Sticking to A Phantom like Glue

It would be an easy, fun night.Sit on the bench in the BostonGarden and watch yourteammates play the bestcollege team in NewEngland. Thenthe coach said, "You're starting..."

IT WAS DECEMBER 1947. The B&M train pulled into North Station in the early afternoon. We carried our duffels to our rooms in the Manger Hotel and were supposed to rest. But I couldn't I was too excited. I don't know why. No way I ever got into a game. Our coach had picked the starting five at the beginning of the season and that was it. No one substituted unless a first-stringer fouled out, then our number six man would go in. I was number ten. I was a sophomore, only 5'8 1/2 had been lucky to make the team at all. But I worked hard. I got a thrill every time we beat the first team in practice. And the trips were wonderful. We got away from the granite of New Hampshire and the studying and the loneliness. To come in by train, rest up in a hotel, and play at a huge arena without ever going outside was really something to a small-town Midwestern boy like me.

We had our steak dinner at four. There wasn't much talk around the table. We were a little tight. No way we were going to beat Holy Cross without a miracle. On hockey skates or skis, a Dartmouth guy might look good. But Holy Cross wore the basketball sneakers in New England, and everybody knew it.

Near game time we got into our uniforms, took the elevator to the sub-basement, went through a dark tunnel, and walked up the steps into the brilliant lights of the Boston Garden. There they were. Holy Cross, awesome in their purple and white uniforms. They were zipping the ball around to music, like the Globetrotters. We just stared.

Coach grabbed my arm, and I got the shock of my life. "Taylor, I'm starting you tonight.They've got a tricky guy, I hear. But you're quick. You can stay with him. Don't worry about shooting. Just guard this guy tight. Stick to him like glue."

I was dumbfounded. Me starting?

He looked at his notepad. "Number 17. But he's just a sophomore. And not tall. Can you do it, Taylor?"

I mumbled something like, "Do my best, Coach," and looked down at the other end of the court. There was number 17, warming up. I guessed he was only 6' or 6'1", tops. He didn't look so special. God. I'm starting, I thought. I looked up at the crowd. I had never seen so many faces.

I remember thinking I was ready. I had four solid years of high school ball behind me. I had been through grueling four-hour practices with 1 1/2 hours of no-stop scrimmages.

Before the tip-off I shook hands with my man. How tricky can he be? I thought. And then I noticed his eyes. They were dark and unusual. Like he was looking behind you or around you or over you. Never at you.

I still couldn't believe I was starting. All I had to do was stick to this guy. What had Coach said? Oh, like glue. Then the tip and right away he had the ball out front. I had my hands up, the way you're taught. I heard a whizzing sound by my right ear. I never did see the ball. The crowd cheered. I realized that my man had fooled me. He had been looking toward the sideline, not the basket. He had thrown the ball from the top of the dribble; his other hand had never touched it. He'd somehow thrown the pass between my right hand and my head, about a 23-inch gap. It was so fast I hadn't really seen it I just heard it. The ball hit the hands of their center, Kaftan, under the basket, thwack. Two points.

I sensed it might be a long night.

A few seconds later I stayed with 17 when he drove in from the right. I went up with him in a good position to block. I could jump pretty well for my height. I could touch the rim. But then he didn't have the ball! He'd back-handed a perfect bounce pass to a teammate on his left.

By the first time-out, it seemed like there were 17s all over the place, scoring at will and throwing impossible passes. Then, there'd be no 17s at all. If I was out on the left, all of a sudden he would be way over on the right. It seemed like I was running sideways all the time.

I didn't worry about scoring, like the coach had said. I tried one jump shot from outside the key and wham! Seventeen blocked it back so hard that no kidding the ball almost broke my nose.

Although my man dribbled low in traffic, he dribbled very high coming up court. This kept his head up so he could see better to zip off those surreal passes. Also, he pounded the ball unusually hard into the floor. That made the ball come up quick. Without palming the ball, he could keep it in his hand longer so he could shoot instantly or fire off an incredible assist.

They had some great plays. On one of them, Kaftan would get the ball on the foul line, his back to the basket. Seventeen would tear past him on the left for the hand-off. But Kaftan would fake handing off. Then another player would tear by on the right. Kaftan would fake again. By this time my guy would be floating toward the left sideline. Suddenly he'd spin around and race back toward the basket. Kaftan, Still with his back to the basket, would throw a blind pass over his shoulder and hit my man already going into the air for his layup. I had the feeling I was chasing a damn phantom. It went on all night. I fouled him four times. Really stupid fouls. He'd zig when he should have zagged, and I'd crash into him. We lost the game 75-61.

But you know what? I've never been embarrassed about that game. Especially since the man I was trying to guard would be named to the AP and Helm's All-America teams, go on to lead the Boston. Celtics to five consecutive league championships, and become one of the greatest players in NBA history. I had a brush with greatness and something to tell my grandchildren. I had a chance to guard Bob Cousy.

The Author, ready.

Holy Cross's number 17 dazzled Dartmouth with no-look passes. He'd go on to star in the NBA.

PARK TAYLOR, Dartmouth's 1950 Class Poet, lives near LakeMichigan following a career in copywriting and advertising.