Forty Minutes of Hell (13 page)

R
ichardson's task as
the first black coach in the old Confederacy was not fully appreciated, and most newsmen didn't see the significance. “They didn't understand that this was another world,” TV journalist Steve Narisi says, “this was the Southwest Conference.” The fact that Richardson didn't have the instant success he did in Tulsa compounded the trouble.

Yvonne's decline, of all things, caused Richardson problems with the fans and Broyles. “He'd miss games with Yvonne sick,” Narisi says, “and people would get down on him for that. From the very early days Richardson was on the wrong side of some of the fans. I don't think Nolan ever got over that. If he was a white coach under those circumstances, the fans and media would have been far more patient.”

Another source of trouble was the speed at which Richardson was pushing his team to play. Wally Hall, whose
Democrat-Gazette
columns irritated Richardson for years, says, “I will be the first to admit
that I didn't embrace Nolan's style. He was a pioneer, and it took me two years to appreciate that.” Hall says both the media and the fans had grown accustomed to the Iba-influenced style with which Eddie Sutton succeeded.

With two major newspapers in Little Rock, numerous television stations, and his first teams spinning their wheels, Richardson was confronted with a different media presence than that in Tulsa. Richardson's relationship with Arkansas journalists was complicated. During his first few years in Arkansas, there were two statewide papers, the
Democrat
as well as the
Gazette
. An aggressive battle for readership meant inflammatory articles were sometimes the norm. John Robert Starr was especially critical of Richardson, and when the Razorbacks made dramatic improvements over the years, Starr took credit for that in print, claiming his mean-spirited attacks made Richardson a better coach. In the late 1980s, the papers merged, but Starr continued his critiques.

 

The games at Arkansas
brought a surprising yet familiar face on a regular basis—Tulsa clothier Ed Beshara, who had rarely attended games at TU.

Richardson had talked Beshara into a road trip to attend a Tulsa game at West Texas State in the early 1980s and invited him to sit on the bench. With the score tied, and just seconds remaining, Richardson took a time-out. As he started to set the play, he became aware of a commotion in his own huddle. It was Ed Beshara, jumping around, red-faced, yelling, “Get the ball to Ricky Ross!”

Ross hit the winning shot moments later. After that, though, Richardson figured Beshara was too excitable.

Nevertheless, Richardson was comforted to see Beshara appear at every home game in his early days at Arkansas. With Yvonne dying and the team struggling, Beshara was more than a fan. Richardson loved and trusted him.

“Suddenly you're a real supporter,” Richardson joked. “Why didn't you come to the games at Tulsa when it was ten minutes away?”

Beshara answered straight away. “You didn't need me at Tulsa. You need me here at Arkansas, hoss.”

 

“Everyone deals with death
in different ways,” Mike Anderson says. “Rose's job, like a lot of mothers' jobs, was to raise her child. Then Yvonne wasn't there. Basketball was going on, and that was Coach Richardson's focus because the players were family, too.”

“I don't think I've ever met anyone who gave so much of herself as Rose,” says Madalyn Richardson about her stepmom, “especially after Yvonne passed.”

Several people close to the couple suggest that Rose in particular is still, twenty years later, struggling with the loss of Yvonne.

When Richardson was gone recruiting or at a speaking engagement, Rose would often remain in her bathrobe all day, living in a corner of their bedroom. She would switch on the television, letting the noise distract her. Sometimes she would go days without even venturing outside the townhouse, let alone into Fayetteville.

Some say, however, that Richardson himself carried the grief around even longer.

“After the loss of Yvonne,” one player says, “Coach could always go to basketball, and when you're playing or coaching there's that feeling nothing else is going on. His team could substitute for the family.”

 

After reading about Yvonne's
death, Temple University coach John Chaney phoned Richardson. Chaney is in some ways Richardson's northern alter ego. His résumé is another testament to how difficult advancement was for black coaches of that era.

Chaney played ten seasons in the Eastern Basketball League, the only minor league below the NBA, and was named that league's MVP
in 1959 and 1960. The MVP awards never led to an NBA career; most teams still had quotas limiting the number of black players.

