By: Michael D. McClellan | The dream starts here, in the gang-infested, drug-ravaged projects of New York’s South Bronx, a place where bullets fly and dreams die in near synchronous rhythm, a concert of violence that plays on a continuous loop next door, down the street, all around. Murder in the 4-0 – New York’s 40th Precinct to the uninitiated, a two-square-mile area in the South Bronx that is home to the Patterson housing projects – is a way of life, a place where it’s nothing to see wounded men in the prime of life walk with canes or ride in wheelchairs. The Yankees might be the pride of the borough, but the only pitchers here are the ones dealing drugs. This is nothing new; heroin has long been shot into the vein of the South Bronx, and visits by Jimmy Carter, Mother Teresa, Ronald Reagan and Pope John Paul II have done nothing to stem the tide. Still, the South Bronx remains a mystery to most New Yorkers, a shadow city within the city, out of sight and mind, except when someone gets shot or falls down an elevator shaft – a collection of bad-news redbrick piles to whiz by on the BQE.
The dream starts here, and it starts with a boy and a basketball. The ball goes wherever the boy goes. He shoots at a rusting rim in all sorts of weather, the creased concrete uneven and cracked, graffiti spray-painted onto the wall just beyond. He dribbles hard and fast under the noonday sun, his shoes barely touching the pavement, sweat racing down a face so boyish it takes decades for time to catch up. He grows from child to teenager, the basketball jammed under his arm as he makes his way home from the PSAT Community Center, Latin jazz rolling down from the open windows above, the timeless rhythms of Eddie Palmarie the lone remaining companion in a day that starts with thirty boys playing pickup. It’s the early Sixties, and Patterson is little more than a decade old. The gangs haven’t taken over yet, and the opioid epidemic hasn’t yet transformed an abandoned railroad bed into “The Hole,” the South Bronx’s answer to the “Bluff,” Atlanta’s open-air heroin market made famous by its ominous acronym: Better Leave U Fucking Fool.
The boy is one of the lucky few to escape and make it big. The fraternity includes boxer Iran “The Blade” Barkley, who, as a teenage member of the Black Spades street gang, engages in years of turf wars and bloody fights in the South Bronx. He rises up to knock out Thomas Hearns and win the WBC middleweight title, and earns $5 million during a career that also includes winning the vacant WBB heavyweight title.
That Barkley later descends into poverty and returns to Patterson homeless should surprise no one, which makes the story of Nate “Tiny” Archibald even more extraordinary. Archibald not only escapes to register one of the greatest seasons in NBA history, leading The Association in scoring and assists in the same season, he goes on to win an NBA Championship with Larry Bird en route to being named one of the NBA’s 50 Greatest.
It could have gone the other way for Archibald, who attends DeWitt Clinton High School but fails to make the basketball team during his sophomore year. He finds a mentor in Floyd Layne, who runs the local community center, and it’s Layne who convinces Archibald to stay in school and give basketball another try. Archibald seizes the opportunity, ultimately graduating from DeWitt and playing a transition season at tiny Arizona Western, where he averages 29.5 points-per-game. He transfers to the University of Texas at El Paso, and in three seasons transforms himself from a one-dimensional point guard into a legitimate NBA prospect. Scouts take notice, especially after a 51-point performance in the 1970 Aloha Classic.
The Cincinnati Royals hold the fifth pick in the 1970 NBA Draft. Cincinnati, in desperate need of a big man, selects Sam Lacey. Somehow, Archibald is still available when the Royals pick again in the second round, nineteenth overall. Head coach Bob Cousy wastes little time selecting UTEP’s talented point guard.
Archibald, who earns the alternate nickname “Nate the Skate” while playing summer ball at Rucker Park, struggles during his rookie campaign. He averages 16.0 points and 5.5 assists, but catches heat for being careless with the rock. Turnovers continue to plague Archibald during his second season, causing Cousy and General Manager Joe Axelson to briefly consider trading their young floor general. The Royals stand pat, and Archibald goes on a scoring rampage over the second half of the season. His 34.0 points-per-game average after the All-Star Break is second only to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.
“It was just a matter of getting on a roll,” Archibald says. “If the shot was there I was going to take it, and if not then I wanted to find my teammate. At that point in my career I was a scorer first. Cooz gave me the freedom to play. He trusted that I’d take good shots, and that I’d pass the ball if there was a better option on a given trip down the court.”
