Rick Barry: Telling It Like It Is, 1967

[One of my favorite sports videos of the last few years is Rick Barry weighing in on “What’s Wrong with Today’s NBA.” A lot of truth was told in his almost seven-minute, cross-armed, rapid-fire “telling it like it is.” Barry’s speaking truth to powerful journalists is nothing new. Just go back and flip through the book Confessions of a Basketball Gypsy, published in 1972 by Barry as told to sports journalist Bill Libby. If you don’t have a copy of Confessions handy on your book shelf, how about an excerpt? The magazine Popular Sports All-Pro Basketball, 1973 published the following vent featuring Barry’s thoughts on his former coach Bill Sharman and really anything that popped into his head about the 1966-67 NBA season. Like Barry’s recent telling-it-like-it-is video, this excerpt is very direct and goes right to the truth, as Barry saw things back then. The excerpt is long, but definitely worth the read.]

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I walked off the golf course one day and someone told me JFK had just been shot, and I said, “Who’re you kidding?” I couldn’t believe it. When I found out it was true, it was like someone had torn my guts out. I walked off the golf course another day, and someone told me Alex Hannum had been fired. I said, “You’re kidding.” I couldn’t believe it. When I found out this, too, was true, it again tore up my insides. I’m not trying to compare JFK being killed to Alex Hannum being fired, only the impact on me. In my world, the firing of Alex Hannum shocked and depressed me about as much as anything could. Hell, I had just been with Alex at the team party the night before, right after the season ended. Nothing was said about him going. But suddenly he was gone. 

Franklin Mieuli is a good man, but not everything he does is good, and sometimes he works in strange ways. It is true we’d missed the playoffs the season before, but there was not a person on the Warriors who did not think Alex was as good as any coach and would take our young team to the top. We enjoyed playing under him, inspired and improved by him. Franklin wanted a coach who would live in San Francisco the year-round and run practice sessions for some of the players who wanted to participate, and rookie camps, and things like that during the offseason. 

Hannum had a business and a home in Southern California and wanted to spend his summers there. He lived in San Francisco winters. He gave the team all of his time during the season. But he wanted to take the offseason off. Franklin bugged him about staying on the year-round, and Hannum kept begging off until finally Franklin told him to forget it. I don’t think anyone ever thought it would come to that.

It was a big blow to all of us and taught me my first lesson about life in the big leagues. It didn’t matter how good a coach Hannum was. If he wouldn’t do things Franklin’s way, he could forget it. And I guarantee you—practice sessions or rookie camps notwithstanding—Hannum still would have made the Warriors a better coach than almost anyone else around. 

Franklin made Bill Sharman the coach of the Warriors. And under Sharman’s coaching, we won the Western Division pennant with a 44-37 record, won the divisional playoffs, and darn near won the playoff finals. If you want a credit this to Sharman, that’s all right with me. He has won a lot of titles wherever he coached. But in my opinion, he had the horses that season. A lot of coaches could have won it with us. Frankly, I think Hannum might have won more. 

Sharman was a star with those great Boston Celtic teams. He was a fine outside shooter. He played under a great coach, Red Auerbach, and with great players like Bill Russell and Bob Cousy, and he certainly knows basketball. He also is a very intelligent person, a fine person, a straight person, well-spoken, a gentleman. And I mean that. 

But he’s a miserable man to play under. He is fanatical about basketball. He eats, sleeps, and drinks the game. This is said about a lot of people and their games, but it really only applies to a few. Sharman goes as far as a man can in being dedicated to his profession. He is extremely single-minded. Sometimes, I felt nothing else in life mattered to him but basketball. Maybe this is the way it should be to a professional, but this is unrealistic. No matter what a man’s profession is, there are other things in life. Sharman couldn’t see this. He’d say, “You can’t work too hard in training camp.” No team has ever been worked harder—not even prisoners on chain gangs. 

And there was no letup during the season. We practiced mornings on game days. He had a videotape machine, and he’d shoot practices and games. And when we weren’t practicing or playing games, we were sitting in some dark, stuffy room looking at ourselves on TV over and over and over again. Some of this is good. Too much of it isn’t. We practiced until we were worn out and practices weren’t doing us any good. We watched movies until our eyes hurt and we lost interest and had begun to be bored silly. I said this pro schedule is a rough one. Anyone who’s lived it knows it is. You’re traveling endlessly playing those 80 to 100 games. You have to get some rest. You have to let your injuries heal a little. You have to unwind. Sharman never gave us a chance.

