The New York Times devoted nearly a full page to its obituary of Marques Haynes, the legendary dribbler, and star of the Harlem Globetrotters. Sadly, it was probably more ink and photos than he ever saw in the Times in his lifetime. Marques Haynes, however, was my boyhood idol as a basketball player, and the Harlem Globetrotters. by far, my favorite team. (The Knicks were a distant second.) To those of you glimpsing the title of this blog and wondering in amazement about what, if any, connection I ever had to Marcus Haynes, here goes.
I got to know the Globetrotters almost by accident. One of my late father's law clients was Dick Miles, 10-time U.S. table-tennis champion. When the Harlem Globetrotters played at the old Madison Square Garden, the half-time entertainment was a professional match between two of the world's leading table-tennis players (we devotees never called it "ping pong.")
Although I was there to see Dick play, when the 'Trotters came out onto the court in their dazzling "all-american" uniforms and did their famous warm-up routine to the strains of "Sweet Georgia Brown," I was a goner. I still have the wonderful recording by Brother Bones, and always enjoy hearing it. (Some years ago, I worked out a finger-picking version on the guitar and love singing and playing it.)
I can still remember most of the 'Trotters starting lineup. There was the famous Reece "Goose" Tatum, Ermer Robinson, Clarence Wilson, and, of course, Marcus Haynes. (The 5th man is lost to memory, as is much else.) Watching Haynes dribble was like watching the late Doc Watson play the guitar, or Ricky Jay with a deck of cards--sheer magic. Although I was not tall as a kid, I learned how to dribble, and dribble quite well--behind my back, through my legs--"just like" Marques Haynes. That said, it was a limited skill in pick-up games, and I was not good enough at the game's other components (like shooting) to make my High School team.
Dribbling is a lost art in basketball. In the NBA, the ball is brought up court by point guards who still have to bounce the ball, but little (real) dribbling skill is required. With the advent of the 24-second clock in the late mid-50's the dribble was no longer effective as a stalling tactic, something Haynes had developed as an art form in the pre-clock days. The pro game (and the college game, played in imitation thereof) is all about shot-making, passing and rebounding--important skills to be sure. But when was the last time you heard a pro called for "palming" or "double dribbling?" Once in a blue moon, a player may be called for "walking" (technically failing to bounce the ball while moving more than a step and a half), but even this is largely ignored as players seem to drive from well behind the free throw line without the ball ever touching the ground.
But back when Marques Haynes learned to play, dribbling and ball-handing were a central part of both the forwards' and guards' games. When I first started following basketball in the early 50's, basketball was a white man's sport. Even Abe Saperstein, owner and founder of the 'Trotters resisted the integration of the NBA, as he feared it would weaken his exclusive access to the best black ballplayers. While not "officially" segregated as baseball had been until 1947, there were but one or two black players in the entire NBA. Nat "Sweetwater" Clifton, a former Globetrotter, was one of them. (When I visit my older son in New Jersey, I make a left on "Clifton Street" and always think of Nat.) Bob Cousy, of the great Boston Celtics, was a marvelous ball handler, a man whose skills were worthy of the 'Trotters, and, a few years later, a college ball-player name "Hod Rod" Hundley had the same kind of flashy game. "Pistol Pete" Maravich did as well, and they all owed a debt to Haynes.
I would always root for the 'Trotters when they played exhibition matches against NBA teams, the College All-Stars, or even their hapless straight men, the Washington Generals. When they played, say, the Minneapolis Lakers, or the College All-Stars, it was no clowning around. We knew these guys could play pro ball with the best of them, if only they were given the chance. Well, they have since been given the chance, and pro basketball now is, if not a "black" game, predominantly one. I must admit that I sometimes find myself rooting for the occasional white player as I once did for the occasional black one. I hope this is a continued manifestation of my support for the "underdog," and not the result of a darker (or "lighter") bias on my part. It is easy, after all, to support integration when it is one member of your fraternity or one neighbor in your co-op, another thing when an entire game is transformed. That, however, is what is meant by the word "meritocracy," and it remains an ideal we should embrace. Sadly, we will never know how Marcus Haynes would have performed in the NBA. As with the Josh Gibsons of the old Negro Leagues, a true assessment of their skills can never be truly made, and remains among life's "what ifs." What is clear is that it was the sports fans'--and America's loss.
