I recently participated in a college basketball practice. It was an odd experience for two reasons: Firstly, and most obviously, I am no longer a college basketball player. Second, the practice was conducted by my college coach, but at a different university than the one I attended.
I was in Los Angeles to do some work on a television project that is at once completely ludicrous yet fraught with unbelievable potential. More on that at another time. While I was in town, I needed a place to work out. (It may appear to the casual observer that I have completely abandoned my original meal ticket, but that is not the case -- all Mark Pope tributes aside.) To this end, I called Tim Floyd, who was my original college coach at Iowa State and who is now the head coach at USC. The trip was not my first to L.A. in recent months, so Coach Floyd was not surprised to hear from me and told me to feel free to join his team for workouts the afternoons I was in town.
On one hand, I suppose I could have been ashamed of the fact I was resorting to practicing with a college team as a means to keeping myself in shape. On the other, I could realize that the first hand is a vain, insecure appendage and I should appreciate the opportunities I have. I didn't actually join the team for much of their workout. But I jumped into the odd drill here and there and was struck by just how much had changed since the last time I had been in a similar circumstance.
I arrived at Iowa State weighing a whopping 195 pounds. I generally hover around 230 now. Back then, I had played for only a handful of basketball coaches in my life. At this point, I have probably been exposed to a hundred different on-court philosophies. In those days, I was deathly afraid of making a mistake. While still haunted by that basic approach, I now realize just how detrimental that mentality was and do my best to care as little as possible.
While I was on the court with the USC players, I could see similarities to the various stages of my own personality. The eager-to-please freshman, the comfortable senior, the walk-on who was contemplating his dinner plans. I have "been" them all at various stages of my career.
It is very odd to watch Coach Floyd conduct practice again. I have seen him in post-collegiate action before; I went to training camp with the Floyd-helmed New Orleans Hornets two years ago. I knew I would not make the team going into the fall, but hoped to put forth an effort that might make the team consider securing my services the following year. My efforts proved wasted when Floyd was fired in the spring. (I did get to add a teal uniform to my collection, though. And, while there aren't many colors I don't have, it's always nice to fill in the gaps.)
Since I knew I was not being actively considered for a roster spot, I had some time to analyze Coach Floyd's methods in New Orleans. They were slightly different than they had been at Iowa State. When one of the Hornets did something completely absurd, instead of sharply informing the player of his displeasure, he had to turn toward the wall and take a deep breath. In the NBA, coaches are expendable, and he knew that. I was treated to the occasional exasperated eye roll, which reminded me that his basketball soul remained intact.
I think Coach Floyd came out of his NBA experience slightly more aware of the sheer absurdity that is high-level basketball. As I watched him pace the sidelines at USC, spewing spent Nicorette wrappers as if they were machine-gun shells, I could tell a large part of him longs for a time that has passed -- when basketball was about basketball, and not about shoe contracts, or AAU coaches, or 17-year-olds who assume they will someday play for money.
I respect Tim Floyd as much as any non-related-to-me human in this world. Contrary to the down-home, Mississippi-raised façade he loves to employ, he may be the smartest person I know. I'm sure he is the most loyal.
But neither of those traits make a great basketball coach. As I drove to the basket during one of the few drills in which I actually participated, I was reminded of what does. I took a pass from one of the Southern Cal players and laid it gently over the rim. I heard, from near half court, a distinct voice, saying, "Lay it off the board, Shirley."
It was Coach Floyd, jokingly admonishing me for not executing a truly fundamentally sound play. But, for just an instant, I was taken back to Ames, Iowa, and the three-hour (sometimes four-hour) training sessions we used to endure. I realized then that a good basketball coach simply commands respect. A man could have a wealth of intelligence, or have vast experience on the sideline, or know basketball tactics like the lead singer of Nickelback knows bad hair, but if he does not inspire confidence, he is sunk. When the day is through, Coach Floyd does that. Everyone in the gym -- the dumb underclassman, the disdainful senior, the half-baked walk-on -- understands his best interests will probably be served if he does what the Dennis Quaid look-alike tells him.
The part of me that is occasionally fooled by Coach Floyd's projected naivete has wondered how he will do among the bright lights of Los Angeles. But now I know he will be fine. His teams probably won't be worth the proverbial pot, nor the proverbial window to throw it out until he gets "his" players into the fold, but eventually he will do fine. I could tell that as soon as I threw up that finger roll.
Paul Shirley has played for 11 pro basketball teams, including three NBA teams -- the Chicago Bulls, the Atlanta Hawks and the Phoenix Suns. His journal will appear regularly at ESPN.com. To e-mail Paul, click here.