According to Bill, we weren’t supposed to have wives or children or homes. We weren’t supposed to have good meals or parties. We weren’t supposed to read anything except basketball box scores. We weren’t supposed to talk about anything except basketball. We weren’t ever supposed to joke around or even crack a smile. This was serious business, much more serious than, say, war. We were supposed to sit around in silence in the dressing room with solemn faces, thinking basketball, our guts twisting up with the desire to go out there on the court and kill. We were supposed to be like chained animals between games, raging to get at the enemy. We were supposed to claw each other to pieces in practice to soften us up for the deadly business ahead. 

For me, basketball has always been fun. Under Bill Sharman, it was no fun. I think sports are fun for most athletes. They are, after all, games. They are, after all, the same games we played as kids. The further you go in your game, the more important it becomes to you, but most players basically enjoy playing the games. If you get too wound up, too tense, it takes something away from your game. 

Now, I know I’m a hard man to coach and have been critical of many of my coaches, but I guarantee that most of the Warriors felt just the way I did. There’s always a certain amount of griping behind a coach’s back, of blaming him for all problems. But on the Warriors, it went beyond that. Most of us got sick and tired of basketball under Sharman. Under Alex Hannum, basketball had been fun. And I’d match Hannum against Sharman any day. 

I guess there are different ways of coaching. Sharman’s way drove me up the wall. No one is going to convince me a lot of coaches couldn’t have won with the team we had. Nate was the key, he averaged 18 points and 20 rebounds a game and played tremendous defense. All of us could gamble on stealing the ball on defense because we knew, that if we lost our man, Nate would be there clogging up the middle. Whenever I saw him going up for a rebound, I immediately released on the fastbreak. And we worked a tremendous fastbreak because Nate always got the rebound. He got rid of it in a hurry, feeding the front man. He hurt his back and missed some games, but Clyde Lee filled in real well. 

Up front, I averaged 35 points a game, leading the league, and 10 rebounds. Tom Meschery and Fred Hetzel averaged 22 points and 15 rebounds between them. In the backcourt, Paul Neumann, Jeff Mullins, and Jim King averaged in double figures, and Al Attles really stirred things up every time he was sent in. Guy Rodgers had gone in the expansion draft, but Mullins moved in and had some great games and has become a spectacular player.

We beat out St. Louis by five games and Los Angeles by eight in the pennant race. St. Louis had a lot of good ballplayers, such as Bill Bridges, Lou Hudson, Zelmo Beaty, Len Wilkens, Joe Caldwell, and Richie Guerin, but lacked stars who could hoist them single-handed and lacked speed. L.A., which has dominated the West most of the last 10 years or so, had West and Baylor, but was only ordinary beyond them and lost a lot when Rudy LaRusso, a solid forward, was traded, refused to report, and retired at midseason. We were the best in the West that season. I’m glad we were. I hate to think what Sharman would have been like if we had only been second-best. 

I hated those morning practices on game days. I wasn’t even awake when I had to go out and practice. Sharman said I didn’t have to practice if I didn’t feel up to it, but I had to be at practice. Well, I didn’t want to practice on game days, I didn’t want to leave my game on the practice court. I will not drive and risk getting hurt in those wars. I see guys getting hurt in practice. Coaches like Sharman make the guys play games for laps. The guys play hard to avoid extra laps. I’d rather take the laps than practice. But there was no way I could go to practice and not play. So, I don’t play hard in practice. And the guys hate me for it. But they’d hate me a lot more if I didn’t play at all. 

Gameday practices were mostly shooting practice. Sharman said he’d found it was good for him. Fine. That didn’t make it good for me. I’d been a pretty good scorer without it. I’ve already said I never found any relation between the way you shoot in practice and the way you shoot in a game. I know you have to practice, but on off days. If you throw up 100 shots in practice on a game day, how can you have the strength left to throw up 30 in the game? If you’re up at nine or 10 in the morning to practice, how are you going to feel by eight at night, when the game finally comes around? Most people go to work at the beginning of their day, when they’re fresh. Basketball players go to work at the end of the day, when even if they haven’t done much all day, they’re no longer fresh. And if you add to this by rousing a guy out of the sack at dawn the morning after a game and putting him through shooting practice, how good is he going to be 10 hours later? 

