was walking on one leg. That’s the playoffs in the NBA. Injuries.
On April 21, 1971, the top billing of the marquee outside the Milwaukee Arena listed something called “The World Championship Wonago Rodeo.” About six feet below that, smaller letters announced that the Milwaukee Bucks were playing for the world championship.
I’d waited eleven seasons to get a chance at a championship.
ABC’s broadcast team of Chris Schenkel and my longtime friend Jack Twyman talked about the uphill task the Bullets were facing, how they’d had less than forty-eight hours to rest since their upset over New York, and how important it was that they try to steal this first road game, shake us up, and get an advantage in the series.
Wes Unseld gave up about six inches to Lew, so of course we went inside as soon as possible. Within two minutes, Unseld had two fouls and was on the bench. To make matters worse for Baltimore, Gus Johnson’s knee sidelined him (he would play sparingly through the series). Our defense attacked and pressured and tried to take Baltimore out of their half-court offense. We came up with five steals and jetted out to a 14–6 lead and, trying to go for the kill early, looked inside to Lew on consecutive trips down the floor. He was charged with two straight offensive fouls and all of a sudden, with less than five minutes gone in the first quarter, our own star had three fouls and had to take a seat for the rest of the half. The tenor of the game immediately changed. Baltimore closed to within two. Their next trip up the court, I was caught on a pick and switched onto Fred Carter. He shouted to teammates, “Get me the ball. I’ve got Oscar on me.”
I scored the next six points, a run that extended our lead to ten and, just as importantly, calmed down our guys.
We led 50–42 at halftime. Lew came out in the start of the third quarter, and we immediately fed him the ball. Wes Unseld was wide as a city block and was a crafty, physical defender. While he couldn’t see over Lew’s shoulder, he was able to push him out of position at times and make Lew start his skyhook farther away from the basket than he wanted. Denying him the ball from one side on one trip down the floor, Wes might overplay the opposite side the next time down, then spin around and knock the ball away from Lew’s other hand. He did the best job he could, but too often he was left one-on-one in the post with Lew—and all his tricks weren’t enough. Lew scored eighteen in the third quarter, and we built a 79–62 lead. The Bullets went on midway through the fourth quarter and closed to within six when I sat down for a rest. But I came back to the game and again settled our guys. With three minutes and twenty-four seconds left, we pushed our lead to thirteen and Baltimore couldn’t do anything.
Lew ended the night with thirty-one points and seventeen rebounds in thirty-three minutes as we took the opener 98–88. I had twenty-two points, seven rebounds, and seven assists. Fred Carter (six points on 3–11 shooting) did not have a good game.
Afterwards, I tried to downplay expectations and not get too excited. “The championship is what every player hopes for, and I am no different.”
In game one, Baltimore’s Earl Monroe was well on his way with twenty-six points. Four nights later in Baltimore, after a 19–9 run in the second quarter gave us a working margin, the Pearl hit four straight times and assisted on another basket, igniting the crowd with his flash and flair, bringing Baltimore right back. Meanwhile, Wes Unseld and Lew were attacking one another without mercy—Unseld scored eleven points and grabbed seventeen rebounds in the first half; Lew answered with fourteen points and fourteen boards. When defenders sagged in on him, McGlocklin nailed open jump shots. I finished the half with twelve points.
We led 50–48 at halftime, during which free-form rock dancer and Bullets’ fan Marvin Cooper proved himself to be Baltimore’s best performer. Cooper had started dancing in the aisles during the first round, when Baltimore had taken down Philadelphia in seven games. As we were warming up for the second half, he sauntered down near our bench and wiggled his fingers and hips at us, as if he were casting a spell. You had to give the guy credit: He was far more entertaining than Steve Swedish’s Polish Sausage Band, which had played at halftime in Milwaukee.
In the second half, I set my sights on Earl Monroe, muscling him through his famed spins, battling him for position down low and refusing to let him post me up. On the other end of the court, Baltimore’s coaching staff had decided that Bobby Dandridge and I were hurting them too much from outside, and ordered Kevin Loughery, Fred Carter, and company to stop sagging on Lew. Big mistake. Lew exploded while we played swarming defense, going on a 19–2 run which gave us a 70–51 advantage, a lead that stretched to 84–63 early in the fourth quarter.
