Unlike the Lakers, whose fan base had its fair share of Hollywood pretty boys and large-breasted aspiring models, the 76ers filled the Spectrum with a raw, edgy, blue-collar core. The Los Angeles Times rightly called the showdown “the best championship series matchup in years.” Why, Game 1 would even be carried on live TV—not tape delay, as had been the case the previous season.
“We knew what we were in for,” said Michael Cooper, the Los Angeles swingman. “Philly was no joke. They were the best team we’d play all season. We had to have our A games to have a shot at winning.”
With this understanding, the Lakers went into the series with laserlike focus. Well, eleven of the twelve Lakers did. The clash was scheduled to open on a Sunday at the Forum, so Westhead called for all-out Thursday and Friday practices before a light Saturday refresher. Haywood, who played some key minutes against the Sonics (and who averaged 9.7 points and 4.6 rebounds in 76 regular-season games), told himself that he would, if nothing else, lay off the drugs until after the NBA Finals. “I’d waited eleven years to get to that point,” he said. “So the idea of blowing a chance at a championship ring was ridiculous. I would never, ever be so dumb.”
As Haywood departed Loyola Marymount following Thursday’s workout, one of his “party pals” approached. “I came by to see if you wanted to stop by Mike’s place for a while,” he said, referring to a mutual user.
Haywood’s brain said no. His heart said no. Every instinct in his body said run away . . . go elsewhere.
Instead, he smoked crack. By three A.M. he had yet to sleep, and his arms and legs were squirming and twitching beyond control. With practice only five hours away, he decided to take two Quaaludes to calm his nerves. Haywood slept for a brief spell, left Mike’s house and started his car. Though his body was numb, Haywood capably backed out of the driveway. Amazingly, everything seemed fine. He was awake. He was in control. Dammit, he could do this.
Then, Haywood stopped at a red light and fell asleep.
The horns began blaring, and Haywood jolted awake. Twice more he dozed off before finally arriving at the gymnasium. Upon entering the building, Haywood did all he could to act normally. He greeted teammates, changed into his gear, strolled into the meeting room, where Westhead turned off the lights to begin showing film. Zzzzzz. “It’s dark, and Spencer’s next to me,” said Norm Nixon. “He falls fast asleep. I elbowed him to wake up.” The Lakers congregated on the court to stretch. Again, Haywood closed his eyes and dozed off. “We were on our backs, and that cold hardwood floor felt like a feather bed,” he wrote. “Everything became blurry, including the other players. I felt myself floating over the court, like they say you do when you die. I could hear a buzz like an airplane sounds and then—boom, the big curtain.”
The Laker players knew exactly what was going on. Many had used cocaine before, and some had used with Haywood. But there was a difference between using cocaine and handing oneself over to cocaine. Somewhere along the way, Haywood surrendered to the drug. “It had me,” he said. “It just had me.”
Cooper tried to stir Haywood from his repose, shaking him gently with his hand, but to no avail. When Haywood finally came to, Westhead ordered him to go home. “I tried to be as understanding as possible,” Westhead said. “I wasn’t trying to pick on Spencer, or make him feel like an outcast. But what is a coach supposed to do when you have this sort of behavior? What choice did I have?”
Haywood was not in an empathetic mood. “Fuck you,” he muttered as he left the gym. “And fuck this team.”
• • •
At 12:31 P.M. on Sunday, May 4, Abdul-Jabbar and Caldwell Jones took a jump ball at center court to begin what would go down as a classic series. The Lakers wore their home golds. The Sixers were dressed in red.
With 17,505 fans packed inside a sold-out Forum, Jerry Buss sat back and watched, a smile stretching from ear to ear. This was bliss, and as Abdul-Jabbar put up 33 points, 14 rebounds, 5 assists and 6 blocks in a dominant 109–102 Laker win, all seemed beautiful in the land of the beautiful.
Still buried in a drug-induced haze, however, Haywood sat on the bench and sulked. On one of the most triumphant nights in recent Laker history—as his team held Erving to 20 points with a suffocating double team; as Dawkins was rendered useless—Haywood could think only of himself, and how he should have been contributing key minutes (he played just three). In his mind, this was Westhead’s doing. If Jack McKinney had never fallen off his bicycle, Haywood was sure he’d still be starting. Instead, he had to answer to some amateur coach on a power trip.
