Jack’s Blog

Following the 1991-92 basketball season at USC (where I was an assistant coach), then-junior swing man Harold Miner, a fabulous basketball player, had a difficult decision to make.  It was whether to return for his senior campaign or leave school for the NBA draft.  Our head coach, George Raveling, had done his due diligence and found out that Harold was a surefire lottery pick, going possibly as high as seventh (he wound up the twelfth pick).

Someone, somewhere, at some time had stuck the moniker, Baby Jordan, on Harold years earlier.  He was about the same height and build as Michael, jumped like him (he won the NBA’s Slam Dunk competition twice) and had a shaved head.  But, we all, including Harold, knew he was not another MJ, nor was anyone else.  That kind of attention was both unrealistic and unfair.  It really didn’t matter where he was picked, however,  because Nike offered him sixth pick money, i.e. if he was selected in the sixth slot, he got that money, BUT if he were picked anywhere lower, Nike would make up the difference between the money he was offered and what the player drafted sixth got.  So, when he dropped to #12, he still received #6 money, what #12 got (all rookie contracts are preset), plus the difference between that and #6 which was picked up by Nike.

The reason I share this bit of history is to show that Harold Miner was a sensational college basketball player.  When he was deciding, one factor in favor of him returning to school was he absolutely loved campus life.  It was a real blast for him to go to the student center the day after a big game and hear his fellow students reliving the game and some of the jaw dropping moves from the night before.  Or hear praise from a professor.  Or a custodian.  Didn’t matter.  He found it invigorating.

Johnny Manziel of Texas A&M is the reigning Heisman Trophy winner.  This year, the school has announced that, because it is such a distraction whenever Johnny Football shows up on campus, they are allowing him to take his classes online.  Now, I am by no means comparing Harold Miner’s popularity in LA with Johnny Manziel’s in College Station.  First of all, Miner’s situation was twenty years ago.  And it’s an apples vs. oranges comparison because Los Angeles is a pro city and SC is a football school.  Yet, at 6′6″, black with long arms and a killer body, people knew who Harold Miner was.  Few would pass by without making a comment or asking for an autograph or picture.

Manziel related the following story when he received the Davey O’Brien Award as the nation’s top quarterback, according to Bernie Augustine of the New York Daily News.  “I went one day — it was a small class of 20 or 25 — and it kind of turned into more of a big deal than I thought.”  Regarding the decision to take classes online, he said, “It just happened to work out where it was good after the football season with all of the stuff going on.  It was a good time not to have to worry about being on campus and some other things, too.”

At his press conference declaring for the draft, Harold Miner made reference to how much he was going to miss not only the guys on the team, but also his fellow classmates.  He realized that experience would be gone once he became a professional - and he’d never again get to feel it.

Now, Heisman Trophy winner Johnny Manziel has become so popular in College Station that the Texas A&M quarterback can no longer attend classes with the rest of the student body.  Someday, he might wish he had found a way.

It’s a shame that:

“Some people know the cost of everything and the value of nothing.”

Anyone who knows me or has read my blogs on a regular basis is aware of the admiration I have for George Raveling.  I worked as a graduate assistant for George from 1973-75 at Washington State, went back and worked summer camp in 1978-79 while I finished my masters degree, returned as associate head coach at USC in 1991-95.  In between, I served as assistant chairman on the NABC Recruiting Committee when he was chairman for a period of 17 years.

George is now Director of International Basketball for Nike.  He’s always been hesitant to join the world of technology.  Yet he realized he was becoming somewhat out of touch with those using social media.  So he’s hired people to design a website for him.  As with everything he does, it’s first-class, with all the bells and whistles.

I’ll be in Los Angeles at his home today (Tuesday) to interview him as he does to others on his site, e.g. David Falk, John Thompson, Jerry Tarkanian (another of my bosses and favorite people), Howard Garfinkel, Ann Meyers Drysdale.  It will be interesting to see how my idea works with this state of the art site.

You would be wise to check it out.  As Mark Twain said:

“I’ve never met a man I couldn’t learn from.”

Many people in the world of sports have been wondering if and when Tiger Woods would dominate his sport like he used to.  Well, Sunday he won - again.  Not a major, but if you’re a believer in the “creep, crawl, walk” theory, Tiger might be about ready to lace up his Nikes.

While he looked good during the event, he never looked more like the chew-them-up-and-spit-them-out Tiger of old than during the post match press conference.  Usually he answers questions very analytically, explaining what happened on whichever hole with total recall.  Recently, he’s been talking about how close his game’s been, but for poor putting or not hitting enough fairways or whatever.  Sunday’s press conference was different - and the same.

This one had more of a give-and-take bent than an educational one that we’ve come to hear after his recent tourney woes.  Those press conferences were courtesy of the the new and unimproved Tiger; Sunday’s banter reminded fans (and media) of the old and superior Woods.  Referring to the fourth estate as “you guys,” there was that familiar, cocky smile.  The ear-to-ear one we were used to seeing.

