Matt Steinmetz

If this one were to be titled it would be: “No prescription from this doctor.”

Julius Erving didn’t make me love basketball. But he sure made me love Larry Bird and the Celtics. His fault, though. Or maybe it was Turquoise Erving, his wife at the time’s fault. I never did find out who broke my heart.

It had to be the Sixers’ 1977-78 season, Erving’s second season in Philly after he’d played in the ABA. The reason I’m pretty sure it was that season was because a group of us headed down to the Spectrum from Reading, PA to watch the 76ers play the New Orleans Jazz, and I remember Leonard “Truck” Robinson. He was on the Jazz that year.

But what I remember more about that night was a promise broken. It was late second quarter, pops gave me a fiver, and I walked out onto the concourse to get a soda.

To this day I can’t remember if the Sixers’ wives were raising money for Multiple Sclerosis or Muscular Dystrophy. All I know is I was a few steps away from the concession stand when I heard a woman call out: “Would you like to help?”

I was 13. How the hell was I going to help anybody? “Help with what?” I answered. I looked to the side and there were three or four women standing behind a table. They were wives of the 76ers’ players. As I approached the table, I said to the one woman: “I only have five dollars.”

“That’s OK,” she said. “Every little bit helps.” As I got closer to her I saw her name tag: “Turquoise.” Well, there’s only one Turquoise that I’d ever heard of and that would be Dr. J’s wife. You know, had things progressed differently from that moment on, I may have ended up loving Erving and not Bird. But, alas, it was not to be. It was never to be.

When I saw the name tag, I said: “Hey, you’re Julius Erving’s wife! Wow! That’s so cool.” She confirmed, and that’s when I came up with one of the best ideas I thought I had as a kid. “Like I said, I only have five dollars.” Reassured again, I found myself ready to part with the fin.

“Hold on,” I said. “How about if I give you this five dollars for M.S. or M.D. (still can’t remember) and then you get me your husband’s autograph?” She looked at me and said: “I think I can do that, young man.”

I handed her the five dollars, and she handed me a piece of scrap paper. She wanted my address so she could mail the autograph to me. Yes, maam: 3408 Eisenhower Avenue, Reading PA, 19605! That was early 1978, and I still remember my excitement on the way home in the car. Well, it’s 40-plus years later and I’m still waiting for that fucking autograph. That’s right, Turquoise stiffed me. She flat-out stiffed me.

Oh, the joy it brought me years later to see Bird kick Erving’s ass. In the early- mid-1980s, I would find myself at Franklin and Marshall College, which just so happened to be where the Philadelphia 76ers held their training camps. I was on the basketball team and we got to “work” some of their practices, which just meant standing with towels under the basket waiting for sweat to be wiped off the Mayser Center floor.

It was incredible to see Sixers’ players around the small campus in Lancaster PA, but there they were. I would see Erving here and there during those times on the court and down in “the pit,” where the locker rooms, weight room and equipment stuff was. I could have gotten Erving’s autograph anytime I wanted during those three or four years. But I wouldn’t have asked him for an autograph if my life depended on it at that point.

I had one real chance to get to Erving, and confront him on all of this. He was walking down one part of the gym and I was walking toward him. There was no avoiding him. He got closer and closer, and as we passed, he nodded his head, acknowledging me. I didn’t even look up at him. I just kept walking. That’s right, I snubbed him. I snubbed Julius “Dr. J” Erving! I snubbed him like Kramer snubbed Jerry’s old girlfriend Gail Cunningham.

I’m older now and willing to mend fences with Erving. But I’m still waiting for that damn autograph.

Look, the reason people relate to the Michael Jordan story of getting cut when he was in ninth grade isn’t because they relate to Michael Jordan. It’s because they relate to the coach that cut them, the coach who didn’t believe in them, the coach that made a big mistake.

That would be Mike Zuber to me. Now, don’t get me wrong, we all love “Zubes,” but he might have been the worst coach I ever had. Or … maybe he was the best coach I ever had. I mean, hell, he ended up motivating me for the next 10 years. Who knows? I thought he was pretty lousy but he showed me that even if you didn’t like a coach you could still play hard for him.

But Mike Zuber said something to me at halftime of a game against Southwest that I remember to this day. Our ninth grade team was undefeated when we played at Southwest, one of my most favorite gyms of all time. I loved that gym. Went to it countless times with my dad when he was officiating rec league games. Used to shoot around at timeouts and between games.

Zuber seldom played me as a freshman at Holy Name. I mean, he just didn’t. Mike was part of those Holy Name teams in the early 1970s who were really, really good. He was on that state championship team, of course. But dammit, Mike, you didn’t see the forest through the trees!

Gary Swavely, Terry Larkin, Mike Nawa, Al Ciervo and Tom Clouser were the starters. I came off the bench, though not often enough for my liking. Each of those guys had come from one of the catholic grade schools, but I transferred from Muhlenberg. I didn’t know anybody. And those guys were good. Zuber knew he was starting before the first day of practice.

So it’s halftime against Southwest and we’re down about five, circa January 1979. I hadn’t played in the first half, which wasn’t unusual. Steph Lowry was killing us, and Zuber was fuming at halftime. “Can anyone in here guard Lowry?!? Nobody said a word, and I didn’t know if he wanted an answer or not. After some silence, I said: “I’ll guard him.”

After a short pause, Zuber told me something in that locker room — in front of the whole team — I’ve never forgotten: “You’re too small.”

We won that game, I didn’t play, and every time I’ve ever seen Mike Zuber since I’ve given him grief. And rightfully so. Keep an open mind. That’s what I learned from Mike Zuber — because he didn’t keep one for me.

Here’s to Mike Zuber, who made me hungry.

(Warning: adult content)

I’ll never forget the look on my mom’s face. She was mortified, her eyes wide-open, her mouth agape. It was the early- to mid-1970s, and my mom had just picked me up from Albright College, where former Reading High and current (at the time) Princeton coach Pete Carril, and a bunch of other terrific coaches ran a camp.

Gary Walters was there, the great Jim Gano, I want to say Boyertown’s Jack McCloskey, and a guy named Tony Relvis, whom I could never figure out. Anyway … 

I got into my mom’s car, and we started driving toward home. “How was camp?” my mom asked. “It was good,” I replied. “We learned ‘not to fuck the dog.’”

Mom almost pulled the car over to the side of the road! “Yeah, Mr. Carril told us not to fuck the dog.” And, in fact, that’s what Pete Carril did do during that after-lunch lecture. He told about 75 to 100 campers at the Bollman Center to never do something we’d – at least I’d – never even considered or heard of in the first place.

I must have been 10 or 12, but it was a camp with older kids, maybe up to 10th- and 11th-graders, and some were pretty good players already. But Pete Carril wanted to let everyone know that it didn’t matter if you were a great player if you “fucked the dog.” In fairness to Mr. Carril, he did tell the youngest of the campers – of which I was one – to “cover their ears.” LOL.

“Fucking the dog,” which I didn’t know at the time, meant screwing up. Pete Carril told us we needed to get good grades, needed to treat people the right way, needed to take care of obligations and responsibilities bigger than basketball. It was about not being a punk, not doing drugs and respecting the game. It was a hell of a speech; I remember it to this day.

I was lucky enough to have three “runs” with Mr. Carril: As a kid at his camps, getting to play against Princeton when I was in college and then seeing him four times a year when he was with the Sacramento Kings. Few people have doozies like Pete Carril. I’ll probably be sharing some of them. Of course, Mr. Carril passed recently at 92, leaving an unprecedented legacy.

Here’s to Pete Carril! Don’t you ever forget he perfected his craft at Reading High School in Berks County!