Three nights later, the 76ers evened the series with a 107–104 victory. Haywood saw two minutes of court time, and afterward entered the locker room with dark smoke oozing from his ears. His stall was situated alongside that of Brad Holland, the little-used rookie guard whose pale complexion and golly-gee demeanor won him the nickname Potsie Weber—a nerdy character in the popular TV show Happy Days—from teammates
As the two sat side by side in the quiet room, Haywood glared toward his left. “Gimme your tape cutters,” he snarled.
Holland was a local kid. He’d played his prep ball at nearby Crescenta Valley High, and went down as one of the top two-sport athletes the state had ever seen. (Holland was heavily recruited by Notre Dame and USC, among others, to play quarterback.) Although his rookie production (2.8 points per game over 38 games) paled in comparison to his four seasons at UCLA, Holland was no shrinking violet. He developed a close friendship with, shockingly, Abdul-Jabbar, who would save the rookie a seat on bus rides in order to talk politics, literature and religion. In practices, he could be feisty and hot tempered. “I’d always dreamed of playing for the Lakers,” he said. “I grew up watching the team, listening to Chick Hearn on my porch. So, certainly, I wanted to take advantage of the opportunity.”
Holland would have given all the world’s riches to have a sliver of Spencer Haywood’s natural talent. To see it all wasted . . .
“If you say please,” he responded curtly.
“If I have to say please, I don’t wanna use ’em!” Haywood barked.
“Fine,” said Holland. “Then don’t use them.”
By now, both men were screaming. Haywood stood up. Holland stood up. “You know what, Spencer, we’re trying to win games here!” Holland yelled. “What is your problem?”
“What the fuck are you gonna do about it, Potsie?” Haywood replied.
The veteran expected his teammates to come to his aid and put the newcomer in his place.
“You crazy, Wood?” said Chones. “Man, you’re letting us down.”
What?
“Cut the crap,” said Nixon. “You’re being stupid.”
Moments later, Buss, Westhead and Haywood met in private. The man brought in to play power forward was suspended for the remainder of the season. His days as a Laker were over. In the ultimate indignity, he would later be voted but a quarter share of playoff money.*
“It’s more,” Abdul-Jabbar said, “than he deserved.”
With his hope crushed and his dreams dead, Haywood consumed himself in a tidal wave of drugs and pity and terrifying plots. Only one teammate, Jamaal Wilkes, had called to check on him after the dismissal. Otherwise, they were all enemies. Abdul-Jabbar for being cold. Holland for screaming. Chones for not having his back. Johnson for being so damn happy. And, most of all, Westhead, the coach who ruined everything. “I left the Forum and drove off in my Rolls thinking only that Westhead must die,” Haywood said. He called a friend—Gregory, from Detroit—who dabbled in organized crime, and hatched a plan. They would sneak into Westhead’s driveway at night and disable the brakes on his car. The next time the coach tried driving down the long, winding road from his Palos Verdes home, Haywood and his pals would run his vehicle off a cliff.
“Spencer supposedly flew two guys in to do it,” said Westhead. “It was a very real idea.”
“They were going to do the job for free,” Haywood said. “For the sake of friendship and for the prestige of having done a favor for old Spencer.” During a phone conversation shortly before the scheduled murder, Haywood’s mother detected a sinister tone to her son’s voice. “You’re up to something no good, aren’t you?” she said. Eunice Haywood threatened to contact the police if he acted on any urges. “I will turn you in myself,” she said. “I didn’t raise no fool.” The killing was called off.
“Here’s the amazing thing,” said Westhead. “Eight years later I’m coaching college at Loyola Marymount, and Spencer Haywood enters the gym. He was in recovery, and he came to ask for my forgiveness.”
“Spencer, of course I forgive you,” Westhead had said. “Hell, it’s great to see you. Because, if it had worked, I wouldn’t be seeing you.”