My scoring average went up 10 points a game from the previous season. If you want to credit this to Sharman or to his day-of-the-game shooting practice, be my guest. Maybe they played a part in it. I don’t think so. Ever since, whenever I’ve been healthy, I have averaged as much or more without Sharman and without day-of-the-game shooting practice. 

One of the things I learned as a pro rookie was that I had to improve my outside shooting. So, I spent all summer shooting from outside, increasing my range and accuracy. By the time the season began, I was a lot better at it. If my foes sagged off me to guard against my drives, I popped the ball up and in. When I began to hit from outside and the foes moved up to play me tight, I drove around them. I developed variety. I had a lot of help from my teammates, especially Thurmond. A lot of people thought it would hurt me not to have Rodgers feeding me. Rodgers is a fine feeder, but I was better without him because I got to handle the ball more, and, being a driver, the more I have the ball, the better I am.

Sharman didn’t show me a whole lot about shooting. His style was different than mine. As I said, I’m not a great shooter. I’m a great scorer. There is a helluva difference. I have a lot of different shots (some are hairy). I’m a good jumper, and I have exceptional control of my body in the air. I can move the ball around up high while I’m in the air and make adjustments on my shots, which only a few can do. I’m a great driver. Once I can get the defender leaning one way, I’m gone. My quickness (for my size) is my greatest asset. Few forwards can keep up with me. I’m fouled a lot when I drive—and even get some of them called. 

I’m a great free-throw shooter, one of the best. I’ve hit eight or nine out of 10 every year I’ve played pro ball. This is a fundamental part of my scoring ability. I’m a driver who gets fouled and makes almost 90 percent of his free throws. I also follow a lot of shots in and get a lot of tip-ins or loose-ball “garbage.” Fellows who stand back and wait to see whether their shots are going in lose a lot of chances. 

I’m a fair outside shooter and jump shooter. I’m no Jerry West in this respect, but I’m good and have some great nights. On all my shots, I try to put the ball up soft. I aim for the basket—not the back of the rim or the front of the rim—and I try for a bit of an arch. I try to hang the ball on top of the rim. It is not easy to do. It takes body control. When I get tired and lose control, I shoot harder and flatter and the ball tends to bounce off the front of the rim, so I have to compensate by trying for an even softer shot and more arch. I shoot reasonably accurately from 20 feet out and in. I take a lot of shots. But I hit a lot of shots. 

When I led the league with 35 points a game, I also led in shots with 2,240, which works out to 28 or 29 shots a game (and that doesn’t include shots on which I was fouled). I hit 1,011 of them, which comes out about 13 a game, a percentage of .451, which is adequate. 

With these shots, however, I also got 852 free throws, of which I hit 753, or 88 percent. A lot of people shoot too much, and I’ve had players say, “I wish I could get off as many shots as you do.” The thing is, it is not that easy to get off as many shots as I do. You have to hustle for loose balls, work to get in position for passes, and move to get in position. One game, the guys were exhausted and told me to shoot. I took 50 shots. It was hysterical. I was doing their work. If I took fewer shots, I could have a much higher shooting percentage, but I’d also have much fewer points. 

I don’t take bad shots. I take hard shots. But these hard shots are good percentage shots for me while being difficult for others. Elgin Baylor never had a good shooting percentage in his life. He always took harder shots than anyone. He hit more than anyone else would have, but he didn’t have the percentage of guys who take easier shots. But he got his points, and you won’t find anyone who will say Elgin hasn’t been a great shooter. Actually, what Elgin has been is a great scorer. I’ve watched him, and if I’ve copied anyone, it was him. I do things my own way, but I tried the things I saw Elgin do because he played my style. Connie Hawkins is another guy who can make incredible shots. He has enormous hands and great control of his body, and he makes some moves in the air and sinks baskets that are unbelievable. Baylor and Hawkins always thrill the crowds. They bring them out of their seats. I enjoy doing some of that. 

