You Let Some Girl Beat You? Read online

  I was born loving athletic competition, especially if it was against the guys, and each time I did something that had never been done before, I wanted to find new frontiers to conquer. I had been the first high school student to make it onto the US National team before going on to lead UCLA women’s basketball to their only National Championship after winning a Silver Medal on the first Olympic Women’s Basketball Team.

  During college, I played pick-up games with guys like Magic Johnson, Mark Eaton, and Marques Johnson at Pauley Pavilion, and with Calvin Murphy and Julius Erving in Vegas. They were fast, but so was I. They had size, but I had quickness. They had strength, but I had heart.

  Some said my ability to play at the men’s level was taking women’s basketball in a new direction. If that was true, it was because the good Lord put me in the right place at the right time. John Wooden had been coaching the UCLA men’s team to stratospheric heights for years before my older brother, Dave Meyers, stepped foot on campus and helped lead the Bruin men to their final championship under their beloved coach. I benefitted from having the support of both my brother and Coach Wooden during that period. And there’s no doubt the national attention Dave and I received as UCLA’s sibling basketball players spilled over onto women’s basketball at a time when the country was coming to view women in a very different light. I didn’t need my newly earned sociology degree to realize that. You’d have had to have been blind not to see it.

  The 70s had given birth to Title IX, which allowed young women more equitable access to school funding. Title IX affected me, in particular, when I became the first female athlete to receive a full athletic scholarship to a Division I university. Culturally, the decade had ushered in the likes of Maude and Mary Tyler Moore, replacing TV stereotypes like Harriett and Lucy. Now at the decade’s close, Patty Hearst, whose automatic-rifle-wielding image was emblazoned in the public eye four years earlier when she robbed a bank with the Symbionese Liberation Army, had her sentence commuted by President Carter, in part, due to pressure from the ACLU, NAACP, and various women’s rights organizations.

  The image of the fairer sex as hiding behind an apron in the kitchen was definitely being replaced, if not by that of a woman with an itchy trigger-finger, then by that of a woman with a naked ring-finger throwing her hat up in the air to the lyrics, “You’re going to make it after all.” If ever there could be a female NBA player, it seemed 1979 might be that time; and it looked like I might be that player.

  The press wasn’t so sure. Some thought it was just a publicity stunt on the part of Nassi. While I was well aware of the Bill Veck story, the baseball owner who had hired a midget in the hopes of upping attendance, I never believed Sam wanted me as a side show. Sure, there was publicity involved, but not for me. I just wanted to compete, and I’d been given an opportunity to compete with the best. I knew it would be at a price.

  Leading women’s magazines accused me of slighting my sisters at a time when it looked as though there might finally be a viable women’s basketball league. Others implied that the NBA might be trying to dishearten the new league out of existence rather than take a chance on sharing even a slice of ticket revenue. “Shame on you, NBA, for crossing the sex barrier and letting the Pacers sign Ann Meyers when the WBL has been drooling over her for over a year now,” wrote Mademoiselle. Sportswriters said I didn’t stand a chance. “I am five-foot-nine and weigh 175 pounds, and haven’t shaved my legs in thirty-eight years. I have a better chance of dancing with the Radio City Music Hall Rockettes than Ann Meyers has of playing basketball in the NBA,” one Washington Post reporter wrote.

  “It won’t be a joke when they see her play,” Denver Nuggets coach, Donnie Walsh, told the press. “I’ve seen her play against David Thompson, Wilt Chamberlain, and Quinn Buckner. She’s good. From far away, you couldn’t tell it was a girl.”

  My biggest supporter was the owner of the team himself, Sam Nassi.

  It was early August when the phone rang in our home in La Habra, California. I’d just returned from the Spartakiade Games in Russia on the heels of playing in the World Championships in Korea, where we’d won the Gold. That summer we’d also taken Silver in the Pan Am Games. I was team captain and recently named overall first draft pick of the WBL Houston.

  “Ann, how would you like to try out in the NBA with the Indiana Pacers?”