• • •
The Lakers flew to Philadelphia on the morning after the Game 2 setback, and for Westhead the trip symbolized a glorious journey back in time. Although his casual gait and floppy hair could suggest a laid-back West Coast demeanor, Westhead was as Philadelphia as a Pat’s cheese steak.
He attended West Catholic High School, and any suggestions that Paul Westhead would one day sit upon the cusp of an NBA title would have been greeted with uncontained laughter from his classmates. As a 4-foot-11 freshman, he tried out for the basketball team—and was cut. As a 5-foot-2 sophomore, he tried out again—and was cut. As a 5-foot-4 junior, he tried out again—and was cut.
“It was awful,” he said. “But I have one brother, Pete, and I would lay in the bed and he would pull my legs. And I would hang on the doors for ten, twenty minutes at a time to stretch my arms. Well, between my junior and senior year I went from 5-foot-4 to 6-foot-2. Finally, I’m ready to play varsity basketball for West Catholic. I’m ready!”
Westhead tried out and was, once again, cut.
Cy Westhead, Paul’s father, worked as a soap salesman. His mother, Jane, was a telephone operator. They had little money but took out a loan to send their younger son to Malvern Prep, a college preparatory school located twenty-seven miles outside of the city. Although it was his first time playing organized basketball, Westhead led the Inter-Academic League in scoring with 23.7 points per game, and caught the eye of Saint Joseph’s coach Jack Ramsay, who offered him a scholarship. (Ramsay’s top assistant was a young up-and-comer named Jack McKinney.) In four years at the school, Westhead was a so-so player with lots of guts. During his senior season, the Hawks were playing at Madison Square Garden when Westhead took a hard charge, dislodging his right shoe from his foot. “I had broken my wrist earlier in the season, so I couldn’t get the shoe back on,” he said. “Who comes running on the court to tie my shoe for me? Our assistant coach, Jack McKinney.”
Westhead lacked a reliable jumper and top-level quickness. He was, however, an excellent student. “You know, you’re a really good teacher,” Ramsay told him. “I don’t know if you’ll ever be a coach, but in the classroom, explaining things, you’d be great.” Westhead went on to secure his masters in English Literature from Villanova, where he wrote his thesis on Titus Andronicus, one of William Shakespeare’s more obscure works.
After graduating, he accepted a job as an English instructor at the University of Dayton. He told the administration that, if possible, he’d like to be involved in basketball, but no positions were available. Then, one month later, Tom Blackburn, the varsity coach, was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. He was replaced by Don Donaher, the freshman coach, which resulted in an opening on the lowest rung. “I jumped at the chance,” Westhead said. “That was my first coaching job—freshman basketball. And I loved it.”
Westhead proceeded to coach five years at Cheltenham High School in Wyncote, Pennsylvania, where he inherited a 2-18 team and went 26-0 before losing in the state championship game. It was the happiest time of his life. “I was young, my first daughter was born, I’m teaching literature, which I love to do, to high school juniors, a class I love. It was great. But, maybe, I thought, there was even more for me.” He went on to work alongside McKinney as a Saint Joseph’s assistant for two years, then, in 1970, was hired as head coach of the La Salle College Explorers. He spent nine years at the school, always maintaining a close friendship with McKinney, who worked across town. The two compared notes, swapped stories, vacationed—even coached summers in Puerto Rico’s professional leagues together.
“When Jack was hired by the Lakers and he called me about being his assistant, there was no debate,” Westhead said. “You don’t get many calls from people saying, ‘I’ve been hired as the head coach of the Los Angeles Lakers. Come be my assistant.’”
Hence, as the Lakers prepared to play the 76ers at the Spectrum in Game 3 of the NBA Finals, Westhead was more than a wee bit nostalgic. How many big games had he watched here? Coached here? The walls told the story of his own basketball journey. “I can’t tell you how exciting it was for me,” he said. “I was coming home.”
Though the Laker players liked their young coach, they shared no such nostalgia. Philadelphia was an awful place, what with the city’s hardened fans and the 76ers’ notorious physicality. “We weren’t a team that you’d push around,” said Dawkins. “If you brought it to us, we brought it right back—hard.”
