Life on the Run Read Online Free Page B

shoes. He sits, staring at his socks after he taken them off and lays them on top of his shoes. He gets up and walks into the shower, the roll of fat around his hips jiggling with each step. As Holzman finishes his pregame talk, Barnett opens the suit bag which hangs in his locker and takes out a tie, a clean shirt, new shoes, and a gray pin-stripe suit. With meticulous care he transforms himself into a model suitable for the pages of
Gentlemen’s Quarterly
. As we leave the locker room Assistant Coach Barnett knots his tie and prepares to meet the public as a new part of the Madison Square Garden management. His blue jeans hang on a nail.
    The game tonight is against Kansas City, coached by Bob Cousy. It is strange to see this former Boston Celtic great in street clothes and on the bench. For me he will forever be #14 in green and white. Everyone in my home town believed he was the most deceptive, smartest guard in basketball. I have never seen a better passer.
    By 1969 he was coach of the Cincinnati Royals, and for a short time that year put himself on the roster as an active player. We played them one night, after we had won 17 in a row. If we beat Cincinnati we would set a new league record for consecutive victories. Oscar Robertson, then with Cincinnati, fouled out with one minute and forty-nine seconds to go in the game and Cincinnati leading by three. Cousy had not played for six years, but he put himself into the game. He would try to save it. This was supreme audacity or monumental foolishness. As he would have done ten years earlier in his prime he looked down the bench, took off his warm-ups, and motioned to the scorer. His long arms dangled and his head arched backward with a sort of haughty determination. I fouled him with 27 seconds left. He made both free throws, giving Cincinnati a five-point lead. Willis Reed was fouled with 16 seconds remaining and hit two foul shots, cutting their lead to three. Then with eight seconds left, Cousy threw the ball away on an in-bounds pass, which led to a DeBusschere dunk. Then Cousy lost his man, Frazier, who got fouled on a rebound and hit two free throws, giving the Knicks a one-point victory, 106–105, and the record. At the point when Cousy put himself into the game, the official score sheet read, “Robertson out (P6, T4). Cousy goes in—yeah team.”
    I have heard rumors about Cousy’s inability to communicate with his players. They don’t seem to agree with his insistence on perfection. Only Nate Archibald, his best player (a 5′10″ guard from the giant government housing projects in the South Bronx) who ironically plays with a style reminiscent of Cousy’s, seems to understand such dedication. But tonight they start the game strong, hitting long jump shots and unmolested lay-ups. During the first half we seem unable to do anything right. We walk, double-dribble, and throw passes away frequently. The timing on our plays is awry. It is as if we are playing out of synchronization. Still we go into the locker room at half-time only five points behind.
    Holzman is hot. “When we lose the ball,” he begins, “don’t hesitate. Get your ass back on defense. And stop flying around out there like crazy men. The first thing
all
of you did that first half when you got the ball was to put it down on the floor and dribble right into the pack. Play with some poise, look around, see what develops. Play like you’re pros and not some fuckin’ high school kids. This half get the ball to our good shooters at the right time. And that open man—take the shot. The way we played, I’m surprised we’re not down more. Five points isn’t much. Cut out the stupid mistakes and we’ll win. Okay. Let’s go.”
    Red proves the prophet again. We slow down our game and gradually roll over the young Kansas City team. They make mistakes not out of carelessness as we did the first half but because we force them into our traps. We run simple plays five or six times each, and they