Before the Sixers hosted Portland earlier this season, I asked Trail Blazers coach Chauncey Billups about the maturation process of young guards, two of whom – Scoot Henderson, the No. 3 overall pick by the Blazers last June, and Tyrese Maxey, the Sixers’ budding star – would square off that night.
Who better to address that question than Billups, who had been a five-time All-Star and one-time champion while manning the backcourt, notably for the Pistons, during a 17-year NBA run (1997-2014)? So I went the compare-and-contrast route, asking what it was like for a young guard to break in now, compared to when he did it, back in the day.
And yeah, that’s the phraseology I used. Because I’m hip, I’m happenin’, I’m now.
The smallest of smiles creased Billups’ face.
“First of all,” the 47-year-old said, “my experience was yesterday, not back in the day. I know you see this gray on me (in his beard), man, but don’t do me like that.”
It was the kind of human interaction a reporter is always seeking with a high-profile interview subject, as opposed to eliciting an all-too-common autopilot response. And Billups did in fact go on to give a generous, thoughtful answer. But the point behind his preamble was well-taken: Where the hell does the time go? It is our most precious resource, and a nonrenewable one at that. One minute Billups is earning a terrific nickname – “Mr. Big Shot” – by sinking daggers for Detroit (while missing a lot of little shots; he made just over 41 percent of his career attempts). The next minute he’s coaching a struggling team and in apparent need of “Just For Men.”
I think about this a fair amount lately, having just made my 66th trip around the sun. Could it really have been December 1981 when I first covered a Sixers game? Doesn’t seem possible. How many times between then and now have I gotten off the Valley Forge exit of the Pennsylvania Turnpike? How many times have I traveled the (shudder) Schuylkill Expressway or (only slightly smaller shudder) the Blue Route? How many Wawa stops have there been? How many cliches have been uttered or written? (Too many, to be sure.)
I remember my first game – a 123-118 Sixers overtime victory over Boston in the Spectrum on Dec. 19, 1981. Julius Erving had 36. Larry Bird had 28. The attendance, as was no doubt noted by Dave Zinkoff, the effervescent public-address announcer, was 18,364 – all under the care of “affable” ushers and usherettes, in Zink-speak. (And all likely to hear him intone a license-plate number of a vehicle in the parking lot at some point in the course of the evening, followed by this: “Your doors are LOCKED, your lights are ON and your motor is HUMMING.”)
I went looking for the story I wrote that night, but was unable to find it in the LNP archives. Just as well; I’m quite certain it was slop. I do, however, remember the scene in the Spectrum’s cramped, spartan home locker room. Upon entering, the first thing to catch visitors’ attention was the sight of Sixers big man Caldwell Jones seated on the floor – not in front of his locker, for there were none, but before the hooks assigned to him on the wall. His spindly legs were stretched out before him, seemingly extending halfway across the room, and a bucket of Miller Lites was within easy reach.
Jones, an easygoing soul, was happy to answer questions in his Arkansas drawl, just as he was happy to share his philosophy of life with his teammates. Earl Cureton, a second-year forward on that team, said on Thursday’s edition of the “After the Buzzer” podcast that he expressed surprise after Jones – “C-Well” to the other Sixers – had a big scoring night one time. Jones, who played forever and was known more for lunchpail duties like defense and rebounding, said he didn’t like to do that too often, as his employer might come to expect it. Better to go along to get along.
Cureton had the spot right next to C-Well. Others – Bobby Jones, Maurice Cheeks and Franklin Edwards – were crammed on the left side of the room as well, seated on a long bench better suited to a junior high school. Erving and the others were on the opposite side of the room, beyond a coat rack and the cooler in which Caldwell and Co. stashed their beers. Dr. J, as gracious off the court as he was graceful on it, would answer every last question while icing his knees, even though the pack of reporters around him routinely stood five-deep. (There were no publicity flacks standing sentry and saying, “Last one,” after the fifth query. SMH, as the kids say.)
Jones died in 2014. Hall of Famer Moses Malone, acquired for C-Well and a first-rounder in September 1982 (and the driving force behind the Sixers’ ‘82-83 championship run), is gone, too. So is the irrepressible Darryl Dawkins, another member of the ‘81-82 team. And Mark McNamara, a rookie in ‘82-83. All from heart disease. All at age 64 or younger. (I’ve written about this seeming epidemic before.)
“When the Big Guy wants you, that’s it,” Billy Cunningham told me in a 2022 interview.
He was the coach back then, after a Hall of Fame playing career. Now 80, he has had heart problems of his own, undergoing triple-bypass surgery in 2021. Hard-driving and standoffish in his younger years, he now seems more reflective, more accessible.
Life, he said in that 2022 interview, “goes by so fast.”
There was another conversation last month, after the death of George McGinnnis, another former Sixer.
“Just enjoy your life,” Cunnningham advised.
Tried, despite my many shortcomings. The passage of time has seen marriage and the birth of a son. It has seen apartments and houses and happiness and heartache. And it has seen more than a few trips to the Valley Forge exit and beyond, the most recent one coming Friday night.
The game, a 112-93 Sixers victory over Sacramento, was routine. Joel Embiid didn’t play because of injury, which is not unusual. Tobias Harris scored 37, which is. Maxey scored 21, two on an acrobatic, Erving-like finish in the second quarter.
Afterward some idiot fan was hanging over the railing, yelling derisive gibberish at the Kings as they trudged through the tunnel leading to their locker room. One of the Sacramento players – I believe it was Malik Monk, but I’m not certain – had finally heard enough.
“SHUT YO’ ASS UP!” he screamed, before disappearing inside the visiting digs.
Still felt like my time was well-spent. Still felt much the same as I did back in the day. Or yesterday. However you want to look at it.