The Knicks Fix

Saw the obituary for Butch van Breda Kolff in our paper today, written by one of my mentors in this business, Steve Marcus.

VBK was a former Knick (1946-50) and an NBA coach (he also coached Bill Bradley at Princeton). Everyone knows the story about him and Wilt at the NBA Finals. Most also know he and Pistol Pete didn't get along in New Orleans. I can't tell you much about that man you haven't already read in obituaries or books.

If you don't mind, I wanted to use the blog today to tell the story of my short connection with Coach and share a little about my background in this game we all love deeply enough to get into passionate wars of words and stay up all night thinking about (that's at you, DaVonn J!) and follow religiously.

* *

I met van Breda Kolff when I was a senior in high school and he coached at Hofstra. He paid me a recruiting visit -- I'll never forget the shocked look on my varsity coach's face as he came to get me out of class -- one afternoon and asked me if I'd be interested in playing for him. This was in the fall, before the basketball season, right after I had a pretty solid minicamp for high school seniors. A lot of college coaches were there, including Hofstra.

Coach sat with me in an empty classroom and told me about Hofstra and his program. My high school coach sat there, quiet with a noticable stunned look on his face.

You? Division I?

Coach loved lefties. If he had his way, his entire team would be left-handed. He knew he had a lot of work to do at Hofstra, a program that was nothing like it is today (Jay Wright and Tom Pecora have done a great job over there). I just saw Division I and the chance to play near home. I wasn't getting much attention from the D-I's, other than Bucknell, Brown and a few kind hey-howya-doin letters from an assitant coach I got to know at Providence named Jeff (who later went on to coach the Knicks...you might remember him).

After the conversation concluded, the bell rang to change classes and Coach van Breda Kolff and I were suddenly among a hallway packed with hustling teenagers. He said to me, "Did you ever watch 'Get Smart'?"

Um, yeah.

"Now this is chaos!" he said, chuckling.

Coach invited me to Hofstra to check out practice and I went and watched. He came over to me at one point with a frown. "Not very impressive," he grumbled as he looked at his team.

I was extremely motivated. I had been working out all summer and fall, preparing for my senior year. I felt a strong senior year would mean bigger things. I thought I was ready and felt awesome as our varsity practices began. Calls and letters started coming in from Division II and III programs up and down the Atlantic coast, but my eyes were on the prize. I wanted to go D-I.

My teammates shook their heads.

You? Division I?

I was in need of a reality check. And it came in a painful way.

All the working out in the world means nothing if you still don't understand the game and your role (now you understand my frustration with Nate) on your team and the critical importance of loyalty to your teammates. I was basketball dumb and despite a modest growth in athleticism and strength, I was nowhere near the level of a Division I player (which I learned during a very lopsided and embarrassing scrimmage with Christ the King). I won't even get into the lack of maturty I displayed. The season started poorly. I missed dunks that should have been layups. I once took two steps without a dribble just to make a dunk and after I argued the traveling call -- idiot -- my high school coach yanked me out of the game.

Then at a Christmas tournament at Union College, I landed on someone's foot coming down after attempting a shot block. I felt like the outside of my lower leg was hit with a sledgehammer. I couldn't walk without limping, but it didn't hurt to put pressure on my foot. I couldn't run, but I could jump with no problem.

However landing hurt like hell (sound familiar, David Lee?).

I'd had ankle sprains before. This didn't feel like an ankle sprain. It didn't really swell up all that much. It just hurt.

No one could explain it. The physical therapist I went to acknowledged that it wasn't really an ankle sprain. They called it a muscle strain.

Ice it and stretch it. And give it plenty of rest.

Rest? This was January of my senior season. Hofstra was looking at me. I can't rest it!

So I tried to play. Take a guy who really didn't understand the game yet (I started playing in ninth grade) and sap all of his athletic ability and what do you have?

I'll tell you what you don't have: a Division I basketball player.

I called Coach one night after one of many awful games, when my father told me I had to sit it out and let it rest. I was fighting back tears of frustration when I left a message at Coach's office. I then wrote a letter (no email back then, kids) and poured out my heart. Told him I was prepared to sign right then and there. That I would work hard to prove him right. That my parents could not afford to send me to college any other way (this was absolutely true) and I could not let them down. I promised him I would work every day to earn my place on his team.

So much drama, I know.

Coach called me later in the week. He first spoke to my father, who had a great deal of respect for Coach. He liked how straightforward Coach was (it's how my Dad was, too) when he spoke. He didn't mince words. He told you how he felt, no apologies.

This night, however, Coach had an apology. You son just isn't on our list of recruits anymore.

My Dad handed me the phone. Coach asked me how I was feeling and as I tried again to convince him that I will be 100 percent ready for my freshman year, he cut me off.

"I may wind up regretting this," he said, "but we just can't give you a scholarship."

He offered me the chance to walk-on. I knew my parents couldn't come close to affording Hofstra. I also knew Coach had his eyes on Steve Kiernan, a kid from Holy Trinity who wound up being the CHSAA MVP. Well-deserved, too. Steve was 10 times the player I ever thought I could be. I knew I didn't belong, but when you're 17 reality takes a while to sink in.

"I wish I had more players with your attitude," Coach then said. "Keep playing."

We said good-bye and that was the last time I ever spoke with the man.

Later my parents told me Coach suggested they consider sending me to prep school. The lost senior year and need for some maturity and another year of basketball made it an obvious choice. But, again, the cost was too high. And not many prep schools are looking to give a free ride to a white kid from a Catholic high school in the Long Island burbs.

So it goes. A few years later, it seemed obvious Coach was in his final season at Hofstra. His team had a bad record. But they went into the conference tournament and won the whole damn thing. I felt good for the man. He went out with a W.

Rest in Peace, Coach.