A Season Inside (71 page)

He smiled. “I couldn’t be happier.”

There was little doubt of that. The day after Driesell was formally introduced as coach, Miami Coach Bill Foster, an old Driesell friend, was awakened at 6:30 in the morning. It was—you guessed it—the Lefthander. “I need players,” Driesell said. “Is there anybody left out there who’s any good?”

Lefty was truly back.

There were other changes. Shortly after the Final Four, much to his surprise, Rick Barnes got a phone call. Would he be interested in interviewing for the Providence job? Certainly, Barnes was interested in interviewing. He didn’t figure he had any chance of getting the job
but there was nothing to be lost by interviewing for a Big East job after just one year as a head coach.

“I never really thought of it as anything but a formality,” he said.

“I thought someone had thrown out my name and they had a list of like ten people and I was on that list. But then, a couple days after my interview they called me back and asked if I would come up and meet with the president. That was when I said, ‘Whoa, this is getting serious.’ ”

It was serious. Barnes left his second meeting with the Providence people convinced he was going to be offered the job. He had mixed emotions about the situation. On the one hand, this was the Big East, one of
the
prestige leagues in America. On the other hand, he felt a sense of commitment to George Mason and to his boss, Jack Kvancz. “I went to George Mason with the idea of really moving the program into the big time. After this season there was no doubt in my mind that we were going to get it done. There was definitely part of me that wanted to stay and do it.”

But Barnes is a pragmatist. Even Kvancz, who desperately wanted him to stay, told him that if the job was offered he had to take it. After his meeting with the president, Barnes got a phone call from Rick Pitino, who had left Providence a year earlier to become the New York Knicks coach. “Do you want this job?” said Pitino, who was working informally as a consultant for Providence. “You have to be prepared to say yes if they make you an offer.”

Barnes understood. He talked to his wife, Candy. If this happened it would mean four moves in four years: George Mason to Alabama, Alabama to Ohio State, Ohio State to George Mason, and George Mason to Providence. Tough under any circumstances. With two very young children, even tougher. Candy Barnes understood. This was something her husband had to do.

The offer came on a Wednesday night. Two days later, Barnes was introduced as the new coach. Providence billed him as a southern version of Pitino. He was the same age—thirty-three—that Pitino had been when he took the job and he was enthusiastic and boyish just like Pitino. But Barnes knew that to expect a Final Four team in two years, which was what Pitino had produced, was unrealistic. And yet, in Providence, they often expect miracles. Barnes figured his getting the job was pretty close to being miraculous. Producing the kind of team people were going to expect would be at least as miraculous.

Jim Valvano stayed at N.C. State. But Charles Shackleford did not. After initially saying that he would return to State for his senior year, Shackleford changed his mind. Given that Shackleford was not exactly a candidate for a Rhodes Scholarship, there was some thinking that he didn’t have very much choice about returning. This had happened in 1986 when Chris Washburn had initially announced his intention to return only to learn at the end of the semester that he could not do so. But that wasn’t the case with Shackleford.
If
he had gone to summer school he could have returned. He chose not to. Three summers was enough for him.

Shackleford’s leaving was a blow to Valvano, although not a fatal one by any means. With Shackleford back, State would have had two potential first-round draft picks playing inside—Shackleford and Chucky Brown—two outstanding sophomore guards in Chris Corchiani and Rodney Monroe, and great depth. Now, defenses would be able to concentrate on Brown inside. Instead of being a top ten team—at least—State would now be a good, solid, not great, team.

In truth, though, this didn’t break Valvano’s heart. Working with Shackleford had never been easy and he had enough confidence in his coaching ability to believe he would still put a very strong team on the floor. And then there was still the question of motivation. Valvano had been at State eight years. His interest in UCLA was a reflection of his never-ending search for a new challenge. He had won ACC championships and a national championship and had won twenty or more games in six of his eight years at State. He would win more than twenty games, no doubt, again in 1989. But so what?

In late April, on the road to make yet another $8,000 speech, Valvano woke up in the middle of the night pouring sweat, his chest pounding. As it turned out, he was just overtired. But it was enough of a scare to convince him to cancel most of his May speaking schedule and take some time out to go to the beach with his family. At age forty-two, Jim Valvano was rich, famous, and confused.

Larry Brown was not all that different from Valvano. If Kansas had lost the national championship game to Oklahoma, Brown would have been the coach at UCLA before the week was out. It was, without
question, the job he wanted. But with all the celebrating that was going on in Lawrence, Brown just couldn’t bring himself to say, in effect, “It’s been great, thanks for the memories and the Mannings and we’ll see you.” Instead, after reaching a verbal agreement with UCLA, he changed his mind and told a packed press conference in Allen Field House that he was staying.

No one was more shocked to hear this news than Ed Manning. He had assumed almost since the last strand of net had been cut in Kansas City that Brown would be moving to Los Angeles and he would be going with him. “When he said, ‘I’m staying at Kansas.’ I almost fell over,” Manning said. “I thought the deal was done.”

If UCLA had been willing to wait a week, it would have had Brown. But having been publicly rejected in one form or another by Valvano and Mike Krzyzewski, UCLA wanted to get the announcement done and introduce the new coach right away. Brown simply couldn’t deal with that. “It was a no-win situation,” he said when it was over.

In truth, it was a no-lose situation. If he stayed at Kansas, Brown would be staying in a place where he had been a hero
before
the national championship. Now, with the banner that would hang in Allen Field House, his future there was assured. Sure, Manning would be gone, but with the national title in his portfolio, Brown’s chances of recruiting top players would be increased greatly. If he had gone to UCLA, there would have been a major rebuilding job to do (if you can rebuild anywhere, it is at UCLA). Either way, Brown was in a good situation.

