University of Virginia Library

A Clydesdale Christmas With The Cavaliers

By STEVE WELLS

ST. LOUIS – Bill Gibson sat relaxed in his University Hall
office. We had conversed casually for thirty minutes about various
ls pertaining to basketball – a comment in a John Markon
column which had disturbed him, his concern over late-arriving
Ul fans ("We need 'em there when the boys first come out at
7:25"), our shared belief in "The Virginia Way," and the challenge he faces this year as coach of a young ACC team.

For a while I was worried about taking up so much of his
for none of this was what had prompted my visit. Then,
suddenly, I too relaxed, sensing the man's warmth was neither
superficial nor artificial, his desire to talk neither obligatory nor
perfunctory. Our conversation had superseded that of an
editor-coach business relationship and had reached a plane more
human, perhaps more tender than I had ever expected to find in
the office of a basketball coach. As I would learn in the following
week, this is how Bill Gibson operates.

"It's important, Steve, that I know exactly what it is you want
to do so I know how to present it to the team."

I told him that you folks out there in readerland would be
interested in an inside look at his team, that I didn't know
exactly what shape the article would take, that I wanted to
accompany the team to the St. Louis Invitational Tournament,
and that I assumed he would want to set a few ground rules.

"Never use the word 'assume,"' he advised me. "You know
why?"

I didn't, so he walked over to the small blackboard on his wall,
wrote out the word "ASSUME," and then, with a mixture of
obscure wit and detached wisdom usually reserved for
grandfathers, he drew a vertical line after the first "s," another
after the "u," and explained, "'Cause when you do you make an
"ass" of "u," and "me."

I assured him I'd use my best discretion while on the trip, and
he assured me that no further ground rules were necessary.

Cramer, Gibson: The Way West

I. EXODUS

The St. Louis Invitational Tournament. Ever heard of it
before?

Prestigious? Remember who won it last year?

Still, it's two games on the schedule, so twenty-four of us
assemble at TWA Gate 7 at Washington National for the holiday
sojourned out to the Gateway of the West.

The official traveling party consists of twelve players, Coach
Gibson, his wife and daughter, assistant coach Chip Conner, team
manager Bob "Slick" Wilheim, sports information director
Barney Cooke, director of scheduling Steve Sebo, trainer Joe
Gieck, the "Voice of the Cavaliers" Chris Cramer, Bill Pinella of
The Daily Progress, CD sports editor Doug Doughty, and myself.
Twenty-four of us in all (not including U.Va sports enthusiast
Landon Birckhead and his wife, who'll go their separate way once
in St. Louis, and Tim Ashwell of WINA, who'll fly out the
next day). We'll stay in the same motel, eat at the same
restaurants, see the same sights, ride the same roads, and share the
same goals for the trip–enough to make us a temporary Missouri
community unto ourselves.

On the plane, Gibson and I wind up with aisle seats across
from each other, while just ahead of us Wilheim, holding a stack
of tickets, copes with the confusion of getting each of the players
into his assigned seat.

"We're going to St. Louis for three reasons," Gibson explains,
"to win the tournament, to spread the word of the University of
Virginia, and to have a good time."

The first game isn't until the following night, but Gibson never
lets the team travel on the day of a game. "I've had too many
things go wrong," he says. "It's not worth the money you save.
You have to treat these guys like thoroughbreds. You don't want
anything to throw them off-stride."

While the rest of the traveling party reads, talks quietly, or
listens to TWA's 9-channel stereo, the coach catches a few
minutes of sleep, only to be awakened by a stewardess serving
drinks. His team having played in (and won) the Palmetto Classic
last year and scheduled to play in holiday tournaments in Las
Vegas next year and Milwaukee the year after, I ask him where
he'd most like to spend the Christmas-New Year's interval.

"Home."

"No, seriously?"

"Home," he insists, although I still sense that if his team didn't
want to play during the holidays (he always puts tournament
bids up to a majority vote of the players) he'd be disappointed.

How does he feel about going to the St. Louis tourney?

"I won't know until after I've seen it." I begin to suspect that
the relative appeal of various holiday tournaments is not so much
determined by the size of the host city or by the caliber of
competition as by the way they treat the teams.

A few minutes of silence, then Gibson asks me for a pen and
something to write on. He challenges me to a game played by
drawing lines and crossing them out, and offers to buy me dinner
if I win. I lose. I lose again. I lose the whole damn way to St.
Louis. (He buys me dinner.)

