Bill Bradley without basketball is like John Glenn without space, or Ike without war. In a former life, first at Princeton and then with the New York Knicks, Bradley was that rare athlete who achieved a kind of larger mythology. He was Jimmy Stewart in satin shorts: the small-town son of a banker, self-effacing and studious, clean-cut and Christian, dazzling on the court but so gifted away from it that he put off the pros for Oxford.
In truth, Bradley was always more complicated–and more interesting–than his legend. A reluctant hero, he had an eerie ability to sink baskets from any spot on the floor, yet coaches had to beg him to stop passing the ball and take more shots. Fans adored him, yet he worried that it had more to do with his race than his ability. He burned with ambition, yet worried that people expected too much. Wary of celebrity, the young Bill Bradley sought refuge in a team identity, proving his worth with low-key leadership rather than heroics. He thrived by hitting the open man–but Bradley himself remained closed off.
When Bradley returns this week to his hometown of Crystal City, Mo., he will be reintroduced as a character straight from the pages of Mark Twain. But “the banker’s son,” as some townspeople referred to him, was no Huck Finn. An only child, Bill had a pinball machine in the basement, a television in his bedroom and, later, a white Plymouth Fury in the driveway. Because his father, Warren, suffered from severe arthritis in his back, Bill and his mother would have to dress his dad for work in the morning and undress him at night. Warren told his son that his greatest achievement was never foreclosing on a home during the Depression. Young Bill inherited his reticence from his father, but came by his competitiveness from his mother, who smothered him with lessons in everything from French to French horn. At high-school basketball games, while his father sat in a folding chair in the corner of the gym, his mother screamed at the referees from the bleachers.
Lonely and a bit aloof, Bill took up basketball largely as a way to make friends. Aware that his wealth and upright demeanor could set him apart, he found acceptance not only by proving to be an exceptional talent but by never showing off. He passed frequently when he knew he could make the shot, a habit that would irritate his coaches. The young Bradley became conditioned to downplay his ambition–and his ability–in order to fit in. But he practiced alone for several hours a day, sometimes loading his sneakers down with weights.
It is part of the Bradley legend that he wasn’t that talented; he just worked harder than anyone else. That’s half true. He drove himself mercilessly, but in fact he was blessed with an extra sense that enabled him to anticipate the action and sink shots with his back turned to the basket. At Princeton, celebrity didn’t just find Bill Bradley; it besieged him. He made Princeton a basketball power, leading the team to the 1964 Final Four as a senior. Piles of letters arrived each day at his dorm: autograph requests, business propositions, even marriage proposals from hopeful fathers. A New York Post columnist suggested Bradley would be president.
In fact, at Princeton Bradley honed the political skills that would later serve him well. He shook countless hands and memorized names. He gave speeches for the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, even though, as a high-school teacher, Bill Bogue, recalls, “he wasn’t worth a hoot at speechifying.” The clean image was no act: even in his dorm, while other kids tuned in to Dylan or the Beach Boys, Bradley listened to “My Fair Lady.” A friend recalls his arriving at a postgame party with his parents, pushing his father in a wheelchair. Some students jokingly called him “The Martyr.”
Everything in Bill Bradley’s upbringing had taught him to deflect attention from himself. He seemed genuinely put off by fame. Rather than enter the pros, Bradley took a Rhodes scholarship and spent two years at Oxford that would mold his political philosophy. It was 1965, and the debate over Vietnam was in full force. His father was a strong Republican, but now Bradley’s politics swung left. Angered by what some fundamentalist clergymen had to say about Vietnam and civil rights, Bradley came to question his faith in church leaders too. He remained a Christian, but grew more skeptical of organized worship; never again would he parade around the country as a “Christian athlete.” In what would become a hallmark of Bradley’s political career, he grew suspicious of extreme positions, preferring to find a middle course.
Reflecting was nice, but rebounding paid more. Returning to the States, Bradley signed a heralded $500,000 contract with the Knicks. His new teammates instantly dubbed him “Dollar Bill.” (The nickname would later reflect his reliability on the court and his cheapness off it.) They wondered aloud if he was wearing a Superman suit under his overcoat. Suddenly, Bradley was the rich kid on the court all over again. He responded by acting as if the money didn’t matter. He wore shirts so frayed that legend has it he needed paper clips to hold them together. He turned down some $50,000 a year in product endorsements, saying he didn’t want to promote himself. Bradley played poorly at first, drawing abuse from the fans, but he soon found comfort doing what he had done as a child: passing to others, setting up teammates instead of showing off. Once again he found a way to fit in, and the Knicks won two championships.
To Bradley, the decision not to cash in on endorsements was also about race. As a child, he had played on an integrated Little League team, at a time when the parents had to find restaurants that would serve blacks. Now he was aware that he had come to symbolize not just a great player but a great white player. He was conflicted about that role. “There were other guys on the team and in the league who were better players than Bill, and those companies weren’t coming after them,” says Willis Reed, Bradley’s former teammate. “That most definitely bothered him.”
It was no secret in the Knicks locker room that Bradley had political designs; teammates called him “senator” and teased him about the no-show jobs they wanted after he was elected. Always a loner among teammates, Bradley kept his specific views to himself. “I always felt Bill was guarded,” says Phil Jackson, another former teammate. “He was always one to look more intensely at a situation and analyze it before he’d make a judgment or say something.” His personal life was off-limits too. Not even his longtime Knicks roommate and close pal Dave DeBusschere knew he was planning to wed Ernestine Schlant in 1974 until a few days before the wedding.
Bradley grew more settled with his celebrity as the years passed. Labeled the ultimate team player, he finally found a heroic image he could live with–and use for political gain. His retired jersey hangs in the rafters of Madison Square Garden and in the Hall of Fame. But he is still the banker’s son, uneasy talking about himself, and even as he stumps through Iowa signing basketballs, he’d rather discuss health care than relive his own heroics. Fortunately for Bradley, he doesn’t have to. “He played the game the right way, and I think he’ll lead the country the right way,” says the coach with his autograph. Bradley’s fans have the legend–and it’s all they will ever need.