The Royals, struggling on the court and at the box office, relocate to Kansas City ahead of the 1972-73 regular season. The franchise also changes its name to the Kings. Archibald responds with a season for the ages, becoming only player in NBA history to lead the league in scoring and assists in the same season. The numbers – 34.0 points and 11.4 assists – are eye-popping. The third year pro is selected to play in his first All-Star Game, and is also honored with a place on the All-NBA First Team.
“Cooz gets a lot of credit, because he gave a skinny kid from the Bronx the chance to go out there and do his thing,” Archibald says. “Some coaches are good for bigs, and some are good for guards. Cooz helped me to analyze what was going on out there, and he really helped me to understand when to take the shot versus passing the ball. I became an extension of Cooz on the court.”
Archibald suffers the first serious injury of his career during the 1973-74 season, cutting short his campaign after 35 games. He bounces back during the 1974-75 season, averaging 26.5 points and 6.8 assists, and earning a return spot on the All-NBA First Team. More importantly, the Kings reach the playoffs for the first time in nine years.
Archibald averages 24.8 points and 7.9 assists during the 1975-76 season, again earning All-NBA First Team honors. He’s in his prime and at the top of his game, but the Kings finish 31-51 and out of the playoffs. The Kings’ struggles forces management to make a change, and Archibald is traded to the New York Nets. A foot injury ends his 1976-77 season after just 34 games, the second major injury in four seasons. He’s then traded to the Buffalo Braves, tearing his Achilles tendon before the 1977-78 season starts, never playing a game in a Braves uniform. When Archibald is traded yet again, this time to the Boston Celtics prior to the start of the 1978-79 season, it looks like his best days are behind him.
“I weighed 240 pounds when I got to Boston, which was a far cry from the 170 pounds that I carried in my prime. Red took one look at me and said that if I didn’t lose weight that I wouldn’t play. It wasn’t that he didn’t want me – he just didn’t want two of me!”
The Celtics are only two years removed from its last championship when Archibald arrives, but it feels like decades. Boston, however, will soon add a generational talent in Larry Bird. The 1979-80 Celtics rebound to win 61 games and reach the Eastern Conference Finals, eventually falling to Dr. J and the Philadelphia 76ers. Archibald also bounces back, and is once again an All-Star.
Healthy again and in shape, Archibald is the MVP of the ‘81 All-Star Game. He’s also selected to the All-NBA Second Team. The arrival of Parish and McHale puts the team over the top; the Celtics win a classic seven-game rematch against the Philadelphia 76ers in the Eastern Conference Finals, clawing back from a 3-1 deficit to take the series. The Celtics reach the pinnacle one series later, defeating Moses Malone and the Houston Rockets for the 1981 NBA Championship. For Archibald, the championship is the crowning achievement in a Hall of Fame career.
“There are guys who’ve had a much better career than myself and haven’t won a championship. You look at players like Charles Barkley and Patrick Ewing and you realize how lucky you were to win it all. I was able to persevere through the injuries and keep learning the game. Everything that Cooz talked to me about as a rookie ended up coming true. I didn’t need to be a scorer to help my team win a title. I was the facilitator on a championship team. To do it with the Boston Celtics is a dream come true, and something I’ll cherish for the rest of my life.”
You were born on September 2nd, 1948 in the South Bronx’s Patterson housing projects.
A lot has been written about Patterson and my growing up there, and about how horrible it was supposed to have been. A lot of that negative stuff comes from people who write about the projects but haven’t lived there, so you have this misconception that it was a dangerous, drug-infested place where you ran for your life every day. I’m not saying that there wasn’t trouble – every neighborhood has it’s problems, and you have to deal with them, but Patterson wasn’t as bad as it has been portrayed in print. Journalists who haven’t lived there do their research, but it’s not the same because they didn’t grow up in the projects. I don’t remember seeing a bunch of abandoned cars all over the place, but I’ve read about them in articles that people have written about Patterson. There just weren’t a lot of cars of any kind when I was growing up – most folks took the train or the bus. I don’t remember people throwing garbage from their apartment windows, but I’ve read about that happening, too. The stories made it sound like you needed an umbrella to keep from getting hit with all of the trash being poured onto the sidewalks [laughs]. But that just wasn’t the case. Patterson was clean. The buildings were clean.
What was the community like back then?
