Life on the Run by Bill Bradley Page A

to compete in North Dakota. The other high school star failed to improve in college and faded like so many before him; but Phil continued to improve each year at the University of North Dakota, and New York drafted him in 1967.
    With Jackson’s substitution, the Knicks seem revitalized. He blocks two shots, steals three passes, and over a span of four minutes gets six rebounds. Frazier hits four jumpers and we tie the score. Chicago seems befuddled. Jackson hits a hook across the middle and then takes a lead pass from DeBusschere and dribbles the length of the floor for a reverse lay-up. Barnett smiles and shakes his head, unable to comprehend how, despite his apparent awkwardness, Phil can get the job done. On the last series of plays in the first half, Jackson blocks his man from a rebound, only to see the ball bounce to a Chicago guard, who attempts a drive for a lay-up. Phil leaves his man, lunges across the lane as if out of control, and swats away the ball just as it is about to hit the backboard. Goal tending is not called. The buzzer sounds. The Knicks are up by three at the half.
    I believe that basketball, when a certain level of unselfish team play is realized can serve as a kind of metaphor for ultimate cooperation. It is a sport where success, as symbolized by the championship, requires that the dictates of community prevail over selfish personal impulses. An exceptional player is simply one point on a five-pointed star. Statistics—such as points, rebounds, or assists per game—can never explain the remarkable range of human interaction that takes place on a successful pro team. Personal conflicts between team members will never surface if there is a strong enough agreement on the community’s values and goals. Members of the Budapest String Quartet disliked each other personally, but collectively still made exquisite music. They did so in part because they had a rigid score that limited the range of personal interpretation. The cooperation in basketball is remarkable because the flow of action always includes a role for creative spontaneity; the potential for variation is unlimited. Players improvise constantly. The unity they form is not achieved at the expense of individual imagination. That creative freedom highlights the game’s beauty and its complexity, making the moment when the ideal is realized inspiring for the players, thrilling for the fans.
    As the New York Knicks meshed in 1969, Red Holzman’s role in the development of unselfish team play was crucial. With rules, personal manner and organization he clearly established himself as boss. But, he also encouraged contributions from players, sometimes deferring to their judgment. A player rarely made a suggestion that Red had not thought of before. Still, he allowed each player to believe that his help was essential. He told us we were as good as any team and that potentially we were the best. He had no technical secrets or remarkable innovations. As he said, “Everything done today was done twenty years ago, you guys just do it better.”
    The real genius of Holzman lies in his handling of players. A comment on a plane or in an airport might relate tangentially to a previous game, but it is always delivered low key. He never tells players exactly what he wants them to do beyond the general rules of “seeing the ball” on defense and “hitting the open man” on offense. He prefers to shape a player as he performs. Toward some players he is stern; others he cajoles and flatters. A few he abuses verbally. Each of his moves is calculated to manipulate the player toward action which Red thinks will bring victory.
    Most men would have failed as coach of the New York Knickerbockers. Great college coaches often cannot make the adjustment from coaching boys to controlling men. Holzman does not beg players to do good deeds, nor does he set up elaborate codes of conduct. He expects everyone to act as a responsible adult and he treats players