Maybe so. But the Lakers did, in fact, bring it. Liberated from Haywood’s destructiveness, Los Angeles battered Philadelphia, 111–101, with Abdul-Jabbar’s 33 points and 14 rebounds leading the way. While the season had, in large part, belonged to Johnson, the playoffs were entirely about Los Angeles’s center. At 6-foot-11 and 251 pounds, Dawkins—just twenty-three at the time—was a strong, physical player who fared well against the NBA’s other elite big men. Yet Abdul-Jabbar was, simply, different. “Kareem came up to me after one of the games and said, ‘You make it hard on me every night,’” said Dawkins. “Which was a major compliment—because if I made it hard on him, guess what he did to me? I mean, I threw my weight at him, tried to push him around. But he could hit that hook from anywhere. And he was deceptively strong. That’s the one part that was always overlooked. Kareem was far from a weak man.”
The Sixers were so concerned about Abdul-Jabbar’s impact that they took the unusual (at the time) step of charting his offensive efficiency. In the series’ first two games, the Lakers scored on approximately 60 percent of the possessions where Abdul-Jabbar touched the ball. In Game 3, that figure skyrocketed to 71 percent. “I was good,” said Dawkins, “but I couldn’t handle Kareem all alone. I needed help.”
He would receive it.
• • •
But first, there was business to take care of.
On the night of May 13, two days after the Sixers battled back with a 105–102 Game 4 win to tie the series, Jerry Buss announced that Jack McKinney would not return for the 1980–81 season. “I don’t believe we have any positions available that would absorb his total capabilities,” Buss told the press. “I would not hesitate, however, to recommend Jack to my dearest friends regarding a front-office or head-coaching job in the NBA.”
Although, when asked, Westhead expressed his disappointment for McKinney, it was widely (and rightly) presumed that, come season’s end, Buss would officially appoint Westhead to replace his old friend.
Which would have all been sort of digestible—had someone remembered to tell McKinney.
Around the same time Los Angeles’s major media markets were breaking the news of the dismissal, John McKinney, Jack and Claire’s third-oldest child, received a call from Frank Brady of The Philadelphia Inquirer.
“Is your father home?” Brady asked.
“No,” said John. “Can I take a message?”
Brady identified himself, then uttered words John would never forget. “Tell him Frank Brady from the Inquirer called, and I wanted to get a reaction to the Jerry Buss press conference.”
“What press conference?” he replied.
>
Jack and Claire McKinney were returning home to Los Angeles from Portland. They were, as usual, chatting away, listening to the radio, enjoying time together, when they decided to stop at a hotel in Santa Rosa to spend the night. Jack picked up the phone and called home to check in. John answered. It had been his bike that his father rode on the fateful day.
“Dad, have you heard the news?” he asked.
“What news?” McKinney replied.
“Dad,” John said, “you’ve been fired.”
Had Jack McKinney again slammed into the pavement, the pain wouldn’t have been as bad. The hurt, he said, was like a wound constantly being reopened. Fired? Just because his name ceased appearing in the Los Angeles Times didn’t mean McKinney’s fight for survival wasn’t remarkable. He had been in a coma for three days and a semicomatose state for three weeks. More than 40 percent of head-injury victims never return to normal, and 60 percent can’t return to work within the first year. Between the time of the accident and his phantom dismissal, McKinney had been through months of excruciating physical and cognitive therapy. “I had so many things [affected] by the fall,” McKinney said. “My mouth, my lips, plastic surgery, a broken bone in my ear that controls your equilibrium. I lost all the power on one side of my body. If I leaned over to pick something up, I would fall over.” Dennis McKinney, Jack and Claire’s youngest child, remembers his father offering to drive him to high school one day. “He thought he was doing better than he really was,” Dennis said. “The ride was terrifying. To the right, to the left, to the right. Just swerving all over. My dad’s balance was really off.” Come December, doctors thought McKinney could attend a Laker game as a spectator. He was warmly approached by Buss, who asked how his rehab was going. McKinney remained silent. Not out of rudeness—he didn’t recognize the man.
Showtime: Magic, Kareem, Riley, and the Los Angeles Lakers Dynasty ofthe 1980s Page 12