It was a tight community. People looked out for each other – the parents and grandparents knew each other, they visited with their neighbors, and they ate at each other’s tables. That closeness was part of what I called my survival kit, which helped to keep me out of trouble. I had the community center and all of the programs it offered. I had sports. I had the school. It all played a part in keeping me from falling victim to bad influences such as drugs, crime and violence.
You frequently talk to young children about growing up in the projects. What stands out after all these years?
Growing up we didn’t have a lot of material possessions, but we made the best out of the situation. There was always food on the table. My mother made the best cornbread, and we always had beans and grits to eat. Meat was considered a luxury. Steak, chicken and fish were served on special occasions. There were seven of us to feed, so she made whatever food we had stretch as far as possible. And although we didn’t have a lot, we shared what we did have. Everybody looked out for one another. People got along. When I go back to Patterson now, I can tell that there is a big gap in that closeness between neighbors. Growing up, if any of us did something wrong the other parents would report on it. They were given permission to slap us on the backside if we got out of line, and then we knew we’d get it again when we got back home [laughs]. Today, people don’t want to get involved. That’s unfortunate.
I played basketball and softball, but I didn’t play football – I couldn’t afford the equipment and wasn’t really big enough anyway [laughs]. The games drew people together and gave us all a common bond, regardless of our backgrounds or ethnicities. It was beautiful. Patterson had a large Latino population, but by living there you understood that the term “Latino” was an umbrella that covered many different groups of Latin communities. There were Puerto Ricans, and there were Dominicans. There was a distinction. Each group had it’s own identity, and things that made them unique. There was always music being played. Folks would dance to all different kinds of stuff, because the words really weren’t the important part. You might not understand the words to a song written in Spanish, but everyone could understand the beat. The music crossed all boundaries. I remember listening to the Latin music and loving it. I was a fan of artists like Eddie Palmarie, who played what is now known as Latin jazz.
Your mother was your rock. Tell me about her.
We didn’t have meat on the dinner table very often – but then we never missed a meal, either. Our mother worked at Alexander’s, which was a supermarket in the neighborhood, and she always made sure the family had food on the table. We ate a lot of bean soup. And we were always right there ready to eat at 5PM, because she used to say, “The kitchen is open from 5:30 until 7 o’clock, but not a minute longer.” And she meant it. Come 7:01 the kitchen was closed and we weren’t going to get anything else to eat. It’s a lot different today. Young kids today have pocket money, and most of them are spoiled when it comes to food. They can look at something and say, “I’m not going to eat that.”
We were a very close family, and still are to this day. Back then only two people had keys to the apartment – my mother and my older sister. And just like dinner, there came a time when you’d better be in the apartment or the door would be locked. I remember coming home and banging on the door, and my sister refusing to let me in. She’d say, “I’ll only let you in if you promise to do the dishes.” And that was deal. We still laugh about it today. You have to understand that our father left when I was fourteen, so we all took turns filling his shoes. It must have worked, because there are five undergrads in our family, and three with masters. I’m still going to school because I believe you never stop learning. My sister is working on her PhD. And that all goes back to our mother. She insisted that we go to school and get our degrees. So even after I went to the NBA I knew I’d go back and finish the work needed to graduate. My mother would see me, or call me, and it was always the same. She’d say, “Where’s my degree?” And that’s the way she looked at it. That was as much her accomplishment as it was ours.
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A man named Floyd Layne changed the trajectory of your life.
Floyd was one of my many mentors growing up. He was the sports director at the community center in our neighborhood. I didn’t make the basketball team as a sophomore at DeWitt – I was just a scrawny, skinny kid who liked to play the game – and was also floundering in the classroom. I considered dropping out of school. Floyd mentored me. He convinced me to stay in school and get an education, and he also asked me to consider going out for basketball again.
Two years later you were All-City. Take me on that journey.
DeWitt’s head coach at the time was Hank Jacobson, but Hank was gone by the time my junior year rolled around. He was replaced by Bob Buckner, who had played basketball with Bobby Knight at Ohio State. Bob turned out to the be best thing for me – he was a disciplinarian who provided an open forum and who made players compete for spots on the roster. He didn’t care what had happened last season. Everyone started off with a clean slate, and players had to prove themselves all over again if they wanted to play on his team. I probably benefited more from the coaching change than anyone because I wasn’t even on the roster. It was a fresh start. His attitude was, “Last season doesn’t matter – what are you gonna give me now?” And he rewarded the players who bought into that. I was a much better player by then, and I really responded to him. I made All-City as a senior and I don’t think we lost a game all year. It was a major turning point in my life.
