Are You Still Coaching?: 41 Years Coaching Yeshiva University Basketball
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Are You Still Coaching?: 41 Years Coaching Yeshiva University Basketball
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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781491828595 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 12/04/2013 |
| Pages: | 268 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.98(w) x 9.02(h) x 0.56(d) |
Read an Excerpt
Are You Still Coaching?
41 YEARS COACHING YESHIVA UNIVERSITY BASKETBALL
By Johnny Halpert
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2013 Johnny HalpertAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4918-2859-5
CHAPTER 1
IN THE BEGINNING
The Hebrew Typewriter
My relationship with Yeshiva started in September 1930 when my father arrived from Jerusalem at the age of seventeen with only the clothes on his back and his Hebrew typewriter. It was his good fortune that his arrival coincided with Dr. Bernard Revel's search for what was then the rarest of commodities in New York, a Hebrew typist. When he presented with the skill to type Hebrew—and his own typewriter—he was hired immediately to type Dr. Revel's Hebrew correspondence.
He had learned his skill during his years at the Diskin Orphanage in Jerusalem, which had taken him in after the expulsion by the Ottoman Empire of his father, a Russian national, and the premature death of his mother soon after. With no money, he bartered his typing skills to pay his tuition at YU and after graduating in 1938, he again bartered his typing—this time to convert the YU cafeteria into a wedding hall where he married my mother, Ida, in 1939.
Although distinct because of the number of years it spans, my family's story is not unique. For more than a hundred years, Yeshiva University has distinguished itself as an outstanding institution of higher learning and as a caring and supportive environment where less fortunate students and families have been able to realize their dreams. My father's story is only one example of a student who was not only educated by Yeshiva, but also clothed and fed.
Competitive sports are all about the pride that accrues from winning. Although I live in the world of wins and losses—and therefore value victories—my proudest achievement is being able to declare that because of a Hebrew typewriter there has been a Halpert at Yeshiva University for eighty-three consecutive years.
On behalf of my family and all the families that have been nurtured by Yeshiva University, I say thank you.
One Year at a Time, Forty-One Years Later
"Are you still coaching?" is the comment I hear most often when I meet former players and fans. My usual response is to profess how much I enjoy the players or to confess my fear of life without coaching. As one year has turned into forty-one, however, I have come to realize that it is neither fun nor fear that motivates me—it is my need to chase dreams.
It began when I was ten years old and living in a one-bedroom apartment across the street from Yeshiva University. I had the apartment to myself because my parents traveled to Brooklyn every night to visit my brother in the hospital. There I was, alone in the living room, faking right and cutting behind a pick set by our living room chair. Moving gracefully toward the piano, I would loft my imaginary basketball, a pair of rolled-up socks held together by rubber bands. The ball would bounce softly off our ceiling and drop into the taped tissue box hanging on the living room wall. In 1955, no one dunked.
What a shot, what a play! The fans were going wild. Not even the banging of a broomstick from our downstairs neighbor or his screams of "What the hell are you doing up there?" could drown out the cheering of my imaginary fans. Yeshiva Rabbi Moses Soloveitchik had defeated Yeshiva Salanter on a last-second basket from their star, Johnny Halpert. Ironically, my son Rafi is the varsity basketball coach of SAR (Salanter, Akiva, Riverdale) High School, the 2000 version of Yeshiva Salanter.
After my imaginary game, I would lie in bed with my radio hidden under my pillow, listening to Marty Glickman's signature call, "It's good—just like Needicks."
Although much has changed since my jump shot from the piano, I continue to dream about winning shots. The difference is that now it is Yeshiva University that is losing by one, and I am not shooting but drawing plays. This year's star executes a perfect backdoor cut, and Yeshiva wins. My season starts every year with dreams of a championship and is sustained throughout the year by the same visions. I know the season is coming to an end when my dreams of perfect backdoor cuts are supplanted by the reality of missed layups. Once again, I begin to think that this is my last year; after all, how many missed shots can I endure? Five months later, the dreams begin again, and one more year turns into another.
Dreaming is one of the things we all do but somehow just take for granted. It is a key prerequisite for sustaining a healthy psychological outlook because the natural consequence of not dreaming is giving up. If you no longer believe what you do matters, there is nothing to dream about.
One of the great values of competitive sports is that it teaches kids that dreams can come true. Anyone who has ever played competitive sports, whether during a schoolyard recess or in an NCAA basketball game, has dreamed about making the winning shot. It does not matter if the shot is realized in front of one fan or ten thousand fans because when the dream is achieved, it is always fulfilled in front of the most important person, the dreamer. It is why wives say, "You remember a shot that you made thirty years ago, but you cannot remember what you ate for breakfast." Players and coaches always remember their shots because the shot was their dream coming true.
Over time, I have come to understand that coaching not only allows me to pursue my own personal dreams, but more importantly, it enables me to give young men the same opportunity. At some moment and at some place, a player's dream is realized. The time and place are irrelevant. All that matters is that I have enabled another young man to believe that everything is possible. Everyone needs and deserves one of those moments.
