The Psych...and My Other Tricks

The first thing I am not about to do is look up the definition of psychology in the dictionary. Why bother? I mean, dictionaries are nice and all that, but did old Daniel Webster ever have to stand there at the top of the key and define five sweating monsters rushing down at him? He did not. Well, then.

I will not confuse you with Webster's words, because my definition of psychology is something else again, and I have been practicing it for a whole flock of years now and I ought to know. In my psychology you wear short pants and tape and sneakers, and this is the kind of thing you do:

Say I am standing next to a rookie who has just come into the game—some hotshot college All-America who is not yet used to his rookie role. The action is swirling all around him, and I say to him, casually, "Hey, what's the matter with you, baby? Don't they ever pass that ball to you? What are you, a nothing on this club?" Oh, yeah, they laugh it off. But you can see them thinking about what you said.

Or I find someone who is new in the league, and I stand next to him and hack and cough it up. Sometimes I feel I should get an Oscar for this. I know they're watching me out of the edge of their eyes, and they are figuring, "So this is the great Bill Russell. Hell, he's just a tired old cat. And here I am, as fresh as can be." They don't know that I have a reserve tank.

You say these are minor league tricks? Maybe. But you'd be surprised at how often they work. The thing is, you have to pick your spots. Let's say you are playing center opposite Wilt Chamberlain of the Philadelphia 76ers, and it is one hot and heavy game. The score is just about even, and it is the middle of the second quarter—the time when you're most tired before getting your second wind. Tired? Listen, you are so tired that your leg muscles burn, and you know in your heart that Wilt is as tired as you are. But you are both breathing shallowly so as not to give any sign of how you really feel. Now. Wilt is on defense, and he is leaning on you with all of his 250 pounds and you have your mouth up close to his ear and you say to him, pleasantly, "Hey, baby. I never thought I'd see the day when a great big guy like you would be pushing an old man like me around."

So what does Wilt say to you? Wilt says, "Don't give me that old psych, baby." (I have cleaned up that quote. I have also shown that psychology does not work every time. The trick is in knowing who to talk to under the basket.)

I have enough of these situations cataloged inside my head to do a master's thesis on The Psychology of Basketball, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Spook the Opposition. As a matter of fact, this is my thesis, and the next case is a psychological horror story.

This thing first happened years ago. Frank Ramsey, the star of the situation, is in retirement, but we still pull his old trick, often with K.C. Jones in Ramsey's role. Now. Here we have Nate Thurmond, 6 feet 11, of the San Francisco Warriors, who has a dandy little jump shot from about 15 feet out from the basket. He comes barreling downcourt, he stops short and he goes way up into the air off those powerful, springy legs. Things are tough already, right? But to make it worse, because of a switch, Thurmond is being guarded at the moment by little Ramsey, who is just 6 feet 3. Now. Frank has been all over Thurmond like a swarm of gnats, but what is he going to do about that jumper half a mile over his head? Does Ramsey try to jump with Thurmond? He does not. Ramsey runs at Thurmond, full blast. Then, as Thurmond goes up into the air, Ramsey squinches down and runs right under him. He doesn't touch him, just runs right under him, fast and low, going toward the opposite basket.

So here is Thurmond, hanging up there in the air with a head full of terrible worries. Things like: 1) My God, am I going to come down on top of Ramsey and hurt myself? 2) Wait a minute! Ramsey is supposed to be guarding me. Where does he think he's going? 3) How can I hit the basket with all this nonsense going on, anyway?

That was the idea, of course. Then, about the time Thurmond was pushing the ball away, he would suddenly realize where Ramsey was going. Frank was going for the far basket, that's where. And Thurmond knew, with that little stab of pain in his stomach, that if he missed the shot I would probably grab the rebound and fire off a long pass to Ramsey for an easy layup. This situation does not exactly figure to fill a shooter with an overwhelming mood of confidence. It would spook Thurmond something awful.