As Mrs. Gibson informs me three days later, "Bill doesn't
challenge you to a game unless he thinks he can win."

The Gibson confidence is omnipresent, even though his
mild-mannered facade often obscures it to the public-at-large. It's
also contagious. With more than a hint of pride, he boasts, "There
isn't a guy on this plane who doesn't believe we can win the
tournament."

Like every man with confidence, his occasionally leads him to
ponder plateaus greater and more unreachable than he can
realistically expect at present. But the determination and the
drive – and even the sense of poetic justice – are there
nonetheless. Somewhere over northern Kentucky, he stands up
and says, "Steve, you know where the semi-finals and finals of
the nationals are being held this year, don't you?"

"No. Where?"

With a subtle but sly grin on his face, he punches me on the
arm and says, "St. Louis," and then walks down the aisle.

***

We touch down at Lambert Airport at 3:13 p.m. CST. Steve
Sebo spots the nearest newsstand and picks up a copy of the
afternoon St. Louis Post-Dispatch and turns quickly to the sports
section. The tournament story highlights Georgetown (our
first-round opponent) but has some nice things to say about
Barry Parkhill and Virginia.

Our baggage claimed, we pile on to a waiting bus which takes
us on a 25 minute ride down the western edge of the city to our
motel. There isn't much talking, as the paper being passed around
and the city outside the windows command our attention.

We arrive at the Quality Inn on Oakland Ave., three blocks
from the St. Louis Arena, where the main event of the trip will be
held. More confusion in the lobby as "Slick" assigns us our rooms
and gives us our keys. Meanwhile, Gibson is greeted by a friendly
female functionary. Pointing her finger at the Hooter in
mock-anger, she says, "You're the one team that didn't send the
pre-registration list. You're fired."

***

Fifteen minutes later, we're back on the bus, for another quiet
ride through the city to St. Louis University and what Jim
Hobgood would later accurately describe as a "dumpy old gym,"
where the Cavs have a practice scheduled for 5 o'clock.

Inside waiting is KTVI sportscaster Ed Macauley, with camera,
mike, and two-man crew, ready to grab Gibson as soon as he
enters. After prepping him on the questions he's going to ask him,
the interview begins. Gibson is, as always, calm and sincere as he
explains (as he would often during the next three days), "We
haven't quite put it together yet, but we're workin' on it."

"Bill, how do you build a program like you have at Virginia?"
Macauley asks.

"First, you get a player like Barry Parkhill," Gibson shoots
back. And the questions and answers continue routinely...blah,
blah, blah...

Finally, Macauley asks, "Can you win the tournament?"

"If the Pope is Catholic we can," Gibson quips off-the-cuff, to
Macauley's delight. Only this last gem will never reach the air
because the camera has run out of film, so the question has to be
asked again, and this time the Hooter gives a more conventional
reply.

Next, it's Parkhill's turn.

"Barry, how do you cope with the pressure?"

"I try not to think about it."

Blah, blah, blah.

Then it's Wally Walker's turn.

Blah, blah, blah.

In all, about thirteen minutes of footage, of which less than
two ends up on the air.

Today it's part of the game.

***

The workout lasts almost an hour and differs from regular
U-Hall practices in its shorter duration and minimized emphasis
on drills in favor of more shooting time. The team does, however,
split up into orange-and-blue sides to run through brief half-court
and full-court drills.

The practice over, Gibson calls the team together in the middle
of the court for a brief summation of the Georgetown game
strategy and a discussion of the evening's activities.

Hobgood has heard there's a pro hockey game at the Arena,
and "Slick" is dispatched to see if tickets are available. It is also
determined that dinner will be at Stan Musial's restaurant, next
door to the motel.

The team departs for the showers, and returns a few minutes
later to learn that the hockey game is completely sold out.
("Didn't you use your pull, Slick?")

Little do we know that it is an omen of things to come.

***

7:15, and we all congregate at "Stan Musial and Biggie's,"
most of us wondering who the hell Biggie is (it turns out he's an
old friend of Musial's, now deceased). Doughty and I join
Hobgood and Dan "Pins" Bonner at a table for four in the plush,
richly red dining room.

The food is delicious, the conversation light-hearted.

