You Let Some Girl Beat You? (7 page)

With my fifth foul and a technical, I sat out the rest of the game and watched as we lost. At least I was down on the courts and not up in the stands. Many knew the Meyers name, and there was little doubt Mom, Patty, and the rest of my family were fielding more than a few sneers.

When the game finally ended, Coach Kenny came over to the bench and sat down next to me. “As great as you are, Annie, you can be better.”

“But she kept calling me for fouls. For reaching, when I wasn't.”

“You're gifted. But you lack discipline.”

Discipline
? Was I really hearing this? Was he really accusing me—one of eleven siblings who shared a bathroom with five sisters and always waited her turn without complaining
undisciplined
? “They were reaching all night and she never called a foul on them once. We should have won.”

“First you have to learn to control your competitive nature, learn to harness the power that comes from that fire rather than dilute it through tantrums.
Then
we'll win.” And with that, he got up from the bench, leaving me there to stew alone.

So that was it. There was no doubt I was competitive. I was fiercely and passionately competitive. A desire to win coursed through my veins, and I was glad for it. It was my life's blood. I had never considered that drive might need to be bridled, that a vein might burst. Coach Washington had begun his lessons. Today's was teaching me the first thing that every great athlete must learn; to control the mind and emotions, as well as the body. Papa's way of putting it was simple: “Don't whine, don't complain, don't make excuses.”

Coach Kenny understood me because he'd been an explosive player himself, and he'd learned from the best how to control it. Now he'd make sure that I, too, would learn to manage my temper and still play with the same passion that I had from as far back as I could remember. I continued to get in the faces of teammates who slacked off. I still yelled at them on the courts and tried to fire them up, “Come On!” I'd scream. And while I can't say I never threw a ball again, that was the last time I ever threw one at a ref.

At San Diego State I kicked the ball into the bleachers after I got called for a foul, and Kenny put me on the bench next to him. At a game in San Louis Obispo, we were up by a lot when, after a fast break, I threw a behind-the-back pass and we scored. Kenny pulled me out of the game to sit on the bench. “The bench is a coach's best friend,” Papa liked to say.

Coach Kenny and I butted heads all the time. I still had it in my thick skull that nobody could really teach me the game. Nobody could really know it or love it more than I did—well, no one except Coach Wooden. But the guys got Papa. I got one of Papa's protégé's. Though I cried plenty that year, Coach Kenny ended up teaching me a lot about basketball, and even more about myself. There would be no passing from behind, no tricky moves that dazzled the kids, and none of the fancy footwork that put the Harlem Globetrotters on the map. Mastering the fundamentals had been Papa's approach, and Coach Kenny would make sure that we mastered them, too. Everything we did was going to be by the rules.

Though I didn't start in the beginning of the season, I was moved up to start with Venita Griffey, Judy LeWinter, Leslie Trapnell, and Karen Nash. Karen's nickname was Mama Nash, and she was a brilliant young woman who would go on to become an oral surgeon. There were several seniors on the team during my freshman year who didn't start, but if they weren't as clever with a basketball, they were far cleverer when it came to books. They were the likes of Kathy Fitzgerald, Jane Wortman, and Jane Cohen, who graduated Phi Beta Kappa.

Fitz, Wart, and Coke, as we called them, were as tight as a well-woven rug. Nothing and no one could penetrate those bonds. Normally, we'd drive back from the games in two vans, but during a tournament in Santa Barbara we stayed in a hotel, four-to-a-room.

I was put in with the three best friends. No problem, I thought…until I woke up the next morning strapped into my bed with the sheets tucked in around me, and the mattress standing vertically against the wall. It was a good-natured hazing.

“You might be starting on the varsity team, but you're still just a freshman,” one of them told me. I didn't care. I was happy to be in the same van with them. And based on how many times they passed me the ball, they seemed happy to be on the same court with me—even when they got hit in their exceptionally bright heads by one of my bullet passes.

By the end of the season the three seniors had been accidentally hit in the back of the head enough times that they had to step up their game. The drive to excel, so intrinsic to the Wooden Era at UCLA, was finally starting to permeate its women's basketball program. But I had no high cause. I simply wanted to win a championship for the school like David had.

It wouldn't happen in basketball, not that year anyway. But there were other sports. Toward the end of my freshman season, I made it onto the track team as a walk-on.

I loved competing in track and field, especially running the Mt. SAC relays. Mt. SAC was located in Walnut, about an hour southeast of UCLA, and I'd competed there as a child on the club team. With its history, Mt. SAC was sacred ground as far as I was concerned. And yet, so many world records were still to be set by people like Carl Lewis and fellow Bruin Jackie Joyner Kersee.

