Cowens: The Bob Ryan Farewell

Most articles of clothing placed on the body of Dave Cowens have ventured into alien territory. The classier the garment, the worse it looks. The body itself is unusually tall (6 feet, 8 1/2 inches) and muscular, its dominant feature being a pair of exceptionally long legs that make him very high waisted. But the essential problem is not physical; it is philosophical. Dave Cowens abhors pretension of any kind. Simple is good. He looks and feels best in a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt.

He is - or, to be more precise, was - basketball's answer to Eric Hoffer. His was the philosopher-longshoreman's approach to sport. His recent retirement as the Celtics' center at age 32 did more than deprive the sports world of just another superior player. Great players can always be replaced; great personalities cannot. He was that rare individual who transcended the statistics and the record books in his chosen sport. Barely six weeks into his rookie season, he had become a reference point. For a decade, coaches at every level of basketball - indeed, coaches in practically any team sport - have been searching for "Dave Cowens types," and so it shall remain.

I never identified myself as a great player, only as one who set high standards regarding his performance. I always took pride in my performance and thought that I gave a little extra something to the game.

What exactly is a "Dave Cowens type"? In strictest basketball terms, it is a big man who is so uncommonly aggressive that his teammates are actually shamed into playing harder alongside him, if only to avoid an embarrassing comparison. In broader terms, it is a man of uncluttered nineteenth-century moral values projected in Jules Verne fashion into our modern society.

Dave Cowens never wanted to be a public person. But by simply being himself he ensured that he would never be allowed a completely private life. What others would call eccentricity he would term natural behavior. Eschewing the "swinging singles," live-in-the-downtown-high-rise life-style then very much in vogue among young, affluent athletes, he spent his first five years as a Celtic living in a converted one-room bathhouse in Weston. He was immediately characterized as a man apart, and there was ample evidence to support that thesis.

Didn't he attend that auto mechanics course during his spare time back in his second year? Didn't he attempt to learn sign language? Didn't he spend the night sleeping on a park bench on Boston Common when the Celtics won the 1974 championship? Didn't he drive a Boston cab, however briefly? Five more people like him and People magazine would be kept in business for the next twenty years.

Some people linked his behavior with what they perceived to be his background. Maybe, Bostonians reasoned, people from Kentucky are just that way; don't they still have all those moonshiners down there? People were under the assumption that he was just a lovable Huck Finn type. At the very least, they assumed him to be a farmer.

The reality is that Cowens was raised in a row house in Newport, Kentucky, right across the river from Cincinnati. His father, a barber by trade, also sold insurance and managed a finance corporation. Urban cowboy? Maybe. Farmer? Never.

I never milked cows. I was raised on asphalt. I played baseball, football, basketball. I ran track. I swam. I'm just a kid who went through everything everyone else did and survived. It just so happened I was geared to be a basketball player. It just happened.

His immediate success was startling because when he came to Boston he was known only to those basketball junkies who ate basketball magazines for breakfast, press releases for lunch, and scouting reports for dinner. He had enjoyed little high school fame, being recruited in-state only by the schools of the Ohio Valley Conference. Powerhouse Kentucky ignored him. He selected Florida State (coach Hugh Durham promised him he could start as a sophomore), where he was neither chosen as an All-American nor showcased on national television, thanks to the school's three years on NCAA probation. The pro scouts were hardly unaware of his existence, but outside of Tallahassee, Florida, his name meant nothing to the general public.

I always thought I could play as hard and as well without anybody in the building.

This lack of publicity might have been the source of great irritation for some people, but it did not bother Dave Cowens. He never played the game for fame; he played it because he liked it, period. He liked the speed, the contact - oh how he liked the contact - and the interaction with teammates. Unlike many athletes, he had never really been a fan. Press clipppings, awards, and All-This or All-That teams held no interest for him. Critics didn't bother him, either, because until the day he retired, he played for no tougher critic than himself.

I never dreamed of being a pro basketball player when I was a kid. Being a pro player wasn't a dream come true. I wasn't a card collector. I was always open to suggestion. I was just out there grasping for straws, wondering what to do. I just migrated toward basketball because I liked it.