  “Who is this?” I had taken the call upstairs in my mom’s room. I was home just long enough to unpack before heading off to train at the Squaw Valley Camp for the upcoming USA Basketball World University Games in Mexico, and whoever this was, he was lucky to catch me.

  “This is Sam Nassi, owner of the Indiana Pacers, and I’d like you to try out for the team.”

  Sam who? I’d never heard of him, but he seemed to know me. He’d followed my career and seen the publicity I’d generated for UCLA. To me, Sam Nassi was simply a voice on the phone offering me an outrageous proposition.

  The Pacers, however, I knew very well. They were an ABA team who had recently moved to the NBA. Though the conversation was brief, it was long enough for me to see that Sam was serious. I was flattered and excited but I wasn’t about to let it show.

  “Well, I’ll have to speak with my family first.” We exchanged further pleasantries before signing off. I bolted downstairs and slid into the kitchen to tell my mother, practically knocking her over onto the cold linoleum.

  I then made several calls. One was to my older brother, Mark, who had just become a Personal Injury attorney. I realized I would need legal representation, and at twenty-four, the difference between a sports lawyer and a PI lawyer meant about as much to me as the difference between a German Shepherd and a Doberman. All I knew was that my brother would look out for me. Mark negotiated a three-year personal service contract for $150,000. Whether I made the cut or not, for three years I would be with the organization in some capacity. At that time the minimum annual salary for an NBA player was $50,000, a lot of money back then.

  Another call was to Julius Erving, whom I had played with in various celebrity tennis tournaments, and was a very close friend. Julius was already a legend in the ABA and the NBA. He was one of the most celebrated basketball players of his time. I knew Julius would be supportive and happy for me, and he was.

  But the most important call I made from Mom’s kitchen was to my older brother, Dave. His opinion had always mattered more than anyone’s. If anybody could advise me, it would be Dave. The Bucks had nabbed him in a trade with the Lakers four years earlier, after he’d led UCLA to two championships and been chosen as the NBA’s 2nd overall draft pick. Dave had been there, and he’d know what to tell me.

  “That’s really great, Annie,” he began. “But there’s no one in the NBA who is 5’8” and 134 pounds.”

  “5’9”,” I reminded him. “And you said there’s a kid in Atlanta who is only 5’8”.”

  “Charlie Criss, and he weighs 165 lbs. and he’s the lightest guy in the NBA.”

  The conversation wasn’t going where I wanted.

  “Well, don’t expect any special treatment. After all, you’re potentially taking some guy’s job.”

  It seemed it always came down to this; the right of men over women to have a job, to get the promotion, to be nominated the party’s presidential pick. But Dave? He didn’t subscribe to this sexist theory of the world. No, my guess was Dave was more concerned for my physical welfare than anything else. I assured him that I didn’t expect to be treated any differently than any of the other contenders, and that I could take care of myself. All I wanted was to go out there and show them I could play.

  The truth was, while I wanted Dave’s advice and my entire family’s input, deep down I think I’d already made up my mind, or at least my heart. God had given me another opportunity, and this time I wouldn’t be held back. Five years earlier—while in high school—I’d chosen not to play on the boys’ team. Now, I had that chance again, but on a much bigger stage. This time, I wasn’t going to allow anyone to talk me ou
t of it.

  I headed up to Squaw Valley and let two days of training with the USA team pass before I worked up the nerve to tell them I wouldn’t be going to Mexico to compete in the World University Games, nor would I be eligible for the ’80 Olympics. It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do.

  When I returned home to La Habra, there were three weeks remaining before the trials. I trained every day, all day, often with my brother Jeff. We played as many as fifteen pick-up games a day. When we weren’t playing, he drilled me with shots, conditioning, and mentally helped me prepare.

  “You’ll never get a shot off like that,” he’d say.

  He knew what I’d be up against, and he wanted to toughen me up as much as possible. I’d run the stairs and keep my hands fast by using a speed-bag. I may not have been able to do anything about my height or bulk, but I could compensate with speed, quickness, and my shooting ability. I was a pretty good outside shooter, and with the then newly-implemented NBA 3-point rule for field goals from beyond a 23’9” arc, that talent was in great demand.

