9201090985
DETROIT FREE PRESS
920312
Thursday, March 12, 1992
METRO FINAL
1C
Photo Color PAOLA FERRARI Special to the Free Press
:
Bob McAdoo stands near his apartment building in Forli, a small
town in the small time.
Bob McAdoo wore a Piston uniform for parts of two NBA seasons,
1979-80 and '80-81. "I don't worry about being forgotten
anymore," he says. "This is my job, that's all."
MITCH ALBOM
BASKETBALL ITALIAN STYLE
Copyright (c) 1992, Detroit Free Press
RISE AND FALL OF MCADOO
CHAPTER 4: Leggenda. 1.A legend.
FORLI, Italy- They all wanted a piece of Bob McAdoo, all those people
outside the bus, screaming and waving and cheering in Italian. Through the
window he saw them, and thought to himself, "I better watch my wallet." So he
slipped it in the pocket of his gym bag and...
"BOB!" They were all over him. Hugging him. Slapping his shoulders.
"SI, BOB!" "CIAO, BOB!"
He was Elvis at the Louisiana Hayride, Tom Jones at the Sahara. They
hugged him and kissed him and hoisted him on their shoulders, laughing and
singing as if a long-lost brother had come home from the war. When he finally
escaped to a quiet corner, he saw that his bag had been ripped open and
everything inside was gone for souvenirs. Everything, except ...
They left him his wallet.
That was the best of times for Bob McAdoo, the year he won his first
championship here in Italy, the year he took the country by storm. Il
Americano! Such talent! Right here in The Land Of Pasta! Other big name NBA
players would follow him across the sea, Joe Barry Carroll, Albert King,
Michael Cooper, Danny Ferry, Rick Mahorn. But back in the mid-80's, he was
the hottest American import. Hey, Bob! Ciao BOB! The best of times.
And these are the worst.
When they own your rights in Italy, they really own your rights. Young
Italian players are "purchased" as early as their teens, with the money going
to whichever local sports club they play for (remember, there is no high
school or college basketball here.) American players who ink the big contracts
find it works the same way. The first team you sign with owns your rights,
and another Italian team can only acquire you if your original team agrees to
sell.
Bob McAdoo was a hero in Milan for four years. In his very first season,
his team won everything there is to win in Italy, the league championship, the
Italian Cup championship, the European Cup championship. McAdoo had a great
attitude, played hard, didn't just show up asking for his check. The Italian
fans loved him.
But good times burn like rocket fuel here, where owners show terrible
impatience for success. Just a few seasons after those championships, Milan
shook up its roster -- players getting too old, they said -- and, despite his
30 point-per- game average, McAdoo was let go.
OK, he figured. Other teams are interested. But Milan wanted to make
sure he didn't go to a team that could challenge them. So they kept passing up
offers for his rights, until the team from Forli, a small town not far from
the Adriatic Sea, made a bid.
Forli was no threat. It was way down in the standings. The deal was made.
And McAdoo, somewhat of a legend in Italy, was given an apartment in a
strange town and told, at age 40, to go prove himself again.
I am sitting in that apartment right now, looking at the photos that hang
on the wall. Outside, a dense fog hovers over the rooftops, making the whole
town -- with its colored concrete walls and small bridges -- seem surreal. It
is very quiet. The oak furniture is neatly kept, American magazines are set in
perfect precision on the coffee table. All around are snapshots of McAdoo's
children, one inside a frame that reads "I Love My Daddy."
They used to come with him to Italy. That was before his wife, Charlina,
died shortly before last Christmas. She was 33.
"Cancer," McAdoo says, not eager to discuss the subject. "I flew back and
forth four straight weeks when it got really bad. In fact, I had just returned
here when they called and said she died."
How did the team react?
"Oh, they were understanding -- for about a day. Then they asked if I
could fly back from the funeral in time for that Sunday's game."
He shakes his head, with the sigh of a man who has seen it all. McAdoo
looks nearly the same as he did during those explosive NBA days, when he
dropped baskets as if shelling fish, winning an MVP award and three scoring
titles. He still has the mustache and the easy grin, a little bit of Chuck
Berry in his face. The lanky 6-foot-9 frame seems remarkably athletic for a
man who turned 41 last September.