He was ignorant about the NBA when he came into the league. Whereas an old college rival named Neal Walk had boasted of having posters of the great pro centers on the wall of his dormitory room, Cowens came into the league with all the advance knowledge of a lifelong Brooklyn resident dropped into the middle of downtown Ulan Bator. He found himself going up against players he not only had never seen before, even on television, but also against players he had never read about. And yet he was able to turn this ignorance into an asset.

Instead of wondering what these people were all about, I decided I was going to show them what I was all about. I figured, Hey, what can I lose?

They found out very quickly exactly what Dave Cowens was all about. He was an original. He ran as no big man had ever run before. In a league dominated by black men who had been used to seeing landlocked white men play the game far below the rim, he was a phenomenon, a certified White Leaper. Early in his rookie season, a black referee named Ken Hudson, who is now a Coca-Cola vice- president, said that Cowens was the victim of reverse discrimination. "Referees," Hudson said, "can't believe a white guy can jump that high and block shots that well, so they call fouls on him he doesn't commit." But Cowens' most distinguishing characteristic was his aggressiveness. Opponents seeing him for the first time were ready to sign petitions aimed at deporting him to the National Football League. He gave and, more important, he took. No first-year player ever became more quickly, and totally respected. His name immediately became synonymous with competitiveness.

I never considered myself as being that much more competitive than other people. I looked at it logically. I knew my height, and I knew what I had to do.

The position helped create the Cowens mystique. Playing a 6-foot-8 1/2 redhead at center in a 7-foot black man's league was originally considered by some to be an implied admission of Celtic weakness. Even Red Auerbach and Tom Heinsohn openly admitted that they really didn't know what Cowens' best position would be. The general thinking in the first few months of the 1970-71 season was that Cowens was a caretaker center until the team could come up with a real center; i.e., a 7-footer, preferably a black one. But it didn't take Cowens long to realize that center was where he belonged, that he was uniquely equipped to overcome the handicap of being a white Gulliver among black Brobdingnagians.

My attitude was, Let's see what these players are all about. I knew a Wilt Chamberlain could overwhelm me on offense, but I said, "Let's just see how hard these guys want to work." I think they got pissed at me because I wanted to work hard. They weren't used to somebody who played the way I did. I'd be running them, and after a while they'd think, "The hell with this." That's intimidation, when you're in condition and you can run somebody all the time. That, to me, is true intimidation. If every time you're downcourt you're right in a guy's face, if every time you're screening him out - I mean every time - it gets to a lot of people.

There is no question that Cowens would have been a standout forward. Bill Fitch flatly states, "He would have been the greatest power forward who ever lived." That's a coach talking. Had Cowens not played center, he might have been good, but he never would have been special. That's a fan talking.

I would not have enjoyed the game as much if I didn't play center. I've always liked center. I thought it was a special position. There are two guards and two forwards, but only one center.

The center position is the only one on the floor that was big enough to accommodate Dave Cowens' heart and determination. The position is aptly named, for the center is the focus of both the offense and the defense. Offensively, the ideal center can both shoot and pass. Defensively, he must relish the idea of being a court of last resort. He should be a strong rebounder. Cowens fulfilled all the qualifications.

He was flawed. He needed a better variety of inside moves in order to take full advantage of his abnormal quickness. He never learned to set a decent pick (a maneuver in which an offensive player places himself in the intended path of a defender in order to provide room for a teammate to shoot unimpeded), an odd fault considering his willingness to administer and absorb punishment. Worse yet, he never felt comfortable using one. He could have scored many more baskets by slipping behind a pick and taking an open fifteen- foot jump shot, but his normal reaction was to refuse that type of aid. A natural left-hander, he had very limited use of his right hand.

I was never good at one-on-one basketball. I didn't dribble well. People basically knew my moves. If I was low, I was going to turn to the middle and take my hook with a big step. I had my power moves and my spin move. And I could pass the ball. Outside, I could stick it when things were going good. I could take one or two dribbles, but handling the ball and driving were probably the weakest parts of my game.

The strongest aspect was helping on defense, talking, just wanting to help. Since I helped my teammates, I thought they would play harder on defense. The rebounding, the screening off - to me this was the last part of defense.