My philosophy of scoring is simple. I think it’s easy to be a scorer if you have good talent and are willing to work at it. Without doing anything else but hustling on fastbreaks, I’ll get at least 10 easy points a game. If I drive 10 times, I’ll get 10 more points. On fastbreaks and drives, I’ll get fouled and go to the line 10 times and make eight or nine of them. The ball is going to pop to you by sheer chance a few times, so you’ll make one or two garbage baskets, if you’re alert. Now I have 30 points and haven’t taken an outside shot. 

If I take some outside shots and hit some, I’ve got more points. If I hit them and they start guarding me close, I can drive for more points. If I go to the basket a lot, I’ll get garbage and tips here and there. When these things happen, suddenly, I’ve got a big night. Break it down. All an ordinary pro has to do is make two baskets a quarter and pick up one free throw a period, and he has 20 points. If I score three or four baskets and two or three free throws a quarter, I’ve got 35 points a game. A quarter is 12 minutes long. What I ask of myself is well within reason.

During my second season as a pro, I matched my all-time high with 57 in a game at Cincinnati. I didn’t shoot all that much that night. If I’d been hitting the way I hit that night in the previous season’s Garden game, I’d have scored 70 against the Knicks. I had seven different games of 50 or more, including 102 in two consecutive games—50 against Boston and 52 against Chicago two nights later. That was in San Francisco before the home folks, I also scored 38 in the NBA All-Star Game, which was played in San Francisco. The West beat the East, 135-120, and I was voted the Most Valuable Player. Scoring as much as I did in an all-star game, it was inevitable that I’d get MVP, but it wasn’t fair. Nate Thurmond took down 16 rebounds, blocked countless shots, and controlled the game. A lot of people think he should’ve been the MVP, and I’m one of them. Actually, what I think is that in such cases, there should be two awards: one for MVP, one for outstanding player. If there had been, he would have been MVP and I’d have been outstanding player. I was outstanding that night, but Nate actually made more valuable contributions to his team’s victory. 

I won the NBA scoring title only because Wilt Chamberlain didn’t want it that year. Oscar Robertson average 30 points a game, Jerry West 28, and Elgin Baylor 26 (although they both missed a lot of games). Wilt averaged 24. Wilt had decided he’d been scoring champion often enough, and he’d be more of a passer than a scorer from then on. But anytime he wanted to, Wilt could have scored more than 35 points a game, and I know it, he knows it, and everyone should know it. 

Robertson and West are always around 28 to 30 points a game. They know where their best shots are, and they take about the same ones every game. If it’s needed or the opportunity develops, they can have nights. But they usually do a lot of ballhandling and passing. Robertson is a much better ballhandler than West. He’s a better dribbler and a better passer and doesn’t lose the ball as often. But West gets a lot of assists because he’s always feeding the open man. He’s a far superior defensive player than Robertson—and I’d much rather have West on my side in a close game. Robertson hadn’t had as many chances in the clutch, but I think West has created more of his team’s clutch opportunities and rises to the occasion as few players ever have. 

I improved a lot as an all-around player in my second season. For me to say I don’t want my points would be ridiculous. Obviously, I do. I go for them. I take my shots. That’s my strength. And there is not a player in pro basketball who doesn’t like his points. If he says otherwise, he’s lying. Some are unselfish about it. They realize scoring isn’t their best thing. They realize they have to give the ball to better shooters on their team. Thurmond is the best example. But he still averages 18 or 20 points a game. I’m a good passer, and I look for the open man when I make a move. But if I have the best shot, I’ll take it. And if I didn’t, I should be run out of the arena. I’m lucky that I’m a scorer. I enjoy it—and it pays off. The scorers get more publicity and more money than the rebounders or the ballhandlers or the defensive specialists. You need them to win, too, but if I was one of them, I wouldn’t enjoy the game as much as I do. 

I’m a good forward because I have a good combination of size and speed. With these, I can shoot outside, drive, and succeed in scrambles. A lot of guys with similar ability are not as good because they are not willing to work at it. They don’t drive or hustle to the basket enough. They don’t have the desire. They don’t want to take the punishment, and they don’t want to get hurt. If there is one thing that separates good forwards from great forwards, it is the ability or inability to put the ball on the floor, face your man, make the moves to get around him, and get to the hoop. A lot of guys can’t do this. I can. So can a few others. 