There have been more sightings of the old Tiger Woods than there have been of Sasquatch, yet each one was exposed as a fraud by the following Sunday.  For someone who was so good for so long (bookies used to post odds on “Tiger vs. the field” - and most bettors took Tiger!), he might wind up taking a page out of Robert F. Kennedy’s book:

“Don’t get mad, get even.”

It doesn’t seem that long ago that I would hear my father, my coaches and others from their generation moan about where the players from “the good old days” had gone.  No one compared to DiMaggio, Red Grange or George Mikan.  Now, I (and the guys from my time) are the ones who complain about the new, hip-hop breed.  You know, the guys with the posses, mega-contracts and tattoos, who act like they care more about street cred, money and endorsements than winning.

If there’s anyone who can bridge the gap between this generation and those of the past, it’s Kevin Durant.  No one dislikes this guy.  In the era of “I want mine,” he’s on record as requesting a contract extension with the Oklahoma City Thunder, a team playing about as far from a major media market as there is in pro sports.  While he’s certainly not underpaid (and lockout or not), he could play out his contract and head into free agency where, if he decided to opt out, might sign a deal to dwarf all others.

Everything about Durant reeks of class.  While he’s not as comfortable speaking in front of a large group (as say, MJ or Shaq, are), he’ll find a way to connect with the crowd, whether it means staying for as long as necessary to sign every autograph request or, in the case of his Nike camp, throw himself into the drills with the campers.

On the floor, while many might argue with the statement he has no equal, there’s no way he takes a backseat to anyone either.  Listen to him with the current USA team - which he chose to play for rather than resting during his down time - and he not only says all the right things, but is so sincere saying them.

His work on the floor isn’t bad either, as he displayed by not only scoring, but coming up with two game-saving blocks to beat Spain yesterday.

Norman Vincent Peale once said - and feel free to add Kevin Durant to the list:

“Never talk defeat.  Use words like hope, belief, faith, victory.” 

Since I just returned from working at the Michael Jordan Flight School (for the seventh year), my opinion of him is, admittedly, biased.  This year, because none of the campers remember MJ, the player, one hour during each of the two sessions activities were suspended and the video “Come Fly with Me” was shown.  Each youngster emerged from the auditorium with a greater appreciation of their host’s remarkable skills.  As I mentioned earlier, my evaluation is prejudiced but, to me, he is the greatest player who ever represented the NBA.

Yet, aside from his talent on the court, Michael Jordan possesses some additional attributes that are undeniable.  Sure, he’s at each session on time (usually in the morning and evening - afternoons are reserved for golf).  And while he has an abundance of friends who visit, he’s from the non-posse era.  But it’s more than that.  Simply put, the guy has a presence. 

Independent of what he’s wearing - even if it’s only jeans and a t-shirt (naturally, one with no “bacon neck”) - he looks like a million.  His smile is infectious.  He exudes confidence, class and charisma.  But watching him at his camp, an observer takes in something else.  He actually enjoys interacting with the kids and answering their questions - some of which can be pretty creative.

That made this year’s edition (the 15th) just like the others that preceded it.  Michael spoke to the campers about the importance of free throws and gave pointers on dealing with pressure, challenged some of them to competitions, awarded free shoes to youngsters - and up to ten friends of their choice - if they made shots and took pictures with each team, coach, administrator and worker in attendance.  The final highlight is when everyone at camp lines up and receives an authenticated Michael Jordan autograph - on anything of their choice (with some limitations - hey, Nike’s not paying him all that dough and not invoking exclusivity).

Selecting Santa Barbara for the camp’s site was not done by picking a name out of a hat.  The weather is incredible, the facilities at UCSB are phenomenal and the golf courses are exquisite.  In addition, the Bacara Resort & Spa is used to accommodating celebrities, meaning he can eat, come and go without being bombarded.

Ann Landers’ quote sums up Michael Jordan perfectly:

“Class is the sure-footedness that comes with having proved you can meet life.”

If you read today’s (brief) post, you’d know that some “Force” swallowed up the blog I wrote last night (my last act before going to bed is to type the following day’s blog) just as I hit the “Publish” button, resulting in NOTHING for today’s entry.

So, this morning (after I turned on the computer, hoping the thief put the blog back, but realized that hadn’t happened), I hastily put together a summary of the masterpiece I had posted the previous night.  Since no one will ever know, it’s easy to say how good the original was - but, after you’ve done about 800 of these, you get a different feeling when you think you’ve put out a winner - and that’s how I felt when I finished last night.  So what could be worse than losing 2-3 hours of my work?  I was about to find out. 

This morning, not only did I have back-to-back appointments with the place I’ve reluctantly called my second home since 2005 (the Stanford Pain Management Clinic), but my wife decided, although by no choice of her own, to relinquish her heretofore “I’m with him” label and had a couple of meetings of her own scheduled at Stanford Hospital.  Since our first two meetings (9:30 am for a refill of my morphine pump, followed by a consultation with my “pain” doctor an hour later), we left our house at 6:15 am, armed with, among other things, a portfolio of about 50 baby gift pictures the artists have done (see www.CuteBabyNameGifts.com).  I pitch them every chance I get (within reason - I mean I don’t walk into patients’ rooms showing them off).  But receptionists, doctors and nurses all know people who have babies, so . . . 

