[Below is an article about Joe Proski, the Phoenix Suns’ trainer for 32 seasons (1968-2000). I’ll keep my intro brief, mainly because I don’t know a lot about those 32 seasons. What I do know is Proski was well-liked, possessed a wicked sense of humor, and looks real good these days as he’ prepares to turn 85 years young. This day-in-the-life piece, penned by the Phoenix -based freelancer Bob Wischnia, appeared in the January 1975 issue of HOOP Magazine.]
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The name of Joe Proski never will go in the record books with the legendary names of the National Basketball Association. But maybe it should, because Joe Proski is one of the unsung men who keep the superstars super.
“The Prosk” is the trainer of the Phoenix Suns. He’s among the league leaders in nicknames, hair, and one-liners. Joe Proski likes to think of himself as a Renaissance man. For instance, he’s the only trainer in professional basketball who drives a Cadillac and wears a fur coat on the road. While many of the trainers can count each hair on their head, Proski gets a monthly permanent.
And if that’s not enough, a disc jockey in Flagstaff has organized a Joe Proski Fan Club. The members wear T-shirts with Joe’s picture silk-screened underneath the statement: “The Prosk. Everybody’s main man.”
To many Sun fanatics, Proski always will be known as Magic Fingers. “Well,” the 36-year-old trainer says, “that all got started a few seasons ago when Connie Hawkins was still here. The Hawk liked those 20-second blows to give himself a little breather. One day we’re on national television, and The Hawk goes down hard and starts crawling on the floor like he’s gonna die on me. I run out there thinking there goes the playoff money. I get to him and say, ‘Hawk. Hawk. Speak to me, man.’
“He looks up at me and says, ‘Just think, Prosk, all your fans around the country are catching your act. Had to get my main man on the tube.’ So, I start to crack up over this guy who’s still looking like he’s in agony. I grab his arm and pull so I don’t look like a complete fool, and, all of a sudden, he springs back to life.
“Hot Rod Hundley was doing our radio then, and he’s saying stuff like. ‘That man Proski must have magic in those fingers. He just touched The Hawk, and Connie is on his feet.’ Hawk kept doing stuff like that, and the name kinda stuck,” Proski concludes.
This is Joe’s ninth season in the NBA. He’s been the Suns’ trainer since the team’s inception in 1968, and, the season before that, he served with the Chicago Bulls. He used to double as trainer for the Tucson Toros of baseball’s Pacific Coast League, but now he spends his off-seasons supervising summer conditioning programs for the Suns. Besides his considerable training duties, he serves as traveling secretary when the Suns are on the road.
“That’s the thing about being a pro basketball trainer,” Joe says. “I mean, you’ve got to do everything. I’ve got to handle all the flights and reservations for 15 men, and it’s really a difficult thing when you’ve got to do the training, too. Like I’ve got to arrange ground transportation, clean the uniforms, take care of the equipment, handle the meal money, and anything else that isn’t done I’ve got to do. Being a good trainer isn’t just taking good care of the players.”
A few of the Phoenix players were resting in front of their lockers one day. Proski was working on Keith Erickson’s chronic back problems, massaging the troublesome area. “You know, I really think the most important part of training is just having the confidence of the players,” Joe was saying. “If you don’t have that, you will never be any good, because they won’t believe in what you do or say.”
One Sun across the room shouted, “Hey Prosk, come over here and cut this tape.”
Proski wheeled defiantly. “Wait a minute, man. Cut your own tape. Besides, your feet stink all the way over here.”
“You’re here to take care of players, aren’t you?”
“Hang on there. Let me check the room to see if we got any players,” Proski countered.
The player threw a towel and cut his own tape. “That’s another thing which goes back to getting along with the guys,” Joe said later in the training room. “If I would’ve said that to some guys on some teams, they’d stuff me right through the basket. But like here, that’s part of the job. You got to get on some guys. Take John Shumate. Please, take John Shumate. We’ve already renamed our whirlpool the U.S.S Shumate. The man lives in my whirlpool.”
Proski is a native of Green Bay, Wisconsin, where his father, John, works for the Packers as their groundskeeper. Prosk attended Montana State College and Florida Trainers and Physical Therapy School.
When the Suns are home, Joe gets to Veterans Memorial Coliseum three hours before gametime. If his wife Jan is going to the game, she’ll drive their Cadillac and he’ll ride the motorcycle, which former Sun Gail Goodrich gave him.
The Suns begin to straggle in two hours before the game, and by that time The Prosk has filled the Whirlpool with hot water, made up a few gallons of Gatorade from a dry mix, chilled a case of beer for the visiting team, heated the sauna bath, and arranged the players’ fan mail and uniforms.
He must take care of any special request by the visiting team. For instance, when Wilt Chamberlain was in the league, he requested that an iced six pack of Sprite (and it had to be Sprite) be on the bench.
Doctor Paul Steingard, the team physician, comes into the training room to confer with Proski, about a new record store in town and to see if there are any injuries that require his attention. “I talk with the doctor practically every day during the season,” Joe says, “and he comes to nearly every home game. There’s a league rule that a doctor’s got to be at all the games, so I guess my job is basically to just sit and wait until the guy gets hurt. I try and do as much for the guy as I can until the doctor is called.”
The most-frequent basketball injury is the turned ankle. Some players believe they can prevent it by taping, while others (like Dick Van Arsdale) refuse to tape their ankles. Even so, the Suns’ trainer uses more than 130 cases of tape a season.
Proski begins to change into his game uniform of purple pants and a bright orange shirt. He says, “Basketball players are weird—not as flaky as baseball players—but just weird. You take some of these guys, and all you can call ‘em is a hypochondriac. And then there are some guys who’ll play no matter what’s wrong. Gail Goodrich played two months for me with two cracked bones in his foot. But when there’s something wrong with a guy, I’ll work with him three times a day if it’ll help.”
This is indicative of the respect in which he is held by the Suns: When the Suns made the playoffs in 1970, the players voted Joe a full share of the loot.
Gametime has neared, and the players have deserted the locker room for the Veterans Memorial Coliseum floor. Only Proski and Coach John MacLeod remain. While the coach paces, the trainer tidies up. Five minutes before tipoff, Dennis Awtrey rushes past Joe to the bathroom. As the big center hurries back to the floor, Proski tells him to have a good game.
“You too,” Awtrey calls back.
“I always do,” replies The Prosk.
From Way Downtown 