A couple of days in April, 1969
Thomas Jerome "Tom" Hawkins (December 22, 1936 - August 16, 2017) was a retired American professional basketball player, sports announcer, and team executive.
Thomas Jerome "Tom" Hawkins (December 22, 1936 - August 16, 2017) was a retired American professional basketball player, sports announcer, and team executive. He is also one of the nicest, kindest men you would ever want to meet. If you don’t believe that, read the essay below.
A 6'5" (1.96 m) forward, Hawkins starred at Chicago's Parker High School before playing at the University of Notre Dame, where he became the school's first African-American basketball star.[1] He was then selected by the Minneapolis (later Los Angeles) Lakers in the first round of the 1959 NBA Draft, and he would have a productive ten-year career in the league, playing for the Lakers as well as the Cincinnati Royals as he registered 6,672 career points and 4,607 career rebounds.
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Hawkins later worked in radio and television broadcasting in Los Angeles and served as vice president of communications for the Los Angeles Dodgers baseball team. He attributes much of what he learned about working with people to his time at Notre Dame. “Notre Dame is special,” he said. “I learned how to be a whole person there. I never let myself be treated by anyone as anything less, and I never treated anyone less than as a whole person.”
I was a retarded kid in high school. I wanted to write “typically retarded” but I don’t think I was typical. Went to confession on Saturday afternoons while every other hetero dude my age was out banging cheerleaders and/or sampling brew. Went to Mass on Sundays with my father when every other dude was just getting to bed after an all nighter with cheerleaders and brew.
1969 was my graduating year from a suburban high school in Northern California. I had applied to two schools and been admitted to both, one a small private Catholic college within a couple hours drive of home and the other a behemoth public institution located in psycho sinful Los Angeles, California.
It was important to me to get completely out of my element, so I chose to attend the behemoth to the south. My father, a graduate of a small private Catholic college (not the one to which I applied) could not believe that I wanted to go away, which was ironic because every other adult who knew me and my family specifically advised me to go away, as far away as possible, even to Vietnam were I fortunate enough to be drafted. I didn’t get why they advised me that way at the time.
I do now.
I was raised by people whose parenting skills were just good enough not to be illegal. It was just not natural for them to interact with children. They were damaged people, and may they rest in peace. They are forgiven.
My mom was an alcoholic, beatnik, jazz lover who read Aristotle and Plato over coffee, brandy and cigarettes until 2 in the morning. Her normal rising time was 11am and, by that time, most young kids are off at school. It never occurred to me that getting myself up in the morning, making breakfast, and getting to school on my own wasn’t what every kid did.
My dad commuted to the City and had his practice as an accountant for restaurants and small businesses. His skills were in the areas of rage, finance, and golf. He was happy that I was a kid who loved sports and he encouraged me. I played baseball and basketball but the latter became my passion. It still is.
By “encouraged” I mean he was an active influence. By “active influence” I mean he was a tough critic. By “tough critic” I mean his best motivational line was “will you please do me a fucking favor…the next time you have the god damn ball in your hands…will you PLEASE, just as a favor…will you at least LOOK at the god damn basket.”
It is with words such as those that I took to the floor each day in practice and two days a week in our games in high school, and in pick-up games the year around.
Because my mom was largely absent from the parental equation and because my dad encouraged me in the ways he did, I naturally looked to other people for guidance. For better or worse, I was raised by teachers, coaches, cops, and priests (good priests).
Our high school teams were successful. We had excellent coaches and a stream of good players, even for a school from the suburbs, and we competed well with teams from all over the Bay Area and Northern California. It was fun.
But for me sports were more than fun. They were way more important to my emotional development than just fun. They were my refuge.
My dad had introduced me to basketball through stories of “his” USF Dons, the two-time national champions in the mid-1950s, who won 60 consecutive games during their reign. The high profile players on those teams were Bill Russell of Oakland and K. C. Jones of San Francisco, and among them I am fortunate to say was Stanlee J. Buchanan, also of San Francisco by way of Saint Ignatius, who was my freshman coach in high school. That a man from USF was my coach was a huge thrill for my father.