Tom Heinsohn was the right coach in the right place at the right time. Heinsohn was a basketball visionary, and he quickly devised methods whereby Cowens could exploit his unique gifts. His center was a runner, so the Celtics ran. He sent Cowens into the conventional pivot area when he was playing a "small" center, and he employed an entirely different offense when the opposing center was one of the league behemoths. Cowens' natural aggressiveness augmented his self-taught finesse and his coaching. As the center, he was always involved. Fans loved him. The fan in Section 129 easily identified with Cowens' work ethic. Watching Cowens spot a Kareem Abdul-Jabbar eight inches and still battle him evenly, a fan could derive more than the normal satisfaction from the game. Dave Cowens was the small man's big man.

He became a visible public figure. He was liable to turn up anywhere, be it at Symphony on a Friday afternoon or at the Hillbilly Ranch any old evening. He reveled in the city. Though he could not accurately be classified as an intellectual, he was intellectually curious.

Few players in any sport express interest in activities peripheral to their sport. Dave Cowens was an exception. Sitting in a hotel lobby in Milwaukee before boarding a bus to the arena, he suddenly asked, "Do writers have slumps? Do you ever have the lead in your mind before the game starts?" This inquisition eventually bore fruit in the form of a writing career that included a brief stint as a contributor to the Sports Plus section of the Friday Globe.

He saw no reason why he should be prevented from commenting on matters other than athletics just because he was an athlete. But he could not accept the idea that his thoughts were inherently valuable simply because he was an athlete. He did not want to be anything other than a private citizen once he left the gym. He discouraged autograph seekers on the grounds that his signature on a scrap of paper was meaningless. His standard approach to an autograph request was to ask if a handshake would not be preferable. He didn't grasp that a handshake could not be adequately transferred back to the grandchild in Toledo or the brother-in-law in Bangor. One of his idiosyncrasies was to sign the autograph and then ask the recipient for his (or hers). Few knew how to handle that situation gracefully.

He has only recently accepted the notion that he has an off-the-court public that is every bit as important as his on-the-court public. If reconciliation with the latter was difficult, reconciliation with the former was positively agonizing.

An athlete does have a responsibility. I admit that. It's important to let a young person, or anybody, for that matter, know there is somebody out there he can identify with. People have told me they admire the way I retired. Teachers have told me they've used me as an example to their students about how you must take responsibility for your actions. But it can be a big ego thing, and I don't want people to think I'm such a great person.

His relationship with the paying customer was an interesting matter. In the beginning, he was insulated. He played for himself because he liked the game, for his teammates because that was inherent in the nature of the game, for his coach because he respected authority, and for his employer because that's who signed the check. The crowd was an abstract. But by the end of his career, the crowd had become an important part of his approach to the game.

Some fans live vicariously through the team. Some just like to imagine what they would do if they were playing. Some are just negative people who sit up there wanting people to look bad. The people I played for are the coaches who might be up there trying to watch and learn and the fans who really appreciate the game, and who, while they may root for one team or the other, appreciate the game more than the team. The game comes first. I always wanted other teams to play well against us because I wanted to beat them at their best.

I always figured that some of the fans understood what was going on, and that inspired me. When people sit in the stands and yell for or against you, that's part of the whole scene. A lot of times part of my concentration would be devoted to thinking about the fans. I wanted them to feel good about me when they went to the game, and to leave feeling I had played hard so they'd get their money's worth. I didn't want to cheat them. I hoped they knew what they were looking at. I used to listen to them, all right. I'd be too far off on a guy and a fan would yell "Get up on him!" and I knew somebody up there knew what he was talking about.

Just as he did not want to cheat the fans, so he did not wish to be cheated himself. He developed a strict code by which the game should be played. The code allowed for more physical contact than a supposed "noncontact" team sport was supposed to have, but this was a subject on which he would not compromise. He believed firmly that people would not enjoy watching basketball if it were devoid of contact. He knew that if contact were severely limited, he would have had absolutely no chance of guarding a 7-foot- 4 athlete such as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. He believed that he was always rough but never dirty. His opponents concurred.

His pet peeve was the growing practice of faking in order to draw a bogus offensive foul. He abhorred the tactic on principle, even though teammates John Havlicek and Don Nelson were masters of the art. It had been an accepted Celtic maneuver, dating back to the days of Frank Ramsey in the late fifties. This history was of no concern to Cowens. He remained angry with people who tried to deceive officials into calling fouls.

