This was the John Chaney I knew

Mike Kern covered John Chaney for the Daily News. He wrote this story about Chaney, who died Friday at age 89, in 2001 for the official program at that year’s Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame induction ceremony.

My favorite John Chaney story? The scrapbook is certainly crammed. Yet after all these years that remains an uncontested layup.

It was March 1991. My first season as the Temple beat writer was reaching its conclusion. I hadn’t been enamored with the assignment, because I was more than a little leery about dealing with all the extracurricular stuff. If Chaney wasn’t busy giving a referee his one-eyed-jack glare, he’d be squaring off with the media about player accessibility, or lecturing anyone within earshot about the evils of Prop 48.

As I’ve learned to appreciate, he covets a good scrum. But from a distance, he appeared to be a distinctly acquired taste. Still, the first six months had been uneventful. The relationship was under construction, mostly on his terms.

The Owls had just beaten seventh-seeded Purdue by 17 points in an NCAA Tournament opener at Maryland’s Cole Field House. The night before Temple’s second-round game against Richmond, I received a call at my hotel room telling me that my dad had been rushed to a hospital, where he was undergoing emergency surgery to repair an embolism. So at 4 o’clock in the morning, I made the two-hour drive home, understandably numb. But the operation was successful, and the next afternoon I watched Chaney’s team advance to the Sweet 16. Then I parked myself on the sofa to regroup.

Much later that evening, the phone rang. My mind was still pretty much a blur. But the voice on the other end of the line was unmistakable. I can still hear the words. “This is Coach Chaney calling. I just wanted to know how your pop’s doing.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This guy, who really didn’t know me that well, had just arrived home after a big-time win.

Chaney could have called the next day and I would have been just as emotional. I found out later that he’d asked someone at the postgame interview why I wasn’t there. We talked for a good 10 minutes. The conversation had very little to do with basketball, as have many of our conversations since. We talked about my pop, and his pop, life and death. There were tears in my eyes. I’m sure there were more on the other end of the line. He can’t imagine how it made me feel, just to know he took the time. I don’t know if I ever properly thanked him. I know I’ll never be able to forget.

In the last decade, it’s been a privilege to witness the good, the bad and the ugly — often in the same press conference. It’s a package deal. I might not agree with everything that comes out of his mouth, and there’s a good chance I’ve heard some of the same stories more times than I care to chart. But it’s rarely been boring, and usually enlightening. I’ve been told I have the best job in America. A great quote is never more than a phone call away, even at midnight. You just have to sit through the first 15 minutes of monologue, before the first question gets asked. And, it might not be you doing the asking.

That’s the John Chaney I know.

The man belongs in the Basketball Hall of Fame for what he has accomplished on the sideline. The 656 wins. His .734 winning percentage over 29 seasons. The Division II national championship at Cheyney State in 1978. The five Final Eight appearances since 1988. Those 12 consecutive trips to the NCAA Tournament, and 17 in the last 18 years.

Ask any coach in America whom he least wants to face when the Madness finally arrives, and the stubborn old man with the heavy bags under his eyes and the Armani tie hanging loosely around his neck promises to be real high on the list. It might have something to do with the dreaded matchup zone, which some of the best minds in college basketball have failed to unravel.

In essence, though, he’s being honored just as much for who he is, what he’s stood for and how he’s taken those stances.

Sure, he’s a dinosaur. Don’t hold it against him. It’s part of the charm. Old school all the way, and damned proud of the designation. Longtime assistant Dean Demopoulos probably put it best when he said, “One of the first things he ever told me was, ‘Don’t try to look me up in the dictionary.’ It’s true. You won’t find him there.”

To understand Chaney, warts and all, you must understand his past. Here was someone who was denied opportunities because of the color of his skin. Maybe that’s why he fought so hard, so that others won’t be subject to the same disadvantages, even when it meant being a voice in the wilderness.

He was the Public League Player of the Year in 1951. Yet he couldn’t play for Temple, or any other major college in the city because of the quotas in effect at the time. So he went to Bethune-Cookman in Florida, where he spent his early years, and became an NAIA All-American. He couldn’t play in the NBA, for the same reason he couldn’t play at Temple. So he spent 10 years playing in the Eastern Pro League, where he was a seven-time All-Star and a two-time MVP. It’s also where he first coached, a career that took him to West Philly’s Sayre Junior High School, then Simon Gratz High.

