Matt Steinmetz

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!

You know B.J. Armstrong as a three-time NBA Champion with the Chicago Bulls – the guard who played with Michael Jordan during that 1990s run. You know who I’m talking about: Jordan’s teammate who looked like he was 12-years-old, had this baby-faced grin and, was lucky enough to get to play with Jordan, Pippen, Kukoc, etc.

B.J. Armstrong knew how to play, and he took advantage of what he did best about as well as anyone I’ve been around. He was smart and reliable, made all the big shots that ever mattered, and knew what he had to excel at: knocking down open jumpers, playing conscientious defense, and being the ultimate professional.

Armstrong had three championship rings by the time he was 27. During those years, Armstrong was at his best … humble and earnest, honest and respectful, just a multitude of positive adjectives. But like I said, that was B.J. Armstrong at his best.

I saw B.J. Armstrong at his worst. 

I saw him the year after that third title, when the Bulls’ left him off their expansion roster, and he wound up in Golden State. He found himself in a mess of a situation with a new coach and first-year GM. It was the year after Don Nelson and Chris Webber, figuratively, blew up the organization. The Warriors went 36-46 that season, and missed the playoffs. They would get worse down the line.

Armstrong was brought into Golden State that year to be a leader and example for a young team. He was also brought in so the veterans could get a real up-close look-see at an NBA champion.

But like I said, I was covering the team back then, and I saw B.J. Armstrong at his worst.

And he was the exact same person in Golden State that he was in Chicago. B.J. Amstrong was one of the earliest players I got to cover, and he taught me so much about the NBA. He was a pillar of class at the start of what would become maybe the most chaotic and disorganized runs the NBA ever saw.

The details of what made and makes B.J. Armstrong a special man, hopefully, will come down the line. But this guy pretty much took me under his wing at a time when I “didn’t even know what I didn’t know,” as Mike Montgomery once said. Armstrong is the essence of a pro’s pro.

Here’s to B.J. Armstrong. He’s one of the names that always comes to mind when I hear the word “Class.”