Consistent with the Cowens philosophy was the controlled use of physical force in order to impart a message. He was unusually combative, and before his career was through, the list of his fistfights would run from his rookie season (Bob Kauffman) to his final campaign (Wayne Rollins). He would reason with somebody to a point. The next step was a punch in the mouth.

On the night of February 25, 1976, Cowens delivered his most famous message. The recipient was Houston Rocket guard Mike Newlin, who had infuriated Cowens by twice jumping in front of him and falling down without being touched. On each occasion Newach the desired level of concentration to address himself properly to the task. His cells were dry. And so he invoked a unique and fascinating clause in his contract by asking for, and receiving, a "leave of absence" from the Boston Celtics. For two months he stayed away, traveling a little and simply thinking about things other than basketball. He returned, saying, "It was easier for me to play than not to play."

I came back because everybody was hounding me. Nobody believed me. I left because I really didn't feel involved. I felt like I was going through the motions. It was hard to explain. It was hard for me to explain it to myself. It was very confusing. For a while I just couldn't think very clearly. I got away, and I began to see things better. The question was, What do I really want to do with my life? The answer was that I really wanted to play basketball. When I realized that, I came back. But I wish I hadn't left. It was confusing to me, and to everyone else.

Being Dave Cowens, he received near-complete support from the public. Management was equally tolerant. His sincerity was never questioned. Exactly two years later, owner John Y. Brown and Auerbach named him coach. It could have happened in no other sports organization and with no other player.

I can't say I really coached the team. I was the guy at the head of the club.

The idea of the emotional Cowens coaching the club would have been remote back in the early days. He played two full seasons on heart and raw talent before he began to incorporate thinking into his game. Clever opponents knew how to taunt him. He was respected and often feared, but he was thought by those at the top of the profession to be controllable.

His maturing began in the 1972-73 season. He played well enough in the regular season to win the Most Valuable Player award, but it was in the playoffs that he came away with the basketball equivalent of his master's degree.

Willis Reed, the great New York Knicks' center, chronicled Cowens' development in his 1973 book, A Will to Win. Speaking of Cowens' play in the fifth game of the Knicks' series with the Celtics, Reed wrote:

"Every time you looked up it seemed as if Cowens was there, squirting through the defense, going over the outstretched arms, ducking under the guards, muscling on the boards, outrunning men he had no right to beat in a foot race.

"In this game Dave Cowens came of age. He had always had all of the necessary equipment, but in the past he had shown signs of immaturity. He would blow sky high if he got a few early fouls on him. He'd push back if he thought he was wronged on a call, picking up an added personal foul. But this night he was cool and graceful as a ballet dancer, and he turned in one of those performances that can't be captured on canvas.

"Cowens has the competitive fire of a Havlicek with possibly more natural ability, by which I mean he can hurt you in more ways. Cowens could move out and be a top NBA forward if Heinsohn had anybody else who could play the pivot. He's strong and quick and smart. And he showed all of these things in the sixth game.

"In football, I guess, it's called the animal instinct. That doesn't necessarily refer to hurting another man . . . just going all out."

Until the constant pounding robbed him of too many physical skills, he truly loved what he was doing. But participation alone was enervating, and although he eventually claimed a clinical understanding of the fan's motivations, he could not possibly relate to them. As the team was returning home from winning the 1974 championshiach the desired level of concentration to address himself properly to the task. His cells were dry. And so he invoked a unique and fascinating clause in his contract by asking for, and receiving, a "leave of absence" from the Boston Celtics. For two months he stayed away, traveling a little and simply thinking about things other than basketball. He returned, saying, "It was easier for me to play than not to play."

I came back because everybody was hounding me. Nobody believed me. I left because I really didn't feel involved. I felt like I was going through the motions. It was hard to explain. It was hard for me to explain it to myself. It was very confusing. For a while I just couldn't think very clearly. I got away, and I began to see things better. The question was, What do I really want to do with my life? The answer was that I really wanted to play basketball. When I realized that, I came back. But I wish I hadn't left. It was confusing to me, and to everyone else.

Being Dave Cowens, he received near-complete support from the public. Management was equally tolerant. His sincerity was never questioned. Exactly two years later, owner John Y. Brown and Auerbach named him coach. It could have happened in no other sports organization and with no other player.

I can't say I really coached the team. I was the guy at the head of the club.

