As I am approaching the 45th anniversary of not making it into the NBA I must admit that it still stings; a lot. I seldom talk about this painful chapter in my life but I decided it is time to tell the truth and set the record straight.
It was 1975 and I was wrapping up a pretty good year of High School football. The night before a headline in the Wilson Daily Times proclaimed “Little Randy Baker Anchors 2-0 Victory with a safety tackle, it was then that I realized 2 pointers were my true calling. A grinding football game ended with me diving beneath a very large center and guard to trip up the quarterback for a safety.
When the season ended, I set my sights on the Ralph L. Fike High School varsity basketball team. Harvey Reid was the coach at the time and ultimately retired with a state record 818 victories that still stands today. I showed up the first day of practice and for the next 3 weeks I ran approximately 162 miles per day. Although I was the only non-African American and the only hopeful under 6 feet tall, no one matched my enthusiasm. One day after practice Coach Reid invited me into his office for what was certain to be high praise of my obvious ability. Leaning back in his big leather chair and channeling Georgetown’s gray-haired John Thompson, with his glasses on the end of his nose and his hands clasped across his large belly, he spoke these words to me. “Boy, you about the worst basketball player I ever saw. I’m going to give you two choices. I’m gone cut you or you can quit with your dignity”. Clearly at this point in his career, he had not mastered the ability to recognize raw talent.
It was immediately after this encounter that I set my sights on the NBA realizing high school ball was truly a waste of time. I began to play basketball every day. I even took a summer school class enabling me to graduate the summer after my junior year at 16 years old so school would not interfere with my highly regimented 2-a-day training program. I participated in pickup games, organized 3 on 3 and 5 on 5 leagues. I would drive anywhere anytime to play basketball. After 2 years and about a million shots, another million layups and 10,000 miles of dribbling, I believed I had racked up a resume’ worthy of the NBA. Although I did not actually work out for any NBA teams or see my name on the 1978 NBA draft board, I was not deterred. I felt certain I would get a free agent call. I didn’t bother to secure an agent as I was more than willing to play for the league minimum. However, much to my surprise, I did not get a single call. Many of my close friends offered their analysis of why I didn’t get the call and as you might expect, I knew they were all wrong. I knew what happened and I have kept this truth concealed for 45 years, until now.
Although I was only 5’ 8” I played as if I were taller. It was my ancestors’ DNA which stunted my growth. If only one person in my family tree had cheated with a taller species I could have been 6’4” or 6’5” easily. My parents made me play baseball and attend football camps but not basketball. I didn’t even have a private goal in my yard. I was forced to shoot on a goal at the end of a driveway we shared with another family. I never even had my own ball. My elementary school didn’t even have a basketball program so I never got the early skills development. I spent so much time in the weight room with the football team I was never allowed the time to work on basketball. Coach Reid was African American and I’m certain he had some racist feelings about short, maybe a few pounds overweight white guys. I could jump ok but it wasn’t fair to measure my vertical against a 6 foot 5 freak who could dunk a ball between his legs. My 360 gyrations tended to be a little off balance and I could have dunked a ball myself if we weren’t required to play with the regulation size balls all the time.
I also have a serious problem with the discrimination of the NBA. The league caps out with only 360 total players. They allow up to 450 but with skyrocketing salaries, most teams can only afford 12 players under the cap. That really makes it unfair for a guy like me. I could shoot the ball well but the league has always allowed physical play and it’s harder to shoot when someone is holding, bumping and towering above you. Steph Curry is a real freak exception but at $200M is a good example of how the oppression works.
I probably would have got the call but when I took the job with the highway construction company, my car only had the 2-way radio. I was one of the last guys in the company to get a car phone so I could have missed a call. I tore my rotator cuff playing racketball and the surgeon who repaired it carved up my left shoulder like a Christmas turkey so I lost some valuable shooting time. He should have gone to arthroscopic school but it was not perfected in time. Speaking of surgeries, I dedicated a lot to my pursuit of the NBA. Broken collar bone, dislocated shoulder, twice, 2 broken noses, reconstructed left wrist, reconstructed right wrist, broken foot with 2 screws holding it together, ACL, meniscus inner and outer, 2 back surgeries, about 600 stitches and still have a torn bicep and torn tendon in the other wrist. You think David Stern ever called and even acknowledged my commitment? Not even once.
So, the truth is, I’m sure I made a couple of mistakes along the way and I admitted them. But in the end, not making a team was not my fault. There was just too much outside interference in my pursuit. On top of that, the Russian’s and Ukrainians are constantly sending bad actors over here to play. “The American people are tired of liars and people who pretend to be someone they are not.” So, I’ve decided to stop pretending that I am OK with this snub. Going forward I will forever be openly bitter yet proud of inspiring Michael Jordan who, like me, did not make the high school team on his first attempt. Of course, he is African American and 6’6” and probably played for a white coach who was open to diversity, but I digress.
My biggest regret, in this age of no longer dwelling under the burden of personal responsibility, is that after hitting the game winning shot in a regional 3 on 3 tournament, I tossed my 3’ tall trophy in the back of my car and drove to Wilson, NC to show Coach Reid that he was wrong and that I turned out to be a pretty good basketball player. Unfortunately, he had passed away. And sadly, passed still thinking I was the worst basketball player he ever saw.