  It goes without saying that I was about to go up against a lot of good outside shooters, and all of them would be bigger and stronger, but none of them could have loved the game any more than I did. Desire and talent don’t discriminate between male and female anatomy. I hoped Slick wouldn’t either. I wanted to show him that I could play. And for three days, that’s exactly what I did.

  Holed up at an Indianapolis Ramada Inn at night and Butler University during the day, the Free Agent/Rookie training camp took place inside Hinkle Fieldhouse, the same gym made famous in the movie Hoosiers. The tryouts lasted three days in September, and were held in the morning and again in the late afternoon. At night, I would phone my mom, steering clear of the television and newspapers. I’d hoped to avoid all the negativity surrounding my bid, but in one phone conversation I learned that Veteran Pacers player, Mike Bantom, had been quoted saying that if I was going after his job, then he was going after me whether I was a girl or not, and he hoped I didn’t get hurt. My brother, Dave, had been right.

  Every morning, I rode over to the gym with my trainer, Davey Craig, and the top two draft picks, Tony Zeno and Dudley Bradley. At 6’8”, Tony Zeno had played for Arizona State as a forward, and he would go on to play for the Pacers for a year before playing in Italy, where in a game against Poland, he broke a backboard with a slam-dunk. Dudley Bradley had played for the University of North Carolina and was called “the Secretary of Defense” for his prowess at forcing turnovers. He would go on to set an NBA rookie record with 211 steals.

  But for now, both men were simply competitors with whom I would share a ride and the court—all three of us sporting the same Pacers practice gear, complete with knee-high socks and Adidas high-top Superstars.

  During the first scrimmage, a defensive player came up behind me and set a hard screen. I recovered, pivoted to the left, and sprinted down the length of the court. I cut into the lane on the break, received a chest pass from the wing and made a left-handed lay-up. It wasn’t much different from what I had done thousands of times before, whether on the courts of UCLA, or the playgrounds and high school gyms, or at the Olympics or the Pan Am Games. But now the stakes were much higher; a place in the greatest league in the world.

  As a little girl, my siblings and I would huddle around the television every Sunday, consumed by the plays of our idols Bill Russell, Jerry West, and John Havlicek. We’d wait for that one NBA game all week and when it was over, we’d go outside and try to emulate their moves. In my mind, I was John Havlicek. Looking back, I don’t know who my brother, Dave, pretended to be, but he’d grown up to make the dream come true. Now, incredibly, there was a chance it might happen for me, too.

  However, from the sidelines, I believe the press saw something entirely different: a woman amidst a dozen guys a foot taller and as much as 100 pounds heavier. They never thought I stood a chance.

  A microphone was jammed into my face by someone with one of the local stations. “A lot of people say you’re in over your head, literally and figuratively.” I immediately wondered if a question would follow his comment and why there weren’t any women covering the tryouts. There were easily ten cameras and a couple dozen reporters in the Hinkle Fieldhouse, and not a woman among them.

  “What about taking a charge from Bob Lanier?” he persisted. “How are you going to do that?”

  “Who in the NBA is going to take a charge from Bob Lanier?” I asked back. It was a stupid question.

  “The WBL is saying you should promote women’s basketball rather than shame yourself. How do you feel about that?”

  “People can say what they want,” I said on my way out. Rather than use the women’s locker room, I headed toward the ladies’ bathroom, where I knew I couldn’t be followed.

  On the way, I overheard one of the players talking to the press. “She’s good, but she doesn’t deserve to be here.”

  Certainly, he had a right to his opinion, and I appreciated his honesty, but I didn’t agree. While everyone on the court could play, some of them just didn’t seem to fully understand the game. On defense, there was a guy who would get lost, another couldn’t read a pick. One didn’t understand how to run the floor on a fast break. I still liked my chances, regardless what this guy thought; what any of them thought.

