Basketball cybernetics, pt 2
Becoming a junkyard dog
Coach Adams grabbed my arm. I could almost feel the heat emanating from his rosy face. “I’m going to turn you into a junkyard dog,” he said. I didn’t really know what this meant. And he said it with so much intensity and passion, I must have looked a little taken aback.
“Stay here,” he said.
He turned around and blew his whistle. The rest of the practice came to a halt. Coach Adams walked briskly down to the free throw line at the other end of the court and gathered the rest of the squad and gave instructions. Soon everyone but me was running layup drills and practicing one-on-one defense.
(This is part 2 in my Basketball Cybernetics series. Read part one.)
He strode back down the court to where I was standing.
“You’re not a great shooter,” he said, looking me in the eye.
Seeing the vision
My mom had found this rogue ophthalmologist in Rochester Hills who thought he might be able to help me overcome the scar tissue from my childhood surgery and restore some degree of depth perception. I’m pretty sure the doc’s first name was Seymour, can’t remember the last name. He was a short, older man with a strong East Coast accent who always wore a white lab coat and smoked cigarettes in his office. He reminded me a little of Columbo, the old TV detective. Unusual methods, distinctive manner, all about cracking the case.
Over the course of two or three years he gave me these series of exercises to do, including sitting in total darkness and wearing an eye patch while staring at a red light bulb with the other eye. I did this every day after school for months in the crawlspace closet in the attic my brother and I shared as a bedroom. The exercises would ultimately fail to give me back my depth perception but they had enabled me to mostly control the wandering eye that had resulted from the muscles being cut during my childhood surgery.
Still, my eyes weren’t totally normal. While the corrective surgery I’d had as a little kid had uncrossed my eyes, it also resulted in my only seeing out of one eye at a time. If I wasn’t focusing on rapidly switching back and forth between my left and right eyes, one of them usually started to drift off to the side a bit.
“You can develop a good jump shot,” he said. “But that’s going to take a lot of practice and it’s going to take time.”
I nodded.
“But you’ve got desire,” he said. “You love basketball. You’ve got a fire in the belly. You’ve got something innate, something that can’t be taught. I want to show you how to use that fire and turn it into something great. Are you up for it?”
I nodded. It was true. At the start of the year, Coach Adams had preached us a fiery sermon about how we could be great, but we had to love the game. We had to love it so much we’d be willing to sleep with a basketball. We had to eat, breathe, and think basketball all the time!
I didn’t sleep with my basketball every night, but Coach had inspired me to practice in pretty much all of my spare moments. I was always dribbling out in the driveway, driving my parents and the neighbors crazy with the sound of the ball slapping off the concrete and the aluminum siding of the house.
From the edge of the house to the garage door with my left hand, pivot, back to the edge of the house with my right hand. Keep it low and hard — the closer to the ground you dribble, the harder it is for someone to swipe the ball. Cross over, right hand to left hand, left to right. How far can you go without looking at the ball? Always have your head up. The ball is on a string, it’s magnetically attracted to your hand….
"You don’t have to be a great outside shooter to be a great player,” Coach Adams told me. “You’ve got all the tools to be a great defender, a great rebounder, and to dominate in the paint.1 If you’re willing to learn, I’m going to teach you what you need to know to do that. I’m going to turn you into a junkyard dog! Are you ready to become a junkyard dog?"
He looked at me.
Desire + discipline
I remember feeling a little hurt that Coach Adams didn’t believe I could become a great shooter. It felt a little like I was being relegated to the area under the basket because I was never going to be good enough to play out there in space. But I really, really, really wanted to be a great basketball player. And this little man with the huge passion for the game was backing me to do something great.
“I’m ready,” I said.
“First drill,” said Coach Adams, handing me the ball. “This is called the Mikan drill. It was invented by George Mikan. He was one of the first legendary big men in the history of the game. You pick up the ball on the right block, shoot a right-handed layup. As the ball is coming through the net, you’re sliding over to the left block. You catch the ball as it comes through the net, and you shoot a left-handed layup. You catch the ball as you’re sliding over to the right block and shoot a right-handed layup. Then back to the left hand. Got it? You keep doing this — practice at home —and you’re going to become as good with your left hand as your right. You know how many ninth graders can do that in this league?”
“Not many?” I said.
“Zero.” he replied.
Every practice for the rest of the year, I’d spend twenty minutes by myself doing the Mikan drill. I’d work on it at home in the driveway by myself after school. Right. Left. Right. Left. Repetition. How fast can you go? How many shots can I make out of 20? Finally! Made 20 for 20 for the first time. How far can I go without missing?
Over the course of that year, Coach Adams taught me how to judge where a missed ball was going to bounce off the rim based on the angle and trajectory of the shot. He taught me how to claim that space in the paint by using my hips and behind to “box out” other players. He taught me how to establish my position in the low post, so I could receive a pass from a teammate. He taught me which foot to plant depending on where I was so I could pivot most efficiently towards the basket. He drilled me relentlessly on keeping the ball at chest level and guarding it with both elbows so no one could knock it out of my hands.
He taught us all the rock-solid fundamentals of playing defense, a skill learned mostly by shuffling from point to point across the court in a squat position with your back straight and your eyes forward until every muscle in your legs was screaming for mercy.
I still loved watching the NBA on Sundays and trying to emulate my favorite players, Bird and Dr. J. But I started paying more attention to the low-post players, guys like Kevin McHale of the Celtics and Adrian Dantley of the Utah Jazz (and later my hometown Detroit Pistons). I analyzed how they posted up, the head fakes and pivot moves they used to get their shot off. I watched how the boxed out and positioned themselves for rebounds.
By the end of my 9th grade year, I had become a good defender and a decent rebounder. I always played with hustle and heart and I was starting to make a little progress towards becoming a real low post player. At the end of the season, Coach Adams gave me a list of fundamentals and key skills to work on for next year.
Looking back, it’s crazy that Bob Adams only coached at our school for the two years I was eligible to be coached by him. He had an outsized influence on my life; he was the best sports coach I ever had but he was also an adult who saw my raw potential and inspired me to believe I could overcome my physical challenges and be a great player. He instilled in me the belief that if I wanted it badly enough that I was willing to make it a number one priority and willing to do the repetitive work required to develop mastery, that I could actually achieve it.
I spent hours on the court almost every day of that summer. We were lucky enough to live right by an elementary school with an outdoor basketball court, and I’d spend as much of my free time on the court as I could. If a bunch of neighborhood guys showed up, we’d play until we were wrung out, dripping with sweat. If no one else was there, I’d work on my ball-handling, do the Mikan drill, run sprints, and shoot layups. Or play endless games of cutthroat with my little brother and my friend Kev.
By the time the 10th grade season started, I had made a quantum leap as a player. I still wasn’t a great outside shooter, but I didn’t need to be. I was a junkyard dog, making a living in the paint. My body was filling out and I was growing more coordinated and less awkward. And all of that practice and devotion was starting to pay dividends. Through the first half of the season I was leading the team in rebounds and I was the second leading scorer.
I was a rising star and I was loving every single second of it. And then disaster struck.
Next: Let It Happen.
The painted area of a high school basketball court extends 19 feet from the baseline (under the hoop) out to the free throw line and is 12 feet wide. This area is also known as the free throw lane (“the lane”) and the key. The blocks are painted on either side of the lane a couple feet out from the basket.