If you look up old clippings, he was saying the same things then. Almost verbatim. Chaney always considered himself an educator first. Fact is, if he would have been granted tenure, he probably never would have left Cheyney. On the day he held his Hall of Fame press conference, he said the greatest tribute he ever received was a State of Pennsylvania Distinguished Faculty Award in 1979. Honest.

The irony of John Chaney is, had he not traveled such a bumpy road, he might not have been John Chaney.

That, obviously, would be everyone’s loss. If there’s a more fascinating soul among his new Hallmates ... Here’s someone who defends Bob Knight when it’s not popular, because he, too, stands for “good behavior.” Then, with a hearty laugh, says that former Owl Eddie Jones called to ask why Temple hadn’t fired him first, because “I’ve probably done a lot worse.”

Here’s a man who will sit in his office after a game until the wee hours of the morning, talking to friends and/or reporters for as long as they both want, about anything from the NCAA to the “power brokers” on TV to who has the best sandwiches in the Italian Market.

Here’s a guy who, at the first practice each year, does nothing but pontificate for two hours. Once, he asked his players how many of them thought O.J. Simpson was innocent. When most raised their hands, he proceeded to explain, in detail, why they were wrong.

Here’s someone who, on a recent road trip, greeted me at the door of his hotel room wearing nothing but a towel and a smile. He spent the next several minutes showing me two pairs of shoes he’d just brought for next to nothing. You might have thought he hit the lottery. I wasn’t allowed to leave until I sampled some chicken that he’d been keeping warm — in the coffee maker. You really had to be there.

Here’s a man who went after Massachusetts coach John Calipari in a postgame press conference, then showed up the next year to help roast him for a charity. Last year he took his team to Memphis for Calipari’s first game there.

Here’s a guy who can scream at you for 15 minutes, then greet you the following day as if nothing happened.

Here’s someone who’s cried every time a season ended one game short of the Final Four. Not for himself, but because he was upset he didn’t get his kids there.

Here’s a man who finally agreed to write a book with me, then abruptly (and loudly) changed his mind a few days later. The reason? Our paper had the audacity to run a headline that said the Owls should have high expectations that season. It didn’t matter that he had not read the article. But, after we’d argued about it for a good half-hour, he asked, “Is there any way you can get me a copy of the picture of me? Everyone says it’s a good one.”

Here’s a guy who does our Daily News Live television show every Christmas Eve. Not because he wants to, but simply because I ask him. He usually doesn’t do TV. Yet he comes, with a sackful of designer ties that he gladly passes out, and a sackful of stories that makes for what everyone agrees is is our best 90 minutes of the year. I consider it our present to the Delaware Valley. Here’s someone who recites poetry, yet can use profanity that could put a truck-driver to shame. Someone who can dress to the nines, yet still shows up for functions sporting what amounts to sweat suits.

Here’s a man who showed up at a regional site wearing a white warm-up and sunglasses and pronounced, “I’m traveling IncogNegro.”

Here’s a guy who once said of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar: “When he was at UCLA, he made more money than the postmaster general.”

A guy who said of the Philly fans: “I love the city that hates you back.”

A guy who wasn’t afraid to rip his own university, because it wouldn’t let him name his own successor.

A guy who says what he means and stands by it, right or wrong.

A guy who, when he had walking pneumonia, flew to North Carolina to attend the funeral of one of his players, Marvin Webster Jr. His motivation? “You can tell someone you’re dead. You can’t say you were sick.”

Here’s someone who will wear the same tie for a month, then give it away once he loses a game with it on. I’ve got quite a collection. Then, he’ll see you wearing one and exclaim, “Hey, that’s my tie,” and ask if you’d trade it back to him. I always try to hold out for a two-for-one.

Here’s a man who, at last year’s NCAAs, told the story about how he, as a young coach, had to get rid of his BMW — which he only had to impress potential recruits — because he couldn’t afford it. He was asked what car he drives these days. “A BMW,” he admitted, sheepishly. After a pause he grinned and added, “Two of them.” He’s since sold one, by the way, on eBay.

