The last time Pat Cummings and I were together, the mood was tense, the bitterness intense from years of rubbing each other raw with words that hurt and branding him with a derogatory nickname that stuck.
By happenstance, we found ourselves in the YMHA gym on 14th Street and First Avenue dubbed “Harvey World” after the guy who ran the place. For three decades, I was a non-card-carrying regular at the early afternoon run.
Cummings showed up that day unannounced. We were stunned to see each other, especially me, because I was within strangling distance. If the ballers didn’t know about the friction that existed between us, they sure sensed it soon enough. He had been retired a short while following 12 NBA seasons, but during his four as a Knick, and for years afterward, “Shortcummings” often made the column.
We first met when the 6-foot-9 heavyweight forward, who wielded an unconventional two-handed, terminal jumper, was a Bucks rookie in 1979-80. Agent Ron Grinker, who had helped recruit Sandy Koufax to the University of Cincinnati on a basketball scholarship and once was a law partner of Jerry Springer, arranged for his Bearcats client to play for my Rucker Park team that summer.
In the early 1970s, four cherished crusades at 155th Street & Eighth Avenue, Butch Purcell and I coached stacked decks sponsored by Nets owner Roy Boe:
Julius Erving, Charlie Scott, Billy Paultz, Ollie Taylor, Joe DePre, Bob Love, Kenny Charles, Mike Riordan, Bob McIntyre, Earl Foreman, Walter Szczerbiak, Jeff Halliburton, Manny Leaks, Dave Brownbill, George Bruns, Billy Schaeffer, Pat McFarland, Gene Mumford, Mel Knight, George Green, Jimmy Ard, Bobby Lecki, Larry Kenon and Tom “the Sundance Kid” Chapin were responsible for two titles, finishing third to Tiny Archibald’s team in Year 1, to name most of them.
“You couldn’t win with that team!” Red Holzman exclaimed when he found out. “You’d better never write anything bad again about my coaching.”
In 1980 and ’81, Roberto Mueller’s Pony Sneakers sponsored our teams, coached primarily by Wagner’s Ray Hodge. Along with Cummings, we had indomitable Sam Worthen, Louis Orr, Clyde Bradshaw, Tony Murphy (the nation’s leading scorer from Southern University), Eddie Moss, Bobby Willis, Evan Ford, Ian Mahoney and Gary Garland.
Bradshaw and Garland had been DePaul’s starting backcourt for three NCAA Tournament teams. Both were legit pro prospects. Garland’s jumper was pristine from 15 and beyond. Unfortunately, he had a habit of not arriving in the park until almost the conclusion of the layup line.
After being late a third straight Sunday, I pulled Garland aside and said I thought he could be a solid pro, but he had to get serious. He said pro ball wasn’t his first career choice, music was. Said his half-sister was trying to make it as a singer and he planned to join her as a backup vocalist.
I told Garland he was making a big mistake.
His sister’s name: Whitney Houston.
Gary was still working with her when she died.
Giving perfectly unsound advice to players is something that comes naturally.
The Sundance Kid played opposite Erving in our baptismal at Rucker. Fresh out of UMass, the Doctor was so impressed he offered to get Chapin into rookie camp with the Virginia Squires.
For some reason, Tom wasn’t interested. I told him he was crazy to pass up the opportunity. Said his first love was music. Said his brother was trying to make it as a singer and he planned to join him as a backup vocalist.
His brother’s name: Harry Chapin.
A few months later, “Taxi” was released. Tom remains in the music business to this day.
John Candelaria is another who refused to listen to logic.
On a Saturday morning in 1969, I took some LaSalle Academy (John “Candy” Candelaria, Vinny Caruso, Chris Civale, Bobby Bert) and Power Memorial (Henry Walther, Steve Donohue) kids out to Archbishop Molloy to play against Jim Larranaga, Brian Winters, Bobby Carver, et al.
They more than held their own. I later learned the 6-foot-7 Candelaria, the city’s second all-time rebounder behind Kareem Abdul-Jabbar (nee Lew Alcindor), was giving up basketball to become a pitcher for the Pirates.
I told the Candy Man (177-122 lifetime) he was nuts.
I’m also the guy who told Cummings, once the playoffs began, to stop coming to our Rucker games. He often showed up wasted and we would lose. I made sure not to give him a watch when we won the tournament. Additional good cause for our enduring contention.
I have always believed you can tell everything about a person by their conduct on the court, especially when sharing that floor, swapping springers and acknowledging shrewd cuts and passes.
Cummings was a gentleman that afternoon. Like the rest of us, he just came to play and break a sweet sweat without being overly physical or getting hurt.
By the time we were through for the day we were back on speaking terms, interested in what was going on in each other’s lives. I’ve recreated that run in my mind over and over again since learning Cummings was found dead Tuesday at 55. I’m just sorry I didn’t think to give him my watch.
peter.vecsey@nypost.com