Earl the Pearl

by Earl Monroe

  What was funny about Gus’s dunk is that when we got back to the dressing room he was gone. We didn’t know that he had already caught a plane to the West Coast because we were scheduled to start a four-game swing out there in Seattle after the All-Star Game on January 12. So when me and the guys got to Seattle, Gus was already there, in the hotel, kicking back and acting as if nothing had happened. We were surprised to find him there because no one had known where he disappeared to. Man, that shit was funny, because he was acting like nothing had happened. Anyway me, Gus, and Wes were named to the East squad for the All-Star Game, so we had to leave and travel to San Diego, where the game was being played.

  The West All-Stars beat our East squad 108–107 that year and Lenny Wilkins was named MVP of the game, coming off the bench to lead all the scorers with 21 points. I scored 6 points in that game and was one of the starters for the East squad, along with Willis Reed, Walt Frazier, Billy Cunningham, and John Havlicek. Having three players from the Bullets on that team gave us a lot of pride. Gus scored 12 points as a reserve in that game, and Wes scored 2 points but grabbed 10 rebounds. The starting five for the West team were Lew Alcindor, Jerry Lucas, Jerry West, Dave Bing, and Connie Hawkins. It was a nip-and-tuck, very exciting game. We led going into the final minutes, but the West made the plays down the stretch to pull out the victory.

  After playing in San Diego, Gus, Wes, and I flew up to rejoin our teammates in Seattle, where we promptly lost a close game, 114–110. This was the beginning of a four-game, four-night West Coast swing that would take us from Seattle to Phoenix, then to San Diego and back up to Seattle. We split the four games, continuing our up-and-down season. But I was finally getting back in the swing of things with regard to my recovery from knee surgery. For a couple of months in the early part of the season, I wasn’t able to do different cuts to the basket, or to plant my foot and push off without feeling a twinge of pain in one or both of my knees. So I was reluctant to do those types of moves on the court. And I certainly knew I couldn’t be twisting my body like I used to when I was executing my spin moves. It scared me to death to even try to make those moves for fear of blowing out my knee. So I played conservatively. I also wasn’t backing anybody down into the paint with my copycat Big O back-down move, because I didn’t have the strength in my knees to be able to plant, lean back, and shoot. Plus I didn’t know if my knees would go out making this intricate move. So that maneuver was out at the moment, also. What I was left with in my arsenal of shots was the long jumper, and that’s what I did—shoot long jump shots. I would come down, fake a spin move, and then, when the guy guarding me committed to trying to defend against it, I would have the space I needed to fire my jumper. See, because the spin move was instinctive for me, when I stopped doing it I ceased being instinctive, too, you know what I mean?

  Then one time in a game in January I came down the floor and was feeling good in my legs and this player jumped out at me—I can’t remember who he was—and, without thinking about it, I instinctively spun on him and took the ball to the hole and scored the basket. That’s when I knew I was back. And I remember saying to myself as I was running back down the floor, Hey, I can do this. I’m back. And my game started to elevate a little more after that, and game by game everything started to fall back into place for me. Because, see, I was a scorer, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. When I was scoring, my game flourished. And it was important for me and my team to get back to that. Even though I didn’t have to score—because I knew I could get my points anytime I wanted to when I was healthy—just knowing that I could score again made my game that much better. And I knew this sometime in January of that season. And it felt good to be back on my game.

  But I could also see that there was a problem with my returning to form with one of my teammates, Jack Marin, who had stepped into the scoring breach left by my absence. He had elevated his game to the point where he was leading us in scoring at the time. Without me there at full strength, our offense had acquired another rhythm and chemistry with Jack in the scoring leadership role. We played a more traditional game rather than the up-tempo showtime, run-and-shoot one we had become popular for with me at the helm. That was okay, because we needed a little more of that. Even Coach Shue had begun to push this philosophy on us, that we should become more like the Knicks offensively and choose our shots more carefully. What he wanted was for us to blend run-and-gun basketball with the more traditional pass-and-screen, pick-and-roll style the Knicks played. Now I could understand this, too, because I also had been thinking we needed to marry both styles after we’d lost to them in the playoffs at the end of last season.