Following graduation, you headed off to Arizona Western Community College. How did you end up so far from home?
I had a scholarship to play Division I basketball, but my grades weren’t good enough to qualify. So I had to go to Arizona Western, which was a small school and the perfect place for me at that time in my life. Leaving New York, it was good to go to a small environment where I didn’t disappear in the shear numbers of students. The people there were genuine, the classes were small, and the transition from high school to college wasn’t as dramatic as it might have been at a bigger school. I was able to get the attention that I needed – there was plenty of tutoring available to help with the coursework, and there were resources available to help me learn how to learn. Arizona Western was like my Noah’s Ark in a giant, confusing ocean of higher education. It really prepped me for the rest of my academic life.
What was life like on the basketball court?
I had fun at Arizona Western – not many people know this, but I wanted to stay there two years instead of one. Our team went 35-1, which really made it hard for me to leave. The system was really suited to my style of play – we were constantly pushing the ball up the court. It was a fast-breaking attack. We ran at every opportunity. I think I averaged 29.5 points-per-game that season, and most of those baskets came in transition. But it wasn’t a run-and-gun, street-ball offense. We played smart on the court. We worked really hard on revving up the offense, and this philosophy was the exact opposite of the system in place at Texas Western. When I transferred there, Coach [Don] Haskins had just won a national championship with a defensive-oriented system. It was more disciplined. More structured. It was obviously successful – Coach Haskins is a hall-of-fame legend – and I gladly fit my style of play into it, but my time at Arizona Western stood out from a pure enjoyment standpoint. Who wouldn’t have fun running the court and scoring all of those points [laughs]?
After one season at Arizona Western, you accepted a scholarship to play at the University of Texas at El Paso. Please tell me about your time at UTEP.
UTEP was a huge transition. I had to wait my turn. Willie Worsley was on the team. He was a little older than me, and he also played ball at DeWitt Clinton – I was a sophomore when he was a senior. Back then no one knew who Nate Archibald was, but Willie Worsley was a player with the big-time reputation. He led the city in scoring as a senior – he averaged more than 30 points-per-game and was considered the best basketball player in New York. He never backed down from a challenge. The man always put on a show. He was also a big summertime player, so I got to play with him a little bit. I always tell people that when Willie was playing, I had the best seat in the house. Why? Because I was on the bench when he was busy doing all of those crazy things on the court [laughs].
A lot of Haskins’ success stemmed from his decision to recruit New York.
That 1966 championship team had three players on it from New York City high schools – Worsley from Clinton, and two players from Morris High School in the Bronx; Nevil Shed and Willie Cager. I knew those guys because we played summer-league ball together, and having familiar faces there meant everything when it came to choosing UTEP. The fact that they had just won the national championship didn’t hurt, either [laughs].
UTEP – then known as Texas Western – won that 1966 national title and became the team to start five African-American players at the major college level. Did the significance resonate with you back then?
It meant a lot because it was for the national championship, but it just happened to be five black guys playing against five white guys. That undertone brought the game a lot of attention because of the whole segregation thing, because it was televised and being played for all the money. For me, knowing those guys was more important. I’d played ball with Worsley, Cager and Shed. I could identify with them because we’d grown up in the same environment. So when I arrived a year later it wasn’t such a big deal to fit in. They understood what it was like to grow up in New York.
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What was it like adjusting to Division I basketball?
As a student-athlete you start out by keeping the grades to compete, and then once you’re on the team you start to fight for minutes. Then you want to take minutes away from the guys at your position. That all comes from being hungry. Back then I wasn’t hungry – I was 150 pounds ringing wet – back then I was starving [laughs]. I think that goes back to growing up without a whole lot.
Success in the classroom was equally important to me by then. It goes back to my mother’s influence. To her, the fact that I played professional basketball never ranked with what any of us accomplished in the classroom. I understand that now. I remember when I was playing for the Nets, and the Philadelphia 76ers were coming to town. I had a broken bone and wasn’t going to be in the lineup. That afternoon I stopped by and my mother was getting all dolled up. I said, “Where are you going?” She said, “To the game.” She never went to the games, but Dr. J was going to be on the floor that night and she loved watching him play. It wasn’t that she didn’t like watching me; it was just that she was more interested in my education. She was a great woman. So my decision to play at UTEP had a lot more to do with these things than with any of the black-versus-white stuff that the media talked about. It was important, but it wasn’t the biggest thing that put me in El Paso.