Hitting minimal traffic along the way, Jane and I arrived promptly at 9:15 and I checked in.  All went well with the refill (which doesn’t always happen) but when my doctor and I discussed my current situation, she decided a new course of action was necessary, meaning for the second straight year, I will begin my Thanksgiving week by checking into the hospital for a “trial,” hoping the results will lessen my amount of pain - without creating any side effects.  This was necessary due to changes in how I’ve been feeling.  Suffice to say, I hadn’t hoped to start my “vacation” (our school district gives us the whole week of Thanksgiving off) in a hospital room in Palo Alto.

At least we finished relatively quickly and had time to stop at The Creamery (in the Stanford Mall), our favorite place to eat breakfast or lunch.  As I pulled into the parking lot, my cell phone rang, the call coming from a number I recognized - my classroom at Buchanan High School.  I always leave my number for the substitute teacher, but this was the first time any sub had actually called me.

It turned out the teacher who had agreed to take my afternoon class (1:00-2:45 pm) had called in sick herself, so the sub had to teach, not only my morning classes, but this one as well.  She was calling to make sure it was the same lesson plan (Algebra 1) as the two morning classes she’d taught (it was).  When I asked her how it was going, she said the first class she taught was wonderful, but the second was much more difficult. 

This came as no surprise to me as the first one is full of kids (with the exception of two or three) who are really interested in learning the material, work hard at it and understand that doing so will help them 1) pass with a minimum of C (required to move on to geometry next year, 2) gain knowledge of the basic concepts of algebra so they can make it (easily, if they really pay attention) through Algebra 2 - which most plan on taking since, in order to go to a four-year school directly from high school, a student needs geometry and both algebra classes and 3) do well on the state test (STAR) which all algebra 1 students in California must take and on the SAT’s (college entrance exams, one of the three parts being exclusively math).  The other class (with the exception of two or three) were much more immature and didn’t take instruction nearly as seriously.  Now, it was my turn to hand out some bad news, and by no means did I relish it.  Although I fully understand the idea of “self-fulfilling prophecy,” I felt compelled nonetheless to warn her the afternoon class was worse than the one she just taught.

Following lunch, it was on to Stanford Hospital for the first of what was supposed to be Jane’s two appointments, but, as we were informed, would soon morph into three.  The surgeon who was to perform her procedure was called to the ER and we’d have to come back and see him - a few hours later.  Instead, his “Fellow” (or who the rest of the world would call his assistant) came in and described how everything would go (including risk).  He was part of her “team,” for all intents and purposes, a mastermind group who decided how the surgery would be done.  Naturally, there were questions, followed by his answers, triggering more questions.  One thing about being at Stanford: they are thorough and they are competent (something the average person  would expect from anyone dealing in their expertise, yet a trait that’s sorely lacking in today’s world of medicine, business, you name it).

Next stop: the anesthesiologist.  There was a bit of surprise when the anesthesiologist walked in, looking for a female patient, and saw me lying on the table.  My back was acting up and I was tired from having stayed up too late, working on (what turned out to be) today’s (abortive) blog.  Jane cleared up the confusion, assuring the doc that, yes, she was the patient.  I slept through this one, possibly because being in the anesthesiology part of the building put me out.  It turned out to be the best part of my day.

Jane’s final meeting (which was supposed to be her first one), with her surgeon had to be postphoned because he was still in surgery.  We were told it would be at least another hour.  Did we want to go and have Jane talk to him on the phone?  In unison, Jane and I said we’d be back.  When someone is going to perform a surgical procedure on you - independent of how minor it is - discussing it over the phone is not the preferred means of communication. 

We had another task anyway.  Just to make sure she wasn’t missing something, my pain doc requested I get a chest X-ray, showing her all four views (I told you they were thorough), so we trudged out of the hospital, through the parking structure and across to the building where I was told to go for the X-ray.  I must have looked about as good as I felt, judging from the greeting I received from the girl at the check-in desk.

“Are you OK?”  Oh yeah, they’re concerned too.  I explained how the day had started, what we’d been through and that we were far from being done, since our trip home would now be at rush hour (on a Friday), usually adding 30 minutes to an hour to the normal three-hour trip.  I could tell by the look in her eyes, she felt particularly bad about what she was about to lay on me.  

“You need to go to the hospital to get this done.”  As in - back from whence we came.  So, . . .  reverse trudge.  There, the X-ray technician took only two views of my chest, so I had them page my doctor but said she didn’t answer the page.  Luckily, I had her cell phone number (I don’t like bothering my doctors - and as a matter of fact, today was the first time I called her) but I’ve found out it’s a good idea to get their cell numbers. 