It was at Mt. SAC that I first met Wilt.

“Annie?” His voice was deep. Everyone knew Wilt from his days with the L.A. Lakers, from which he'd just recently retired.
But how could Wilt Chamberlain know me?
I had noticed him watching me for quite a while. When he finally came over to the high-jump pit and introduced himself, I was thrilled, nervous, honored and, as usual, tongue-tied. Wilt was a great high jumper himself and quickly put me at ease talking about the girls track team he sponsored. “It's called Wilt's Wonder Women,” he said, “I'd like you to see them.”

Wilt Chamberlain had grown up with many sisters, so he was always very supportive of women's sports. He loved volleyball but, like me, his first true love was track and field. In fact, as a younger man he thought basketball was a sissie sport. But at 7'1”, The Big Dipper—so named by the way he'd dip his head before passing through a doorway—realized his height sealed his fate. He played for the Globetrotters his first year out of Kansas and, in time, developed a deep love of the game.

Wilt was born to play basketball. One of the greatest players of all time, he is still the only person to score 100 points in one game—a record neither Michael Jordan nor Kobe Bryant came close to busting. He was gifted, tall, and always smiling and talking.

Since he lived so close to UCLA, the two of us played a few pick-up games at Pauley Pavilion. But it was at the campus handball courts, near the men's athletic department, where we spent most of our time together. We played racquetball at least once or twice a week and if anything got my fire going, it was that. Wilt would hit corner shots that were impossible to return, which would make me terribly angry. Every time I missed one of those shots he would just toss his big head back and laugh, causing me to become all the more furious and to want to beat him even more.

Like Coach Kenny, Wilt helped me to understand and control my competitive nature. He also worked with me on my high jump technique. Track and field was one place my temper couldn't get me into foul trouble. I would become part of a championship team after all during my freshman year, as the women's track team ended up winning. But I still desperately wanted to win a basketball championship for the Bruin women just as David had for the men. If he could do it, so would I.

“Talent is God-given. Be humble. Fame is man-given. Be grateful.
Conceit is self-given. Be careful.”
~ Coach John Wooden

The December, 1975 issue of
People
magazine featured a photo spread and story on David and me. There was a full-page photo of me trying to block one of David's shots on a court near our home in La Habra—all four feet, knee-high in the air.

“I'm working for women, I guess,” I told them in response to a question about the women's movement. “But I'm working for myself just as much—I'm doing it for me.”

My freshman season I was the leading scorer and rebounder, shooting .528 from the field and .767 from the foul line, with 125 assists, 119 steals (#1 in freshman history), and twenty-five blocked shots, earning All American honors. I was part of a Bruin team that led with an 18-4 overall record and a first-place finish (9-1) out of six teams in the Southern California Women's Intercollegiate Athletic Conference. But in the conference championship game at Riverside, we lost to the Cal State Fullerton Titans by one point. I was not a happy camper. Still, I figured we had three more shots.

During my free time, I continued to watch David's practices and was consumed by David and the men's team during my freshman year. I was like a kid in a candy shop watching the guys practice under Coach Wooden. They'd lost the previous year with players Jamaal Wilkes and Bill Walton, to David Thompsons' NC State team.

“Goodness Gracious Sake's alive!” was all Coach Wooden said, showing his displeasure. That was the extent of his cursing, but I can attest to the fact that whenever the guys heard, “Goodness Gracious Sake's alive,” they knew they were in trouble. Wooden's UCLA team had won the championships in '64 and '65, and again from '67 to '73. They were expected to win in '74, but they only made it as far as the Final Four. In '75, Wilkes and Walton were gone, and no one expected them to do well. They had Marques Johnson as a freshman, and David was the captain. David was one of their top scorers, rebounders, and defensive players, and his determination and passion on the courts was always so intense that later, in the NBA, he would be called for a technical just because of the look he'd given a ref.

Now David and the team were playing in the Final Four, and the whole family had traveled to San Diego to watch. Even though David was hurt, he played solid. The first game was against Louisville, whose coach, Denny Crum, had not only played for Papa, but also became his assistant coach. It was a close game between rivals who were mirror images of each other. The crowd went wild when UCLA won by two on a last-second shot in overtime.

Coach Wooden seldom went into the locker room after a game, but he went in that night. When he told the guys it had been a great game and a shame that someone had to lose, they immediately sensed something was up. “I want you boys to know I'm bowing out. You'll be the last team I'll ever coach, and I've never been prouder.”

They were flabbergasted. No one had any idea that the greatest coach to have ever lived had decided to hang up his whistle—not the press, not the players, not even UCLA's administration. I don't even know if he'd told his wife, Nellie. He let the players know before anyone. It was the night before the championship.