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Following graduation you played on a Phillips 66 team in Idaho. Tell me about that.
It was a collection of college players showcasing their talents for the pros – collegiate All-Star games – and Haskins sent me up there to play. The games were rough. There was a lot of bumping and banging, a lot of people getting knocked to the floor. I played three games and was running for my life the whole time [laughs]. But my scoring average was impressive, which helped generate some interest, and I played well against some of the best talent coming out that year. I always wanted to excel against the guys in my class, no matter who it was. I was excited whenever I got the chance to play against the likes of Dave Cowens, Pistol [Pete Maravich], Rudy [Tomjanovich], Charlie Scott, or any of the others. For me, it was a great challenge. I took the mindset that I was a bandit and they were on my hit list, and I wanted to play against them so bad. I knew I had to be in great shape to stand out against them. I kept myself in great shape. Always well-conditioned and ready to run.
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From there you played in the 1970 Aloha Classic, lit up the scoreboard, and caught the eye of Cincinnati Royals head coach Bob Cousy.
When the All-Star games were over, a couple of guys ended up not going to Hawaii and I took one of the slots. The trip wasn’t a new experience for me; I’d played there because UTEP was in the WAC with the University of Hawaii. So I just wanted to stay loose, have fun, and learn some more about myself as a basketball player. I scored 51. Cooz was there. I met him for the first time in Hawaii and it was really special for me. I’d had seen him on television, and I knew all about his career with the Boston Celtics. He was the Royals coach at the time. He took me aside before the game and said, “I’m going to be talking to you.” I didn’t say much – I was pretty quiet at the time – but in the back of my mind I’m thinking, “Why do you want to talk to me?” After the game we sat down together and at first he didn’t say anything about drafting me. He just wanted to know what my intentions were, and whether I was interested in playing NBA basketball. I froze up, went completely blank. I told him that I didn’t know for sure, but that I hoped to play in the NBA. He said, “Well, we’re looking at players for the upcoming draft, and you’re one of the guys that we have in mind.” I didn’t believe it. To hear the great Bob Cousy say that he was interested was just too much, almost like he was blowing smoke at me. But he was true to his word; the next thing I know, I’m a member of the Cincinnati Royals and Cooz is my coach.
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Please tell me about Mr. Cousy, and what it was like to play for him.
I always tell people that Bob Cousy was like my step-dad, that’s how much I think of him. Even though he’s from Queens and I’m from the Bronx, I never held that against him [laughs]. It was great to play for him. He gave me a shot at pro basketball when none of the so-called experts thought I could play in this league. And for him to think of me that way, well it only gave me more confidence and really helped my development. He was one of the greatest point guards to ever play the game, so I listened to everything he said. Our conversations were guard-to-guard. He understood the position so well, and he knew what I was going through as far as learning to play the game. He made me understand what it was to be a leader. He envisioned me being more of a floor general and less of a scorer, and he said, “One of these days you’re going to change the way you play the game. You’re going to become more of a quarterback and not so much of a scorer.” That’s what happened. I ended up winning that championship in ’81 with the Celtics of all teams, and I didn’t score a ton of points. Larry Bird, Kevin McHale, Robert Parish, Cedric Maxwell – those guys were going out and getting the points. My job was to run the offense and keep the team flowing, just like Cousy had said way back in my rookie season.
A lot of guys get drafted and don’t get a chance to play, but Cooz was a man of his word. He gave me the basketball and said. “This is your team. Run it. Score points in transition. Get guys up-and-down the court.” He had all this faith in me, even at such a young age. It shocked me, really, because I wasn’t ready for that much responsibility. You’re talking about a guy who is twenty-one years old, and he’s asked to run an NBA team. I just wasn’t ready. He expected me to be a more vocal leader, but that wasn’t my nature. I didn’t do a lot of talking. I let my game do that. Later on he complimented me on that first season, but thought that I didn’t speak out enough. I just told him that I led by example. I think he came to understand that.
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You averaged 28.2 points-per-game in only your second season in the league. You were particularly hot down the stretch, averaging 34 points after the All-Star Break.