We went to meet Jane’s physician, finally, and were shown to a waiting room, but after 15 minutes, the nurse came by and said they were closing the clinic and it would be better for us to wait in the hallway - so we wouldn’t get locked in for the weekend.  I seconded that motion and we waited in the hallway until, 30 minutes later, here he came.  Long day for him too.  Yet, he explained the procedure, much of it echoing his “fellow” and answered all of our questions - of which there were many.  We can be thorough too.

Finally, we left for Fresno and got home at 10:15 pm or 16 hours after we started.  The more I go to Stanford, the more I’m reminded of an event that happened around a quarter of a century ago when I was an assistant coach at the University of Tennessee.

The prestigious Nike summer basketball camp was held on to the campus at Princeton University.  The feeling you get walking on Stanford’s campus is identical to that of stepping foot on Princeton’s campus.  One year, I happened to be next to (the late) Jimmy Valvano (at the time, the head coach at N.C. State) who had a brilliantly imaginative mind. As we strolled on the campus at PU, “V” looked at me, then gazed around and said:

“This place is incredible.  You can FEEL THE ANSWERS here!”�

As far as which player is the best the sport of basketball ever produced, there’s no debate.  He’s Michael Jordan, inducted yesterday into its Hall-of-Fame.  There are three reasons why: 1) Offense - simply put, no one could successfully defend him.  2) Defense - he’s in the running for best on and off the ball defender ever AND he not only guarded the opponent’s best player, he demanded the assignment.  3) Because of 1) and 2), his teams won (an NCAA championship at UNC, six of ‘em in the NBA - all with the Bulls - and an Olympic Gold Medal).  End of discussion.

So, as Muhammad Ali dubbed it, the title of G.O.A.T. (Greatest of All Time) in the world of basketball belongs to MJ.  And, beyond that, he’s also the G.O.A.T. when the term “pitchman” is mentioned.  I defy anyone to name another person who has transcended racial, gender, socio-economic, age and geographic lines as he has.  White or black, male or female, rich or poor, young or old, no matter where in the world someone lives, they’re buyin’ what he’s sellin’ - or at least they’re watchin’.  And research has proven that if people watch a commercial long enough, eventually, they buy - even if it’s just out of curiosity.

The guy sounds too good to be true, so let’s knock him down a few pegs.  Even when talking about his alleged vices, he’s at the top.  It’s been reported Michael has a gambling addiction, is a world class womanizer (although not even in contention for NBA players’ G.O.A.T.  in this category - and I’m not just referring to Wilt) and has been a dismal failure as an executive.  Hey, if you’re going to do something, get after it and don’t hold back!

The final two segments of this blog define Michael Jordan.  When asked by Michael Wilbon, in an ESPN interview, “Was there anything you didn’t accomplish” (in your profession) “that you wanted to?” His Airness hesitated, briefly, thought about it and finally gave a one syllable response: “No.”  How great must it be to be able to give that answer to that question and not have the needle budge, even a little, if you were hooked up to a polygraph!

The reason for that is Michael Jordan’s most outstanding trait: his confidence.  In that same Q & A, Wilbon asked MJ if he considered himself the G.O.A.T.  He replied with a group of carefully selected words, with the main thought repeated on three occasions.  Part of that answer was, “I would never say I was the greatest player because I never played against all the people who represented the league prior to Michael Jordan.”  What he left unsaid summarizes the savvy of Jordan, a characteristic of his in which he was/is unsurpassed.

What he did NOT say, but left for us to conclude, is 1) “I was better than anybody I did play against” and 2) “don’t even THINK about bringing into the discussion any of the players who followed me,” i.e. today’s superstars.

It was inevitable that Michael Jordan and Nike would form a partnership (move just one space on a keyboard and N-i-k-e becomes M-i-k-e).  A company as visionary and creative in its advertising as Nike is, needed someone like MJ - and he needed them.  When the two finally joined forces, the company’s marketing branch wasted no time - or words - when describing him to the world.  Eventually, everybody wanted to:

“Be Like Mike.”  �

We’re headed up to Rocklin (near Sacramento) for a basketball tournament, so no blog tomorrow night, although I already have one in mind for Sunday night you definitely won’t want to miss.

California rules (that a coach can work with his team year round) and summer basketball has turned high school hoops into a 12 month ordeal.  Many coaches (not only basketball) actually force their athletes into making a decision when they get to the high school level: it’s my sport only or don’t bother showing up.

If the athlete’s good enough, i.e. if he (and his parents) are in the position of power, they can call the coach’s bluff.  More times than not, I’ve seen the coach back down, making the (wise) decision that part of a great player is better than none of him (truthfully, the reality of this situation is that this type of behavior is not at all limited to the male side of the equation).  Especially when a coach of a female powerhouse, who’s looked up to by the community (including the district administration, who are way more interested in championships than they’ll ever admit), is the one giving the ultimatums.

It might be as veiled a statement as, “Well, if you really want to play in our program, you need to make a total commitment” (which, left unsaid - or not - means playing that sport all the time).

I have to admit that what was most attractive to me about coaching on the high school level was the fact that a coach could work year round with the guys.  After working in college basketball, in which the NCAA continually cut back the time coaches were allowed to work with their squads (be it individual instruction or team practice), getting together whenever I desired sounded like nirvana.

