THE YEAR OF
MAGICAL
COACHING
Chuck Daly gave the 1972 Penn Quakers the gift
of the meaning of life, on the court and off
BY ALAN K . COTLER
C
huck Daly came to Philadelphia in the late spring of 1971. A
bunch of us were working off our recent excruciating loss
to Villanova - 90 to 47 in the finals of the Eastern Regionals.
We played every day after classes in the hot, sweaty
Palestra, trying to understand how we could have imploded like
that. We were 28-0 and ranked 2nd or 3rd in the country, and we
thought we were going to Houston for the Final Four. Then
Howard Porter, Chris Ford, Tom Ingelsby and company dismantled
us on national TV.
I still think that team was the best in Penn history: 6-7 Corky
Calhoun, sweet-shooting 6-8 Bob Morse, the super quick guards,
Dave Wohl and Steve Bilsky and a squadron of super subs.
We were shell-shocked 19- and 20-year olds. Our coach Dick
Harter left for the University of Oregon right after the Villanova
debacle. Dick was a Marine - disciplinarian, organized, intense.
Digger Phelps, who coached our undefeated 3rd-ranked freshman
team, helped recruit most of us and who was a force to be feared,
was at Fordham on his way to Notre Dame.
We were orphans without a coach. Rudderless. Bilsky and Wohl
were graduating. Corky, Morse and I were heading into our senior
year - but there was an uncertainty as if your parents had left.
Teenage athletes are very dependent on their coaches - especially in those days. Your coach lived with you forever, the good
and the bad. He was your father figure and for some even more.
You lived with him in an intense, competitive climate for thousands of hours practicing, playing and studying basketball. We ate
together, joked together, talked about girls, school, parents, and
even social and political issues. You traveled with your coach to
hostile environments. He taught you how to survive clawing
defenses, difficult referees, boisterous crowds and your own glitches and bouts of shame, insecurity, fear, selfishness and all the rest.
Daly walked through the Palestra that late afternoon in a sparkling
spiffy suit. Of course there was the hair - a lot of it, high with perfect waves. He was only 41 years old though to us he seemed so
much older. He did not have a particularly warm face. Sort of rubbery with a large nose. I was apprehensive, not sure what to make
of him. He was a former Duke and Boston College guy. But basically an unknown. The Penn AD was Fred Shabel, a Duke guy.
Maybe that's how Chuck got the job. We had never seen someone like him before. In time we learned how true that was.
Shabel was on to something.
Coach Daly introduced himself to us that Palestra afternoon,
sunlight peeking through the rafter windows. He was relaxed and
friendly. I was a 6-5 guard hoping to play a lot my senior year. He
told me he spoke to coach Harter about me and he was looking
forward to working with me. I thought that was just coach speak.
It wasn't. Chuck did not speak in clichés and he meant what he
said. His words were his mark. If you did not listen to him, he did
not yell or get angry. He was there for you no matter what.
The next fall, we assembled at the Palestra to start the 1971-1972
season. The pressure was on Chuck. We lost two great guards.
We were Ivy League champs and a national power that still saw
90-47 tee-shirts worn up and down the Main Line. Chuck kept
telling the media, “If we lose a few games, I ain't jumping off a
bridge.” He entrusted me to be point guard with Corky, Bobby,
Craig Littlepage from Cheltenham and a wiry young 6-7 shooter,
Phil Hankinson. Four of us would be drafted by the NBA. (Guess
which of us was not.)
We were five forwards. But Chuck made us comfortable. He
hugged us in practice, taught us different zone defenses we never
used before, showed us the flexibility you needed to succeed on
the court and off. He never shamed or humiliated a player. We
grew to love him, all that hair and his penchant for sharp suits. He
also had that smile that said he cared about you. It was easy to
underestimate Chuck when you first met him. But the more you
got to know his every move, the more you were wowed by his
understanding and forgiveness.
Chuck knew how to laugh at himself and never drowned in
fame or glory. He opened himself to us. By revealing himself to us
he helped us learn about ourselves.
After each practice Chuck and his assistant coach who came
from Stony Brook University, Rollie Massimino, would walk naked
in their towels from the Palestra over to Hutch gym to get their
daily steam bath. Something about that sight made me love
those guys. Two buddies not afraid to show their less than
scrumptious physiques to the players heading off to bond and talk
hoops in the smoky sweaty Hutch saunas.
Rollie, who would play cards with us late at night on the road,
became the great Villanova coach and won a national title - like so
many others Chuck helped without asking for anything in return.
For Chuck, it was not about getting something. It was about giving
someone else an opportunity. Chuck convinced Rollie it was
worth getting less money as an assistant at Penn to get into the
Big Leagues. I can imagine the loss Rollie feels for his lifelong
friend right now. Their love for each other was unabashed. Full of
emotion, they held nothing back.
The season got underway and we kept winning until something
unusual occurred. We lost an early Big Five game to Temple 57-52,
I believe. Losing was stunning. This was a crushing blow. My class
lost six times in 105 games from 1968 - 1972. Harter and Phelps
turned Ivy League mediocrity into national prominence. We had
meetings about the loss. We felt like we lost our souls. For the
seniors this was our fourth loss in 84 games. Chuck did not panic
- he took it in stride and didn't “jump off a bridge.” We went on to
Louisville and beat Western Kentucky and kept on winning.
I remember one long practice when we were running a new set
of plays. Chuck teaching, hand on chin - that clean look of interest
and intense joy on his face. Rollie watching and working and
sweating hands always working, happy to be in the Big Leagues.
My back froze into a vice-like pain. I could hardly breathe. I felt
alone with the pain. Chuck spotted it, came over, gave me a bear
hug and unlocked the vice. He said that will fix it. I felt like my
Dad just took care of me. I forgot stuff I did this morning, but I
remember that moment in time from 37 years ago. Why is it certain things we feel never leave us? When we feel connected to
another human being. Chuck could do that.