The game was against Kentucky who'd beat out Syracuse in the other semi-final. The Bruin men went onto that court and fought hard. None of them wanted the man they all loved and respected to go. But if he had to go, it would be on a high note. On March 31, 1975, Coach Wooden's team took him to his 10th championship in twelve years, and David helped lead the way with 24 points and 11 rebounds.

Afterward, the Meyers's celebrated at the home of Fon and Audrie Johnson in San Diego. Fon had played basketball with my father, and the Johnsons had been like second parents to me. We loved them and they loved us. But at the party, I noticed my father was standoffish. He kept to himself in a corner. My parents had come to every game of David's that last year, along with the rest of the Meyers because we were all so proud of our brother's remarkable college career. But in San Diego, the cracks in my parents' marriage were starting to show.

“He's angry that I won't let him rep me. He never wants to speak to me again.” The Lakers had chosen David as NBA first round, second draft pick (behind David Thompson) after coming off his senior year playing in Coach Wooden's 10
^th
and final championship. My brother's professional career was about to begin, and my dad was unhappy David hadn't asked him to be his agent. The party in San Diego had been just the tip of the iceberg.

“Well, what does Mark think?” I asked. Our older brother, Mark, who helped negotiate my Pacers contract, had been out of the house for several years and was a father himself. Mark had experienced his own run-in with Dad several years earlier when he and Frannie decided to get married and leave for Berkeley on a football scholarship.

I still remember my father's words. “I'm telling you now, Mark, you're too young. I won't let you throw your life away.”

He felt Mark had what it took to go pro. Now, eight years later and graduated from both Berkeley and law school, Mark was proving to be every bit the businessman my father was. And every bit his own man.

David had already spoken to Mark about the problem. “Mark agrees with me. Says it's beyond his own scope, let alone Dad's.”

David had asked Mark to rep him, but Mark knew he'd be a disservice now that David was about to play with the big boys. It wasn't Mark's expertise. Instead, Mark helped David find the best agent possible. David was picked by the Lakers and then ultimately traded with four other players to the Milwaukee Bucks for Kareem Abdul Jabbar.

My parents had both grown up in Milwaukee, where my dad was eventually drafted by their pro team, The Shooting Stars, after playing as starting point guard and captain for Marquette. He'd also been offered the coaching job at Marquette, but my mom's father talked him out of it because coaching didn't pay well in those days, and he had a growing family to support.

Dad had always prided himself on his business sense and had studied business law for a while in college. In his mind, he was as groomed as anyone to handle David's career, more so since he was family. Additionally, given the Meyers's history of lousy luck when it came to the big leagues, Dad felt he was entitled. After all, “shoulda, coulda, woulda” was in his blood.

My father's father had been named Majorowski, but he changed it to Meyers after being offered a contract to try out for the Chicago White Sox back in the 30s. But fate stuck out its foot and tripped things up when the war broke out. If my dad felt circumstances had put the kibosh on his own father's chance at success, he may have also believed that marrying young had prevented him from achieving greatness as well. In his mind, he'd tried to prevent Mark from making the same mistake. Now David was breaking the streak, and I suppose it was natural that Dad wanted to play some part in helping David grab the brass ring, which had proved so elusive to the Meyers men up to that point.

Around this same period, my parents' verbal sparring escalated, and while I couldn't have realized it, apparently my five younger siblings had ring-side seats. Their relationship had been strained for some time. And whether it was my father's annoyance at David's decision that set him off, or something else, he wasn't treating my mother kindly.

Anything he would do to upset her, upset me because she had always been so good to all of us. She used to stay up until midnight, sometimes lugging huge baskets of laundry downstairs, which was no small feat in a family as large as ours. I can't remember not hearing the washing machine or the dryer run. And when she wasn't folding, she was standing over the ironing board. Yet when friends wanted to come over to swim, she never said no, even though it meant more towels to clean. The Meyers's house was open to everyone, and she treated the neighborhood like family.

I thought about how my father told David he never wanted to speak to him or see him again if he couldn't get his way. It reminded me of how complicated our relationship with our father had been. As kids, we used sports to win his attention when he was home, though I'm sure we didn't know that's what we were doing at the time. He enjoyed athletics, we enjoyed athletics, and the moments we spent together usually revolved around some sporting event. Mom was amazing, but she was always there for us. Dad was the big fish, and athletic achievement was what lured him. Now David had the ultimate bait, but he was long past fishing for our father's attention.

