Barnett’s assertions—made after he was gone—that there was no room on the team for another luminary, and especially a second black one, in addition to Baylor. He said Barnett was deployed as the sixth man because the Lakers needed a playmaker to start alongside him. “I loved Barnett,” West told me. “Everybody did. I still don’t know why we traded him. That day was one of the worst of my career.” Not so much for Barnett: he was thrilled to go to the world’s media capital. In the pre—Walt Frazier days, he was confident of becoming the Knicks’ featured guard.
Barnett fit in well with the Knicks. Reed admired him for his fearlessness on the floor, the delight he took in challenging Wilt Chamberlain, craftily floating a runner or hook shot over the giant’s high-altitude reach—and talking all the while: “Get this, you big motherfucker.”
DURING THE 2007 NBA ALL-STAR WEEKEND in Las Vegas, Willis Reed took part in a lunchtime panel at the ESPN Zone, with Bill Walton, Greg Anthony, and Spud Webb. Most of the discussion was overwhelmed by a lively debate between Walton and Anthony about the state of the game. Both of them happened to be players whose careers had progressed from professional gaming to professional TV gabbing—Reed and Webb struggled to get a word in edgewise.
Eventually the floor was opened to the fans, and the program ended with the former players each shooting a trivia question at the crowd, with ESPN-brand prizes on hand for the winners. When Reed’s turn came, he asked: “Who was the starting backcourt for the 1969–70 champion Knicks?” Several hands shot up. Reed called on one.
“Frazier and Monroe,” the man said, proudly.
“Sorry,” Reed said, disappointed.
Immediately, the other hands were lowered, all apparently having been prepared to give the same answer. Sitting at a table in the back, where Reed and the others couldn’t see me, I gave my then—17-year-old son Alex a nudge.
“Frazier and Barnett,” I whispered.
“Young man all the way in the back,” Reed said when Alex raised a hand.
“Frazier and Barnett,” he shouted with glee.
Reed smiled, looking relieved. Someone, thankfully, had remembered Dick Barnett.
Considering the totality of his career, a strong case could be made that Barnett—one of the most overlooked and underappreciated players in the history of the sport—should be enshrined in the Naismith Hall of Fame. After all, the other four starters from the 1970 champions—Reed, Frazier, DeBusschere, and Bradley—are found in Springfield. Why not the fifth? Barnett played in five championship series, winning two rings in New York. Playing under John McLendon at Tennessee A&I, he was the star of three consecutive NAIA champions—the first time that many were claimed in succession by any college team.
Barnett was vital to the success of a system predicated on the delicate melding of unique personalities. He was its cold-blooded gunslinger, lock-down backcourt defender, and most offbeat locker-room character.
When I asked him about the Hall, the subject evoked Barnett’s typical cocksure charm and a suspicious, almost dismissive attitude about the establishment that kept the black athletes of his time way down, if not out. “Based on my ability, I know I should be in the Hall,” he told me. “Even if I didn’t play in the pros, we were the first team to win three national titles before UCLA. That whole team should be in the Hall. But now you’re getting into a whole political construct. It’s who you know. And you can say whatever you want, but what are you going to do?”
While those three NAIA titles may not sound like much based on college basketball’s contemporary classifications, those were the days before the major southern universities were desegregated. Many NAIA teams reaped the benefits of the black talent that would eventually move on to big-conference powerhouses. Knowing how strong much of his competition in college
Barnett fit in well with the Knicks. Reed admired him for his fearlessness on the floor, the delight he took in challenging Wilt Chamberlain, craftily floating a runner or hook shot over the giant’s high-altitude reach—and talking all the while: “Get this, you big motherfucker.”
DURING THE 2007 NBA ALL-STAR WEEKEND in Las Vegas, Willis Reed took part in a lunchtime panel at the ESPN Zone, with Bill Walton, Greg Anthony, and Spud Webb. Most of the discussion was overwhelmed by a lively debate between Walton and Anthony about the state of the game. Both of them happened to be players whose careers had progressed from professional gaming to professional TV gabbing—Reed and Webb struggled to get a word in edgewise.
Eventually the floor was opened to the fans, and the program ended with the former players each shooting a trivia question at the crowd, with ESPN-brand prizes on hand for the winners. When Reed’s turn came, he asked: “Who was the starting backcourt for the 1969–70 champion Knicks?” Several hands shot up. Reed called on one.
“Frazier and Monroe,” the man said, proudly.
“Sorry,” Reed said, disappointed.
Immediately, the other hands were lowered, all apparently having been prepared to give the same answer. Sitting at a table in the back, where Reed and the others couldn’t see me, I gave my then—17-year-old son Alex a nudge.
“Frazier and Barnett,” I whispered.
“Young man all the way in the back,” Reed said when Alex raised a hand.
“Frazier and Barnett,” he shouted with glee.
Reed smiled, looking relieved. Someone, thankfully, had remembered Dick Barnett.
Considering the totality of his career, a strong case could be made that Barnett—one of the most overlooked and underappreciated players in the history of the sport—should be enshrined in the Naismith Hall of Fame. After all, the other four starters from the 1970 champions—Reed, Frazier, DeBusschere, and Bradley—are found in Springfield. Why not the fifth? Barnett played in five championship series, winning two rings in New York. Playing under John McLendon at Tennessee A&I, he was the star of three consecutive NAIA champions—the first time that many were claimed in succession by any college team.
Barnett was vital to the success of a system predicated on the delicate melding of unique personalities. He was its cold-blooded gunslinger, lock-down backcourt defender, and most offbeat locker-room character.
When I asked him about the Hall, the subject evoked Barnett’s typical cocksure charm and a suspicious, almost dismissive attitude about the establishment that kept the black athletes of his time way down, if not out. “Based on my ability, I know I should be in the Hall,” he told me. “Even if I didn’t play in the pros, we were the first team to win three national titles before UCLA. That whole team should be in the Hall. But now you’re getting into a whole political construct. It’s who you know. And you can say whatever you want, but what are you going to do?”
While those three NAIA titles may not sound like much based on college basketball’s contemporary classifications, those were the days before the major southern universities were desegregated. Many NAIA teams reaped the benefits of the black talent that would eventually move on to big-conference powerhouses. Knowing how strong much of his competition in college
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