Doug Collins ignored the prompts to wrap up his Hall of Fame induction speech. Fitting for a guy whose made basketball a way of life and loves simply talking the game.
Doug Collins’ Hall of Fame induction speech was already approaching Jerry Lewis Telethon lengths when he mentioned meeting NBC Sports executive Dick Ebersol in 1998. A fortuitous thing, that, as it would result in Collins becoming a fixture on NBA telecasts for years to come, for NBC and others.
“The one thing he taught me,” Collins said of Ebersol, “was storytelling.”
And here the crowd in the half-full Springfield (Mass.) Symphony Hall chuckled. Why yes, everyone was well aware by that point in the evening that Collins could spin a yarn. That he was only too happy to detail a career that saw him become a star-crossed Sixers player at one point and later saw him transition to coaching, with some of his time on the bench also spent in Philadelphia.
Mostly the crowd stuck with him as he barreled through his half-hour presentation. But certainly there were those who squirmed, those who studied their phones and those who glanced back at the facade of the mezzanine in the place, where a time clock counted down the 10 minutes allotted each of the 13 inductees in this year’s class. It hung right next to the teleprompter, in plain view of those offering their remarks on stage.
Collins, inducted as a contributor to the game, had just finished describing his experience with the ill-fated 1972 Olympic team as his time ran out. He nonetheless continued, even as another timer appeared, this one rimmed in red with the word “WRAP” underneath it in large letters. That one expired after seven minutes, and was replaced by a sign.
Not a timer, just a sign. Same big letters. Same red background.
“WRAP NOW!!!,” it said.
Collins was undaunted.
“You know what I feel like right now?” he asked. “I feel like … remember Jimmy Valvano? He said, ‘Do I care about that red light?’”
An unfortunate comparison, since Valvano was dying of cancer when he defied the timekeepers during his “Never Give Up” speech at the March 1993 ESPY Awards ceremony. And indeed, the former North Carolina State coach succumbed the following month. But that was Collins’ story, and he was sticking to it.
“Michael Jordan said it best in 2009 when I got the (Curt) Gowdy award, and he was going into the big Hall,” Collins had said during a news conference Saturday. “He said, ‘You know what? I knew you couldn’t play, I knew you couldn’t coach, but I knew you could always talk a good game.’”
So question, if you must, his ability to read a room. But do not ever question his desire and ability to communicate the game, and what he sees as his place in it. Never question his passion and pride.
He ran through most of the Collins canon Sunday. How he grew up in tiny Benton, Ill. (pop. 6,600), and started only his senior year of high school. How he developed into a star guard at Illinois State while playing for Will Robinson, the first Black coach in Division I. How he was drafted first overall by the Sixers in 1973, after they went 9-73 the previous season, and (contrary to Jordan’s view) became a top-flight player while sharing the court with the likes of Julius Erving. How he coached Jordan when he was on the rise in Chicago.
But Collins’ tale is tinged in sadness, and he shared some of that, too — though not all of it. He didn’t mention coaching Jordan when he was playing out the string in Washington (2001-03), nor his three years as the Sixers’ head man (‘10-13), which ended in the wake of the failed Andrew Bynum trade.
But the ‘72 Olympics? Sure. As has often been the case in the past, Collins mentioned his steal in the closing seconds of the gold-medal game against Russia, with Team USA down one.
He was knocked to the floor as he sped in for a layup, leaving him dazed. One of Team USA’s assistants — either John Bach or Don Haskins — mentioned to head coach Hank Iba that they should figure out who was going to shoot the free throws.
“If that boy can walk,” Iba said, “he’s shooting ‘em.”
“Man,” Collins said from the stage, “the hair stood up on my arms.”
He made both shots, only to see the Soviets given three opportunities to win the game. And finally they did. The Americans protested, to no avail, and Collins and his teammates declined to accept their silver medals. Still haven’t, in fact; they reportedly sit in a vault in Switzerland.
His pro career lasted eight years and saw him average 18 points a game while making four All-Star teams. At his best, former teammate Steve Mix recalled in a phone interview last week, Collins was every bit the player those credentials might suggest.
“He had the quickest first step,” Mix said, “of anybody I’ve ever seen.”
But foot and knee injuries forced him to cash in his chips earlier than expected, and appear to have taken a long-term toll as well. After the presser Saturday in the Mohegan Sun Casino in Uncasville, Conn., Collins, now 73, was getting around with the help of a cane.
He ditched the cane for Sunday’s ceremony, but certainly there is lingering disappointment. Not to the point where you could call him a tortured soul, though. As he pointed out Sunday, basketball has given him a good life, between his playing career, his 11 years as a head coach (three with Chicago and three with Detroit, in addition to his time with Washington and the Sixers) and his long run as a broadcaster, for not only NBC but Turner and ESPN (resulting, as mentioned, in him winning that Gowdy Award).
Still, there’s the aforementioned baggage, as well as the fact that he coached Jordan before the Bulls were championship-ready and after His Airness was in decline.
Mix said he and Collins have discussed various “trials and tribulations” over the years, most recently when the two of them got together for lunch several months ago, after Mix traveled to the Delaware Valley from Florida, where he now lives.
“Those are things that I think players kind of hold back until they’re talking to another player, and Doug opens up on occasion,” said Mix, also a former Sixers broadcaster. “It’s good to have those conversations. .. You can hold it in, which doesn’t do you any good, or you can talk about it. It’s a lot better from that standpoint. You get through the conversation and say, ‘OK, I got that off my chest anyway.’”
Mostly, Mix said, he just listens.
“You hear people with mental illness problems in athletics today,” he said, “and I’m not sure that they can discuss problems openly sometimes. And that always helps you get through some of that stuff. I could be way wrong about that, but any time you can talk about a problem and help try to get an answer, (it) just helps altogether, instead of just keeping it inside.”
The best therapy of all might have come in Springfield. Collins said Saturday that his induction “put a bow on my career.”
“I feel like I belong here, and for the longest time, I didn’t,” he said. “I beat myself up a lot. Never gave myself the grace that I gave others, and I’m trying to be better at that.”
He brought a basketball with him to the lectern for his speech Sunday night, and you couldn’t help but think of something the late Jim Bouton once wrote about baseball — how those who compete at the highest levels spend their entire lives holding the ball, only to realize it was just the opposite. And so it is with Doug Collins. The game will forever hold onto him, just as he wanted to hold onto the moment Sunday night. Just as he wanted to make it last forever, it seemed.
Wrap now?
Not bloody well likely.