It tore me up inside, yet as bad as I felt, I couldn't allow what was happening back home to derail my college career. There were too many classes and tests I had to make up after having been on the road with the team—along with other sports to pursue. I tried comforting myself knowing that Mom was tough. She'd survive. At least, that's what I kept telling myself. Fixing their marriage wasn't my job. My job was clinching a championship for Coach Kenny and somehow making it to the Olympics as a high jumper. And UCLA had the most famous track coach to have ever lived.

Ducky Drake had coached both Rafer Johnson and CK Yang at UCLA and at the '60 Olympic decathlon in Rome, where Rafer won the gold. Now Duckie was the trainer for Coach Wooden's men's team.

He and I had a special relationship. I could open up to Duckie. He never brought up the Olympics in Rome when we talked, even though everybody knew about it. It was just in the air, part of the fabric of UCLA sports. But for me, the story of Rafer and CK under Duckie's coaching was uniquely inspirational.

Both men had grown up on opposite sides of the world to become good friends and teammates under Duckie at UCLA. But when both then made it to the 1960 Olympics in Rome—Rafer representing the U.S. and CK representing Taiwan—athletes the world over held their breath. The two men were virtually neck and neck throughout, with Rafer ahead in one event and Yang the next. Each went into the final event thinking he would win the decathlon until they both discovered that they were paired in the same heat. Yang had always beaten Rafer in the 1,500 meters, but now he would have to beat him by ten seconds to win.

Each approached Duckie separately. Duckie told Rafer, “You have to stay with him no matter what. You can't let him get away.” To CK Yang, he whispered, “He has never beaten you before. He cannot stay with you.”

Yang crossed the tape in 4:48.5 with Johnson just behind him at 4:49.7. Ultimately, the score was Rafer - 8,392, Yang - 8,334. Rafer won the decathlon by 58 points to take the gold, but he would always say it was basically a tie. The two men remained great friends until Yang's death in 2007.

“Annie, you'd be a strong quarter miler,” Duckie told me one day. “You should think about doing the pentathlon.”

Duckie knew I held hopes to compete in the Olympics in track and field. He knew the high jump was my specialty, but my technique was more of the “Eastern Roll,” where your body went over horizontal with the bar. I learned how to do the Fosbury Flop my freshman year at UCLA and kept my sights set on the Olympics with the most famous track coach encouraging me.

I took Duckie's advice and also competed in the Pentathlon at UCLA. Like Coach Kenny, Duckie was a great mentor. But then I had a lot of mentors during my years at UCLA.

And too many coaches.

During my sophomore year, UCLA women's basketball changed. I was upset to see Coach Kenny let go. In his place, they brought in Ellen Mosher. I had known Ellen Mosher since our days playing AAU ball. Ellen had been a shooter from Iowa where she played girls' six on six and AAU basketball for the Raytown Piperettes before she moved to California. Though she was good, my opinion was that she wasn't good enough to coach me. I'm not sure whether I struggled with authority or had a tough time with all the changes in my life, but I put up the same wall as I'd done when jumping from school to school when I was younger. Whatever the reason, I wasn't happy about switching to a different style of play. The result was that I was being extremely hard on her, which probably hurt the team's chemistry. All I knew was that I wanted to win a championship for UCLA, and I didn't see how that was possible playing musical coaches.

During my sophomore year, we were expected to win our conference. During UCLA's 90-48 victory over USC at Pauley Pavilion, I had nine steals that night (out of 82 for the year). Two nights later, we overpowered Fresno State, 96-47. In that game, I had fifteen assists bringing that stat up to 128 for the year. But the game at Cal Poly Pomona was a different story. We played against a team coached by Darlene May, and they had a game plan. I was still working on my emotions, and Darlene used that to her advantage by having her team get me in foul trouble. Meanwhile, Ellen Mosher was still walking on eggshells around me. She knew she needed to earn my respect, for my own good and that of the team. She put me on the bench in the first ten minutes of that game, and we saw our lead crumble, ultimately losing to Cal Poly by 28 points.

“So, did you guys beat them?” someone asked when we got back to campus.

I flinched my jaw. “It was a nearly 30-point loss.”

“They lost by 30?”

“No,” I said, a combination of anger and embarrassment streaking through my voice, “we did.”

Nobody could believe it. The season continued with the Bruin Women 19-4 overall. In the end I was named All-American for a second time, however it was little consolation. Just as the previous year, we advanced only to the AIAW West Region in San Jose where we were again eliminated by Billie Moore's CSUF Titans. Then at the NWIT championship game, we once again lost to Wayland Baptist 90-77. This time, I attributed it to Mosher's coaching.

Looking back, I'm sure I was the worst kind of thorn in Coach Mosher's side. I could be stubborn beyond all rationale. I was born stubborn. As a kid, I could sit at the dinner table for three or four hours rather than eat my dinner if it was something I didn't like, like meatloaf.