The idea of the emotional Cowens coaching the club would have been remote back in the early days. He played two full seasons on heart and raw talent before he began to incorporate thinking into his game. Clever opponents knew how to taunt him. He was respected and often feared, but he was thought by those at the top of the profession to be controllable.

His maturing began in the 1972-73 season. He played well enough in the regular season to win the Most Valuable Player award, but it was in the playoffs that he came away with the basketball equivalent of his master's degree.

Willis Reed, the great New York Knicks' center, chronicled Cowens' development in his 1973 book, A Will to Win. Speaking of Cowens' play in the fifth game of the Knicks' series with the Celtics, Reed wrote:

"Every time you looked up it seemed as if Cowens was there, squirting through the defense, going over the outstretched arms, ducking under the guards, muscling on the boards, outrunning men he had no right to beat in a foot race.

"In this game Dave Cowens came of age. He had always had all of the necessary equipment, but in the past he had shown signs of immaturity. He would blow sky high if he got a few early fouls on him. He'd push back if he thought he was wronged on a call, picking up an added personal foul. But this night he was cool and graceful as a ballet dancer, and he turned in one of those performances that can't be captured on canvas.

"Cowens has the competitive fire of a Havlicek with possibly more natural ability, by which I mean he can hurt you in more ways. Cowens could move out and be a top NBA forward if Heinsohn had anybody else who could play the pivot. He's strong and quick and smart. And he showed all of these things in the sixth game.

"In football, I guess, it's called the animal instinct. That doesn't necessarily refer to hurting another man . . . just going all out."

Until the constant pounding robbed him of too many physical skills, he truly loved what he was doing. But participation alone was enervating, and although he eventually claimed a clinical understanding of the fan's motivations, he could not possibly relate to them. As the team was returning home from winning the 1974 championship in Milwaukee (thanks mainly to his spectacular play in the deciding seventh game), he was asked how he felt now that he had finally achieved the ultimate goal of any player's career. "It doesn't mean much to me now," he said. "Maybe tomorrow. To me, the fun was in th doing.

I was sorry when that game, and that series, were over. It had been such a great series, such great basketball. The reason it was so good was that we had contrasting styles. One of our styles was going to win, one of our tempos.

The older he got, the more the science of the game intrigued him. The young Cowens had looked at the game in a more simplistic fashion.

My approach when I went on the floor was something like this: I figured the other guy had more size or more offensive skills than I did. I wanted to look at him in the eye and say, "Dammit, you're going against one tough bastard tonight. It's just you and me, pal."

Having meshed his talent and his experience by 1973, he embarked on a stretch of four superb years. He did things on a nightly basis that have not been seen since. He continually made unmakable plays. One save of a loose ball in Madison Square Garden so thrilled his teammates that the bench responded with a standing ovation while the game was in progress. There was a night in Portland when he leaped over the Celtics' bench to keep a ball in play. Rather than returning to the floor by the original route, he instinctively turned and ran the length of the floor behind the press table, the result being a basketball reenactment of the classic car-train parallel race to the crossing so popular in silent film days. He returned to the court by leaping over the startled Portland players seated on their own bench. Whether or not it actually accomplished anything was irrelevant. It had been a uniquely Cowensian solution to a problem.

Off the court, he was becoming more of a loner. His four and a half months as coach guaranteed a restricted social life with his teammates. But even before that development, he had begun to detach himself from the team away from the floor. He missed friends such as Don Nelson, Paul Silas, and John Havlicek. For the first time he found himself actively disliking at least one of his teammates. Only when Pete Maravich, labeled a kook by most everyone else, became a Celtic last season did Cowens find anything resembling a kindred spirit. And when Maravich abruptly retired before the Celtics had even played an exhibition game, Cowens may have been influenced to follow suit.

The one-time eccentric bachelor has become the serious family man. He married a vivacious woman named Deby Cimaylo in 1978, and they are now the parents of 8-month-old Meghan. He is a homeowner. Some believe he has changed because of his marriage, but they are wrong. Rather, the marriage was the most visible manifestation of the change that had already taken place.

The determination he displayed on the basketball floor was often being applied to his other activities. About five years ago he became interested in purchasing an abandoned piece of property in Canton known as Prowse Farm. An avid horseman, Cowens wanted to restore the site to its nineteenth-century use as a horse farm. At the same time, a division of Motorola called the Codex Company expressed an interest in securing the farm as the site for a new plant.