In any event, each passing obituary of a childhood hero remains me of my own mortality and loss of (the remains of) innocence. I close my eyes and can see frustrated foes slipping and falling as Haynes dribbles the ball around, through and past them on the way to yet another layup. As he does, I repeat the words that entitled the second of two movies about the 'Trotters, "Go Man, Go." As Marques sinks the layup, I am a kid again.
I got to know the Globetrotters almost by accident. One of my late father's law clients was Dick Miles, 10-time U.S. table-tennis champion. When the Harlem Globetrotters played at the old Madison Square Garden, the half-time entertainment was a professional match between two of the world's leading table-tennis players (we devotees never called it "ping pong.")
Although I was there to see Dick play, when the 'Trotters came out onto the court in their dazzling "all-american" uniforms and did their famous warm-up routine to the strains of "Sweet Georgia Brown," I was a goner. I still have the wonderful recording by Brother Bones, and always enjoy hearing it. (Some years ago, I worked out a finger-picking version on the guitar and love singing and playing it.)
I can still remember most of the 'Trotters starting lineup. There was the famous Reece "Goose" Tatum, Ermer Robinson, Clarence Wilson, and, of course, Marcus Haynes. (The 5th man is lost to memory, as is much else.) Watching Haynes dribble was like watching the late Doc Watson play the guitar, or Ricky Jay with a deck of cards--sheer magic. Although I was not tall as a kid, I learned how to dribble, and dribble quite well--behind my back, through my legs--"just like" Marques Haynes. That said, it was a limited skill in pick-up games, and I was not good enough at the game's other components (like shooting) to make my High School team.
Dribbling is a lost art in basketball. In the NBA, the ball is brought up court by point guards who still have to bounce the ball, but little (real) dribbling skill is required. With the advent of the 24-second clock in the late mid-50's the dribble was no longer effective as a stalling tactic, something Haynes had developed as an art form in the pre-clock days. The pro game (and the college game, played in imitation thereof) is all about shot-making, passing and rebounding--important skills to be sure. But when was the last time you heard a pro called for "palming" or "double dribbling?" Once in a blue moon, a player may be called for "walking" (technically failing to bounce the ball while moving more than a step and a half), but even this is largely ignored as players seem to drive from well behind the free throw line without the ball ever touching the ground.
But back when Marques Haynes learned to play, dribbling and ball-handing were a central part of both the forwards' and guards' games. When I first started following basketball in the early 50's, basketball was a white man's sport. Even Abe Saperstein, owner and founder of the 'Trotters resisted the integration of the NBA, as he feared it would weaken his exclusive access to the best black ballplayers. While not "officially" segregated as baseball had been until 1947, there were but one or two black players in the entire NBA. Nat "Sweetwater" Clifton, a former Globetrotter, was one of them. (When I visit my older son in New Jersey, I make a left on "Clifton Street" and always think of Nat.) Bob Cousy, of the great Boston Celtics, was a marvelous ball handler, a man whose skills were worthy of the 'Trotters, and, a few years later, a college ball-player name "Hod Rod" Hundley had the same kind of flashy game. "Pistol Pete" Maravich did as well, and they all owed a debt to Haynes.
I would always root for the 'Trotters when they played exhibition matches against NBA teams, the College All-Stars, or even their hapless straight men, the Washington Generals. When they played, say, the Minneapolis Lakers, or the College All-Stars, it was no clowning around. We knew these guys could play pro ball with the best of them, if only they were given the chance. Well, they have since been given the chance, and pro basketball now is, if not a "black" game, predominantly one. I must admit that I sometimes find myself rooting for the occasional white player as I once did for the occasional black one. I hope this is a continued manifestation of my support for the "underdog," and not the result of a darker (or "lighter") bias on my part. It is easy, after all, to support integration when it is one member of your fraternity or one neighbor in your co-op, another thing when an entire game is transformed. That, however, is what is meant by the word "meritocracy," and it remains an ideal we should embrace. Sadly, we will never know how Marcus Haynes would have performed in the NBA. As with the Josh Gibsons of the old Negro Leagues, a true assessment of their skills can never be truly made, and remains among life's "what ifs." What is clear is that it was the sports fans'--and America's loss.
In any event, each passing obituary of a childhood hero remains me of my own mortality and loss of (the remains of) innocence. I close my eyes and can see frustrated foes slipping and falling as Haynes dribbles the ball around, through and past them on the way to yet another layup. As he does, I repeat the words that entitled the second of two movies about the 'Trotters, "Go Man, Go." As Marques sinks the layup, I am a kid again.
