Eventually, you could say he was haunted. What he didn't know was that basketball wouldn't make him happy again for another seven years. He blamed the organization and signed with another franchise for a ton of money, obliterating the perfect team and suffering an especially painful divorce with his coach. When his fragile feet betrayed him while they were defending their first title, a member of the team's medical staff convinced him to try a painkiller injection for the playoffs. The entire team became an extension of him-his mind, his skills, his passing, his rebounding, his unselfishness, his enthusiasm, his everything. Slowly, he watched the right nucleus form around him, quick guards and heady players who intrinsically understood where to go and what to do. The big redhead anchored the perfect team in college, then spent his professional career wondering if it would ever happen again. He'd had it, he'd had it… and then it was gone. The coach would spend the next two years thinking about that perfect team. Within a year they imploded, ravaged by injuries and jealousy and money and everything else that was ruining the NBA at the time. When he finally won a championship, it happened in the blink of an eye-a young group peaking at the right time, a beautiful mix of speed and teamwork, his vision come to life, a dream finally realized. Deep down, he worried his career could pass without ever finding the right blend of players. He walked the streets for hours after tough losses, frightened players with his passion, challenged them to fistfights in the locker room, never wavered in his belief that basketball should be played a certain way. The coach spent his life waiting for the perfect team.
They may have lived within 362 pages of a hardcover book, but I grew up with them.
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