Many angry town meetings later, Cowens is still fighting to save Prowse Farm. What began as a personal venture has become a quixotic crusade based on a principle. Cowens will never be the owner of Prowse Farm. But because in his view the Codex Company has disregarded environmental concerns and has been generally deceitful, he continues to fight them in the courts, whatever the expense.

He is naturally tenacious, and he expects to conquer the business world because of that tenacity. He is not sure exactly what he will do, now that he has retired, but he is eager to embark on a new way of life.

There have been other things on my mind, but as long as I was playing basketball I couldn't deal with them. While playing basketball I found it necessary to begin preparation a month and a half before the season started. When the season was over, I needed a month to wind down. If you put so much time and energy into something, you have no time for anything else. Now I find my mind is tuned in and I absorb things faster.I have the time and energy to concentrate on other projects. I probably have more energy than most people, and I think I'll be able to wear them down.

His two current business interests involve the proper care of one's body. He will represent a spring water company, and he is also excited about the possibility of constructing a comprehensive health and fitness center in Natick on the site of the Natick Country Club, which is being sold and subdivided. Toward that end, he recently spent time in Houston surveying a prototype operation, the elaborate Houstonian.

Finances should not be an immediate problem. He has been frugal with his money, living modestly, dabbling in investments, and, in general, treating money as a useful commodity, not as a solution to the mystery of life. He is confident that he will enjoy Life After Basketball.

The thing that money does for me is give me a sense of independence and a certain feeling that I have something to show for my work. I have the excitement of investing money with something I've earned. But my basic approach and values are the same as always. I still believe that knowledge, having knowledge and being able to use it and manipulate what you know in order to bring in enough money to survive, is what's important. That's more important than owning something.

By electing to retire, he forfeited an estimated $500,000, the amount he would have collected on the final year of his contract. He admitted that coming back solely for the purpose of taking the money was a large temptation. But when in doubt, he always resorts to his moral code. Had he come back for the money, he would not have been Dave Cowens, the man he must live with for the rest of his life. He would have been cheating, trying to draw the fake foul. He was in Terre Haute, Indiana, when he concluded that his body and spirithad both taken all the punishment they could stand. He knocked on the motel room door of a writer who is proud to be considered his friend. He was standing in his practice uniform - he had just returned from practice - and he was holding a sheaf of yellow legal pad pages on which he had handwritten a retirement statement to the fans, whom he believed deserved an explanation. "I'd like you to read something," he said.

The statement said, in part:

"I used to treasure the individual confrontations with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar or Bob MacAdoo and relish playing against teams like the old Chicago Walker- Love-Sloan quintets, who made you reach for everything you had to compete with their type of team play. These challenges were exciting and real; they were invigorating and exhausting.

"However, I can no longer play that caliber of basket-ball, and it is unbelievably frustrating to remain in a rugged occupation with waning skills. . . .

"I pointed out (to a team of foot specialists that recently examined his feet* that I had sprained my ankles at least thirty times over my career, broken both legs and fractured a foot. . . . I have highly weakened and worn- out feet and ankles.

"I am basically playing on one leg. My right ankle is so weak that I can best describe it by saying I have a sponge for an ankle. My left leg and ankle are therefore taking an extraordinary amount of abuse and they would no doubt give out before the year was over. . . .

"I have climbed the ladder of success in the NBA to the point where I command top dollar for my services. But the last time I negotiated a contract was five years ago. The only reason I am paid top dollar now is not because I am a top talent; it is because I negotiated from a position of strength five years ago. I have one year remaining on my contract, and part of the pressure to play comes from the commitment I have to live up to my obligation with the Celtics.

"I wouldn't feel guilty about the amount of money I would earn under these conditions if I thought I could play even as well as I did last year. But I can't. . . ."

The writer read the statement and asked what he could do.

"Two things," he replied. "Help me put it in order. You know, give me some professional help. And tell me what you think."

The writer thought that if Dave Cowens said he couldn't play anymore, there was no sense in arguing with him. He also said that the statement didn't need much professional help.

He hadn't cheated or taken shortcuts. The statement hurt to read, but it could not have been better said. Dave Cowens had ended his career by taking a legitimate emotional charge.