“They stopped us from getting any layups,” Baltimore’s Jack Marin said, shaking his head. “You look up there and see that Afro up by the rim, and you just don’t figure out what to do about it. They gave me the lane to the basket all night. I took it once, I took it again, then I said forget about it. It’s like taking a golf shot through a tree; it’s supposed to be ninety percent air, but you always seem to hit a twig. They figure you can’t beat them with twenty-foot jumpers and they’re right.”
With two minutes left, we were up by twenty-four and started clearing the bench in a 102–83 blowout. Frustration set in for the Bullets.
Lew amassed thirteen points and ten rebounds in the second half and totaled twenty-seven points and twenty-four rebounds for the game. A good game for Lew. I had done pretty well and was one of four of our starters in double figures. As for the Pearl, he finished with just one point in the second half and had eleven points for the night, on four of eighteen shooting, with all four of his baskets coming during in that single second-quarter run.
“Oscar has helped us on defense as much as on offense,” Coach Costello told reporters afterwards. “He plays even better defense than Walt Frazier of the Knicks. He’s stronger than Frazier, and nobody is going to take him inside and get six-foot shots. You didn’t see Earl Monroe get the ball in low against him like he did against the Knicks.”
Added Bullets coach Gene Shue: “Oscar should have been on the all-defensive team. He got my vote. He played better defense than any guard in the league this year. When a man is a great offensive player and as smart as Oscar is, he knows what the other offensive players are going to do. Oscar is as smart as they come.” Shue smiled. “And he holds a little too.”
Through the rest of the series, the Milwaukee Journal called me “Counsel for the Defense.” Broadcasters and columnists wondered if any glimmer of flamboyance, or so much as a peep of exuberance, would escape from our locker room when we finally won the title.
That was how it was discussed now. When, not if. There was no way around it. The 102–83 win put us firmly in control of the series. A championship was ours to take or lose. We knew this, but we also knew that a loss in game three in front of our home crowd would have given Baltimore the home-court advantage for the rest of the series, putting them right back in the thick of things.
The Pearl came out on fire to start game three, scoring Baltimore’s first nine points. Eventually, we were able to cool him off, and our offensive machine started its efficient churn. We led by eight after the first quarter and had a commanding 68–52 lead at halftime. When I was called for my fourth personal foul early in the third quarter and had to go to the sidelines, Baltimore’s starters chipped at our lead and worked the gap down to 70–68. Coach Costello’s eyes met mine; I took off my warmup jacket, and we shut them down. We closed the third quarter with a 9–1 run, then opened the fourth with eight of the next twelve.<
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Bobby Dandridge’s twenty-nine points led all scoring, and our fans gave us an extended standing ovation at the end of the 107–99 win. We were at the threshold.
Conventional wisdom says that a three-game lead in a best-of-seven series is insurmountable. At the same time, the last thing you want to give a down team is hope. If they win one game, suddenly they’re back in their place with a chance—now all they have to do is win that game to get into game six. Once you’re there, the momentum shifts. Now all the pressure is off the underdog. After game three, Earl Monroe and Jack Marin admitted to being “emotionally spent.” The last thing we wanted was to give them a chance to reload.
Players’ wives didn’t travel back then, not even during the playoffs. Throughout the playoffs, all of our wives had ritually met at someone’s house to watch the games on television. For game four, everyone came over to our house. They watched an unknown actor named Tom Selleck hawk shaving cream on commercials before the game. They heard Jack Twyman talk about the desperate energy of the Baltimore Civic Center. Once again Baltimore came out strong early and took a 15–10 lead midway through the first period.
The game was seven minutes old when Earl Monroe was called for a foul. On the next possession Jack Marin and Bobby Dandridge traded elbows and then exchanged punches. Gus Johnson pulled Dandridge away. Jon McGlocklin calmed down Marin. A double technical foul was called, and both sides cooled down. During the last six minutes of that first quarter, our offense slowly awoke, and we outscored the Bullets 21–7 and took control of the game, 31–22.
I saw that we had them when they walked over to their bench at the end of the quarter. I told the guys not to let up and we didn’t, stretching the lead to nineteen in the second quarter.
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