Naturally, he saw it the other way. Either way, he was missing out on something. It may be that coaches simply have to think there is something else out there for them to do or they can’t go on. In leading Kansas to the national title, Brown had done a coaching job that would be talked about for decades. It was something to savor and enjoy. He did just that—for two months. Then the San Antonio Spurs waved huge dollars at him—$3.5 million for five years—and Brown was packing again, searching once more for that elusive perfect job.

As for Danny Manning, his NCAA performance erased any doubt about his being the No. 1 pick in the draft. Some had wondered if he didn’t have a small dose of Ralph Sampson Disease—amazing talent, but no heart—but after the NCAAs, that question was answered forever. Manning spent a good part of April running around the country collecting awards. He was gracious and patient and acted as if each
award was the most important thing that had ever happened to him. But by the time he collected the final award in New York on April 20, he sighed and said, “I’m glad this is the last one.”

He had done everything he wanted to now. He would get his degree in May, he had won the national championship and proven he was as good as they had said he was in high school. He had stepped forward as the leader when he had to and at the same time had never been separated from his teammates by his ability. He had fought often with Brown, thought terrible things about him, and was delighted to look ahead and not see him in his future. But the two men parted friends, each understanding what the other had done for him.

“Without Coach Brown, I wouldn’t be the player I am today,” Manning said.

“Without Danny, I wouldn’t ever have coached a national championship team,” Brown said.

Enough said.

When Paul Evans walked out of the locker room in Lincoln after Pittsburgh’s loss to Vanderbilt, he knew that Charles Smith and Demetrius Gore would not be back. He also knew there was a possibility that Jerome Lane would also not be back, that he would skip his senior year to turn pro. He did exactly that.

That specter did not frighten Evans, even though he knew that was an awful lot of talent to lose in one year. Smith, Gore, and Lane were the last of Pitt’s old guard, products of the Roy Chipman regime. Chipman had recruited lots of talent, but it had been spoiled, undisciplined talent.

Even with the Big Three gone, Evans believed he had the program on the right track. He loved the four freshmen who had played extensively in ’88 and felt that they would form the nucleus of teams he could coach to the next level in the future. In Evans’s first two years, Pitt had won forty-nine games, a Big East regular season title, and been to two NCAA Tournaments. Those were impressive numbers. But Evans wanted more. He had come to Pitt because he believed he could win a national championship there. With Bobby Martin, Sean Miller, Darelle Porter, and Jason Matthews, he thought he had the kind of cornerstone class that would lead to a Final Four in the near future.

It had not been an easy year for Evans, though. The feud with
Massimino, the run-in with Thompson, and his new image were not comfortable for him. At Navy, his relationship with the media had been excellent. After Smith and Gore mouthed off in Lincoln, saying that Evans had been guilty of not telling them to foul on the last play of regulation, Evans blamed the media for goading them into their comments. This was not an encouraging sign. Evans is an extremely talented coach—even Massimino would concede that—but he needed to find a lower key to work in, one that would be less confrontational and more like the Evans who had coached for six years at Navy and won games and friends all at the same time.

Pitt would be a young team in 1988–89 with much lower expectations than the previous season. That would mean less attention and less pressure for at least one season. That might be exactly what Evans and his program needed.

Things were much more sanguine at Villanova than they were at Pitt. Massimino and his program had come through their crisis and emerged as strong, if not stronger, than ever. In 1987, the record had been 15–16, there had been no NCAA Tournament, and two recruits, Bobby Martin and Delano DeShields, had backed out of verbal commitments—Martin to go to Pitt, DeShields to play baseball. There had also been the Gary McLain fiasco. In 1988, the record had been 24–13, the team had reached the NCAA Final Eight, and a good recruiting class was on the way, with only Mark Plansky and Pat Enright—yes, at last—not returning for 1989.

Massimino, who had felt tarnished and dirtied by the McLain incident, was back at the top of his profession. Once again, people were marveling at how he had gotten the job done with a team that didn’t seem to be that talented. “But the thing is,” he said, “these kids had talent and heart. If you have that combination, you can’t go wrong.”

If you have the right leadership. There was no doubt after 1988—if there had ever been any—about Rollie Massimino’s ability to lead.

The feud with Evans was, of course, not over. There was still bitterness between the two men but perhaps most of it had been spent in the confrontations of the past season. They had finally managed to execute a postgame handshake after Villanova’s 72–69 victory in the Big East semifinals and, simple as that sounded, it was a sign of progress.
Maybe the future would produce more progress. Then again, basketball being basketball, maybe not.

After losing to Florida in the Southeast Conference Tournament, Tennessee was invited to play in the NIT. Much to their surprise, the Volunteers were sent on the road to play, at Middle Tennessee. This was about as tough a first-round game as Tennessee could face. Not only was Middle Tennessee at least as talented as they were, but it was a team that wanted nothing more than to beat the Vols who were, after all, the big and powerful state school.

Middle Tennessee did just that, leaving Tennessee with a 16–13 record for the season. It was not a season to treasure by any means, but it was the season Don DeVoe needed. Doug Dickey had told him, “Show me progress,” after his second straight losing season in 1987, and DeVoe had done that. Tennessee had finished sixth in a league that sent five teams to the NCAA Tournament, it had a winning record, and it upset Kentucky and Florida late in the season. That was enough to get DeVoe a two-year extension on his contract, leaving him with three years in all. He would have preferred a three-year extension, but under the circumstances, two was just fine.