Hobbo, lamenting breakdown of class hierarchy: "When I was a
sophomore, they were dirt."

Bonner: "That's right, when you were a sophomore, you
probably were dirt."

The two, both extremely personable, continue to kid each
other about religion, fast driving, Bonner's breakneck pace of
eating, and Hobbo's missed last shot at the NIT last March.

Hobbo proffers, self-effacingly, "My senioritis was all packed
into one game (Princeton, against whom he didn't score)."

More seriously on the subject he believes North Carolina will
still provide the strongest ACC competition, "because they play

All photos CD/Steve Wells

Hobgood, Doughty, And Gerard Listening To Tour Guide During Visit To Anheuser-Busch

you 7-on-5."

Does he have trouble finding time for academics? "I had four
exams the week after the Lafayette game, and that was kinda
tough, but most of the time it isn't too bad.

Did he mind having to come back to Charlottesville to practice
on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day? "I just got into the
Christmas spirit and I had to rush back. That part was bad. Once
we got back it wasn't so bad, what with practice and all."

Behind us, the hostess points Stan Musial to the seat where
Gibson is sitting, and "The Man" goes to greet "The Hoot."

As they talk, Bonner says matter-of-factly, "He doesn't took
like a great baseball player."

Hobbo flashes a boyish grin and retorts, "Neither do I But I
am."

Meanwhile, at the next table, Slick, Parkhill, and Gus Gerard,
anticipating a forthcoming introduction to the great Cardinal
first baseman mull over possible compliments to pay him, such as

"I've always considered you one of the three or four great
rightfielders of all time," or "Didn't you pitch a perfect game?"

In a subsequent conversation later in the meal, Chip Conner
asks Musial a hypothetical question. "Could Roberto Clemente
hit Dizzy Dean's pitching?"

The Man's reply: "A good hitter can hit anything that's
thrown at him."

By now, it's sign-the-check-so-it-can-be-forwarded-to-the
-athletic-department-time, and a hassled Slick Wilheim does just
that.

Dinner for 24: $264.25.

***

Most everybody retreats to his room, what with curfew being
11:30 for the players (this doesn't mean they're in bed by that
time, just in their respective rooms). There is color television in
each room and candy and drink machines at various spots along
the labyrinth of outside corridors, so things could be worse in a
Missouri motel room the night after Christmas and before
Georgetown.

II. ECSTASY

Call is at 10 a.m., and most of us descend into the motel
dining room for a typically bland breakfast.

At 11:30 the team players and coaches converge on Room
251, which is set up with rows of chairs and a blackboard, for the
team meeting. Usually this event is closed to the press for obvious
reasons, but Gibson makes an exception in our case.

He greets his pupils tongue-in-cheek. "Glad to see none of you
got into trouble last night. The police didn't call me."

Then it's down to business, namely the Georgetown scouting
report, of which each player has a copy.

Gibson asks each of the starting five – Drummond, Walker,
Gerard, Parkhill, Hobgood – how he's going to play his man, and
the first four give similar replies – box him out, keeping the ball
away from the inside where Georgetown's strength lies.

When Gibson gets to Hobbo, who is matched against the Hoyas'
6' - 6", 230 lb. Greg Brooks, he takes a deep breath. "Hobbo, you
got a problem. How're you going to handle this guy?"

The senior forward smiles sheepishly. "Intimidate him with
my strength."

A short laugh, a straight answer, a few comments from
Conner, and a couple of diagrams on the blackboard.

Gibson brings the session to a close. "When you win you have
fun. That's the idea, to have fun – only there are a few
roadblocks. You have fun by causing turnovers. To me a turnover
is the prettiest sight."

He stops, then proceeds in firmer, though still fatherly,
fashion.

"We haven't put it together as yet, but we're getting closer and
closer all the time. The talent's here – right in this room. It's just
a case of blending it together. Remember, team first, individual
second. I consider you the favorites in the tournament, but no
one's going to lay down and play dead for you. You have all day
to prepare yourselves, each in your own particular way, so take
advantage of the time."

He pauses, then asks the team what they thought of last
night's dinner at Musial's. The opinion is unanimous.

"You travel first class; you eat first class, but you also have to
play first class. Or do you want it second or third class? It is up to
you. Personally, I prefer first. You know what fourth class is?
That's riding freight cars."

It's also eating lunch at Burger Chef. Which is what
Georgetown did.