The other introduction my dad provided was to the professional game, the NBA. In 1962 the Philadelphia Warriors moved to San Francisco, to set up a rivalry similar to what had taken place when both the Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants moved to Los Angeles and San Francisco, respectively, in 1958.
The Los Angeles Lakers had moved west from Minneapolis in 1960, so the new rivalry was exciting to NBA fans on the West Coast.
Russell and Jones both moved on from USF to join the Boston Celtics under legendary coach, Arnold “Red” Auerbach. In the 13 years that Russell played (and coached) for Boston, the Celtics were world champions 11 times.
On January 3, 1963, a Friday evening in the Warriors first season in San Francisco, my dad took me to a game against the Celtics at the Cow Palace. It was a sellout crowd of around 19,000, and about 18,500 of the guests were Celtic partisans, as you might imagine, given their success and the presence of Russell and Jones.
In my mind what I saw that night was not basketball, it was ballet.
While the bigger Warriors would huff puff their ways up and down the floor, struggling against Boston’s superior defense and the 24-second shot clock to just get a decent shot at the basket, the Celtics would get a rebound, direct two or three astonishingly accurate passes down the floor in perfect balance, and make an easy lay-up. Often the ball would not touch the floor for even one dribble.
For the record, that Boston team consisted of Bob Cousy, Jack Foley, Gene Guarilia, John Havlicek, Tom Heinsohn, K. C. Jones, Sam Jones, Jim Loscutoff, Clyde Lovellette, Frank Ramsey, Bill Russell, Tom Sanders, and Don Swartz. Celtic great Bill Sharman had retired the year before to become a coach.
The impression that game made on me was even greater than the first time I had entered Candlestick Park to see Willie Mays and the Giants play in 1962.
Now, fast forward to the spring of 1969. The NBA playoffs were underway and, since it was Easter vacation, three of my teammates and I attended the third game of the series between the Warriors and the Lakers at the Cow Palace, after the Warriors had somehow won the first two playoff games in Los Angeles over a team with eventual Hall of Famers Wilt Chamberlain, Jerry West, and Elgin Baylor.
That night was a bust for the Warriors as the Lakers won easily and completely turned the whole thing around, winning the best of seven series in six games.
We were the kinds of kids who pretty much worshiped those players, all the players, the stars and the unknowns. We got to the games early to watch them come into the arena in street clothes and then exit after the games. Every now and then we might catch the attention of one well-dressed player and he might nod his head and smile in our direction. This was thrilling. Pro basketball players were cool, man.
So after the loss we sat at the west end of the Cow Palace past which we knew the players had to walk to get outside. Team executives, managers, and the radio and TV people would emerge first, followed by the players, who usually came out one at a time. Bold people would approach them, shake hands, and ask for autographs. We kind of hung back and enjoyed the parade.
Something different, however, was about to happen.
Laker veteran Tom Hawkins, nicknamed “Tommy” and “Hawk,” whom we knew had played with Oscar Robertson in Cincinnati, saw the four of us seated at floor level near the exit tunnel.
He came over to engage us.
!!!!!!
Hey, guys, what’s goin’ on?
!!!!!!
I was the oldest so I spoke up. Nice game, Mr. Hawkins. You guys killed us.
Call me Hawk, he said. What’s your name?
I then introduced myself, and my mates. We all shook hands, WITH A NBA PLAYER.
Where are you guys from?
We explained.
You play?
We explained.
So, you’re off this week, right?
!!!!! (how would he know?)
Yes, sir, it is Easter vacation.
All right, so, what are you doing tomorrow?
!!!!! (what is going on here?)
I say, you mean tomorrow?
Yes, tomorrow.
!!!!! (we are on vacation)
I look at my mates and say, we are free tomorrow.
He says, good, how would you like to come to practice?
!!!!!
Do you mean Laker practice, Mr. Hawkins?
It’s Hawk, and, yes, that’s what I mean.
So, he explains that Laker practice is the next afternoon, a Wednesday at 2pm, over at the Oakland Coliseum. He instructs us to go to a specific entry door, which he will open for us at 2pm.
!!!!!