  I’d long developed the ability to brush off comments made by my male opponents. I’d heard them all through the years, whether from boys, young men, or seasoned pros. I’d seen them express every emotion possible, from awe to exasperation, heard every type of remark, from nasty to admiring, and I’d learned long ago not to let their feelings affect me. Now more than ever, though, I had to make certain nothing got inside my head. I had to play my best.

  Was I knocked down? You bet. But I knew how to fall and get back up because I’d done it so many times before. When a 6’10” center went up for a rebound, he brought the ball down below his waist, which gave me the chance to sneak in close, turn up my palm, and pop the ball loose in order to stop the fast break.

  I had learned throughout my years playing that the majority of guys would bring the ball too low on a rebound. At UCLA, we were taught to bring the ball to our chests. Because of my size, I could sneak in there and give a little jab, and the ball would pop out of their hands. We both went for the ball, and in the scramble, he knocked me to the ground. I jumped right back up. I needed them to see it was no big deal because, to me, it wasn’t. I had done my job, he was trying to do his. That’s just part of basketball, and I needed both the coaches and the players to realize that I didn’t require special treatment; the latter for their sake, as well as mine.

  John Kuester, who was a free agent guard from North Carolina and played for Dean Smith, showed up for tryouts. Everybody called him “Q” because his last name was pronounced Q-ster. Q and I were in a one-on-one drill, and as I hustled back on defense, we collided and I went down. I was fine, but John’s natural instinct was to worry that he’d hurt me.

  He bent down next to me. “Are you okay, Annie?”

  He was such a good guy and, like most of the players there, he’d been conditioned his whole life to take it easy on girls, not to play too rough. Now he was being asked to do just the opposite. We were both playing our hardest at what is a very physical game. We were going to get knocked down, but John wasn’t prepared to knock a woman down. After his playing days, he became the head coach for the Detroit Pistons before going on to become an assistant coach for the Lakers.

  Seeing John check to make sure I was okay brought on the ire of Jack McCloskey, Indiana’s assistant coach. “That’s it! Everybody over here!” Jack was running practice while Slick watched from the sidelines. He had been with the LA Lakers, and became the GM of the Detroit Pistons in the 80s during their heyday. But he was far from happy that day watching us practice. “You’re gonna stop this bullshit now!”

  He lit into all of us with the longest, saltiest tirade I’d ever heard. Cu
rsing was a collateral skill developed on basketball courts the world-over, but Jack’s pointed list of superlatives effectively worked to shake the reticence out of every player there and replace it with an unbridled determination to play at full throttle. By using the most over-the-top language imaginable, he didn’t just give the other players permission to behave ungentlemanly around a woman, he demanded that they go out there and play without constraint of any kind.

  “Forget about the cameras and the reporters, and the fact that they’re here because of Annie. She’s no different than any of us. Now get out there and play!”

  His words got through, and I saw an immediate change in the players. It became a turning point in the tryouts. I could sense the relief. There was a freedom to the movement after that. The drills had more energy, more focus. From my perspective, it meant I was one of them. Jack had called me into the circle and spoke the same way to all of us. From that point on, I felt that I had Jack on my side.

  “Fundamentally, she’s better than half the guys out there,” he told one of the reporters at the break.

  During the afternoon scrimmage, the opposing team made a lay-up on a fast break. Jack had been urging us to push the ball up the floor as quickly as possible. As I took the in-bounds pass, I looked up the court to see my teammate streaking down the wing. I wanted to fire him an outlet pass so we could put pressure on the opposing defense before they had a chance to set up. But he didn’t even turn his head. On the next offensive possession, I was dribbling with my left hand at the top of the key and looking over the defense. I called for a pick from one of my forwards, planning to use the screen to either pull up for an open jump shot or hit him with a pass as he rolled to the basket, but he didn’t move an inch from the block. He just sort of went “Huh?” After Jack’s directive, it was impossible to believe that these guys were just playing dumb, knowing that it would jeopardize their own standing.