One reason was I had prepared myself for thirty years to be a Division I head coach (independent of the level of D-I) and had organized everything from the pregame warm up routine and man-to-man offense, complemented by a multiple defense system to home and school recruiting visits and organizing a booster club (notice I mentioned “independent of the level” of D-I).  Because this was going to be a little more sophisticated a system than the typical high school program,  I needed that on-court time. 

Never, though, did I plan on threatening a boy to play only basketball.  One major reason is that I thought it would be highly hypocritical - since I played three sports (football, basketball and baseball) during my four year scholastic career.  Truth be told, basketball was my worst sport (of those three).  In fact, while coaching at Buchanan (Clovis, CA) High School, nearly all of us were on the same page when it came to sharing our athletes, mainly for the same reason I felt, i.e. they played more than one sport during their high school days.

That leads me to our younger son, Alex.  He plays basketball exclusively.  In elementary school, he was, I was told by one of his teachers, the only kid in the school who participated in every sport that was offered throughout his 4th, 5th and 6th grade years.  In 4th, it was cross country and wrestling (football and basketball weren’t allowed until 5th), in 5th he was the defensive MVP of the football team (ILB), captain of the basketball team and played volleyball.  He was over the weight limit for football in 6th (you needed to be 121 - including pads - and Alex checked into 6th grade at 143, so he barely missed the cut . . . so he became the team’s manager).  He once again played basketball, but with his buddies from the grade ahead of him (most of the kids in our neighborhood were now in the 7th grade) in junior high school, he decided he was going to forego volleyball and pick up baseball again (he’d played Little League but, although he started at third base - as one of only two 8-year old starters, he said the only thing he liked about America’s pasttime was that you were allowed to eat sunflower seeds during the game).  After baseball concluded, he came home and told me he was going out for the track team.  I thought it was a good idea, that all the running would keep him in shape.  When I asked him what he was going to do, he told me, “High jump.”  Of course, he had never high jumped, but once the coach showed him the technique, he wound up taking second in one of the final meets of the year.  Once in junior high, and back with his buddies again, after basketball season, he took up tennis (his best friend was an outstanding tennis player and for two weeks a year, he’d attend his friend’s dad’s tennis camp.  That was the extent of his tennis.  Still, he ended up as #2 singles and went undefeated throughout the season.  He hasn’t played tennis since.

Those of you who are still reading this rambling discourse (after reading a paper I turned in one time, my high school English teacher asked me if I was from Babylon) might be wondering if there’s a point.  If there is, it’s this.

Although Alex plays basketball only, to be quite honest, part of me would love to see him play football (along with baseball, my two best sports).  My wife doesn’t put up too much of a fight in instances like this.  But, in the case of football, she’s seen me and the problems I’ve had (the first question doctors asked me, prior to the first of my eight back surgeries - two weeks after we got married was, “Were you ever in a car accident?”  The next question was if I ever played football).  And it’s not only me.  Jane’s dad was quite the football player himself (as well as a state championship scholastic coach in Nashville, TN - where they take their FB seriously) and during his later years, the arthritis he developed (his doctor told him it was due to old football injuries) made it painful to watch him attempt to get up from our couch.

The capper came with Son #1.  Andy is the ultimate team guy.  In 2nd grade he told me a new kid had just moved in and they became fast friends.  That kid was Zak Hill, the youngest of three sons of Fresno State’s new football coach, Pat Hill.  Naturally, it was decided early on that, when they got the 5th grade, they’d be two of the stalwarts on the Valley Oak elementary school football team.  Jane was worried and shared her concerns with our family doctor - who just happened to be the Bulldogs’ team doctor.  He told Jane to let Andy play until 9th grade when they did away with weight limits.  Jane thinks the world of our doc, so she agreed - until the day that Andy separated his shoulder in a blocking drill and had to have surgery of his own - at 13 years of age.  End of football in the Fertig household.

In addition, Alex is that rare athlete who just might be better served to concentrate on one sport.  He has a future in basketball.  Not that he’s going to be doing it for a living, but, with natural maturation of his body (he was measured and weighed at the Nike event in St. Louis at 6′2″ and 188) and mind, he ought to be able to parlay that skill into a free college education.  And with parents in their (very, very) early 60’s, that’s quite a comforting thought. 

I have tried to strike a balance between the coach who sees a gift a young boy has and encourages him to go for it and a father who’s interfering with his son’s life and pushes too hard.  It’s a fine line, but so far, Alex has shown a genuine enthusiasm for basketball.  With my obsession that people realize their potential, there is much more I’d do to get Alex to be better, but not if I feel it’s going to have a negative impact on his “being a kid.”  It’s not easy, but when SI prints a story like the one they did a few issues ago on Todd Marinovich, backing off gets easier and easier. 

I continue to use a quote by one of my favorite authors (and judging by how well - and how many of - his books sell, hundreds of others’ favorite author too), John C. Maxwell:

“If you want your life to be a fantastic story, realize you’re the author.”�

Since I posted on the blog prior to our leaving for St. Louis the reason we were going, i.e. that our son, Alex, was invited to the NIKE Hoops Jamboree for the Top 100 freshmen and sophomore high school basketball players in the nation, many people have inquired during the past couple days how he performed.

