by Rus Bradburd
The overflowing emotion found its way into the current team. Arkansas won, 89-67, a rare win for the 2009 team that would finish 2-14 in the SEC—dead-last place.
TWENTY-FIVE
GO TELL IT ON THE MOUNTAIN
Nolan Richardson began his career determined to be different from his college coach. Nobody could have predicted all the ways he’d wind up like Don Haskins.
Haskins and Richardson won historically important NCAA championships, and it’s difficult to invoke the name of either man without an ensuing discussion of race. Both were attacked for their graduation rates of black players on those title teams. In the end, both men did better in this regard than originally perceived.
Richardson even drove a pickup truck, although he surely had his choice of any car in town. The Razorbacks innocently began referring to Richardson as “The Bear” in the 1990s.
Haskins remained at UTEP for nearly forty years and may have been the last of that breed of coach. Richardson never applied for another job while coaching the Razorbacks.
“Nolan fell in love with Arkansas,” longtime athletics trainer Dave England says. “I know it hurt him those times when it seemed like Arkansas didn’t love him back.”
Richardson has done more than win championships to earn that love. He has been involved in over thirty charities during his time in Fayetteville. Sometimes Richardson used his name in hosting fundraisers; sometimes he put up his own money. His annual golf tournament in El Paso honors his daughter while raising thousands of dollars for leukemia research. After Yvonne’s death, his empathetic antenna for the downtrodden became even more sensitive; he’d hand out large sums of cash like Halloween candy if sick children were involved. Sid Simpson says, “That’s the direction Nolan seems to be going. He’d pick up a load of crippled kids and take them to a game, but he’d never tell anyone.” Shortly after Yvonne died, Richardson learned there was a child in Paragould, Arkansas, who had cancer. “He wrote out a check for fifteen thousand, and had it delivered to the family,” Simpson says.
Yet another aspect of Richardson’s life that mirrors Don Haskins is his selective memory. Even as detailed evidence of his humanitarian giving mounted, he claimed to have no recollection of specific stories of generosity. He either has terrible recall, is too humble, or he’s helped so many people he really has lost track.
Arkansas was the punch line of jokes and a source of national embarrassment at one time. Today, despite the recent raising of the Confederate flag and intimidation of the black repairmen after the ice storm, race relations are improved.
Elizabeth Jacoway, the author of two books about race and Arkansas, was born there in the 1940s. “My sense is that Arkansas has changed dramatically,” Jacoway says. “People who lived through the Civil Rights movement understand the very slow nature in which change can come about.”
Are Americans and Arkansans better off being reminded of that great distance and remembering that slow nature of change? Does discussing the racist history of the nation help us move forward or keep us stuck in the past? Does Richardson’s outspokenness open wounds or help close them?
Anyone taking a close look at Nolan Richardson’s life should understand how both memory and his sense of justice have haunted him. The austere woman who raised Richardson had an archive of stories about her own parents’ enslavement. The poorest Mexican-Americans in segregated Texas could sit at lunch counters, splash in swimming pools, and lean back in air-conditioned movie theaters. He could not.
Standing toe-to-toe with American racism became unavoidable for Richardson.
By simply asking for a Coke, he had an inadvertent hand in ending Jim Crow laws in El Paso. At the time he began his career, there was not a single black man coaching major college basketball. Powerful people thought of him as the “nigger coach” upon his arrival in Snyder and Tulsa. In Arkansas he toiled at a campus where police dogs bared their teeth at black fraternity brothers and sisters. The most powerful man at the school spent a decade as the proud front man of segregation in Arkansas athletics, and later tried to prod a table full of journalists into using the word “nigger” in print. Being the first black at every outpost rubbed Richardson raw, especially in Arkansas, a state where sundown towns thrived, George Wallace triumphed, and, even into the new millennium, the state university board of trustees felt that “nigger jokes” were funny.
His refusal to keep quiet makes a lot more sense in that context; the long arc of his life puts that fateful 2002 press conference in perspective.
Richardson understood that Broyles wanted to fire him for years. Today, if the entire text of that 2002 news media gathering is read aloud, a few things become apparent. One, it’s clear that Richardson was mostly talking to and about Frank Broyles—although he allowed that he has to “answer to” Broyles and the UA administration. Knowing Broyles preferred that he fail in order to facilitate his firing became an unbearable strain. Also apparent is that Richardson, under the extreme pressure of coaching a fledgling college basketball team, reverted to his own history and memory by quoting Ol’ Mama.