***

The half-hour meeting concluded, everyone goes his different
way. Some of the players return to their rooms to rest, others
walk the short distance to the St. Louis Zoo. Gibson takes a short
tour of the city, then returns to his room to relax and further
contemplate the game plan. Conner lights out for a high school
tournament across the river in Illinois to have a look at a couple
of prospects. Mrs. Gibson has already headed downtown with
Cramer and Sebo to explore the stores of St. Louis.

At 2:30 the team assembles in the motel dining room for its
pre-game meal – ten ounce rib-eye steak, baked potato,
green peas, and tea (usually on the road Gibson lets the team
order whatever they want at this meal, but the culinary impostors
in the kitchen here insist it be pre-ordered.)

By 3, the players are upstairs again, sleeping, watching TV,
relaxing, preparing. The only sign of activity is a brief piggy-back
ride given Bob McKeag by Stevie Morris.

With the opposition beginning to loom larger than statistics
would indicate, the tension begins to build. It is a time of waiting
– in the Hooter's opinion, the most difficult time of all.

The game is scheduled for 7. The tournament officials (if such
beings exist at all) have neither shown their faces nor shown the
teams any way to get to The Arena besides on foot.

At 5:30, we all meet in the motel office as Chip Conner's
rented car is used to transport players to the arena in shifts.

Conner's recruiting trip to Illinois has been fruitless, it turns
out. As Gibson explains, "The guy who can play, we can't take;
the guy who can't play, we can take." That's "The Virginia Way"
for you.

Sebo, Pinella, Doughty, and I decide to walk the three blocks.
En route, Sebo points out some of the problems inherent in
holiday tournaments, most notably the increasing difficulty in
getting people to come to them, particularly with so many
football bowl games springing up on television between Christmas
and New Year's.

Nevertheless, the eternally optimistic former Athletic Director
foresees the day when Virginia will host its own holiday
tournament. This is something not even Gibson can foresee,
Charlottesville not being in a position on the map to draw enough
of a crowd to make it feasible. After all, you need a centrally
located city large enough to attract a crowd of at least respectable
size. A city like St. Louis, right?

Sebo, who talks to just about everybody he sees, from janitors
to general managers, asks an Arena parking attendant how large a
throng is expected tonight?

"18,000" comes the sarcastic reply.

Undeterred, Sebo pursues the subject. "What? About 3,000?"

"3,000?" the man said. "We'll be lucky if there are 300."

For a while it looks as if he may be right. Twenty-five minutes
before game time there are a grand total of 131 people in the vast
sports palace. By the time St. Louis tips off against Army at 9,
though, it will have swelled to about 3,000.

Or about one quarter of what the attendance will be the
following night for the first round of the hockey part of the
tournament.

***

Hold it a minute. What's this about hockey?

Well, now's as good a time as any, I suppose.

You see, it's a combination tournament – basketball
Wednesday and Friday, hockey Thursday and Saturday. Fair
enough, on the surface. Only St. Louis we have learned by now is
a hockey city, and next year it's going to be an all-hockey
tournament. So we on the b-ball side of the tourney feel like
second-class citizens, unwelcome in the city we're invited to, left
to fend totally for ourselves, wondering whether, in fact, anyone
is running this tournament or not.

***

The victory over Georgetown is sealed early, although Gibson
says later he couldn't rest comfortably until the final two
minutes. Actually the evening's drama (or closest thing to it)
takes place just off the court before the game when Chris Cramer
discovers he has brought the wrong microphone from
Charlottesville, and there is some doubt as to whether he can
borrow one from a St. Louis station in time for his broadcast. (He
does.)

***

Gibson and Conner station themselves with pencil and paper in
some corner seats to watch and study Army and (especially) St.
Louis, while the players gather in a section of seats behind the St.
Louis basket.

It's a sloppy first half with the Cadets earning more than a few
jibes from the Cavaliers. Parkhill is particularly merciless in his
comments, all of which are justified by the action on the court.
"Look at that Army defense. Impenetrable. They've gotten
more rebounds off the floor than they've gotten out of the air."

Hobbo elaborates. "The military academies always play scrappy
hall, slapping you on the wrist, running into you, and all. They
know the game functionally. They just don't have the material."

The players leave at the half, as Barney Cooke drives them
back to the motel, from where some of them depart for