His coach, Norm Persin (an extremely successful high school coach whose ‘08-’09 squad won the State Championship in Ohio) and Vince Baldwin (Director of Scouting for Nike Elite Youth Basketball) each described Alex’s play at the four day event as “solid.”  To the cynic, that may sound like a nice way of telling the kid’s dad that he didn’t suck, but since I know both of those guys, they were aware there was no need to sugarcoat their response.  I already knew spectacular or incredible weren’t words that I would have expected anyone to attach to Alex’s game.

After recruiting Division I college players for three decades, I have a pretty good handle on evaluating potential ballplayers (although if you read the story in my book, Life’s A Joke of the scouting report an NBA coach had asked me to do on John Stockton, you might take issue with that statement).  So, armed with all this experience, solid is the word I’d have used to summarize his play in St. Louis.  Ask anyone who’s ever worked with, or coached, Alex and, to a man, they’ll say the strength of his game is “understanding how to game,” i.e. “making the right play.” 

He does have skills, e.g. shooting, extremely good hand-eye coordination, ballhandling, passing, understanding defensive principles (proper stance, anticipating the next pass, where to be depending on where the ball is, etc.) and overall team play.  Does that sound like a father?  I have to admit I heard that description of many a prospect during my time in D-I hoops and, quite often, the father was a tad prejudiced in his son’s favor.  I’ve tried to separate father from coach, but I doubt I’m as neutral observer as I think I am.

Overall, as my former boss, current mentor and friend (as well as the Director of International Basketball for Nike), George Raveling, said to me, after watching Alex play, “It was a great experience for him.  He can use this as a barometer to work on his improvement.”  As I’ve tended to do often, although not always, I fully agree with George on that assessment.  Alex found out that there are a lot of really outstanding players in his age group (15-16).  He’d known it before, having played for Team Georgia Elite in AAU competition but I don’t think he’s ever seen as many truly talented players all in one gym at the same time.

The facilities were incredible.  The event was run entirely on the campus of St. Louis University.  Their new rec center was where the guys played, they stayed in a dorm on campus and ate three squares meals in a campus facility.  Obviously, Nike put their best foot forward to impress the impressionable, so the kids were treated extremely well.  However, they were expected to be on time and exposed to some leadership training to show them that, even at an event such as a so-called “all-star camp,” there’s more to their lives than just playing the game.

In the upper echelon of the camp, there were several truly gifted players.  I wasn’t there to evaluate talent, just follow my son from game to game, but it was impossible not to take notice of the size, speed, quickness, jumping ability and overall athleticism of youngsters, many of whom aren’t old enough to have a driver’s license.  Each team had a player 6′11″ or bigger and all of the ten-men squads had an exceptionally quick guard, yet the position that was in abundance was the super athletic, leaping wing man.  Other than shot attempts, the number one stat in the camp had to be offensive rebounds.  Few players, if any, blocked out and everybody’s dream (who could) wanted to follow up slam dunk a teammate’s miss.  There were more dunks than in an average college game because 1) there was no real interest in blocking out, 2) everyone was looking to block shots, so 3) defensive rotation (which you’d normally see in an organized college contest) wasn’t present and guys had running, unimpeded head starts.

Still and all, there were some extremely competitive games and an observer could get a feel for how players performed under pressure - especially during the final evening when games were shortened to three minutes and started with the score tied.  In this situation, it was easy to tell which kids understood the value of each possession and which ones played the same as they did in the other games.  Some very talented players have a long way to go, considering where they claim they’re planning on attending college.  Too many of these guys wouldn’t change the way they play if they had a frontal lobotomy.

As with any parent, I was proud of the way my son played.  He didn’t try to do what he couldn’t do (something that’s very tempting when kids see what others their age can do, e.g taking bad shots), knocked down open jumpers (although not as consistently as he needed to at this level, i.e. on his other teams - where he’s option #1 or #2 and it’s not as crucial if he misses three or four shots, because he, and his coach, know he’ll string four or five in a row later on), made the right pass (fed the post when his 7-foot African center had his man pinned or when any of the other guys had mismatches, used bounce passes at the end of a break, as opposed to “falling in love with the lob pass” for the spectacular dunk they see on TV, but turning it over more times than not and ruining an easy scoring opportunity, took defenders off the dribble and allowed the situation to determine whether he was going to pull up or take it all the way to the basket, was usually in a defensive stance and didn’t get too discouraged when he’d get beaten by a super quick guard, handled himself well (blended in with the other guys, something I’ve noticed he has a real knack for, when he would play with other teams in which he didn’t know anybody) and was a credit to his high school, his family (beside my wife and me, his older brother, Andy, and two aunts, Peggy and Susan, made the trip to St. Lou) and himself.