Temple University hired Chaney in 1982. It was seen as a risky move—he was fifty years old, and despite his incredible success as a Division II coach, he had not a single minute of experience at the Division I level as a player or even assistant coach. The gamble paid off, as his Temple teams were usually nationally ranked.

Chaney has had some controversial moments. During a rough-and-tumble game against Saint Joseph's in 2005, he sent substitute Nehemiah Ingram into the game and ordered him to foul intentionally. Chaney, whose team recorded more fouls that night than field goals, would regret the move. Ingram badly injured a Saint Joseph's player. Chaney suspended himself for the remainder of the season.

Chaney refuses to sidestep these incidents. In the Temple media guide the following season—obviously controlled and written by Temple with his guidance—one of the topics in the “Chat with Coach Chaney” section is “On last year's incident with Saint Joseph.”

Chaney can be blunt, charming, and funny. He's part philosopher, part social critic. When questioned about his career accomplishments, he declines to mention the five-hundred-something games he won at Temple. Rather it's “To cause the NCAA to sit down and listen to us about the needs and changes that should be made for many of our young athletes who are predominantly black. That is the fight that I have not stopped fighting.”

Chaney and Richardson would cement their friendship in Virginia in the late 1980s, where a new organization called the Black Coaches Association was holding one of their first meetings.

 

Talks with Chaney helped
Richardson regain his focus. By the autumn of 1987, the beginning of his third season, Richardson felt
a sense of urgency to get Arkansas back to the NCAA Tournament. His Razorbacks responded, going 21-9, including 11-5 in the SWC. They were rewarded with their first NCAA Tournament appearance since Eddie Sutton left Arkansas.

The Razorbacks drew Villanova in the first round and lost 82-74. Richardson was now 0-4 as a coach in NCAA Tournament games, including his time at Tulsa.

Broyles, still not convinced Richardson could coach, suggested after that season that Richardson hire Bob Weltlich as an assistant coach. Richardson knew the reason. Weltlich, who had stumbled as head coach of University of Texas and was fired, got his start as an assistant to Bob Knight. It exasperated Richardson that Broyles wanted him to hire a coach whom he had little trouble beating.

Instead of a staff change, Richardson gathered his assistants a week after the Villanova loss to talk about intensifying their recruiting. Richardson was blessed with a terrific staff—several of his assistant coaches would one day be head coaches. Andy Stoglin, Scott Edgar, Mike Anderson, and his son, Nolan “Notes” Richardson III, all coached Division I teams after leaving Arkansas.

Richardson had his own style of dealing with prospects. Whether it was at a high school gym or campus visit, Richardson would have an assistant coach gather the recruit or his family and bring them to him. Former Tulsa coach John Phillips says, “Nolan would never get up and go to the player. He was establishing early on that if you want to play for him, it was going to be on his terms.”

In the spring of 1988, Richardson and his staff signed one of the best recruiting classes in school history. The group included Todd Day, Lee Mayberry, and Oliver Miller, a trio who would win three consecutive SWC regular-season and tournament titles.

The following year, the Razorbacks finished the 1988–89 season at 25-7, including 13-3 in the SWC. Richardson won his first NCAA Tournament in 1989 over Loyola-Marymount.

Richardson created a new award at the conclusion of the 1989 season, for the Razorback with the best attitude and grades. He called it the Poerschke Award. Eric Poerschke, who was glued to the bench on Senior Night in 1987, was now forever a part of Razorback lore. Richardson recognized himself in the underdog, even if the guy was a well-to-do white benchwarmer with straight A grades.

Richardson's sense of justice was becoming tied to memory—by reminding everyone of past injustices, even his own, he could make things better.

 

Despite the Razorbacks' gradual
improvement, Richardson could still find himself frustrated by the Arkansas mentality. It had been difficult to change old habits, and not only with his players. The university and townspeople sometimes left him flummoxed.

