Swish.
There was a five-on-five pick-up game in progress, but Hank Raymonds, Al McGuire’s chief assistant at Marquette University, watched from his office window. He couldn’t help but notice the tall boy shooting at a side basket while waiting his turn to play. He looked like a player.
Raymonds returned his attention to the game. He had his eye on Roy Burke, an all-state forward from Waukesha High School, #1 ranked team in Wisconsin. At 6’3”, Burke possessed a deadly jump shot from almost unlimited range and was the top high school prospect in Wisconsin and possibly the country. The NCAA doesn’t allow colleges to conduct practices for high school students, but nothing stops a coach from watching a player that happened to show up at their gymnasium to scrimmage. After ten minutes, Raymond decided that Burke was as good as his reputation. He didn’t play much defense, but who did in these pickup games. The boy could shoot.
Swish.
Moments earlier, the tall boy had walked confidently onto the court looking for a game. While he waited, he grabbed a loose basketball and began his routine that he had practiced since he was ten. Moving slowly along the top of the circle he launched 25 foot jump shots with an easy, effortless stroke.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Raymonds watched with interest as the boy made shot after shot, each shot just grazing the back of the rim as it swished through the net, causing the ball to spin back to the shooter. Nobody is that good, Raymonds thought. The boy doesn’t miss.
Matthew Wilson needed the exercise after being cooped up in a car the last three days. He watched the game while he warmed up and had a pretty good idea who the better players were. Burke appeared to be the best player; he certainly took the most shots. Matthew had seen this type of player many times in California.
The game ended and one of the ten players had to leave.
“Hey kid, care to play?”
“Sure,” Matthew responded, anticipating the competition. He could feel the adrenalin begin to flow. He found himself guarding “the shooter”, as he referred to Burke, and looked forward to the challenge. True to form, Burke received a pass the first time down the court and launched a jump shot from the top of the circle. He had made his last five in a row and expected to make this one, but was surprised when the ball was rejected. The new boy followed his blocked shot and turned it into an easy lay-up at the other end.
Raymonds grimaced when he heard Burke complain. “You fouled me,” he yelled at Matthew. “You caught me across the wrist; our side out.” Matthew remained silent while Burke’s team inbounded the ball. Raymonds watched from above. It was clear to everybody on the court that it had been a clean block, and Burke was just trying to maintain his dignity. This could be interesting, Raymonds thought.
Burke took the inbounds pass and drove strong to the basket. The new boy went up with him and deflected the ball off the backboard, got the rebound and was heading up court while Burke was complaining about another phantom foul. Raymonds watched to see if he would dunk and was pleasantly surprised when the boy slowed and fed off to a teammate for an easy basket. “You don’t see enough unselfish players anymore,” he thought.
Raymonds wondered what Burke would do next and was initially disappointed when the game was interrupted by an unexpected turn of events. Don Kojis, a former Marquette player and first team All-American, walked out of the locker room looking for a game. Burke called out to him, “Kojis, over here. You can take the new guy’s place.”
Kojis had seen the previous play and knew there was something going on. “Do you mind?” he asked Matthew.
The new boy responded easily, “I have another suggestion,” as he looked over at Burke. “Why don’t you take a rest for a while, you seem to have trouble getting your shots off anyway.”
Burke was furious as his face turned red. “Why don’t we have a little one-on-one game for a little side bet, just you and me? Chicken?”
“I’m not afraid, but basketball is a five-on-five game. Let’s pick teams. You pick first.”
“Okay hotshot, you got it. I’ll take Kojis,” Burke said with a sneer. “You can have the next four picks if you want.”
“No, we’ll just go one player at a time.” Matthew had watched the game earlier and knew the players he needed, and also knew that Burke would choose the flashy scorers. He ended up with exactly the team he wanted. The eleventh player, a 5’8” substitute from Burke’s high school team, went to Matthew when Burke said he didn’t want him. “What are we playing for?” Burke asked arrogantly.
Matthew decided to take a chance and risk his prized possession. “Let’s play for the shirt off our backs. You get my shirt if you win; if I win, I get yours.”
“You won’t win,” Burke challenged. “I guarantee it. Take the ball out. The first team to 21 wins; count by one.”