I don’t know that it was by design, it was just a matter of getting on a roll. At that point in my career I was one of the primary threats on offense. I just went out and played the game. If the shot was there, I was going to take it, and if not then I wanted to find my teammate. Early on, I was a scorer first and a quarterback second. Cooz knew that I’d have to change my game, that I’d do it eventually, but he didn’t put the clamps down to get his point across. He gave me the freedom to play. He trusted that I’d take good shots, and that I’d distribute the ball if there was a better option on a given trip down the court.
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The Royals moved to Kansas City prior to the 1972-73 season, changing their name to the Kings. You averaged 34.0 points and 11.4 assists, becoming the only player ever to lead the league in both categories in a single year.
That was never by design, either. It was something that just happened. I never went out on the court feeling as though I was going to make history that way – I just wanted to help the team win. I went out and played the game. Cooz gets a lot of credit for that record, because he gave the chance to play. He gave this skinny kid the chance to go out there and do his thing, and in a lot of respects I became an extension of Cooz out on the court. Some coaches are good for bigs, and some are good for guards. Cooz helped me to analyze what was going on out there, and he really helped me to make good decisions. I think that’s why I was able to lead the league in scoring and assists in the same season. I could quickly dissect the situation and instinctively know when to take the shot versus giving up the ball.
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Cousy led the league in assists eight times, but never led the league in scoring.
Our team that year was different from all of those great Celtics that Cooz played on. We didn’t have a Bill Russell. We didn’t have a Tommy Heinsohn. We didn’t have a K.C. Jones, or a Sam Jones, or a Jim Loscutoff. We didn’t have the old guys to learn from, the guys who’d been through the playoff wars and had walked away with championship rings. We were learning how to communicate without the benefit of great veterans who’d been there and done that. But we did have guys like Johnny Green, who took me under his wing and helped me understand the game better. Johnny had led the league in field goal percentage. He was a great target on the court. I looked for him when we needed a big basket. He was on the receiving end of a bunch of my assists, and he was also the wise sage who gave me a lot of great advice. Leading the league in both categories in the same season was a very satisfying accomplishment, but not one that outranks winning the championship in ’81. It was just something that all came together – we were running at every opportunity, and scoring a lot of points in transition. I just played my game, which blended perfectly with the philosophy in place at the time.
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You suffered an Achilles tendon injury the following season. How did you bounce back so quickly?
The single biggest factor was probably the return trip that I made to New York after I tore the Achilles tendon. I went back to work with the youth in the neighborhood, and all of these kids were so supportive. They were saying, “Tiny, you can still play. You can come back from this injury. You’ve still got it.” And here I was in New York, supposedly mentoring them, and they were ones imparting the wisdom. It made me work hard to regain my speed. I didn’t want to let them down.
1974-75 marked your return to greatness. You averaged 26.5 points and 6.8 assists, returned to the All-NBA First Team, and led the Kings reached the playoffs for the first time in nine years. What was it like to finally taste the postseason?
Coming back, I had the quickness that made me such a dangerous player. All of the self-doubt was gone; I was healthy again, and it showed in the way I played the game. It was a dream season because we finally made the playoffs. We had solid players on that team – Jimmy Walker, Nate Williams, and Sam Lacey to name a few. Scott Wedman was a rookie that year, and he really helped us. But we lost to the Chicago Bulls in the playoffs, so that was a big disappointment. Anytime you’re eliminated it’s a bitter pill to swallow.
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You mentioned that Scott Wedman was your teammate while with the Kings. Ironically, you would both go on to win NBA championships with the Boston Celtics. Please tell me about Scott.
Scott was a really good player. Those first couple of years he was kind of in the shadows in Kansas City, because he was a young guy just getting started and he wasn’t one of the focal points of the offense. But as time went on he became one of the team’s stars, and one of the better players in the league. He could shoot the lights out. Nobody in the league shot it any better. He was a role player when he went to Boston, which was a big change for him, but he really wanted to win a championship. He knew that he’d never take Larry Bird’s spot, and that his job would be to come off the bench and provide a spark on offense. That’s exactly what he did, and the Celtics won two championships with him on the roster.
You averaged 24.8 points and 7.9 assists during the 1975-76 season, again earning All-NBA First Team honors. The Kings, however, struggled in the win column.
It was frustrating, but I just kept playing my game. I was never satisfied when we fell short of the ultimate goal. It had been like that since I’d started playing basketball. We added Bill Robinzine through the draft, but we just didn’t put things together like I thought we would. We won 31 games and missed the playoffs, so to me that was a huge step backwards. It didn’t matter what I’d done as an individual. We didn’t get it done as a team, so there was some doubt about contending for a championship.