In my opinion, there are only a few forwards in the true sense of the word. Billy Cunningham is one. He plays the same way I do, but is a better rebounder. Elgin Baylor plays differently but can put the ball down and go with it. He is bull-strong and a super dribbler (I’m talking about the Baylor of a few years ago). Gus Johnson is a lot like Baylor. He has a lot of moves but uses more muscle than Cunningham and I. Joe Caldwell is a lot like us, but he’s shorter and more a guard than a forward. He’s incredibly quick. Dave DeBusschere is bigger, but slower. He can put the ball down and go with it, but he’s mainly a fine rebounder, a fine defensive player, a fine all-around team man. 

Connie Hawkins sometimes reminds me of the younger Baylor. He can put the ball down and go with it, but he’s not nearly as consistent. He’s explosive. He’s the best passing forward I’ve ever seen by far. He’s also a worse defensive player than Baylor and I. Spencer Haywood has the potential. He’s the greatest jumping forward I’ve ever seen and an awesome rebounder. He has good moves and is a good shooter, and he has ballhandling and dribbling ability. Yet he can’t put the ball down and go with it face-to-face against a good, big, tough defender. I don’t think he can get through a Gus Johnson or a Dick Van Arsdale. But he’s still young. We’ll see about him.

Many players, with great natural ability come and go without making it because they don’t learn to make their ability work for them. The game never came much easier to anyone than it did to me (except maybe Oscar Robertson—who sometimes seems to have been born on a basketball court making a smooth, perfect move), but I learned what I had to do to make my talent work for me. Frankly, I suspect if I worked harder, I would be a lot better. Most of my improvement came through trial-and-error experimentation in games. You find out what your talents are and what you can and can’t do, what works for you. You remember your mistakes, or should. Everything stupid you do should make you a better player the next time. You absorb this and that until the knowledge of the game is built into you. You’ll become like a computer, giving out the right response to each situation almost instinctively. Hell, the pace of the game is too fast to think things out. You have split seconds to make your moves. I never know exactly what I’m going to do until I do it. You react to your opponent’s reactions and vice-versa. 

Before my second season, there was a lot of talk about the so-called sophomore jinx. All this means is that a lot of guys who worked hard and had big rookie years figure they have it made and don’t improve, so they have lousy sophomore seasons. Hell, I didn’t worry about that. I wasn’t about to rest on my laurels. I wasn’t anywhere near where I wanted to be. So, I got a lot further my second year. 

I felt a lot of confidence in myself and my team as we entered the playoffs at the end of my second season. No matter what your record is, if you make the playoffs, your season has been at least a small success. But even if you win the pennant, you still have to do well in the playoffs. That’s what really counts. No one remembers the pennant winners a year or two later, only the playoff winners. A lot of people can tell you Boston won 11 playoff championships in 13 seasons through the end of the 1960s, but few people can tell you how many pennants they won in that time (they won nine). It’s the 11 that counts. The prestige hangs on the playoffs and a lot of the loot. It’s not just the playoff bonus money, but the following year’s contract that hangs on your postseason showing. 

So, you’ve played exhibition games and then maybe 80 regular-season games. Now the real season, the postseason, begins. You’re tired, but this is what you’ve been building up to: more publicity, bigger crowds. Every point of every game has greater importance. It’s like walking a tight rope. One mistake, one slip, and you fall from the heights. The pressure is fantastic. I like pressure. I respond to it. But I will remember all my life, the pressure of my first playoffs. 

We opened against Los Angeles, a best-of-five series. West had an injured leg going in and reinjured it as soon as he played, so he saw action only a few seconds of that first game and that entire series. West is the Lakers. Without him, they are nothing. Even with West, however, they would not have beaten us that season. We had finished ahead of them in the regular season and were bound to finish ahead of them in the playoffs. We opened the series across the Bay in the brand-new Oakland Coliseum, with 11,101 fans on hand, and drubbed them by 16. We went to L.A. to play them in the Sports Arena and took them by 11 (That was the game in which Jerry Chambers and I started a scuffle.) We returned to San Francisco, to the Cow Palace, before only 5,845 fans, and wrapped up a three-straight sweep by seven. I scored 26 in each of the first two games and 37 in the clincher. 