Raymonds wouldn’t have given the new boy’s team a one in 50 chance when the game started. Kojis was a pro and Burke was one of the top high school players in the country. After five minutes, it was obvious the sides were not fair; the new boy was too good. He was all over Burke and had stolen the ball three times, feeding his teammates for uncontested lay-ups. The boy had only scored two baskets, but had a dozen assists and the score was 15-4. Rick Robey, the short kid that Burke didn’t want, had four baskets.
The defining moment came in a series of plays under the basket. Kojis, who had a well deserved reputation in college and the pros as a rough, physical player, caught the new boy with an elbow as they fought for a rebound. The boy was dazed, but didn’t say a word. The next time down the court he took Kojis to the basket, stopped short and faked a fade-away jump shot. Kojis went up for the block, but instead of shooting a fade-away, the boy went straight up with elbows extended and caught Kojis underneath the chin as he leaned in. Kojis knew the foul was on him and raised his hand signifying the other team side-out and was surprised when the teams retreated down court. The new boy had made the shot despite the foul. “That’s a pro move,” he thought.
The final score was 21-9 and Kojis congratulated the boy. “You have a good game young man; where do you play your college ball?”
Matthew smiled; he got that a lot from strangers. “I’m just a senior in high school. We just moved to Milwaukee and I’m not sure where I’m going to play my final semester.”
Kojis couldn’t believe that a high school player had taken him to school like he did. He looked up at Raymonds and mouthed the words “high school” and pointed at the boy. Burke came over and begrudgingly tossed his shirt at the new boy. “Lucky,” he mumbled under his breath.
Matthew had been wearing his shirt inside out and when he took it off to change, Kojis noticed it read; Kobe Bryant, #24, Lakers.
It suddenly dawned on him who the kid was. “I’ve heard of you, “Kojis exclaimed. “You’re the kid from California that plays the Lakers’ players one-on-one and beats them? Kobe talks about you.”
The boy smiled. “Yeah, I’ve played one-on-one with Kobe, O’Neal, Odom and Payton. Shaq is too strong, but I have had some luck against the others. This shirt is my prized possession.”
“You weren’t worried about losing it?”
Matthew just smiled.
I was sitting in my coach’s office daydreaming, thinking back to the unusual circumstances that had brought me to this position. Friday I was named interim head basketball coach at Shorewood High School, the school I had attended 25 years earlier and had been named to the all-conference team my junior and senior years. I loved basketball and still kept in touch with my old coach, Ray Meyer, who was now in his thirty-third year as head coach. I had been visiting him in October when his junior varsity coach walked into his office and resigned.
“Oh great,” Meyer said to me as his former JV coach left the office. “Now I get to coach both teams until they appoint someone who probably won’t know a darn thing about basketball.”
To this day, I have no idea what made me volunteer. “Ray, I’ll be glad to help you out until you find so
mebody. I have no coaching experience, but I love basketball and I love working with kids. Just tell me what I need to do.”
“You’re hired, Jim, and I’ll see if I can get you $120 a month coaching stipend and an extra $1,300 if you teach a couple drivers education courses.” I smiled as I thought back to that magnanimous offer. My construction and financing businesses were both very successful and I was probably earning several million dollars a month. I wasn’t really concerned with the $120 a month stipend that was in the athletic budget, but I appreciated the gesture.
One month later I was still coaching the JV when Ray suffered a minor heart attack and doctors advised him to take it easy. His wife insisted that he stop coaching basketball for a year, and, before I could say no, I was appointed interim head basketball coach. The next day the sign on the door was changed to Jim Simpson – Head Basketball Coach. I liked it.
Unfortunately, our record halfway through the season was 2 - 11 and we were mired in last place in the Suburban Conference. I didn’t mind, and accepted the job eagerly. Coaching basketball was something that I always had wanted to do, but couldn’t justify the lack of financial return. Schoolteachers were not paid well to begin with, and coaches seldom made more than $3,000 or $4,000 extra a year, which probably translates to about $3 per hour. There were several changes I wanted to make on the basketball team such as playing more up-tempo and pressing on defense, but my expectations were realistic. At best, we could hope to win half of our remaining games. I was still lost in my own thoughts when I heard the knock on the door.