Of course, this kind of thing is routine for a small group of hoops-happy teenagers, so even though “Hawk” told us to be there at 2pm, we thought it would be safer to get there at noon.
We went to the door and knocked. Nothing.
At 12:30pm we knocked. Nothing.
At 1pm we knocked. Nothing. Same at 1:30pm
At 2pm, we didn’t have to knock. Hawk opened the door.
Come on in guys. Come down to the floor and have a seat there. We’ll get started in a few minutes.
We sat on folding chairs where the Laker bench would be the next night.
One by one the players entered the floor in practice gear. Ambassador Hawkins stood by to introduce us to each one. “Guys, meet Jerry West.” Hawk knew our names perfectly. How can this be?
After the players it was the coach, Bill Van Breda Kolff, with the gravelly voice, then the radio and TV men, the legendary Chick Hearn and the legend to be, Hot Rod Hundley, who was a former Laker player and a very friendly and funny man.
Of course, these were professional players who were facing a challenge in the form of a two-game deficit in the playoffs so we expected to see a serious practice with lots of structure.
No.
It was a grab-ass session of major proportions, for two hours. Just complete goofing off by these macho, world-class athletes. Not a serious moment. Whenever, Van Breda Kolff tried to gain some sort of respect and order, Wilt Chamberlain would say, “would you just shut up? We’ll handle it” and Bill would take a seat near us, look our way, and throw up his hands. “You guys got any ideas?”
After the practice, Hawk and the guys walked by us one by one and told us thanks for coming, did we need tickets for tomorrow night and other pleasantries ensued. One player, Keith Erickson, who played in college at UCLA for John Wooden, comes over and says, “Hey, can you guys give me a ride?”
!!!!!
A ride?
Yeah, my parents live over in Alameda. I can show you.
Ah, sure, we can give you a ride (Mr. Professional Basketball Player, in our car).
Ok, great, I’ll meet you outside.
Hawk comes over. You guys enjoy yourselves?
Yes, Hawk, we did (Jesus Christ, Holy Shit), thank you.
All right, thanks for giving Erickson a ride. See you tomorrow night.
Yes, sir, we say.
So we take Keith Erickson to his parents place in Alameda and go home. The next night in Oakland the Lakers pound the Warriors again and Warriors’ star scorer, Jeff Mullins gets hurt, virtually ending the season in Round One for the home team. Hawk finds us after the game and says hi and thanks US for coming to the game again.
The story continues.
We are now in the winter of 1999, at a conference in Tucson. I work for a national trade association that supports the commercial real estate industry. I am now 48 years old.
On the third day of the conference, attendees are bored and want to go home, so the organizers always bring in someone from outside the industry to break the monotony. This is the last working session of the three-day event, and afterward everybody will pack up and get on a plane.
As always I get into the room early to get a good seat so I won’t fall asleep and embarrass the speaker. The speaker is sitting near the podium looking at his notes and slides in preparation for a 90-minute presentation.
The speaker is Hawk. He is there to talk to us about public speaking.
I take a breath and do not piss my pants. Check.
I approach.
I say, Hawk (he looks up at me with a slightly distracted smile), you are not going to believe this.
Hawk says, yes, I will believe it. Tell me.
Hawk, I say, do you recall spring of ’69 when you guys played the Warriors at the Cow…
And Hawk says, yes, yes, yes, wait a minute…wait……………..Skip?
And what hugs we gave and received. At that point Hawk said, “stick around, we’re gonna use this,” which meant he was going to incorporate Rule #1 of public speaking, right there and then, which is “use what you have in front of you,” meaning that if you as speaker have any kind of connection to anyone in the audience, use it.
So, Hawk asked me to begin the session with Our Story, which I did with ease and pleasure, and then he took over. As the senior vice president of communications for the Los Angeles Dodgers, he had pulled off this gig many times.
Hawk and I corresponded for several years and then I lost track of him. When I learned he had died in 2017 at age 80, I worked through a reporter with the Los Angeles Times to see if I could get a copy of this story to Hawk’s family. I don’t know if the piece ever made it. I do know they knew what a great man he was.
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