St. Louis had wiped out Chicago in three straight, too, so they were our foe for the best-of-seven divisional finals. We had the first two at home, in the Cow Palace. There were 7,813 fans on hand for the first game and 12,337 for the second as enthusiasm in town mounted. We had a hook in them early, but let them get away. We led by 22, but they reeled off 16 straight and closed the gap. They got to within two with a half minute to play. I got the ball, drove on Bill Bridges, faked him off-balance, and went past him for the bucket that clinched it. I wanted to go to the basket, figuring if I missed, I might get fouled. I didn’t miss. I got 38, and we won by two. I got 47 in the second, and we won by seven to go two up. 

I jammed my right thumb in that game. We flew into St. Louis to pick up the series there, checked into the hotel and went to the Concordia Seminary gym for a workout. Actually, Al Attles, Joe Ellis, and I split to St. May’s Hospital to have my thumb x-rayed. We were to join the team at practice later. There was no break, so they taped the thumb up and sent us on our way. We grabbed a cab and gave directions, but when we saw the school and fieldhouse, we paid up and hopped out. When we got inside the gym, there were some military students drilling, but no Warriors. We figured they’d gotten lost. The head of the drill class was a nice, polite fellow, and when we explained who we were and what we were there for, he cut his class short and turned the court over to us. The kids stood around watching, enjoying themselves immensely. In passing, we commented on how nice everyone was being to us at Concordia, and they seemed surprised and informed us it wasn’t Concordia but the Christian Brothers Military Academy. Concordia was a few blocks away. We hurriedly dressed, and escorted by an honor guard of 15 military students, hustled to Concordia, where Sharman was pulling out his hair, skeptical of our excuse. 

We lost both games at Kiel Auditorium in St. Louis, the first by six, the second by five. The homecourt edge turned the tide. But you have to do a little more in the playoffs, and we didn’t do it. Near the end of the second game, I was driving and was hit hard and knocked off balance and put down heavily by Lou Hudson. He got a foul, and I got a sprained ankle, which can be a pretty painful thing. I was given a standing “boovation” as I limped off. The fans there really put it on me. I guess I should have expected it in the home of the enemy, but it really ticked me off.

I was doing this KNBR radio show, a five-minute job, and flying home, I tried to think of something clever to say, something nasty to say about. St. Louis and its fans. What I said was, “St. Louis has the baseball Cardinals and the football Cardinals and the basketball Hawks. St. Louis is really a town for the birds.” Well, the AP picked it up and put it on the wires and it wound up in all the St. Louis newspapers and on most of the town’s TV and radio stations. 

I took a shot of Novocain to deaden the pain in my ankle and scored 25 in the fifth game, back in the Cow Palace, as we won by 21 before 10,311 fans. The real hero was Thurmond, who rebounded everything and blocked shots right and left. This put us ahead in the series, three games to two, needing one more to wrap it up, but having to play it back in St. Louis in that bandbox they call Kiel Auditorium. 

There was a lot of talk that the St. Louis fans were going to destroy me when I went on the court, so Mieuli hired two uniformed special police to stand behind our bench and guard me. I think it was partly a publicity stunt. They cost him $3 an hour, and I’m not sure they were capable of protecting me from a gabby Girl Scout, but they stood there looking ominous.

As it developed, the lovable folks in St. Louis did act up a bit. I was being seen on TV commercials and in ads for Snickers candy bars at the time, so they threw Snicker bars at me. They had bought so many, I deserved a raise from the company. They threw other things, too—eggs, tomatoes, beer. And they threw hot dogs, which was special for me. If they could’ve gotten a showboat into the building, they’d have thrown that, too. At that point, those clowns accidentally hit their own players. It didn’t bother me. The boos were music to my ears. You have to figure boos on the road are like cheers at home. Maybe we were unsettled at first, but we won. We trailed by 18 at one point, but won by five. I had 41—25 in the second half, including some free throws in the last seconds that helped wrap it up. The St. Louis papers made a big thing of how bravely I had stood up to the abuse and pressure. I was pretty proud of myself. 

Philadelphia had beaten Boston for the Eastern Division pennant for the second-straight season, and this time they had beaten them in the playoffs—the only time Wilt came out ahead of Russell—so it was Philly we had to play in the finals. They’d compiled the best record any team has ever had in the regular season, 68–13, so they got to open the playoffs in their own town. The 76ers were powerful team, no question about it. Wilt was playing the best all-around ball he’d ever played, and for the first time in his pro career, he had confidence, having eliminated Russell. 

