FEATURED JOBS
Comments (1)Story By Alan Goldstein.
“They say I live a fast life. Maybe I just like a fast life. I wouldn’t
give it up for anything in the world. It won’t last forever, either
but the memories will’’—Dennis Wilson, 1963.
Mike Love, the older brother of former Baltimore Bullets forward Stan Love, was the founder of The Beach Boys, one of the most popular and successful of the bands that spouted up in the tumultuous 60’s epitomizing the Woodstock era of free love and drugs.
The band was also one of the most dysfunctional. The Loves were first cousins to Dennis Wilson, and Brian Wilson, the most creative of the band members. Dennis was forever linked to Charles Manson groupie Karen Valentine who took part in the Helter-Skelter murders. Wilson, a heavy drug user, was the leading songwriter in the band, but also a psychopath. He committed suicide in 1983. Brother Brian was repeatedly institutionalized for severe bouts with depression.
The lives of the Loves and Wilsons were entwined for better or worse, but, as time proved, mostly the worse. After his frustrating four-year NBA career ended in 1975, Stan Love became a bodyguard for Brian, with his principal duty to keep Dennis from providing him with drugs. It led to physical battles that ultimately prompted Brian to leave The Beach Boys and form his own band.
But not being part of the Woodstock generation, we only heard and read of the travails of The Beach Boys, with Mike Love’s re-formed group still drawing crowds of nostalgic fans.
We are more interested in reliving Stan Love’s brief but colorful two years (1971-73) with the then Baltimore Bullets when he spent most of the time fighting his image of being a flaky California surfer boy. He did nothing to dispel this image when he first reported to the Bullets’ training camp as a rookie in 1973 sporting a curly blond hairdo and a Fu Manchu moustache. He seemed more intent on emulating Harpo Marx than Rick Barry.
A first-round draft choice out of the University of Oregon where he shattered every school scoring record, Bullets’ coach Gene Shue envisioned Love as a future starting strong forward. But he quickly became frustrated playing behind veterans Gus Johnson and John Tresvant, holdovers from the team’s NBA finalists. In time, the zany forward was remembered more for his kookiness than his courtly manner.
Two plays, in particular, are indelibly implanted in our memory. At a game in Milwaukee, he impersonated Tarzan by hanging on the rim after a dunk long enough for the Bucks to score on the other end. All he drew for his effort was a technical.
Another time in Baltimore, he was knocked to the floor. Shue sent in a replacement. Instead of rising and walking back to the bench, Love “rowed’’ himself across the floor like an Olympic skuller.
Neither Shue nor teammate Wes Unseld recall either incident. But Rich Rinaldi, a fellow rookie in 1971, laughingly recalled both bizarre acts. Rinaldi, now serving as an NBA counselor for rookies, getting them prepared for life as a professional, said, “Oh, they definitely happened. Stan was unquestionably a flake. I was from Poughkeepsie, N.Y. and he was from Southern California, two lifestyles worlds apart. He thought I was screwed up. But we got along fine. One thing I learned from Stan was to spit down my shirt.
“But he would be the first to admit that he didn’t take playing in the pros as serious as he should have. If they had programs for rookies like the one I teach back in the 70’s, Stan would certainly have benefited. You think when you’re young, you know everything. But team management looks for body language that tells them you’re not fully committed.’’
Phil Chenier, longtime TV color man on Bullets/Wizards broadcasts, was also a rookie on the 1971 Baltimore team as one of the first hardship draft picks.. “”Stan definitely had what I call an “edge’’ to him,’’ said Chenier. “I played against him in college when I was at Cal and he was at Oregon. The first thing that comes to mind was he had a great outside shot. But he was feisty and liked to speak his mind. And he was definitely a bit of a goofball. I definitely recall him spitting down his shirt.’’
Unseld, who became a father figure for Stan, to the point he named his son, Kevin Wesley Love, in Unseld’s honor, remembers attending a Beach Boy concert at College Park in 1971 when Mi ke Love invited him, Shue and Gus Johnson backstage.
“One of the band members, and I don’t remember exactly who, started to needle Shue about Stan not getting much playing time. Well, Gene gave him the usual coach’s response of how a rookie has to be brought along slowly, but he would ultimately get more time. And the guy in the band said, “Yeah, by osmosis.’’
Shue still has a soft spot for Love, claiming he was responsible for developing his son, Kevin, who made the NBA All-Rookie team last year playing for the Minnesota Timberwolves. “I scouted Kevin for the Philadelphia 76ers,’’ said Shue, now residing in Marina Del Ray, Ca. “”I saw him play a lot of games at UCLA, and I know that Stan really was a positive influence.’’
That said, Love has only negative memories of playing for Shue and the Bullets. . Reflecting on his rookie year when he averaged 7.8 points while playing only 18 minutes a game, he said, “When I went to the Bullets, I had this big, no-cut contract. I figured I’d rip up the league, but I didn’t. When you’re not playing and making big money, you get a reputation and it goes from there.’’
But Love had already gained a reputation for “being different’’ during his college days at Oregon where he once reportedly “borrowed’’ a train. Another time, he reportedly cleaned out a Eugene (Ore.) bar filled with roughnecks. In a freshman game, he knocked out a rival forward. Another time, he reportedly used a couple of courtside reporters as a spittoon.
We felt it our duty to get the unexpurgated “Love Story’’ by consulting the source.
“”Yeah, he said, “I guess there a few legends about me. But that’s what they are, legend, not fact. Start with the bar story. It was at a campus party, not a bar. I had my girl friend with me, and a track man was insulting her. So I decked him and got suspended by my coach (Steve Belko) for a couple of games,
“As for the fight story in the freshman game, this guy on Portland State kept elbowing me every time I set a screen. He was baiting me into a fight, trying to get me thrown out. But I didn’t hit him. I spit in his eye and he didn’t bother me again.’’
Love tried to reform his wacky ways his second year with the Bullets, but saw even less playing time and his scoring average dropped to 6.4. The Bullets traded him to the Lakers, where he believed his game would flourish playing close to home before big crowds. But his relationship with coach Bill Sharman proved unbearable. Sharman viewed him as an immature playboy, but Love believed he was simply being used to push Connie Hawkins to play harder.
In his second and final season with L.A. in 1975-76, his playing time had shrunk to 14 minutes and finally Sharman summoned him to his office. “I thought I’d get another chance to play or be put on waivers, but I could tell by the look on his face I was through as a Laker,’’ he recalled in his book “Love In The NBA’’ In a wild frenzy, he called Sharman every four-letter word he could muster, telling Sharman that he wanted to call brother, Steve, who served as his agent, because he couldn’t cope with the situation.
“That’s been one of your problems,’’ Sharman responded, taking the phone away. To which Love exploded, “One of my problems, you bleep, is that I don’t know how to play the front-office game.’’ He exited both laughing and crying.
It was typical that Love tried to continue his playing professionally with the Baltimore Claws. But this ill-fated, under-funded team folded the day he signed.
Stan Love always acted like an accident looking for a place to happen. Was he really a classic flake or just a product of his wild rock-and-roll environment? We’ll let you decide.
P.S. We never got Love to dismiss the train robbery tale.
