Jon McGlocklin is probably right about one thing—he may never get the recognition due him for his versatility as a basketball player.
“All of us in the league play with a part of a comradeship. This is our living. This is what we do. It doesn’t make sense to go out and get mad. This is a job. But you can be fierce.”
So there they are, Rich and Andre, two rookies from UCLA who are about as different as two guys could possibly be.
It is Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but Maravich will not be seen at the Old Absinthe House or Jimmy Moran’s Riverside, where his brother, Ron, tends bar.
Ray Scott emerges from the dressing room and is engaged in conversation by a few reporters. Ain’t it bad to be alone?
That’s Lacey. Nobody likes him, but nobody can find many bad things to say about him. Efficient, but anonymous
“At 8:40, Bob Lanier’s feet began to emerge from the St. Bonaventure locker room. At 8:45, Bob Lanier emerged.”
The one facet of basketball Newlin insists he enjoys most is the pressure, a situation he refers to as “mental intensity.”
“Clyde is the best. He deserves his reputation. He earned it. I’d like to be in that position myself someday.”
“My suggestion,” said Dave Cowens, the Celtic’s center for the past eight years, “is that they retire his number from the league. Don’t let anyone wear No. 17 again. That’s how much I think John’s meant to the NBA. Just take 17 and stash it up there in lights.”