Yet there is a quiet edge to McAdoo now, a loneliness that is both
apparent and understandable. A typewriter sits on the table, which he uses to
write letters to his children. "Letters, rent a video, go to eat, that's about
all I do here," he says. "This town's a lot smaller than Milan."
"You eat in restaurants by yourself?" I ask.
"Oh yeah," he answers, as if that were a given.
At practice later that afternoon, it is apparent why Milan felt secure in
sending McAdoo to Forli. His teammates are, to be generous, average. One guy
wears his white shorts so high, I think he's going to choke himself. Another
comes out in a cotton sports shirt, with the collar turned up, as if he's
going for a cruise on a yacht. He picks up a ball and starts to shoot.
McAdoo slides into three-on-three drills, drills he probably ran harder
back in high school. "PRESSA! PRESSA!" his coach screams. As they move up the
floor, I notice some players seem reluctant to pass to McAdoo, choosing not to
look his way. It suggests a common problem between the highly paid American
stars and the everyday Italian players.
The salary gap is enormous: U.S. players average between $300,000-$500,000
(some exceed $2 million a year), while the natives, on average, earn less than
$80,000. "There's jealousy, no doubt," McAdoo admits. I have heard the same
thing from Adrian Dantley, Rick Mahorn and Darryl Dawkins. This, of course,
puts the Americans in an odd situation: They are expected to chalk up
tremendous statistics to justify their salaries, yet teammates often do not
want to get them the ball. "Sometimes," Dantley told me privately, "I just go
and get it."
After practice, McAdoo comes from the shower shaking his head. He seems a
little embarrassed by the level of play he is now working at. His team is in
the worst situation, the bottom of the A1 standings. Every year, the lowest
two teams in A1 fall to the A2 league, where the sponsorship money dries up.
Everyone here is nervous.
"Hey," McAdoo says, looking down at me, "I bet you could suit up and play
for this team. And I ain't never even seen you play. You wanna try?"
That night, we go to the big arena in town where, by coincidence, the
finals of the Italia Cuppa are being played. Four of the Italy's best teams
are here, as are thousands of fans and basketball types. When we enter the
arena, you can feel the electricity. The rafters shake with noise, foot
stomping, whistles. It is everything McAdoo once had here, back when they
ripped the bag off his shoulder. He seems energized by the excitement. He
slides into the gym with his hands dug into his pockets. On the court, the
players are racing up and down. Soon people begin to recognize McAdoo.
"Hey, Bob! . . . Ciao Bob! . . . OK, Bob!"
A reporter steps up with a small tape recorder. He shoves it in McAdoo's
face. "Bob McAdoo, can you tell what you think about the great Americano
Vinny Del Negro? . . . "
McAdoo allows a sarcastic grin before answering. Del Negro, the former N.C.
State point guard, is a new face, and Italians love new American faces in
their league. Nobody tonight gives McAdoo credit for taking the big leap in
the 80's, for coming to this country and making good and sticking around for
six years. Tonight, they want to know about Del Negro.
It occurs to me that McAdoo, who played for seven different teams in the
NBA has been facing such adjustments his whole career. Getting too old.
Sliding to another level. Still, he keeps playing. He keeps scoring. He
scored nearly 19,000 points in the NBA, won two championship rings. Now he is
inside an arena near the Adriatic Sea.
Later, I ask if he ever feels forgotten.
"I don't worry about being forgotten anymore," he says. "This is my job,
that's all.
"Hey, I have a son who doesn't even know who Wilt Chamberlain is, and Wilt
was maybe the greatest player of all time. And I have younger son," -- he
laughs -- "and he probably won't even remember who Bob McAdoo was."
He looks back at the court. "Everybody gets forgotten."
The hour grows late. I have a long drive to Rome. I thank McAdoo for his
time. "All right," he says, turning. "You sure you don't wanna stick around
here, maybe have dinner after the game or something?"
I say thanks anyhow. We shake hands. As I reach the outside doors, I look
back over my shoulder at one of the greatest scorers in the history of the
NBA, standing by himself, leaning against the bleachers. I step outside, and
see the fog has gotten worse.
FRIDAY: The Finito!
BOB MCADOO; BASKETBALL; ITALY