The Punch

He had always worried about scoreboards. That morning, during the shootaround, Rudy Tomjanovich had stared up at the scoreboard in the Los Angeles Forum, wondering if it was really safe. "For some reason," he said, "I worried that one of the damn things would break and come crashing down on us during a game."

Now it had. At least that's what Tomjanovich thought when he came to, lying flat on his back that night in the opening minute of the third quarter.

It was Friday, Dec. 9, 1977 The Houston Rockets and the Los Angeles Lakers had been tied 55-55 at halftime, and Tomjanovich, the Rockets' star forward, was having a great shooting night: 9 for 14 from the field. His jumper, one of the NBA's sweetest, felt perfect every time he released the ball. Houston had gone up 57-55 to start the second half. There was a missed jump shot at the other end, and Kevin Kunnert, the Rockets' 7-foot reserve center, grabbed the rebound. Tomjanovich sprinted down the right side of the court, knowing that Kunnert would feed the ball to point guard John Lucas, and there would be a chance to beat L.A. on the fast break.

Tomjanovich was looking toward Lucas when he heard a whistle. He turned and saw Kunnert, at midcourt, being wrestled from behind by Lakers center Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Another Laker with his back to Tomjanovich was throwing a punch at Kunnert. Tomjanovich saw Kunnert sag to one knee as the punch landed. "All I knew," Tomjanovich said, "was one of my guys was in trouble. I wanted to try and break it up."

He ran toward the skirmish, arms down, thinking he would wrap up the Laker who had hit Kunnert and pull him away. That's the way most NBA fights ended: with cooler heads prevailing. Tomjanovich was one of the cooler heads. He was at full speed as he approached center court. That was when the scoreboard fell on him.

Tricky, what happened?"

Tomjanovich was lying in a pool of blood. He could see Dick Vandervoort, the Rockets' trainer—Tricky to all the Houston players—leaning over him, holding a towel to try to stanch the blood that gushed from his nose. "Lie still, Rudy," Vandervoort said.

Tomjanovich repeated his question. "What happened, Trick? Did the scoreboard fall on me?"

"Kermit hit you."

Kermit Washington was the Lakers' 6'8" power forward. He was one of the league's strongest men, a self-made player who used power, intensity and hard work to make up for a lack of offensive skills. He was part of a generation of enforcers, players whose job it was to protect their team's star. Abdul-Jabbar was the Lakers' star. Washington did the dirty work defensively and on the boards, and if any skirmish broke out, it was his job to make sure nothing happened to Abdul-Jabbar.