After winning the NCAA title in 1994, Richardson’s cause and his passion changed, and he obsessed about equality for black coaches, himself included. He continued to talk about race because racism was not over. In the world of college sports, one has only to count the number of black athletics directors and head football coaches to deduce that something is still wrong. Richardson’s error was to think that trotting the elephant of racism out in front of a room full of white reporters and television crews during a mediocre season was a good idea.
Did he always comport himself in the best manner for his cause during the five decades that he coached? Of course not. But if the world was going to change, somebody had to follow Ol’ Mama’s advice. Nolan Richardson kicked down the damn door.
Richardson’s ranch is a ten-minute drive west of Fayetteville, among the rolling hills that rest on the edge of northwest Arkansas. The town blends first into suburbs, then to farms. Just before the road turns to gravel, the land unfolds into a scenic panorama, calm and peaceful in every direction. At the end of the road there is an iron gate that reads RICHARDSON RANCH. The house is simple, understated, and rustic. It’s much more a cabin than a castle.
The kitchen is also the dining room and the epicenter of all activity at the Richardson ranch. On any given weekend, and not just championship team reunions, their home is filled with ex-players, family, neighbors, and friends. His wife, Rosario, will be cooking; maybe green chile caldillo. Richardson will man the taco station expertly, folding in diced tomatoes and shredded cheese.
And there are kids, kids everywhere. School groups and church groups. Nieces and nephews and grandkids. And especially the children of former players.
One recent Fourth of July weekend, the five kids there just happened to be young girls, between two and ten years of age. The ex-Razorbacks at the ranch that holiday weren’t very good players or even on great teams. That didn’t matter to Richardson, who waited on them as if they were All-Americans.
While the adults were still feasting, the girls invented a game. They would run in a loop about the size of the center-jump circle. Then the lead one, the oldest, would turn a dramatic dance move into a split or somersault. The younger girls would imitate the first, then they’d all fall down, dissolving in laughter. Occasionally, they’d return to the table to trade bites and share bowls.
A hero of the Irish Civil Rights movement once said, “Our revenge will be the laughter of our children.” This is the philosophy of the Richardson ranch, where the sound of young kids’ laughing resonates.
Rose Richardson moved to the couch to watch the dance routine digress into silliness. Nothing makes the Richardsons happier than having children around, and during the girls’ chaotic tumbles a palpable happiness descended on everyone. Rose was having as much fun as they were, although she courteously declined to try the cartwheels and flips.
When the dishes were done, Richardson r
oared, “Who wants to see the animals?” and the girls erupted into pandemonium. They formed a line behind Richardson, who led them outside.
Richardson roams his ranch these days with his giant Great Dane, Billy, at his hip. One of the girls walked up to Billy and reached to scratch his belly. The barn was nearby, but most of the horses were out in the pasture. So were the llamas. The youngest girl clung to Richardson’s leg, and he hoisted her up. Then the coach bellowed, and his horses came running. She hugged his neck and hooted with joy.
The Horse Whisperer has nothing on Nolan Richardson. His thoroughbreds, Tennessee walkers, and quarter horses respond to anything he shouts. The kids were enthralled, shadowing Richardson as he directed the animals. Across the rolling hills, goats, lambs, and some pot-bellied pigs lazed about.
The animals have been a big part of Nolan and Rose Richardson’s life since losing Yvonne in 1987. “Some people need someone or something to depend on them and she is one of those people,” Richardson told the Tulsa World about his wife, but he could have been talking about himself as well.
A wide wooden porch surrounds most of the house and affords the best view. As sunset approaches, the ranch becomes bathed in a light that a religious person might call heavenly. Around the “U” of the porch on the north side of the house is a garden about the size of half a basketball court. The garden is filled with statues of kids jumping in puddles, running, skipping rope. Laughing. It’s as if the Richardsons have tried to distill and freeze childhood—and memory—to protect and preserve it after losing Yvonne.