  But with my return to the team and as my knees felt better, it changed the cadence of our offense, which impacted the chemistry of the team. So everybody had to adjust back to the way we had played before I went down with my injury. Everyone had to adjust themselves to my return, mentally. And this, in my opinion, specifically affected Jack, who seemed to struggle with it a little bit, since his game had flourished in my absence. This, I felt, damaged the chemistry of our team. Because Kevin Loughery never had a problem with me coming back balling the way I had always played. Hell, Kevin was just going to play his game whether I was there or not. Same thing with Gus and Wes. Plus Fred Carter was going to play the same way—hard—every night, if I was there or not, whether I scored a lot or not. Fred was going to leave everything out on the floor. At least that’s my opinion. I’m sure if someone asked Jack about that period with the Bullets he would have a different take on the whole scenario. And that’s cool.

  Anyway, I felt this had a lot to do with our up-and-down record during that season. Because jealousy and envy can be dangerous, cancerous things in a group of guys from different social, cultural, political, racial, and ethnic backgrounds who are trying to play together. It is sometimes very difficult to get a quality mix so the chemistry can work seamlessly—or close to that—you know what I mean? So we were going through some rough patches during the first months of 1971, not to mention all the injuries that were impacting the team.

  But Coach Shue always believed in us as a team, that we would get over our differences and tensions and pull it all together. Having been a very good pro player, he knew all about jealousy and envy amongst a talented group of players like we had. He had picked most of us to play on this team and he let us know that he believed in our abilities—individually and as a team—and that we would eventually pull it all together for the good of the squad. So during this problematic period he was always there to support us. He would listen to what we had to say and tell each and every one of us what he thought. But he was always pointing us toward winning a championship because he knew we had the talent to do it and because, in the final analysis, he was also sure each and every one of us wanted to win one badly.

  Then I had an unexpected setback when I was arrested after a riot at a high school basketball game between Dunbar, an all black public high school, and Mount Saint Joseph, an all white Catholic league team. See, I was invited by some of the Dunbar players to watch the game, which was being played in their gym. At the end of the game—which was a championship game which Dunbar lost—a fight broke out on the floor that escalated up into the stands where I was sitting. All of the cops were white and as they were hitting the black kids with their night sticks I started trying to protect the kids from getting beaten by these policemen. They were just swinging at anybody, including me. Anyway, I was wearing an army battle jacket and jeans, little round wire-framed sunglasses, and a black and green kufi. So when I tried to stop them from hitting the kids, the police arrested and handcuffed me and took me to jail. I don’t know if any of the cops recognized me or not at the time. But I remember how badly the handcuffs hurt my wrists because they cuffed me so tight. When they got me down to the station I called my lawyer, Billy Murphy, who was a well-known lawyer in Baltimore at the time. He came down to the station and got me released. And the charges were dropped. But I always remembered that incident
and was never pro-cop after that.

  On February 20 and 21 we played a home-and-home series against the Hawks, the first game in Baltimore and the second in Atlanta. What’s important about these two games other than the fact that we split them is that Pete Maravich and I almost got into a fistfight during the first game after he elbowed me in my ribs. We had been involved in a shootout—I finished with 33 points to his 31—and it pissed me off because Pete and I had established a friendship with each other that grew out of respect for the way both of us played the game. Plus I knew him to be a nice guy and a clean player, so when he hit me in my chest and ribs with those sharp elbows of his (he was a very skinny guy) and hurt me, it shocked the hell out of me. And with my temper I just wanted to punch him out because I don’t believe in playing the game like that. So people had to separate us. Anyway, the next night my ribs hurt badly and it bothered me to lift my arm to shoot my jumper. Still, we won the game 121–119 in another close game. I scored 24 points despite the pain (Skip Feldman, our trainer, had wrapped my chest with bandages) and Pete got 28 points. But this rib injury would bother me until the end of the season, just as my knees had come around.