He’s a guy who, while trapped on the sideline in a pickup game at McGonigle Hall, called a timeout. When former Villanova great Fran O’Hanlon complained, Chaney replied, “This is my court. I can do what I want.”

John Chaney is all of that, and more. The sound bites only scratch the surface.

In the 13-page manual he gives to his players, this is how he describes his philosophy: “If you get guys that you can’t control or can’t get along with, then you’re just asking for trouble ... I think it’s important that a kid understand his strengths and maybe more importantly, understands his weaknesses. I have no hesitancy in telling kids what they should do.” Or, as he also put it: “If we have 80 possessions and only take 60 shots, I want to know what the hell happened to those other 20 possessions.”

John Chaney has always understood his strengths. And, more importantly, his weaknesses. It made him a creature of habit. He’s always been most dangerous when he’s most comfortable.

He’s a Philadelphia original, a slice of Americana.

“I’d just like to slip in there without anybody recognizing me,” he said when the inevitable became reality. “When I got the call, my mind started to go back as far as I can remember. The only thing I can do is see faces. I think that’s important. Try to remember how this all started. I didn’t have the answers. I didn’t know this would come about.

“It’s all about people. As you climb, there’s always a face in the crowd that you can see. It’s the players who play for you, finding a way to come back and just say, ‘How you doing, Coach?’ You look at the deeds.”

More than a dozen current and former players showed up that day to do a group photo. None could have made Chaney any prouder than Derrick Battie. Not because of anything he was doing with a basketball. Rather, because Battie’s expected to graduate soon.

Chaney will turn 70 in January. He just agreed to a three-year contract extension that will keep him on North Broad Street through the 2004-05 season. He might still be there in 2015. But, as he’s said, when he’s ready to walk, he’s walking.

It’ll never be the same.

I thought I’d heard them all. A few days before the 2000 Atlantic 10 tourney, he caught me by surprise.

He was at the First Union Center, speaking to a group of students from Martin Luther King High and the Vaux Middle School. He wore a designer jacket, sweats and sneakers, with a Basketball Hall of Fame cap sticking out of the coat pocket.

He talked about the three R’s: rules, roles and responsibility. He had kids and adults alike hanging on every syllable.

“I was a young man, about your age, growing up in the South at a very difficult time in my life,” he began. “I used to live in the projects, in Jacksonville. We were very poor. I didn’t know who my father was. My mother worked hard, for about $6 and carfare a week, taking care of someone else’s house, cooking someone else’s food.

“I had a wagon. I would go around the neighborhood, getting all the shoes, putting the people’s names on them, tying the shoestrings together. I’d shine their shoes for church. One time I made a mistake, gave a man the wrong shoes and got the biggest whipping in the world.

“If my crew came around, we wanted to hang out. I remember distinctly, one guy was [nicknamed] Bubbalaboo. You always got one guy where your mother says, ‘I don’t want you hanging out with that boy.’ But he makes it fun. So as soon as your momma leaves, you’re looking out the door for Bubbalaboo.”

“One day they wanted me to go to the movies. My mom said no. I ranted and raged, screamed at my mother, ‘I hate you.’ She sent me to bed. No supper, no nothing. I’m crying my eyes out. My guys are outside the window, picking at me, calling me a momma’s boy, everything else. That made me cry more. They went out, robbed a store. They were all black. They raped a white girl. We’re talking about the South now. The next day, in the papers, my friends are pasted all over the place. I’ll be willing to bet they’re probably still in jail. They made a bad decision.

“I got down on my knees and said to my mom, ‘I will listen to you for the rest of my life.’ I kissed her feet. I learned that with a good attitude, you can accomplish so much.”

“You’re growing up in a society that’s neglected your outcry of what’s right and what’s wrong. Identify the people who pour their hearts out for you, then work like the dickens to get it right. You should never lose by default. Be the first to say, ‘I could have done better.’ Make good decisions.”

He might never know how many minds his message reached. Even if it’s only one, it’s a victory.

That’s the John Chaney we all should never forget.