They had Billy Cunningham, Chet Walker, and Luke, Jackson up front, and Hal Greer and Wally Jones in the backcourt. Alex Hannum had moved in to coach them, and they don’t come any sharper. Still, we felt we had a good chance. We were younger and faster, and Thurmond was a match for Wilt. I still had to get shots for my ankle, but as long as I got them, there was no pain, and I could get by. It deadened my leg and took away from my quickness and agility, but I could get by. 

There were a couple of pivotal plays that went against us, or we might’ve taken them. In the opener, played in Convention Hall, Philadelphia, we hit seven-straight points to tie the game 48 seconds from the finish. Philly took over, but Cunningham kicked the ball out of bounds, and we got possession. With 13 seconds to play, I got the ball behind a pick thrown up by Thurmond and drove off him. Chamberlain left Thurman to pick me up, which freed Thurmond. I passed to him. As he turned for the basket, Chamberlain returned and clobbered him. The whistle never blew. Earl Strom, the ref, was standing right there but never made the call. I couldn’t believe it. Thurmond couldn’t believe it. We were deprived of both the easy basket and the free throws. The game wound up tied, and we lost by six in overtime. I believe we’d have had the upper hand and gone on to win the series. Instead, we were so depressed, we let down and were clobbered by 31 in the second game.

We went home and roused ourselves to make a battle of it. There were 14,773 in the Cow Palace. I took 48 shots and scored 55 points. But Thurmond, who collected 25 rebounds, did as much or more. We won by six. For the next game, there were 15,117 on hand, a San Francisco basketball record, but we played a bad game. I got 43, but we lost by 14. Now we were down three games to one and should’ve been dead. However, we proved ourselves in the fifth game. We trailed by 13 in the fourth quarter. We cut it to one late in the game. Then I hooked a shot over Wilt, drew a foul, and made the free throw. We never trailed again. I got 36, and we won by eight. That shook them. They had expected to wrap it up at home, but now we were going to our home court with a chance to even the series.

(Editor’s note: it wasn’t to be. Before I record crowd of 15,612 in Oakland, Rick scored 44 points, but he missed a shot against Chamberlain in the closing seconds, and Philadelphia won by three. It was all over.)

There was one thing in that playoff series that really upset me, however. I’d been playing with a doped-up ankle, and there’s no person on this earth who dreads shots more than I do. I didn’t think they were good for me. With painkiller, you lose feelings and your moves aren’t natural. It’s easy to bend something the wrong way and really get hurt. Sharman had called a shooting practice in the morning after we lost the second game. I went into his office to tell him I couldn’t make it. What I really was doing was reminding him about my ankle. There were writers in his office, but I really didn’t expect any scene to result. Well, Bill got on me about my shooting and said I had to practice. He said I could take a shot in the ankle, and I said, “Bill, I have to take a shot to play the game, but I sure don’t have to take another shot to practice, and I’m not going to do it.”

Bill got steamed up and said I’d do what he told me to do and so forth. The writers were pushing their pens and pencils real fast. I stormed out of there and did not go to practice. I took my shot that night and played the game. Nothing more was said about it. But I was very upset.

There was also an incident on the bench during the fifth game when Bill pulled me out. I had been shooting badly and was disgusted with myself. I remember twisting a towel and throwing it to the floor when I sat down. Bill apparently thought I was doing it because I was mad at him for pulling me. Because after the game, he got me for trying to embarrass him before the crowd and on national television. 

Actually, these were the only real incidents I can recall, but I wasn’t happy playing under Bill’s coaching all season. It was a great season for me and for my team, but I didn’t enjoy it as much as I should have. Sharman had made it seem like a hard, dirty, boring job instead of an exciting, fun job. And in the end, the coach I felt we should have had, the coach I felt had gotten a raw deal, wound up beating us for the world championship. You are going to be down any time you lose a big game, and I was bound to be down losing the championship, but as I walked off the court with that great San Francisco crowd suddenly quiet and disappointed, I was just as depressed as I’ve ever been. My heart was with the town and those fans and the team, but a new league and a new team in the town across the Bay had tempted me to make a move.