Something became clear that holiday weekend. Richardson did love Arkansas too much. He should have packed his boxes and loaded up the moving vans soon after carving his place in history in 1994. But even outsiders eventually need a place to rest, a home. Something else became clear, too. Nobody could remind people of where they came from, cross borders, or inspire players to believe in a cause like Nolan Richardson. Those were his gifts; his career a type of bridge.
Richardson has let his Afro grow gray and long, and he really does look like a historical figure—like Frederick Douglass with a goatee. Maybe that’s fitting. Richardson attended a school named after the former slave who kept reminding America of its sins.
John McLendon never got the shot he’d earned at a big university. Neither did countless other black coaches. Other coaches of color of his era had terrific teams, but what distinguishes Nolan Richardson is the nature of his trailblazing career, as the first black coach to go into the old Confederacy—and the embers of racism—and have astonishing success. Richardson—outspoken, passionate, and righteous—is the most important African-American coach America has known.
Despite his garden full of statues of children at play, he could not freeze time. Memory, though. Memory endures, because Nolan Richardson, as relentless as forty minutes of hell’s full-court pressure, won’t let us forget. He has begun to fulfill his former chancellor’s request to be happy, even if he’s still an outsider, on the wrong side of the fence at the university where he won the championship. The basketball court where he finally returned belongs to him—although you won’t find his name on it. Regardless, Richardson’s shadow and history remind, admonish, and exhort Arkansas.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Robert Boswell and Antonya Nelson have provided advice, books, friendship, beer, gourmet meals, and parenting tips for the last fourteen years. They are the best friends a writer could hope for.
Barry Pearce is a loyal and unselfish friend, as well as a fine writer.
Several people gave me great suggestions on the manuscript: Carol Capitani, Tom Spieczny, Josh Wheeler, Barry Pearce, Jeff Vance, Connie Voisine, Robert Boswell, Sheila Black, Tracy Sherrod, and Candice Mor-row.
Thanks to: Geoffery Stark at University of Arkansas Special Collection.
Thanks to American sports heroes David Meggyesy, Dave Zirin, Doug Harris, Michael James, Steve and Tracey Yellen, and Ben Jobe.
Thanks also to John Conroy, Dennis Daily, Henry Thomas, Ken Olsen, Garrett Hongo, Austin Hoover, Keith French, Mike Thomas, and Modzel “Bud” Greer.
For help steering me around the UA campus, thanks to: Jim Harris, Donita Ritchie, Terri Mercer, Findlay Edwards, Robbie Edwards, and Wayne Stehlik.
Thanks also to Rosie Dixon and Frank Fellone at the Democrat-Gazette, Glen Guthrie, John Podesta, David Shields, Dagoberto Gilb, Jennifer Grotz, Sharon Ord-Warner, Michael Collier, and Chris Engskov.
Big thanks to New Mexico State’s Lou Henson, Duncan Hayse, Tama Garski, Chris Burnham, Harriet Linkin, Monica Torres, Pam Jansma, Bill Conroy, and Dr. Waded Cruzado.
Interviews were conducted with the following people: Ballard Shapleigh, Jimmie Tramel, Darren Ivy, Marc Spears, Wally Hall, Bob Holt, Chip Souza, David Hargiss, Steve Narisi, Joe Neal, Charles Robinson, Carrol Williams, Bob Carver, Fred Vorsanger, Dave England, Dr. John White, Rudy Keeling, Dick Versace, Tony Barone, Steve Green, Kelly Green, Pat Foster, Lanny Van Eman, Sid Simpson, Bob O’Day, Kenny John, Alvis Glidewell, Manny Placillas, Dwight Williams, Andy Stoglin, Mike Anderson, Earnest Starks, Phillip Trapp, Lyell Thompson, Otto “Bud” Zinke, Reggie Minton, Judge Thomas Spieczny, Don Haskins, Eddie Mullens, Lou Henson, Jim Haney, Almer Lee, Scotty Thurman, Alex Dillard, Clint McDaniel, Pat Bradley, Ben Daggett, Jeremy Rose, Ralph Brewster, Melvin Patridge, Tim Hardaway, Larry Gipson, Ed Beshara Jr., Alan Mantooth, Norris Stevenson, Charles Prigmore, John Phillips, Frankie Allen, Thomas Trotter, Jay Jennings, John Chaney, Stan Heath, Charles Martin, Richard Pennington, Lonnie Williams, Wendell Griffen, Darrell Brown, Sheryl Walters, Shelton Walters, Danny Walters, Irv Cross, Milton Katz, Bert Williams, Madalyn Richardson, Rosario Richardson, and Nolan Richardson.
