It doesn’t look right. It doesn’t fit. You know something’s wrong. It’s somewhat obvious, just like you don’t have to be a chef to know that when there’s smoke in the kitchen, something isn’t kosher.
CINCINNATI — It’s an odd development. No one seems sure when it happened. Over time, over night, the rule just disappeared, lost all relevance and meaning.
In the pro game, and the college game to a lesser extent, traveling is no more.
There’s not room here to explain the rule or quote the letter of the law, but if you have been around the game even a little bit, you know traveling when you see it. Even if you’ve only watched your kids play in elementary school, you have a sense for traveling.
It doesn’t look right. It doesn’t fit. You know something’s wrong. It’s somewhat obvious, just like you don’t have to be a chef to know that when there’s smoke in the kitchen, something isn’t kosher.
Basically, traveling is advancing the ball without dribbling for more than a step and a half.
Today, guys take off on excursions down the lane. I’ve taken shorter hikes in state parks. Guys like James Harden and LeBron get their 10,000 steps in before the horn sounds on the first half.
Personally, I think the officials just gave in.
Put yourself in their place. Say you’re 6-1, in shape, 200 pounds or so. A guy comes down the lane like a Ferrari, slams the ball through the hoop, the crowd goes, “Oooo, Ahhh.” But you cut loose with the whistle, wave off the basket and make the now nearly obsolete signal for traveling, rolling your hands round-and-round and pointing the other way.
Suddenly, you are surrounded by a slew of 7-footers from some hard scrapple neighborhoods. More than half the crowd hates you and the trees around are you letting you know—subtly, of course—they could snap you like a kitchen match.
“Tell ya what, guys. Next time we let it slide.”
The next becomes the next, becomes the next and sooner or later the rule slides into near extinction.
Intimidation? You bet. That’s my theory and I’ll tell ya why. Back in the late ‘70s I was nearly lynched after a sixth grade basketball game in Seymour, Indiana.
Here’s what happened. My best friend, Jim Plump, officiated games on the side and he was in a jam. His regular partner was unavailable and he had blanked on all his usual subs. So, knowing that I had played for a pretty successful team in high school he asked me to fill in.
“C’mon, Deadbeat,” he said. “We’ll have some fun, you’ll make a few bucks and we’ll grab a couple of beers when we get done.”
I owed him on many fronts so even though I knew playing the game was a lot different than officiating, I agreed. Besides, I figured, it’s kids—sixth graders—how tough can it be?
Plus, he was buying after the game.
Well, we get started and real soon it’s clear one kid is going to carry the game. He’s a cute little cuss, blonde hair, kinda husky, big split between his two front teeth and he can move around a little.
He gets a put-back bucket right off and hits a decent little jumper, eight footer maybe, and his team is off and running.
Well, the other team gets wise and they throw a little sixth grade pressure at our boy and his team. At this point, he becomes point guard and that’s when the trouble starts. See, our little Larry Bird is palming the ball, carrying it, every time he puts the ball on the floor. Looks like he is flipping burgers.
I let him go at first, but it becomes painfully obvious and the visiting coach is calling it to my attention and doing so rather dramatically. I call time. I get the little guy and walk him over to his bench where the coach is looking at me like I might be a Communist. I take my time and explain to the coach and his star what’s wrong, that can’t put his hand under the ball when he’s dribbling.
The coach nods. The little star gives me an absolute blank look, like he’s never heard of this rule before. I say, “Okay, we good? Everybody understand? Look, I don’t want to call this but you can’t do that. So, let’s do better, okay?”
Nods all around. I figure we’re good. We resume play. Little guy gets the ball, he’s palming it like a Dodge City card shark palming cards—turning it over with every touch.
I blow my whistle. We’re going the other way. Other team scores.
Home team and the star gets the ball in play. This time, Little Larry travels – kicks the ball. His coach is yelling something like, “See, look what you’ve done to the boy.”
I’m thinking, “I called walking on him. I’m not scaring the kid.”
First, the coach is ticked. This becomes unconfined anger and the fans are following suit.”
At each play stoppage my partner is saying things like:
“How ya gonna handle this?
“Think you might want to revise your approach?”
But all the while he’s got this half-smile on his face and for a time, I think he’s getting a kick out of seeing me in a sling of my own doing and deepening doo-doo.
At halftime, we’re smoking cigarettes in a big broom closet. He looks at me, says, “Well, Deadbeat, what are ya gonna do?”
I say, “Jimmie, I can’t give in now. The rule is the rule. I’m gonna let up a little bit, but I’m still gonna call it.”
He shrugs. “Up to you,” he says. “Your car running okay?” Then he laughs. I don’t laugh.
By game’s end, people—men and women—are leaning out of the stands calling me every name in the book. My parentage is being assailed. My parents’ parents are called into question. Some big, swarthy guys are threatening to do me bodily harm and as soon as the door hits me in the backside. They are quite clear about their intentions. For the first time in my life I give serious consideration to my health insurance.
It was bad, I mean torches and scythes and broomsticks like an old Frankenstein movie. The towns people up in arms and clamoring for blood. “The monster must die.”
That’s an exaggeration but not by much. The best part of it was that my partner had stopped with that little grin of his. Ultimately, he was as worried about escaping without harm as I was, and the topper to all this—all this vitriol and unmitigated anger—was that the game was played in a church gymnasium, and the call was correct.
I got out alive and while there was some name calling in the parking lot, there was no lynch mob as I expected. But I never again called a basketball game and Jimmie never again—regardless of how desperate he was—ask me to help out.
But be assured had I ever worked another game or was called on to do so today, palming or carrying the ball would have passed without punishment. I would have banished it from my understanding of basketball.
One footnote to all this, when Jimmie and I get together nowadays and that night—some 41 years ago—comes up, he still gets that little smile and says, “Not one of your better nights, Deadbeat.”
The highlight of the evening was that he did buy, and quite a bit as I recall.
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