On Saturday night December 13, 2008, with nine seconds remaining and Yeshiva trailing Maritime College by three, I substituted Aryeh Magilnick. Aryeh had started his college career as a team manager and it was only after a year of hard work on the practice squad that he was elevated to the varsity. Although he was an excellent shooter, he was not among the nine-man rotation that received playing time. The last-second play blew up immediately, and it was by fate—not design—that the ball landed in his hands with one second left. In front of fans and friends, he rose up and hit nothing but net. The shot enabled Yeshiva to gain a 74-71 overtime victory, but more importantly, it provided Aryeh with his moment.
Sometimes special moments take time to evolve. In March 2008, I watched Dovie Hoffman rebound and score for Valley Torah High School. Impressed by his potential, I encouraged Dovie to try out for the Yeshiva varsity team. In October 2009, following a year of study in Israel, I sat with Dovie to discuss his status. I said, "You have potential, but right now you are the eighteenth man on a fifteen-man varsity. If you want to learn, I'm willing to teach."
Dovie accepted the offer to spend eight hours a week practicing without the goody bag of playing time. For ten weeks, he practiced in silence. One night at the end of a blue-white scrimmage, his rebound and game-winning put-back basket caught my attention. Two nights later, on December 12, 2009, against Baruch College, in my desperate search for a rebound, the eighteenth man got his name called. He played five minutes, got two rebounds, and made two foul shots.
Two months later, against St. Joseph College, his stat sheet showed thirteen points, four rebounds, and a very unusual three. By accident, not design, Dovie found himself unguarded in front of the St. Joe's bench. Suddenly, and very out of character, the St. Joe's bench yelled loud enough for everyone to hear, "Shoot." Dovie, who had earned playing time for rebounding, not for three-point shooting, dutifully obeyed and hit nothing but net. As he ran back on defense, I also yelled loud enough for everyone to hear, "I'm your coach. You are supposed to listen to me—not to them."
On March 1, 2012, two years after our sit down, Dovie was named to the Skyline Conference 2012 all-star team. In 2013, he became the twenty-fifth player in the history of Yeshiva University to score a thousand points.
Aryeh and Dovie will always remember their moments—and so will I. It is why one year has turned into forty-one.
Summertime in the Fifties—The Early Years
The only basketball I shot before my bar mitzvah was my pair of rolled-up socks held together by rubber bands. It was not because playing basketball violated a biblical commandment; the ball was simply too big. My childhood was spent playing baseball. There were no Little League teams, just choose-up games. We didn't have uniforms, and our parents never watched us strike out. I played punchball in courtyards and curb ball against apartment house stoops. When I got older, I played stickball in the streets, and dodged oncoming buses while hiding stickball bats from the police. To this day, I can hear my mother asking, "Where are all my broomsticks?" I was chosen into every game because my brother was a three-sewer stickball player. We bought Spaldings by redeeming bottles; when we couldn't find bottles, we retrieved our lost Spaldings by fishing in the sewers with wire baskets.
In seventh grade, although I didn't play basketball, I listened to Knicks games on the radio; only on rare occasions did I actually get to watch Richie Guerin and Carl Braun lose to Dolph Schayes. Back then, I didn't even know that Dolph Schayes was Jewish. When it got too dark to play stickball, we didn't go to a gym to shoot jump shots—we played ring-a-levio.
In the summer of 1957 I celebrated my bar mitzvah in the Rockaways. When I returned home, I discovered that my stickball buddies had disappeared. John and Brian were in Greenwood Lake, Eddie went to Florida, and Robert and Dean moved out of state. To make matters worse, my brother was back in the hospital. The block was suddenly deserted.
There were players in the PS 187 schoolyard, but my parents wouldn't let me go there. "Too many gangs," they warned. "Stay out of the schoolyard." Each day, instead of playing baseball, I sat alone on my stoop and listened to Russ Hodges broadcasting New York Giants games.
You never know from where help will come, and I certainly never expected my savior to come from apartment 2B.
"Hey, Halpert!"
He knew my name because I always broke his windows. It wasn't my fault. He was the one who chose to rent a second-floor apartment with a window next to our left-field foul pole. What was I supposed to do—hit the ball like a girl?
"Our team is short a player. Want to catch?"
Within minutes, I was on the Fort George field playing with guys who were twice my age and certainly not on my parents' play-date list. I had two doubles that day, and at the age of thirteen, I became an official member of the O'Donnell's Bar team. The players bought beer from the bar, and I ate Bungalow Bar from the ice cream truck. My neighbor from 2B paid. The field was adjacent to a park with a basketball court that doubled as a wading pool with a sprinkler. I had no use for the basketball court, but I used the sprinkler to cool off after games.
After one of my post-game showers, the park attendant approached me. "Want to sign up for a foul-shooting contest? You can win a silver dollar." A silver dollar in 1957 was like mega millions today. I signed up and a week later I took five foul shots and made only two. I shot the ball underhand because it was the only way I could reach the basket. I forgot about the contest until the next bar league game.