Lessons learned were 1) how to be a complementary player when not everyone can be a star, 2) there are better players than he is so, while hard work got him to this level, even more is necessary to move up to that truly elite status and 3) that he belonged - while there were times he was overmatched quickness-wise, those players were blowing by everybody in camp and that intelligence - shot fakes, understanding proper defensive rotation and offensive technique - can be used effectively against anyone - so what coaches have been teaching (and preaching) for years is worth knowing, and . . . attitude can be the determining factor in how coaches (yours and opposing) view you as a player. 

As any reader of this blog - or simply of my website - can imagine, my two sons are constantly bombarded with quotes (no, I don’t just use them in speeches and blogs).  My hope is that Alex (and Andy, for that matter) learn what was said about Muhammed Ali:

“Champions don’t become champions in the ring.  They’re merely recognized there.  To be a champion, you must be willing to pay the price on a daily basis.”

We’re back - and getting home from St. Louis was a heckuva lot easier than going there was.  Read on about our trip to St. Louis. 

Our (my wife, Jane and son, Alex, and I) journey to St. Louis (Alex had been invited to the NIKE Hoop Jamboree, a 4-day competition for the Top 100 freshmen and sophomore high school basketball players in the country) began without incident.  The check-in for the flight from Fresno to Las Vegas was smooth and the flight was on time and uneventful.  The remainder of the trip could have been a great deal easier than it was, but at the time, who was to know?

Our plane arrived at the Sin City airport and we immediately went to our departing gate for the Denver portion of the trip (Fresno isn’t one of the easiest places to get in and out of), where we were then to catch a plane to St. Louis.  As we were about to sit down, we heard an announcement that there was ground fog in Denver which was causing delays for all planes going in and out of the Mile High City (no wonder there was ground fog -normally, fog a mile high doesn’t affect travel). 

We inquired about our flight in particular, and was told it would be 45 minutes late.  Since our connection was only an hour, that left us only 15 minutes to make our next flight (and, the gate agent informed us, we needed to keep in mind that the doors closed 10 minutes prior to departure).  In addition, our plane arrived at Gate 33 and the St. Louis plane departed from Gate 71.  Armed with this bit of pleasant news, Jane asked the agent if, perhaps, the plane coming into Denver that would be taking us to St. Louis would also be late, giving us a little more wiggle room (than the five minutes we were currently staring at).

“No, I’m sorry,” the gate agent said.  “That aircraft is originating out of Denver.”  Lucky us.  I asked the agent, who, at that time, wasn’t in the running for the most popular person in the airport (even though he had no control over the weather in Denver) if there was a plane from Las Vegas to St. Louis, even if it meant taking a red-eye, or if there was another flight to Denver.  No direct St. Lou flight and, naturally, our flight was the last one out of Vegas to Denver. 

“I can get you on a flight to St. Louis tomorrow morning that gets in at 11:20 am,” he told me.  That meant we’d have to wait for our luggage, get a rental car and drive directly to the registration site on the campus of St. Louis U.  Since the camp wasn’t going to be a breeze for Alex to begin with, I was trying to find a way to give him the best chance to perform well, knowing that stepping off of a plane and onto the court wasn’t it.  Participants had to be checked in by 12 Noon CST on Thursday (which is why we had to leave on Wednesday) and activities started promptly at 3:00 pm.  So, we were going to be late for check-in and he’d have to rush to get his dorm room, gear, get dressed and back to the rec center - not to mention that we’d have to either get a hotel room and get up really early to make it back to the airport, or sleep at the gate, neither option sounding too good to me.  It turned out it didn’t matter as that flight was way overbooked.  This was just the beginning.

“There’s a flight to Chicago (from Denver) that leaves a little later than your original flight to St. Louis, which would then connect to a flight to St. Louis, . . . oh, but it’s oversold, too.” That situation sounded as good to me as we could hope for at this time so I asked if there was any possible way he could put us on standby and let us take our chances.  “I’m sorry, but since you have baggage checked and it’s too late to take it off the plane it’s on, that would be impossible. 

“Don’t worry about the baggage” (Alex had carried his bag on so, technically, we had all the bags we absolutely needed; Jane and I could handle the inconvenience of a day with the same clothes and we could always get toiletries at the hotel).

“Well, sir, you’re not allowed to fly on one plane and have your baggage on another.” 

“Why not?” I asked him.  “Look, we got on our original flight with the luggage, and there’s no way we would have known that ground fog in Denver would ruin our plans to get to St. Louis for a basketball event, so” (here’s where you have to be really careful with what you say, because with airport security having been ratcheted up since 9/11/01 - when terrorists who’d been known to have taken flying lessons, but weren’t interested in how to land a plane, and all the other obvious oversights that occurred before that fateful and horrific day - they never know when an overweight, nearly bald, 60-year-old Jewish guy, who’s had eight back surgeries and is with his wife and 15-year-old son, . . . never mind), “what else ya got?”