  Still, throughout the month of February we continued to struggle with marrying our two conflicting, opposite identities as a team. Then in early March, Wes Unseld, our rebounding rock, went down with a severe ankle sprain that took him out of the lineup until the end of the regular season. Now we really did resemble, as the Sports Illustrated writer Peter Carry wrote in an article as the playoffs approached, a bunch of “players with their casts and their crutches . . . Coach Gene Shue’s cripples.” Now, with Unseld out and without his rebounding and outlet passes triggering our fast breaks, it finally dawned on everyone—including me—that we would all have to change for the good of the team if we were to advance through the playoffs and compete for the NBA championship. And so we did. We finally brought our two opposing styles together for a run at the end of the regular season, and with this change in our offensive thinking we became a better, more dangerous team, especially after Wes came back and Gus’s sore knees and Kevin’s and my sore ribs got better. Now we were truly ready to make that championship run.

  But we lost 4 straight games before the end of the regular season and won only 4 of our last 14 games. At the time we looked like the walking wounded. We split our last 2 games on March 20 and 21, losing to the 76ers in the final game of the regular season. A significant thing happened when, in either the first or second game with Philadelphia, someone hit me hard in my injured ribs and the pain came back with a vengeance.

  Philadelphia would be our first opponent in the Eastern Conference Semifinals, beginning on March 24. We won that series four games to three, with some very exciting games, including Game One, which we lost 126–112. Despite the loss, the game was significant for us as a team because Wes Unseld returned from his ankle sprain and played like himself, controlling the boards. Someone on the 76ers also hit me in my ribs—which were already sore—in Game One, and they hurt so bad I could hardly lift my arms to shoot. So I ended up only scoring 6 points in that game, and that definitely hurt our offensive production. But Skip rubbed analgesic stuff all over my ribs—I smelled like an old man when I came out to play in the next game—and wrapped my chest up real well. This treatment loosened me up, and with my warm-up top on I was able to keep the injured area warm. Consequently, I played much better after that, averaging 25.5 points over the next six games, and we took the series in Baltimore on April 4 by winning the decisive Game Seven, 128–120. Jack led us in scoring that night with 33, while I dropped 20 and four of our teammates reached double figures. Now we were moving on to play the Knicks in the Eastern Conference Finals, beginning in New York on April 6.

  In a very close first game, in front of a capacity crowd as usual, the Knicks beat us 112–111. The game came down to the wire and they pulled it out in the last minute or so. I led us in scoring that night with 29 points, while Jack Marin chipped in with 23 and Kevin had 22 points. John Tresvant started in place of Gus Johnson, who had hurt his knee, and scored only 4 points. But in Game Two, which we lost 107–88, John stepped up and led us in scoring with 20 points (with my ribs hurting me I only managed to score 10 points that night). Dick Barnett led New York with 29 points and Walt Frazier had 23. Willis Reed, who was hurting that game, scored only 10 points, but it was enough to give the Knicks a two-game lead as the series shifted to Baltimore for Game Three.

  We bounced back in that game—even with Gus still out—and beat them 114–88. My ribs, having gotten a couple of days of treatment, felt good and I was clicking on all cylinders. My 31 points led the team, though we had four other players in double figures that night, including Jack Marin, who contributed 22. We followed that up by beating them again and evening the series three days later in Baltimore with a 101–80 win. Gus missed his fourth straight game that night, but Kevin, who had missed Game Three, came back. Though he was held scoreless, his mere presence on the bench picked up our spirits. Jack Marin led us with 27 points and I was right behind him with 25. Again the Knicks seemed out of sorts, with Willis not quite 100 percent, although he did score 14 points, which was well below his average. Frazier again led them with 16 points. Now the series switched back to Madison Square Garden for a crucial Game Five.