"Hey, Johnny," called the park attendant. "You made the finals."
I tried again, and this time, I made only one shot. Disappointed, I sat down and waited to see who would claim the silver dollar. I had listened to enough Knick games to know that one out of five doesn't win you any championships. That's still true today. The park attendant finally emerged holding the silver dollar.
"Congratulations. You are the foul-shooting champion of Fort George Park."
"I won?" I said with astonishment. "What did the other guys shoot?"
"What other guys? You're the only one who signed up."
I took the dollar home, and I still have it fifty years later.
My foul-shooting triumph did not come a minute too soon. The next day, my bar league career ended when my father found me standing outside the bar. I tried to calm him down by claiming that I was just obeying his order to stay out of the schoolyard. My pleadings did not impress, and a few days later, under orders from my father, Mr. 2B cut me.
I am not sure if it was boredom or the silver dollar, but without baseball, I went to the park everyday to play basketball. I didn't own a ball, but I got one from the park house by leaving my house keys as collateral. My routine was always the same. I started by first bringing a cold soda to my elderly neighbors who sat on the bench outside the park. On my way back, they gave me the empty bottle, which I redeemed for two cents. I used the money to treat myself to a pretzel stick, which I would dunk into my egg cream.
With the end of summer, my basketball routine was replaced by visits to the Yeshiva University High School Manhattan (MTA) gym. I would go there at night to watch the high school team practice and on Thursday nights, I played three-on-three with YU college students. Although I did not know it, one of my Thursday night teammates was the future Rabbi Blau whose advice I still seek today.
Mr. Wettstein, my future high school coach, was a spectator during those half-court games. After watching me shoot underhand, he warned, "You will never make the team shooting that way."
After eighth grade graduation, I resumed my park routine of buying soda and shooting hoops. I listened to Mr. Wettstein's advice and made the MTA junior varsity team by shooting foul shots overhand. At the end of my freshman year, I was called to the high school office. A complete stranger handed me ten dollars. "I just want to say thank you for always stopping to bring my parents soda."
My first year junior varsity experience intensified my obsession with basketball. That summer, I shot jump shots instead of hitting baseballs and practiced in Rockaway instead of Washington Heights. Every morning, I would dribble from our bungalow on Beach 73rd Street to the empty schoolyard on Beach 54th Street.
There were no gangs in the Rockaway schoolyard. In fact, there wasn't anyone in the schoolyard. All alone I would move from court to court, endlessly driving and shooting jump shots. My goal to make the varsity in my sophomore year, however, fell short and although I practiced with the varsity one night a week, I played a second year on the JV.
The following summer, I returned to Rockaway, determined not only to make the starting team, but the league's all-star team. I doubled my workout routine and achieved both goals. The team, captained by Neil Katz, went undefeated in regular league play, but an upset by the Hebrew Institute of Long Island (HILI) in the playoffs knocked us out of the championship game in Madison Square Garden. In need of new challenges, I prepared for my senior year by returning to the Beach 54th Street schoolyard, determined to break the MTA scoring record and get to the championship game in Madison Square Garden.
My first-quarter report card almost put an end to both goals when my Hebrew teacher, Rabbi Bernstein, or "Rocky Louie" as he was fondly called, gave me a ten in Hebrew language. When I asked Rabbi Bernstein why he couldn't fail me with an inconspicuous sixty, he said, "You got a twelve on the test, and you lost two points for talking during class."
Mr. Perlmutter, my Bible and Jewish History teacher had less flair for the dramatic and failed me with a traditional fifty-five and fifty. Mr. Abrams, the principal, summoned me to his office to pronounce my sentence. Fortunately, Mr. Wettstein accompanied me to court.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Are You Still Coaching? by Johnny Halpert. Copyright © 2013 Johnny Halpert. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Acknowledgments, ix,Unsung Heroes, xi,
Hakoras Hatov, xiii,
Preface, xix,
Chapter 1 : In the Beginning, 1,
Chapter 2 : G-D and Basketball, 28,
Chapter 3 : Basketball and Family, 38,
Chapter 4 : Winning and Losing, 49,
Chapter 5 : Off the Court, 60,
Chapter 6 : Recruiting at Yeshiva, 70,
Chapter 7 : On the Court, 91,
Chapter 8 : It's Not All Roses, 118,
Chapter 9 : No One Asked Me, But, 127,
Chapter 10 : Better to Listen to the Rebuke of a Wise Man, 143,
Chapter 11 : Players and Coaches (Eighty-Three Years of Yeshiva University Basketball), 160,
Appendix A : MTA Junior Varsity Players (1966-1972), 231,
Appendix B : 1977,1978 and 1979 Yeshiva University High School Jewish All Stars Basketball Teams, 235,
Appendix C : Schools that participated in the Original Yeshiva University Yeshiva High School Invitational Basketball Tournament, 243,