When I learned Chuck had pancreatic early in 2009, I got on
the phone with my teammates. Corky related a story to me.
Corky was the absolute glue to our success. Corky played like he
was 6-10. He could guard a 5-8 guard (he shut down Ernie
DeGregorio of Providence) or a 6-10 Howard Porter. Corky could
defend, shoot, rebound, and make everyone else better. He was
the fourth player picked in the 1972 NBA draft. But Corky was not
a gunner. He would score 15 points when you wondered why he
did not try to score 25 or 30. What was holding the quiet, polite,
sweet Corky back? Corky told me how Chuck asked Corky to
read a book about how you viewed and thought of yourself and
imagined what you looked like when performing. Corky never
read it. (We were busy studying.) But it made sense to me how
Chuck was always trying to help people figure themselves out. He
was curious about what made people tick.
We lost one other
regular season game
that year - at
Princeton. We survived that and blew
them out at home.
We were 23-2, ranked
3rd in the country
again going into the
NCAA tournament.
Whenever things
would go crazy
around us, Chuck
would calm them
down. He took care of
his basketball family.
We beat Providence
in the first NCAA
game at St. John's in
Queens, where I grew
up. Chuck had me
pick my favorite
restaurant for our
team dinner the night
before.
Villanova (90-47!!!!)
was next in
Morgantown, W. Va.
Chuck asked me if I
was “concerned.” We
beat Nova by 10 earlier that year. I said no.
Nova pressured us at
the end. Rollie's face
showed great anguish
as our 10-point lead
diminished after
Ingelsby drained some
jumpers with two minutes left. But Chuck just calmed us down.
He kept everything in perspective.
Maybe it was what I read in Mitch Albom's remembrance of
Chuck about how Chuck had regular guy jobs in the Erie area
before basketball - “dishwasher, bouncer, a grunt in a lime pit, slapping leather hides.” Chuck got on one knee, gave us an out of
bounds play where I heaved a long pass to Corky who caught it in
stride for a layup, and we calmly held on to beat Nova by 10 again.
Chuck had that little smile of relief. But he didn't look like he
would die if we lost that game.
In the Final Eight it was Dean Smith and Carolina. There is a
photograph of our starting five coming off the court together after
we were introduced at center court (there were no high five s and
fancy dance moves at introductions in those days). The photo
made it into the 1972 Penn yearbook. Our faces were grim, we
were all looking down, the body language was not good. Carolina
was ranked second nationally, I believe. I am not sure we knew we
could beat them - but we could have. We fell behind by 10 early
and then played them even. McAdoo, George Karl, Bobby Jones,
Dennis Wuycik and Bill Chamberlain were too much. Our season
ended.
It's like being hit by
a Mack truck when
you mentally prepare
to play and play and
play and then you are
done. Now what?
Sure, you're at an Ivy
League school and
you've studied but
basketball has been
your life. Now what?
I saw my friend, Fran
Dunphy, try to
describe the feeling
last spring when
Temple got knocked
out. For the seniors
it's a major life adjustment.
We got on the
plane home. I sat
next to Chuck. I will
never forget our talk.
He just told me how
he felt, with that smile
of his - disappointed
with not getting to the
Final Four, but content
with what we did, content with his team,
accepting of what the
basketball gods gave
us. He said he was
exhausted. I told him
I was drained - all
those days of playing
ball from seventh
grade on, playgrounds, tournaments, all-star games, playing alone
at night on cement courts skipping dances and parties. Chuck
said “Alan, I have to do this all over again next year.”
Chuck was a friend just sharing his feelings. He said, “Alan, you
know I never really was into basketball. I didn't read the scores in
the newspapers. I just sort of fell into coaching.” I am paraphrasing as best I can remember. “I don't really need this,” he said.
Chuck was saying that it wasn't the hoops that motivated him.
Sure, he wanted to win and succeed. But Chuck knew there was
something larger than that. Today, I know he meant it was us, him,
the referees, the trainers, Mike Nazerock our old equipment man-
ager, Stu Suss, our loyal statistician, the fans, the AD, the players,
the families. It was everyone. Chuck knew that hoops was a vehicle for the way we chose to live.
On that plane ride back to Philly, Chuck was just a “regular guy”
from Erie, as Albom would say, satisfied with his lot in life. Chuck
had no clue that in the fall of 1977 Sixers coach Billy Cunningham
would see his specialness and send him on a path to greatness
where his simple gift of understanding people would be recognized on an international scale. Chuck could not have guessed he
was a future NBA Hall of Famer who would have Larry Bird, Karl
Malone, Charles Barkley and the rest listening to his instructions
on America's Dream Team. The love Chuck's death has
unleashed from all he came in contact with is astounding. From
the NBA commissioner to Dennis Rodman. Players, coaches,
friends. There were no enemies.
A few weeks later after a Big 5 luncheon, Chuck asked if I was
interested in joining his coaching staff. I never gave it much
thought. I was destined for graduate school. I did not appreciate
then the impact a coach could have on people's lives. I did not
see back then how Coach Daly was a role model to emulate. It
was a fork in the road, and I did not know it.
Coach Daly was blessed with a gift. The ability to listen to what
another person was saying, absorb it all, understand how that person felt and what they were thinking, and then how best to make
that person feel good and be placed in a position to succeed.
Chuck was able to avoid having his own feelings, judgments or
glitches interfere with his receiving and analyzing the information
from that person with whom he was connecting.
The fact that Chuck was coaching basketball, I think, was beside
the point. Chuck could have used his gift anywhere - and he did.
Alan K. Cotler is a partner at the law firm Reed Smith LLP.