Memories of Tom Gola, an elegant star

He didn't run as much as he seemed to glide, like a man surfing on air, playing with such an elegance and grace that others caught themselves staring. But he could play Philly Ball, too, if that was your desire, and he could rumble in for the rebound and slyly employ an educated elbow to carve out position.

You should have seen him, the oldsters would sigh, awe in their voices. Well, OK then, which position was it that he played? All of them was the answer. And it was no exaggeration, for Tom Gola could, and would, play wherever they needed him. Wherever, that is, as long as it was in Philadelphia.

Because that was the essence of the man, his unwavering loyalty, his total and absolute devotion to this city that spanned a star-spangled lifetime, as a player, as a coach, as a politician, as a city employee. It may be true what they say, that notion that you can't go home again, but Tom Gola solved that by never leaving.

He was Philadelphia through and through, the son of a Philadelphia cop, rowhouse-raised in Olney, a gym rat honing his game on school yards and in church gyms and playgrounds downtheshore, rejecting all those scholarship offers from other colleges to stay home and play for La Salle, and then making a commute from his home to New York after he was traded to the Knicks . . . and how's that for sustained commitment?

He aged as he had played, with a patrician ease that masked his inherent shyness. He was one of those men for whom space is instantly made in a crowded room. His energy appeared limitless; he juggled projects as effortlessly as he had handled basketballs - he held office even while coaching La Salle basketball, and that was such a distraction to both coach and player that all they did one year was go 23-1.

He was a genuine folk hero, and his admiring public repaid him by electing him to public office - state representative and city controller.

He played the early part of his career in that halcyon era of the 1950s. Happy Days. There was a newfangled shot - the jump shot, wasn't it? - just coming into vogue then. The dunk, too. The shoes and the uniforms were basic white; the psychedelic haberdashery was yet to come. Into this environment, Tom Gola brought a game of strength and guile and variety.

One number would forever define his basketball skills:

2,201.

It looks like a truncated zip code. What it is, is the total number of rebounds harvested by Tom Gola over a four-year collegiate career. And this is the part that makes it so special - it is an NCAA record, and it is still standing. It is true that in this age only a few players ever stick around for the full four years. Even so, 2,201 of anything is remarkable.

The erstwhile Round Mound of Rebound is especially impressed. "Anyone can score," said Charles Barkley. "But not everybody can rebound. Rebounding is nothing but hard, dirty work."

Yes, yes it is. It is hard work, and it is positioning, and it is persistence and anticipation and geometry (knowing the angles).

Not that Tom Gola didn't know his way around the hoop when it came to scoring - he amassed the tidy sum of 2,461 points as a collegian.

He was listed as standing 6-foot-6, hardly imposing by today's standards, but in a magazine article he was referred to as "an affable yet intense giant."

Most of all, Tom Gola passed the acid test, the standard by which we measure what we deem to be greatness: Does he make those around him better?

Well, in his La Salle career, the Explorers won 102 games. Along the way he took them to the NIT and the NCAA championships. And he always seemed to be the MVP at those things.

Philadelphia's basketball impresario, Sonny Hill, once proclaimed: "When you talk basketball in this town, there are two names that instantly come to mind - Wilt and Tom."

No less a personage than Bob Knight, the tyrannical genius, asked this favor: "Would you introduce me to Tom Gola? He's my favorite player."

On frosty winter nights, inside cramped little bandbox gyms, and rising up from that passion pit known as the Palestra, Tom Gola would score for La Salle, and over the hyperthyroid public-address system would come this crooning celebration: "Gola goallll!"

He roamed the court, with a muted flair, and you pictured Joe DiMaggio in sneakers, making it look all too easy.

The cruel irony is that here was a man so debonair, so self-assured, moving through life on winged feet, and it was something as simple as a misstep that started his decline. He tripped over a concrete guard rail outside a restaurant and in the fall smacked his head on concrete, setting in motion what would be years of debilitating ailments.

All during his time of infirmity the letters kept coming. And the cards. And the visitors. Half a century after he was done with basketball, he was still remembered. La Salle dedicated a 4,000-seat multipurpose arena in his name.

So the man who never left will live on.