always defense, defense, defense,” Bradley said. Holzman believed that effective defense—much like great offense—was a collective act, five players coordinating as one. His emphasis was on extending it full-court, forcing dribblers into vulnerable positions, rotating to areas where they would most likely be forced to pass. Stressed most of all was the concept of covering for one another, of becoming a team whose proverbial calling card would one day read, simply: Defense.
The Knicks went from 15–22 to start the season under McGuire to 28–17 under Holzman, and steamed into the 1968 playoffs against Philadelphia. It’s an established truism of sportswriting that coaches, in all sports and on every level, get too much credit and too much blame upon season’s end, but what other explanation could there be for the Knicks’ turnaround except that the right man had come at the right time? “Red was obviously the guy to coach us, because he was the one who scouted us, who knew us better than anyone,” Reed said. “He knew that. People always said he had to be ordered to do it, but I think, deep down, he knew we had a chance to be really good.”
In other words, he wanted the job. What man with Holzman’s competitive instincts (to go along with the relationships he had with the players) wouldn’t have? Of course, to admit that he desired another crack at coaching—and in his native New York—might have left the impression that he had undermined McGuire, a good man and a trusted friend. Holzman would have none of that. Hence, my theory: that he was all too willing to propagate the notion of his being forced to give up his comfy—and low-paying—scouting gig to assume the reins. Better for everyone’s sake to have people believe he was just taking orders from Irish.
HE WAS WILY IN OTHER WAYS, TOO . On his office door at the Knicks’ administrative digs, Red had scratched out measurement markers for various heights—6'2", 6'5", and so on. Wary of players who lied about their height, Holzman instructed his secretary, Gwynne Bloomfield, to usher incoming prospects by the door. This way, when Holzman got up to greet him, his head would align with the corresponding marker. The player never knew he was literally being sized up.
But Holzman never took his due credit. He would forever deny having anything to do with the immediate turnaround. That was a blessing bestowed by his players—at that point two in particular: Reed, who may still be the greatest second-round draft pick ever, albeit in a league with fewer teams (and thus shorter rounds), and Dick Barnett, a man who arrived from the Lakers in exchange for Bob Boozer and who fit in so well, it was almost as if he had been born to be an Old Knick.
BARNETT WAS BORN AND RAISED IN GARY, INDIANA , the youngest of three children in a close-knit family that lived in a poor neighborhood in the shadow of smoke-belching factories. His father at one time worked in a nearby steel mill but quit when he was ordered to do menial jobs that were below his skill level, and wound up being employed by the city’s parks department.
Barnett was a reticent child, never looking for acceptance in gangs or places where trouble lurked. His refuge from the darker aspects of his adolescence was always the basketball court at the local Roosevelt High School. He played half-court games but spent more hours alone, sometimes well into the night, crafting an unconventional southpaw jump shot—the ball almost shot-putted from his left shoulder, legs bent behind him, practically parallel to the ground, as he elevated for his release.
Asked about his strange form, which defined the unorthodoxy of the man and his game, the original Tricky Dick said: “It was the unintended consequences of just being on the court, without rhyme or reason, something that came naturally and worked for me. It was in the playground before I even got to high school that I learned how to execute that shot without
The Knicks went from 15–22 to start the season under McGuire to 28–17 under Holzman, and steamed into the 1968 playoffs against Philadelphia. It’s an established truism of sportswriting that coaches, in all sports and on every level, get too much credit and too much blame upon season’s end, but what other explanation could there be for the Knicks’ turnaround except that the right man had come at the right time? “Red was obviously the guy to coach us, because he was the one who scouted us, who knew us better than anyone,” Reed said. “He knew that. People always said he had to be ordered to do it, but I think, deep down, he knew we had a chance to be really good.”
In other words, he wanted the job. What man with Holzman’s competitive instincts (to go along with the relationships he had with the players) wouldn’t have? Of course, to admit that he desired another crack at coaching—and in his native New York—might have left the impression that he had undermined McGuire, a good man and a trusted friend. Holzman would have none of that. Hence, my theory: that he was all too willing to propagate the notion of his being forced to give up his comfy—and low-paying—scouting gig to assume the reins. Better for everyone’s sake to have people believe he was just taking orders from Irish.
HE WAS WILY IN OTHER WAYS, TOO . On his office door at the Knicks’ administrative digs, Red had scratched out measurement markers for various heights—6'2", 6'5", and so on. Wary of players who lied about their height, Holzman instructed his secretary, Gwynne Bloomfield, to usher incoming prospects by the door. This way, when Holzman got up to greet him, his head would align with the corresponding marker. The player never knew he was literally being sized up.
But Holzman never took his due credit. He would forever deny having anything to do with the immediate turnaround. That was a blessing bestowed by his players—at that point two in particular: Reed, who may still be the greatest second-round draft pick ever, albeit in a league with fewer teams (and thus shorter rounds), and Dick Barnett, a man who arrived from the Lakers in exchange for Bob Boozer and who fit in so well, it was almost as if he had been born to be an Old Knick.
BARNETT WAS BORN AND RAISED IN GARY, INDIANA , the youngest of three children in a close-knit family that lived in a poor neighborhood in the shadow of smoke-belching factories. His father at one time worked in a nearby steel mill but quit when he was ordered to do menial jobs that were below his skill level, and wound up being employed by the city’s parks department.
Barnett was a reticent child, never looking for acceptance in gangs or places where trouble lurked. His refuge from the darker aspects of his adolescence was always the basketball court at the local Roosevelt High School. He played half-court games but spent more hours alone, sometimes well into the night, crafting an unconventional southpaw jump shot—the ball almost shot-putted from his left shoulder, legs bent behind him, practically parallel to the ground, as he elevated for his release.
Asked about his strange form, which defined the unorthodoxy of the man and his game, the original Tricky Dick said: “It was the unintended consequences of just being on the court, without rhyme or reason, something that came naturally and worked for me. It was in the playground before I even got to high school that I learned how to execute that shot without
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