Ignoring my frustration, he continued, “The next best thing I can get you is a flight from  Denver that leaves at 9 and gets to Chicago at about one in the morning, then a flight at 8 am that gets into St. Louis at 9:20 am.”  As completely absurd as it sounds, I was actually considering this.  I mean, what other choice did I have?  I told him to reserve three seats on the Las Vegas-Denver, Denver-Chicago and Chicago-St. Louis flights.  Then, I called my buddy, Dave Severns (the assistant coach for player development for the Chicago Bulls and the guy who worked out Alex numerous times when he still lived in Fresno) to tell him of this SNAFU. 

He had mentioned, depending on his schedule, he might be coming down to watch a day of camp.  “How long a drive is it from Chicago to St. Louis?” I asked.

“About five hours.  Why, is that what you’re thinking of doing?  Driving?”

The more I thought about it, the more sense it made - which I now realize that, even thinking for a moment it made sense (flying from Fresno-Las Vegas, Las Vegas-Denver, Denver-Chicago and then, on whatever sleep I got on the plane, renting a car and driving five hours to St. Louis) showed how screwed up my reasoning was.  Yet, I called the St. Louis Courtyard Marriott (one of the hotels Nike had recommended because of its proximity to SLU) and told them we’d not be coming in that night, but would be there as early as 6-7 am the following morning and we’d need a room, so please do not cancel it, we’d pay for the night but would need immediate check-in that next morning. 

I next made my way to the counter to tell the gate agent my plans and that I needed to have my ticket terminated in Chicago so I could retrieve my bags.  He told me that wouldn’t be a problem, to tell them in Denver.  He was getting less helpful by the request.

 My next call was to Alamo Rent-a-Car to cancel the car in St. Louis (4 days with AAA discount was to cost $109.50) and reserve a car in Chicago that I’d need for the same time, but dropping at the same place (St. Louis airport).  Did they have a car that possibly had been driven from St. Louis and dropped in Chicago?

“Let’s see,” the Alamo salesperson (speaking to me from India or some place “overseas,” which he told me when I asked what his location was), “I can get you one for $185″ (I’m thinking, “OK, that’s not too bad”) per day, for a total of …” and then all I remember is a number that started with eight hundred.  This whole trip was beginning to have a major impact on my blood pressure.  My yoga instructor would be so thrilled at how much practice I was getting using my breathing techniques. 

We decided to get something to eat and when we got back to the gate, our new flight to Denver had been delayed so we were going to miss our connection to Chicago anyway.  Of course, the gate agent who had “helped” me with this new flight itinerary had gone home (by car, bus, bike or longboard) and I went to a new face and tried a different tactic.

“Do you have any kids?”  I asked the gentleman, who I was certain, did.

“Yes, I do,” he replied.

“My son over there” (by this time, Alex was sprawled out on the floor, against the wall) “was selected as one of the Top 100 freshmen and sophomore basketball players in the country.”

“Wow, that’s quite an honor.”

“Yeah, it sure is, thanks.  Let me ask you, if he were your son, wouldn’t you try your best to get him there and give him the best possible opportunity to succeed?”  By now, I was close to, if not actually, begging.

“Look,” he said.  “We’re trying to get everybody on your flight” (the first one to Denver) “on the flight over there” (he pointed a couple gates away where a line of about 100 people were standing).  “I’ll get you three tickets on that one.”

“What about these boarding passes to Denver, Chicago and St. Louis?”  I asked, not sure why, since this guy was doing us the biggest favor we’d asked for in Vegas (including, “no bacon” on my turkey sandwich).  He told us that we might need them in Denver.

So, we got on the Denver flight and made it there about an hour later (9:35) than we were supposed to originally arrive (8:31).  We checked the “Departures” and saw the flight for Chicago was delayed until 10:36.  Wait!!!  The flight to St. Louis was scheduled to leave at 10:04.  Next to the departure time were the words “delayed - weather.”  Uh-oh.  Major problem!  We didn’t have tickets on that flight anymore.  I remembered how the Vegas gate agent had assured me there was no way we could make the connection because the plane originated out of Denver.  It turned out the plane did originate in Denver but the pilot and crew were delayed on their way to Denver.

The Chicago flight was to depart from Gate 27 (sure enough, we had arrived at Gate 33) and I used the “Do you have any kids?” routine again.  The gate agent did (aren’t children wonderful?) and said, although he couldn’t call Gate 71, that Jane and Alex ought to start heading that way - pronto! because they were boarding - while he printed out new tickets.  I did the best I could to “run” (something I haven’t done since I had a morphine pump implanted in my abdomen) - with my over-the-shoulder brief case, James Patterson novel and purse (man bag, for those who don’t like to use the term “purse” for something a male carries). 

Out of breath and experiencing a pain level of, on a scale from 1-10 (which nurses and doctors are fond of asking people who are hurting) - infinity, I made it to Gate 71.  No one, other than Jane, Alex and a solitary agent, were there.  Turns out they boarded downstairs and they were holding the door for us.  Hallelujah! 

We got on the plane and got into St. Louis at 1:30 am (exactly one hour later than the itinerary said).  All that angst, worry and stress for - an hour!  It’s like Mark Twain said:

“I’ve had many problems in my life - most of which never happened.”

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