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TURNOVER: After 18 years, Montgomery
heads to the pros; Johnson leaves Nevada to coach
the Cardinal.
Rocky Widner/NBAE via Getty
Images |
My four years at Stanford
were not what you’d call stable. My major changed
three times. I had a new set of classes every 10 weeks.
I moved residences and changed roommates year after
year. Heck, on my watch, we welcomed a new president,
two provosts and two deans of admission.
But throughout this upheaval, there was one unwavering
constant in my life. However flimsy the fabric of the
Farm felt, I could always snuggle in the warm blanket
of Mike Montgomery.
Just as I could peek out my window and see that Hoover
Tower was, indeed, still standing, I knew that Monty
would always be there. Sure, the NBA occasionally tried
to woo him, but college ball was in his blood. He’d
be at Stanford long after I’d come and gone. I
was sure of it.
You see, Monty and I were (cross your fingers real
tight) like this. As a Sixth Man Club fanatic
from 1997 to 2001, I sat—or rather, stood—directly
across from him at every home game. While the players
on the court that separated us came and went, the man
on the sideline was always the same. I loved Stanford
basketball, and Monty was Stanford basketball.
So, by some dubious math law I can’t remember,
I loved Monty.
From early November to late March, I always knew where
to find him. He’d be pacing in front of the Stanford
bench, arms folded, looking dismayed as his Cardinal,
ahead by a dozen points, executed a sloppy back screen.
He’d sit frowning, looking exasperated, only to
explode out of his chair and smack the “Ticket
1050” ad to seize his team’s attention—and
scare the daylights out of radio announcer Bob Murphy,
’53. He’d be exchanging pleasantries with
the referees, everything from “C’mon Stan,
my guy’s getting mauled,” to phrases that
had the student section blushing—and giggling
with approval.
During my undergrad years, Stanford won 114 games under
Coach Montgomery, losing only 19. Of the 56 home games
he coached during that span, we won 48. It’s hard
to think of anything more consistent. If Monty made
movies, he’d be Spielberg.
Watching him work was pure joy. For my (parents’)
dollar, there wasn’t a better example of fundamental
basketball around. So I went wherever he went: the big
games and the small ones, the sellouts against ’Zona
and the early-season mismatches against UC-Riverside.
One time I followed him to Haas Pavilion in Berkeley,
cheering like mad for a whole five minutes—until
security guards escorted me out for wearing my Sixth
Man shirt in the Cal student section. I always drove
to Oakland for the Pete Newell Challenge, but the one
time I couldn’t, I spent my 21st birthday cheering
Montgomery on from a sports bar in Vegas. We beat Duke
that time, on a Casey Jacobsen jumper. I couldn’t
have wished for a better gift.
I helped Monty celebrate his birthday, too. On February
27, 1999, a few buddies and I pooled some cash to buy
a cake for his 52nd birthday. During warm-ups before
that afternoon’s game against Arizona, we presented
him with the cake—it read “Happy Birthday,
Monty/Love, the Sixth Man Club”—as the student
section serenaded him. Montgomery promptly guided the
team to a 98-83 victory, clinching Stanford’s
first Pac-10 championship. I heard he shared the cake
with his players after the game, which turned out to
be our only win at home against the Wildcats during
my undergrad days.
Sure, Montgomery wasn’t perfect. Perhaps he could
have made wiser use of time-outs. Maybe he could have
better prepared the team to face Gonzaga and North Carolina
in the tournament. He certainly could have brought doughnuts
and pizza to more of our Maples sleep-outs. But I’m
not one to nag.
I am one, however, to mourn.
On a surreal evening in May, my warm blanket of seven
years was yanked away. The six phone calls I received
in a 15-minute span—“Did you hear about
Monty?”—confirmed the incredible. And with
a Sixth Man-style whoosh, the man who built
Stanford basketball was gone.
They say you grow fearful of change as you age. Well,
Monty’s 57 and I’m less than half that,
yet he seems to be much better at this whole “embracing
change” business. The key is to take it one step
at a time, I guess.
Step No. 1: how do I get Warriors tickets? |