The next couple of seasons were marked by injuries and trades, as you moved from the Kings to the New York Nets and Buffalo Braves. Please tell me about this period in your life.
It was a difficult time for me as a professional basketball player. I was hurt and I only played in 34 games for the Nets. We didn’t make the playoffs, and then I ended up being traded to Buffalo – and didn’t play at all during the 1977-78 season. So it was a very challenging period for me mentally. I had to deal with the injuries, and at the same time stay positive and focused on coming back.
You were traded to the Boston Celtics on August 4th, 1978. Your spot on the team was anything but assured.
I weighed 240 pounds when I got to Boston, which was a far cry from the 170 pounds that I carried in my prime. Red [Auerbach] took one look at me and said that if I didn’t lose the weight that I wouldn’t play. It wasn’t that he didn’t want me, because he did. He just didn’t want two of me [laughs]! So Red told [Celtics’ trainer] Ray Melchiorre to help me lose the weight. Ray put me on a diet; skim milk with Raisin Bran for breakfast…no sugar, no butter, no jelly. I love fried eggs, but he cut those out, too. I could have them hard boiled, and that was it. Lunch was a dry salad – no dressing – and no tomatoes. Dinner was skinless meat, broiled. Nothing to drink but water and grapefruit juice. And if that wasn’t enough, Ray made me wear a fat suit when I worked out [laughs]. He was into scuba diving, so he brought one of those scuba suits to the training facility and had me put it on. It wasn’t a short suit, either – it was one of those long ones. Putting it on was no problem, but taking it off was almost impossible [laughs]. But it all worked, because the weight came off and I was back to my playing weight to start the season. I had my speed back, and I was back to running for my life [laughs].
Tell me about the legendary Red Auerbach.
That first year in Boston I didn’t play lot, at least by my standards. I wasn’t sure where I fit in or if I’d remain on the team. Red and I had some interesting conversations – he loved to walk through the locker room and tell you about the great Celtic teams that he coached during the 50s and 60s, and about all of the championships that he won on the parquet. Red would also sit you down in his office, which was a smoke-filled room loaded with championship mementos, and he’d try to motivate you to play up to those standards. I remember sitting down with him one day, the cigars stinking up the place, and he wanted to welcome me to the team. He said, “Tiny, I’m not sure where you’re gonna be by the end of the season. You’re out of shape and overweight, and I want guys who are in shape. I’m just not sure if you’re gonna be any good. You gotta compete. To be in this picture you’d better want to win.”
The Celtics were in full-fledged rebuilding mode when you arrived.
That first year in Boston was ugly. We won 29 games and didn’t have much hope. Satch Sanders started off as the head coach, but he was fired and Dave Cowens took over as player/coach. On paper there was some good talent on that team – Cowens, Chris Ford, Curtis Rowe, Jo Jo White, Don Chaney – but the mixture wasn’t right. We even had young guys like Cedric Maxwell and Rick Robey. Bob McAdoo was on the roster for twenty games or so. But there was just so much turmoil and negativity that things went from bad to ugly, and they just stayed that way.
Larry Bird was drafted as a junior eligible, so we had to wait a year to find out what kind of player he was. He was our hope, although the press kept saying that he was too slow to play in the NBA, and that he couldn’t jump or shoot or play defense. When he arrived, and we actually got to see how good he was, that was when I started to believe that we’d compete for a championship.
Tell me about Larry Bird.
Larry was easily one of the greatest players I’d ever played with. Everyone calls him Larry Legend, but I’ve always liked to call him Larry the Professor. He was so smart. He could analyze things on the court, and then diagnose a play almost before it even happened. He dissected his opponent. And while he might not have had the greatest physical tools – he wasn’t going to jump through the roof like a Dominique Wilkins – he was a master of the fundamentals. Nobody was any better at doing the little things collectively, like boxing out and making the extra pass. He had the highest basketball intellect that I’ve ever been associated with. It was a privilege to play with him, and also with Kevin and Robert. They were the heart of our team and the reason we won it all in ’81.
The 1979-80 Celtics won 61 games and reached the Eastern Conference Finals. You were once again an All-Star. How did your role change with the arrival of Larry Bird?