The northwest corner of the state, where Fayetteville is located, still had a far greater percentage of whites than the rest of Arkansas. Many towns in the northwest had unofficial laws forbidding blacks from living in them at all.

The town of Alix had a sign at its city limits that read
NIGGER, DON'T LET THE SUN GO DOWN ON YOU IN ALIX
until 1970. Nearly one hundred “sundown towns” existed in Arkansas through the 1960s. Towns like Paragould and Springdale—practically a twin city of Fayetteville—were also sundown towns. A Springdale steak house called Heinie's had paper placemats that read,
THIS IS AN ALL-WHITE CHRISTIAN COMMUNITY
. Harrison, a Klan stronghold, was a sundown town until 2002.

All of these towns are a short drive from the University of Arkansas.

One morning, during Richardson's early years at Arkansas, his secretary, Terri Mercer, announced that he had some visitors: representatives from a black fraternity and sorority. The young lady was crying. “They ruined our social on Saturday,” he heard her say to Mercer.

Richardson invited them in. The police had arrived at the party, she sobbed, and brought things to a halt. That wasn't unusual on any big college campus. Richardson handed her a Kleenex and checked his watch. It was a Monday morning, and he had plenty to do.

“Dogs!” she said, finally getting her composure. “They raided the house with dogs!” Police, responding to a call, had cleared out the social event with a K-9 unit, the snarling German shepherds scattering the black college students.

Richardson felt his face get hot. He called his secretary back in and instructed her to find Lonnie Williams, a black administrator on campus.

“It was just a fight after the dance, some pushing and shoving that escalated,” Williams recalls. “Since black students had been involved, Nolan felt like we had to go down there and do something.”

“I couldn't believe it,” Richardson says today. “I'd seen Bull Connor in Alabama on television, breaking up marchers with dogs and hoses. But this was the 1980s.”

Williams arrived at Richardson's office minutes later, and they hurried over to the campus police station. Richardson had golfed with police chief Larry Slamons before and got along fine with him, but the coach was seething as he entered the station.

“What is the policy on using dogs to raid a home?” Richardson demanded.

The chief was perplexed. What dogs?

“Do you use dogs to raid white fraternity parties?” Richardson asked.

“Of course not,” said Slamons.

“Then you shouldn't be doing that shit with the black fraternity either,” Richardson said.

Slamons excused himself, made some calls, and learned that dogs were indeed used to raid the black fraternity. A young campus cop called for backup, and the Fayetteville
city
police brought the dogs.

“Chief Slamons was truly sorry,” Williams says, “and just as much in the dark as we were.” Instead of the campus police intervening, the Fayetteville police arrived. “They used incredibly bad judgment,” Williams continues. “Just the sight of the dogs created bad feelings, and dogs were never needed to disperse that type of a crowd.”

Lonnie Williams was inspired, however, by Richardson's response. “Nolan was very animated and authoritative and simply would not budge until we got some answers,” he says. “How many coaches do you know would have personally gotten involved, or not stopped at the phone call?”

There was no player accused. No victory hung in the balance. No referee's judgment could be questioned. It was an important moment in his time at Arkansas, an awakening of sorts that had nothing to do with basketball.

 

Richardson's direct style in
confronting injustice in the 1980s contrasts greatly with that of Hall of Fame coach—er, contributor—John McLendon.

When McLendon attended the University of Kansas in the 1930s, the campus was segregated. Degree requirements in McLendon's major included proficiency in swimming and lifesaving. The school had an unusual policy, though. Black kids were given an automatic “A,” to keep them from polluting the whites-only pool.

McLendon decided not to accept the free grade and went to the pool anyway to fulfill his requirements. Friends of McLendon collected over a thousand signatures on a petition that said they did not mind swimming with Negroes.

But the word was out, and the attendant had already drained the pool before McLendon arrived. When signs started appearing on campus, reading
DO NOT SWIM WITH THE NIGGER
, McLendon collected the signs and gave them to his advisor, and basketball's inventor, Dr. James Naismith. Naismith, in turn, took the signs to the
university president and said if another sign appeared he would find work at another college.