Amidst dismay over the White Sox, Chicago sports fans get a reminder of true greatness
Both in games, and in life
Half a century ago, I was working at a radio-TV combo in northern Indiana when the Bulls came to South Bend for a preseason gsame. They had an afternoon practice and PR session, so we sent a crew over to get something for the evening news.
Reporter Dean Alexander felt he had gotten lucky when he wangled an interview with many-time All-Star and Bulls leading scorer Bob “Butterbean” Love. Then, came dismay. Dean asked a question and Love answered, only his words were unintelligible, the product of intense stuttering. Another question brought another response where not a single word could be used or even understood. Dean had no idea what to do, but fortunately had enough class to continue as if everything was normal rather than possibly embarrass Love by cutting the interview short.
We processed the film even though Dean said it wasn’t usable, and a newsroom full of hardened reporters sat slack-jawed as we watched the result. We’d all seen Love in postgame interviews where he spoke just fine, and had no idea what was going on, but felt terrible for him.
Our sports director called a Chicago buddy and found out that while Love was OK during or immediately after a game, perhaps because of adrenaline (as is the case for singers with stutters, who overcome the problem when the music starts), the horrific stutter — far worse than anything you have ever heard, nothing like the occasional stumble of an actor or politician or even the cruelest imitation by an eighth grader — was real at all other times. Asked why Love would consent to an interview in that case, the contact said his therapists and doctors had urged him to practice as best he could, and the Bulls and NBA tried to hide the condition. Our unusable product was a result.
Other than having a story to tell, none of us thought much more about it until years later. And it was only after Love — the highest scorer in Bulls history until Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen came along — had retired that the disability became debilitating.
THE BULLS SAW PAST HIS HANDICAP AND FOUND A SUPERSTAR
Love grew up in Louisiana with a cruel sharecropper stepfather, whom he fled to live with his grandparents at the age of eight. The stutter was already in place, and other children of course ridiculed him for it, but he was saved by his athletic ability: Love was a two-sport star whose Southern University scholarship was for football, as a quarterback who would revert to singing each play in the huddle so he could be understood. But it was in basketball where he truly excelled, twice being named an NAIA All-American.
Love’s pro career had a staggered start, being first cut by the Royals even after being mentored by all-time great Oscar Robertston, and then traded by the Bucks because of his communications problem. Cincinnati’s and Milwaukee’s loss turned out to be a major break for the Bulls, where Love spent eight superb seasons under Dick Motta, with star teammates like Jerry Sloan, Chet Walker and Norm Van Lier. Love was suffering chronic severe back pain by the time he was traded to Seattle in 1976, and retired a year later.
IT WAS AFTER BASKETBALL A HARSH REALITY SET IN
(Thanks to Wikipedia, the New York Times and the National Stuttering Association for the following information)
Back in those days, athletes weren’t paid anywhere near what they are today and didn’t get pensions, so even the greats had to find jobs — especially a divorced one with children. For a man who couldn’t talk, even one renowned in Chicago and elsewhere, that was a major problem. Love couldn’t hold down the usual athlete’s positions in sales or management. He couldn’t even get through an interview for such a job, or any interview at all.
As a result, one of the greatest athletes in the country ended up making minimum wage as a 6´8´´ dishwasher and busboy at Nordstrom’s in Seattle. That could have been the end of a very sad tale, but in 1986 store president John Nordstrom was so impressed by Love’s work ethic he put speech therapist Susan Hamilton to work with him (there’s a reason Nordstrom’s has a reputation as a class organization). They worked together for years, achieving such success that Love eventually moved into Nordstrom’s management.
In 1991, Jerry Reinsdorf learned about Love’s situation and brought him back to Chicago as a spokesman for the Bulls (even Reinsdorf isn’t completely bad — or at least he wasn’t back then). For the Bulls and the National Stuttering Association, Love made speeches across the country at schools and churches and community centers, aiding those who suffered from problems like his. From a basketball hero, Love became a life hero. The Association made a one-hour film about his remarkable turnaround and his work to help others. Butterbean even ran for alderman in 2002, but (pardon the pun here, but it’s too good to pass up) came up short.
A SAD TALE BECAME A GREAT ONE
When I rave about an athlete doing something awful, or management proving itself bumbling and incompetent or an owner being particularly venal, my wife usually says, “Is this where I drop in about sports being stupid?” or something similar. Unfortunately, she’s often right.
Sometimes, though, there’s some something very right about sports, like saving a tall, thin Black youngster who couldn’t talk from a life trying to desperately survive in the backwaters of Louisiana and that youngster overcoming severe adversity to help thousands of others, something he would not have had a chance to do were it not for sports.
Bob Love, who died this week at the age of 81, is worthy but has somehow not made it into the basketball Hall of Fame.
He deserves to be in the life one.