My role changed every year, which goes back to what Cooz told me my rookie season. Red Auerbach needed a quarterback to run his team, especially since he was assembling such a talented front line, and he wanted to motivate me to be the player that I was before the injuries. But he also knew that he needed a player who could distribute the ball, someone who didn’t need to score a ton of points, and by that time in my career I was more than ready to share the load offensively. I’d been a big-time scorer, but I hadn’t gone deep in the playoffs. I wanted a ring. The pieces were coming together. Max [Cedric Maxwell] was already there, Larry was there, and Robert and Kevin were on their way the following season. And with Larry on the team we were able to turn it completely around. We only won 29 games my first season, and then we won 61 games the next. At the time it was the biggest turnaround in NBA history. Larry was the focal point of the offense, and that was fine with me. The next year we had Robert and Kevin, as well as M.L. Carr, so there were a lot of options. And we were all close, which was the best part. Max and I were like brothers. We stayed in the same house, we went to his home in North Carolina during the off-season, and we had a lot of great times together. The camaraderie on those teams was unbelievable. Nobody can take that away. The practices were real battles, and they made us closer as a team. There were fights, but that’s only because the intensity level was so high. Nobody was giving up, not even for a minute. And the individual records didn’t matter. We were all after the same thing, which was to be recognized as the best in the world.
The following season you were named the MVP of the All-Star Game. After suffering so many injuries in recent years, how did it feel to be recognized as the best of the best?
It was special. I was healthy again, and I was on a team that had a chance to win it all. I never doubted my ability, so it was good to be able to remind people that I could still play the game at a very high level.
The 1980-81 Boston Celtics came back from a 3-1 series deficit to defeat the 76ers and advance to the NBA Finals. Please take me back to that classic series.
Nobody was giving up. There was no quit on that team. Philly was the team to beat, they had the big lead in the series, and we just kept playing as hard as we could. Larry told us to take one game at time, and we were able to focus on that. All of the games were very close, and very intense. Those last three games all went down to the wire, and they reminded me of the great Red Sox-Yankees series, with the Red Sox coming back from a 3-0 deficit to win. People may forget this, but our best battles back then were against the 76ers. They had Doc [Julius Erving], Andrew Toney, Bobby Jones, Caldwell Jones, Darryl Dawkins, Doug Collins, Steve Mix, Lionel Hollins, and Maurice Cheeks. Philly was loaded. We had to beat them just to get to the Finals and face the Houston Rockets. It was a great series, probably the best I’ve ever been involved in.
You reached the NBA Promised Land one series later, defeating Moses Malone and the Houston Rockets for the 1981 NBA championship. What was it like to finally win basketball’s ultimate prize?
It was like Christmas. There are probably a lot of guys who’ve had a much better career than myself, guys who haven’t won a championship. You look at players like Charles Barkley and Patrick Ewing and you feel for them, and at the same time you realize how lucky you were to win it all. I was fortunate and lucky to get to play early on, and to learn how the game was supposed to be played. I was able to persevere through the injuries and keep learning the game. I was just thankful to be a part of that team, and to have the ball in my hands. Everything that Cooz talked to me about as a rookie ended up coming true. I was the quarterback on a championship team. I accepted my role and I did the things that made my teammates better, and we were able to run the table.
You have been inducted into the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame, and have been recognized as one of the NBA’s 50 Greatest Players. What do these honors mean to you?
They are the ultimate honors. Red and Cooz were right there at my induction ceremony, and just having them as a part of it made me relax. I was able to take the podium and speak about my career. I had been so nervous beforehand, but they helped me keep it together. Afterwards they told me that I stole the show, and that I’d talked about everything.
You’ve always gone back home – coaching clinics, donating equipment, giving your time.
I love teaching. When I look at my childhood, I realize how important it was to have safe havens to keep kids away from drugs and gangs. Activities such as basketball are so important in that regard. League play teaches kids the importance of sportsmanship and discipline, things that I learned early on because of the people who donated their time and energy to make a difference. And education stands out above all. It’s the foundation that helps to keep kids from doing crazy stuff. It’s important to help these kids understand that they lose out if they don’t have an education. That’s why I keep going back. I want to help instill the values of sportsmanship and education in children at the earliest age possible.
Final Question: You’ve achieved great success in your life. If you could offer one piece of advice on life to others, what would that be?
Live life to the fullest, and remember that a rich life is not one measured by money or material possessions.
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