“Hello!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I must have been daydreaming. Please, come in,” I said, standing up to greet my uninvited guests. “Have a seat.” There were two of them, probably a father and son. I couldn’t help but notice that the young man was well over six feet tall and carried his self with an easy confidence. He looked like a basketball player.
“Mr. Simpson, my name is Ray Wilson and this is my son, Matthew. We just moved into your school area and were hoping Matthew can try out for your basketball team. We know it’s late in the season, but for business reasons we needed to move at mid-semester.”
I smiled as I thought back to that day. I had no expectations that Matthew would be the player that he turned out to be, but I remembered thinking that it would be awfully hard for a 6’5” boy not to make our team. We were not that good.
“Sure,” I replied, “we are always looking to improve our team.” Matthew was carrying a small gym bag and I figured he was ready to go. “You may start today if you have your stuff with you, Matthew. Why don’t you change and join the other kids on the floor? Practice starts in about ten minutes.”
“What position does he play, Mr. Wilson? He obviously has the height to be a center or forward.”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that, Coach. He’s played everything from center to point guard. You decide where he’ll fit best with your players.”
“Anything I should be aware of?”
“Well, there is one thing.”
Uh, oh, I thought, here it comes. Now I get the bad news. My face must have registered some concern.
“Don’t worry; Matthew is an excellent basketball player, I have no doubt about that. However, he has a tendency to take charge. I would appreciate your giving him the benefit of the doubt for a while until you see what he can do. Some might think he’s trying to usurp their authority, but this isn’t the case. He only wants to win.”
“If you’re talking about egos, Mr. Wilson, you don’t have anything to worry about with me. I’m the coach, of course, but I encourage all my kids to think for themselves. Why don’t we go out and see what your son has and we’ll just take it one step at a time.”
“I have a feeling you and Matthew will get along just fine.”
Matthew was still stretching when I walked out on the court for our afternoon practice. “Come on, boys, two lines, let’s shoot some lay-ups. This is Matthew Wilson; he’s going to try out for our team.”
The 12 boys formed two lines, one shooting and one rebounding before feeding the next shooter, a typical lay-up drill used at all levels of basketball. Matt took three lay-ups from the right side easily laying the ball gently off the backboard. It didn’t take long to see he was coordinated. Even at 6’5”, he moved with agility and ease. We then reversed the lines and the players shot from the left side although most of my players still shot right-handed. I knew Matthew was a basketball player when I saw him shooting with his left hand, easily reversing his footwork, which is the most difficult thing to learn. Most boys are right-handed and their last step before shooting is with the left leg which becomes stronger over time. As a result, they have trouble getting lift off their right leg when shooting with their left hand. Matthew had the same fluid movement from either side. We changed the drill to shooting jump shots from the free throw. Matthew made five of six shots.
We hadn’t planned to scrimmage that day, but I couldn’t resist getting an opportunity to see how Matthew would fit in with the rest of the team. I put Matthew at forward with the second team and later at center. He played well, rebounded, and ran the court with ease. He didn’t score much, primarily because he didn’t get the ball, but it didn’t seem to bother him. You could tell he had fun when he played basketball.
“Okay, boys, let’s call it a night. We have a big game Friday. Everybody take ten free throws and head for the shower. If you haven’t met him already, introduce yourself to your new teammate.” I sat down next to Ray Wilson and watched Matthew make all 10 of his free throws.
“Your son looks pretty good out there, Mr. Wilson. It’s obvious he’s played some basketball. Does he have an outside game?”
“Coach, you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
There was something in his voice that made me stop and recognize what he said. “Just how good is he?” I finally asked.
“He’s the best you’ve ever seen, bar none.”
His demeanor told me he was not exaggerating. I found out later that his nickname in California had been Phenom.
5,000 miles away another 17 year old boy walked onto a basketball court in the old section of Istanbul, Turkey, the part of town still referred to by locals as Constantinople. He was tall, lean and confident despite being matched up against the Turkish National Team that last year finished third in the Euro Championships. Two hours and 46 points later Amar Rashad was invited to join the elite squad. Muslims would call him ‘The Mahdi’.
Chapter 2 - New Kid on the block