  The Knicks beat us in a close game that night, 89–84, with Gus still out and Kevin not playing at full speed. Still, we made it a tight game with our grit and our talent. We were proud that we stayed with such a great team and played them so close. Again Jack Marin led us in scoring that night, getting 25 points, 2 more than I scored. Walt Frazier played an outstanding game that night, leading the Knicks with 28 points. So now the Knicks held a three-to-two series lead, with a chance to close it out in Game Six in Baltimore on April 18.

  Gus Johnson came back for that game, driving to the game in his new charcoal-gray Lincoln Continental Mark IV. He walked into our dressing room at the Baltimore Civic Center dressed in a gray leather suit to match his new gray car. I came in dressed all in black, including my hat, which had a red hatband on it. So when one of my teammates saw me and Gus dressed like this and looking real serious—I forgot who that player was—he asked me, “Damn, Earl, what’s up with this all-black look?”

  And I told him without even a smile, “I came to do my work tonight. This is my sinister outfit!”

  I felt we all had to have a mind-set going into this important game, and we had to come out and play like it was the last game of the series. And for us it was, because we had to win that night or it was all over. Now we felt we had to play harder, that we had missed too many opportunities to win games—like we had last year—and we didn’t want to make those same mistakes again. Clyde and I were battling each other, and I could see in Gus’s eyes that he had come to play DeBusschere that night like they were fighting each other in a war. And they were. And Wes, he was our rock, quiet and steady but a warrior nonetheless. I could feel it coming from his energy that he was ready and really wanted to win this game. So we went out there that night to do battle and we beat the Knicks 113–96 to tie the series and force Game Seven. We had six players reach double figures, with me, Jack, and John Tresvant combining for 69 points. Wes put in 10, grabbed every rebound within his reach, and outplayed Willis Reed badly. Willis finished with only 3 points and hardly any rebounds because he spent most of the night away from the basket, setting screens for his teammates. DeBusschere led the Knicks with 24 points (but Gus battled him all the way when he came in for John Tresvant), with Clyde scoring 22. The game was never close. Now we were going back to the Big Apple to finish this war off, but unlike the previous year we were confident that we’d emerge victorious.

  We went out and partied that night after that Game Six win, went down to Lenny Moore’s Sportsman’s Lounge in the Gwynn Oaks section of Baltimore. Everybody wanted to buy us drinks. A lot of people were betting on the games and wanted to know how we felt we would do in Game Seven. I just told them we
thought we would win. So we kind of chilled that night with all these people at Lenny’s bar. I went home after that and went to sleep because I had to get up the next morning and go to New York. A lot of people thought we didn’t stand a chance against the Knicks, but we had another idea: We thought we were going to finally beat this team, and we were hell-bent on proving it.

  When we walked out onto the floor at the Garden for Game Seven, the atmosphere was electric. As expected, another rabid, capacity crowd was on hand. Celebrities were walking by, beautiful women dressed to the nines. Hecklers hissed their catcalls, while others were hurling all kinds of trash talk our way, like, “All you gonna get here is the same thing you got before. An ass whipping!” Then they laughed. Then someone else said, “This is for you bums because you’re not going to get out of here alive!” Then they made a nasty face and laughed and stuck their middle finger in the air and jabbed it up like they were ramming it up our asses. But with all the odds against us, we turned the tables on the defending NBA champions—our enemies—defeating them 93–91 in another barn burner of a game.

  Damn, that was a great game, with the two teams going back and forth like in a championship heavyweight boxing match between two great fighters like Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali. With a minute or so left in the game, Dick Barnett went down the court for a layup and Fred Carter came from nowhere and banged his shot up against the backboard. Bam! Everybody in the stands and on the Knicks team and their bench started hollering, “Goal tending!” But the referees didn’t call it and that was surprising to fans in the Garden. The score was 93–91 in our favor when Bill Bradley had this open shot in the corner in the last seconds of the game—like that time in the Baker League—and I said to myself, Oh, shit, I know this is going in! But it didn’t because Gus got a finger on Bill’s shot and it fell short and Wes got the rebound and that was that.