Nearly a dozen people were interviewed who insisted that their names not appear. Thanks to them, as well.
Frank Broyles turned down repeated requests to be interviewed.
Thanks to the Democrat-Gazette for allowing me access to their archives.
Lonnie Williams gave me sage advice. Both Wendell Griffen and Darrell Brown not only made themselves constantly available, but were inspiring. Just as inspiring was the Walters family, whose stories of Bob Walters still resonate. Meeting Bert Williams was an honor.
The research and suggestions of Charles Martin, Richard Pennington, and Milton Katz were invaluable. All three have authored important works on race and college sports. Richard Lapchick’s research was also helpful.
Ben Osborne at SLAM magazine first published my piece on Nolan Richardson, and his encouragement was vital. Thanks also to Khalid Salaam and Susan Price at SLAM.
Special thanks to Christina Morgan, who championed this project initially.
Bobbito Garcia and Jesse Washington at Bounce magazine gave me encouragement, as did Alexander Wolff of Sports Illustrated. Dan McGrath and Barry Temkin of the Chicago Tribune were also supportive.
Thanks to Don Johnson, Scott Peterson, and everyone in the Sports Literature Association.
Glory Road, Dan Wetzel’s book about the 1966 Texas Western team and Don Haskins, was terrific help. So was Frank Fitzpatrick’s book The Walls Came Tumbling Down. Barry Jacob’s book Across the Line: Profiles in Basketball Courage was a wonderful resource.
The quote “Our revenge will be the laughter of our children” is from the Irish Republican hero Bobby Sands.
UTEP, Tulsa University, Western Texas College, Eastern Arizona Junior College, Bowie High School, the Democrat-Gazette, and the University of Arkansas all provided information, photos, or media guides.
Eric Howerton at Now Creative Inc. and Hawgs Illustrated provided great help with photos.
Big thanks to Nolan Richardson and his family. Nolan was always available and willing to talk.
What I miss most about college basketball is the sense of optimism sometimes lacking in the book business. My amazing agent, Andrew Blauner, is an exception, and he has been a fantastic help. Thanks, Bird!
Thanks to editor extraordinaire Dawn Davis, Maya Ziv, Van Luu, and everyone at Harp
erCollins and Amistad.
Finally, thanks to my incredible wife, Connie Voisine, and to our daughter, Alma Bradburd, for their love and patience.
WHO’S WHO IN NOLAN RICHARDSON’S STORY
Mike Anderson: Longtime assistant to Richardson, he also played point guard for him at Tulsa. Now the coach at University of Missouri.
Jim “Bad News” Barnes: Born in Arkansas, Barnes was probably the best player in Texas Western (later UTEP) history. Richardson helped recruit him to TWC.
Ed Beshara: Tulsa clothier and close friend of Richardson. Beshara died in 2007.
Ken Biley: Benchwarmer; a surprise starter in the NCAA title game of 1994.
Jim Bowden: Former UTEP director of athletics who encouraged Richardson to apply at Tulsa University.
Pat Bradley: Best three-point shooter in Arkansas history.
Ralph Brewster: Richardson’s best player at Bowie High School in El Paso. Went to Texas Tech in exchange for their recommendation of Richardson for a junior college job.
Charlie Brown: First black player at Texas Western College (later UTEP).
Darrell Brown: First black football player to attempt to play for Frank Broyles’s segregated teams at the University of Arkansas in the mid-1960s.
Frank Broyles: Icon of Arkansas sports; his association with UA as football coach and director of athletics lasted fifty years. He hired and fired Richardson.
James Cash: First black basketball player in the Southwest Conference at TCU.
John Chaney: Outspoken African-American basketball coach at Temple.
Bill Clark: University of Arkansas Board of Trustees member who admitted using the word “nigger” in conversation and jokes.
Bill Connors: Iconic Tulsa sportswriter who covered Richardson’s time at Tulsa.
