9001220310
DETROIT FREE PRESS
900607
Thursday, June 07, 1990
METRO EDITION
1D
Photo CRAIG PORTER
:
Mark Aguirre models his "Have You Hugged Bill Laimbeer Today?"
T-shirt.
Laimbeer: "I don't want anybody knowing . . .
any more about me than they have to. . . ."
" . . . I have to live up to the image."
MITCH ALBOM
SEE ALSO METRO FINAL EDITION, Page 1A
Copyright (c) 1990, Detroit Free Press
"EXCUSE ME, BILL"
LAIMBEER'S ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER
THAN HIS WORDS ... TOO BAD
They come at Bill Laimbeer like kids in a zoo. Look at the beast. You think
he bites? This is Laimbeer's life now, every day, in a store, in a restaurant.
You don't hide when you're 6-11. Even at home, he's sitting on his porch by
the lake, and people approach in their boats and they kill the engine and
float past, staring, whispering, "That's him, there. Look."
Because he is 33, and a four-time All-Star, he ought to know better; he
ought to fight the whole thing with a smile. And yet Laimbeer still hates
this, the pointing, the questions, most of all the interviews, and so,
usually, he reacts this way: He behaves like a jerk. He is good at it. Ask
his teammates.
"I don't want anybody knowing any more about me than they have to," he
admitted privately. "I don't want them to get to know the real me."
And he makes sure of it. I have seen Laimbeer slice and dice out-of-town
reporters; they're in pieces when he's done with them. A month ago, inside
Madison Square Garden, I witnessed a triple execution. Three reporters in
five minutes.
"Excuse me, Bill --" they began.
"What do you want? Who are you? Who do you work for?"
"Bill, I just wanted to ask a few questions --"
"About what? . . . That's a stupid question. . . . Who do you work for?"
"Bill, do you think the violence in the NBA --"
"I'm not talking about that. . . . Pick some other subject. . . . Who do
you work for?"
He has a glare that could freeze a greyhound. He will sit in silence until
you hear yourself sweating. He has created this image of Mr. Dirty Player,
elbows and attitude. Now here we are, the NBA Finals, and the national media
has converged on the Palace. And besides that image, most reporters know
nothing else about Laimbeer other than this: He is the guy who hears "SUCKS!"
after his name in most NBA arenas. So they circle him like those kids in the
zoo; some come to hatchet him, others to poke and probe. There is this
fascination in American sports journalism; we want to find a soft spot inside
every monster. Does Laimbeer have one? The answer is twofold: 1) Yes, and 2)
He'll be damned if he's going to let you see it.
You guys gonna stand there, or you gonna ask some questions?"
To watch Laimbeer in a group interview is to see a pose of intensity the
way Rodin might have sculpted it. Eyes straight ahead, jaw clenched, hands
locked together. Again, if he knows you, he will privately admit this is his
defense against saying something foolish or explosive; he concentrates on
every word as if he's passing a kidney stone.
But that's if he knows you. And Laimbeer, a kid who grew up rich in
Southern California, attended a high school on a cliff overlooking the Pacific
Ocean -- I would honeymoon in that high school -- a kid who temporarily
flunked out of Notre Dame (lack of interest), never held a real job besides
basketball, and brags about how, when this career is over, he won't be staying
in touch with too many of these people, isn't going to spend a lot of time
getting to know you.
Here comes a question: "Bill, you guys shot 35 percent--"
"Thirty-six," he snapped. Eyes forward.
"Bill, Game 3 in Portland, Can you win there?"
"We're only up to Game 2." Glare.
"Bill, have you ever thought about retiring?'
"Yeah."
There are times you want to smack Bill Laimbeer -- not because he's being
a jerk to you, but because he's being one to himself. Away from the
spotlight, Laimbeer can actually be intelligent, fairly humorous, and even has
a kind streak. This is a guy with enough wit to whisper to Isiah Thomas after
the captain hit those big shots Tuesday night: "Isiah, you've always been my
idol." Thomas cracked up. This is a guy who was quick to announce how much
money he and Rick Mahorn would make off their Bad Boys poster last year. What
he didn't announce was that he gave his entire share to charity, while Ricky
kept a lot of his.
Laimbeer is married to a sweet -- and patient -- woman named Chris. They
lost a child once, a baby boy, born prematurely. Laimbeer will never bring it
up. But I have heard him talk about it. Heard his friends talk about how he
stayed at the hospital, so worried about his wife. I have seen him turn red
with embarrassment when his father called in a radio show and said "Bill was
always a good boy." I have seen him agree to a charity roast and be genuinely
flattered that media people would sit on the dais with him. "Thanks a lot,"
he whispered, words you rarely hear from his mouth.
You work in this town, you hang around Laimbeer long enough, you'll catch
glimpses of this side he tries desperately to bury. It only makes you wonder
more why he wants to behave like a dork.
When most reporters had gone on to other bodies Wednesday, I asked Laimbeer
whether, after all these years, he's ever gotten comfortable with strangers
asking him questions.
"I never have," he said, suddenly candid. "You know, everything you do in
this NBA life is watched by everybody. You live in front of 21,000 people a
night. You can't go anywhere without someone pointing at you. You always hear
somebody whispering, "That's Bill Laimbeer. That's Bill Laimbeer.
"That's why when people ask about my private side, it bothers me. It's
like that's all I have left. That's why Isiah got so defensive when people
were asking about his son last year. It's all you have that's yours. If they
take that, they have everything. . . .
"You know, I'd like to go to a bar one night and get blind stinking drunk
and be rowdy and carry on, but I can never do it as long as I'm a member of
this team. I'd read about it in the newspapers the next day. I'm supposed to
represent us in a certain way. I have to live up to the image."
You listen to that, and then you think of the night in Atlanta, when they
buzz-sawed a cardboard stand-up of Laimbeer during halftime. Zrrrrrp! Right
across the middle. "I ignore that stuff," he said. "If anything, it makes me
play harder."
Say this about Laimbeer: He takes his job at center seriously. And the
Pistons need him effective to win their second NBA championship. Sometimes, I
think work is the only thing he believes in. He considered retiring before
this season. Most people don't know this; he talked to Thomas about it. If you
ask him about that conversation, he just says, "Isiah gave me a few good
reasons why I shouldn't quit." You ask, 'Like what?' and he says: "Money."
And once again, you're not getting the whole picture; it's doubtful any of
us ever will. I know a lot of guys who hate Bill Laimbeer -- some of them wear
basketball uniforms -- and I know a lot of guys who want to get his
autograph. I even know the guy (Scott Hastings) who came up with the T-shirts
"Have You Hugged Bill Laimbeer Today?" But I don't know anyone who really
knows him.
So he gets his wish, he goes on as a cartoon, the NBA villain, a role he
laughs at, and why not? He helped create it. He feeds it. And, in turn, it
cloaks him in a way that allows him to be nasty without disappointing anyone.
Unfortunately, it doesn't always serve him well. He is smarter than you think,
more charitable and more respectful than he lets on, but actions speak louder
than words, and his actions are loud enough.
So ask him about rebounding. Ask him about defense. Ask him about another
championship ring. If he's in a good mood, he won't chop your head off. He'll
just leave you wondering, staring straight ahead.
"How long after you quit before you go to that bar and get drunk and make
a scene?" I ask.
He laughs, long and loud. "The very next day!'
I'd like to be there for that one. I really would.
DPISTONS; BASKETBALL; BILL LAIMBEER;Pistons