Remembrances and Thank Yous

By Alan Cotler, W’72, WG’74

When I told Mrs. Spitzer, my English teacher at Flushing High in Queens, I was going to Penn her eyes welled up and she said nothing. She just smiled. There were 1,100 kids in my graduating class. I was the only one going to an Ivy. And if I had not been recruited to play I may have gone to Queens College. I was a student with academic friends and an athlete with jock friends. My idols were and Mickey Mantle. My teams were the Yanks, the New York football Giants, the Rangers and the Knicks, and, 47 years later, they are still my teams.

My older cousin Jill was the first in my immediate and extended family to go to college (Queens). I had received virtually no guidance about college and how life was about to change for me in . I was on my own.

I wanted to get to campus a week before everyone. I wanted the best bed in 318 Magee in the Lower Quad. Steve Bilsky, one of Penn’s starting guards at the time who later was Penn’s AD for 25 years and who helped recruit me, had that room the year before, and said it was THE best room in the Quad --- a large room on the 3rd floor, looked out on the entire quad, you could see who was coming and going from every direction, and it had lots of light. It was the control tower of the Lower Quad.

1

My parents drove me down to college and were more nervous for me than I knew. New Yorkers did not know Philadelphia existed. I watched on black and white TV my New York Football Giants play the Eagles at in Philadelphia with a weird looking clock behind the end zone. As a 13 year old I did not know that field belonged to a college called or that Franklin Field and that clock would become an iconic and familiar venue in my life.

My parents and I had dinner at a Horn and Hardart in City; there were virtually no restaurants in Philly in those days - and certainly nothing open on a Sunday night. Philadelphia’s night life then was as jubilant as a night time walk in a dark cemetery. We hung some posters in 318 Magee, I set up my desk, my parents hugged their only son and drove back to Queens. Years later they told me they couldn’t get over how matter of fact I was about being left alone on the eerily deserted and quiet Penn campus.

The next morning I embarked on my mission. I wanted to shoot a thousand jumpers in the before the other recruits (, Bob Morse, Ron Billingslea, Billy Walters and Dave Tritton) showed up. I was happiest when I worked out in the gym -- dribbling, stopping short, receiving imaginary passes, feeling the openness of the arena, imagining the thousands of empty seats filled with people watching the 10 players on the court competing, working, living out their dream of playing for a championship. I loved flipping my right wrist at the top of my jump and watching the backspin of the ball gracefully rising higher and higher and then descending with a perfect ripple through white laced netting that had a fiberglass backboard behind it. I loved the Palestra. Its closed-in structure had fans on top of the court on all four sides. It was a cozy feeling with a perfect geometrical configuration for shooting jumpers. The depth perception could not be better.

That week alone in the Palestra was pure joy. It was a familiar feeling being in the protective confines of a gym. Outside was a city, a campus, a life that was uncertain and unsettling. I sweated through the cruddy grey T- shirts that the equipment manager, Mike Nazerock, gave me. Mike, who every jock would come to know and love, had a patch over one eye. There was no writing on the cheap shirts, only a number indicating its size. The sweat drenched through the shirt like a wet rag; felt great. The humidity in the 45 year-old building made sure you knew how hard you were working. I dribbled in many imaginary games under many imaginary game-like circumstances that week. Seventeen seconds left, Quakers down by one --- Cotler in the corner from 20… gooooood! Quakers win the Big Five Championship! I loved that ending --- I could hear Al Meltzer in my head over and over. The only other sounds were outside my head --- the harmonious screeches of my Converse sneakers, and the pounding of the leather ball on the very hard Palestra floor --- there was no give to it like I was to find out later there was in . You jumped higher in the Garden because of that cushion of air under the hardwood. I can thank the cement like hard floor of the Palestra for my artificial right hip.

2

Truth be told, I chose Penn primarily because it was Ivy… and they had sucked at hoops for the last number of years. I thought it was my best chance to play college basketball. I was not thinking about national rankings or winning NCAA titles. Who knew the freshman coach Digger Phelps would become Notre Dame and ESPN Digger? I had 10-15 scholarship offers from some pretty good basketball programs and academic institutions. I really wanted Princeton because of Bradley but I never heard from them. It’s just as well. Things worked out fine.

During my senior year of high school Penn’s coach, , had me come to the Palestra for a Villanova/Penn game. It was a jam packed Big Five double header with explosive fan reaction. The energy was incredible; afternoon games at Flushing High were not like this. I was sold. With the Wildcats demolishing Penn by 30 at the half, I saw a banner in the Penn section: “You may be beating us now, but you’ll be working for us later.” I was double sold.

That first week at Penn was the beginning of my love affair with the Palestra. I would come to spend a couple of thousands of hours of my life there. It was a solitary first week. I also became comfortable with the campus. I walked through an empty cluster of buildings and learned where everything was. I stared at the artful and imposing Engineering buildings on those cool breezy summer evenings across from the Palestra and that huge football field where my Giants always beat the Eagles.

I would sit on the benches on the main campus and look at College Hall and . I couldn’t believe I was there and all alone on that College Hall green. I wasn’t in Flushing any more with my gang of buddies and basketball mates. I didn’t know just how much I didn’t know. I didn’t have any clue what was about to happen to me, the people I would meet, the crush of school work, the uncertainty and anxiety about girls, fraternity life, debating whether I had the energy or interest to make my Finance class at Deitrich at 8 am, the crazy and arbitrary events of life that were ahead, the absurdity, logic and illogic of it all.

I was lucky. I met and was guided by a number of special and accomplished people during those four years. Some of them were as loving, caring and thoughtful as one can hope for. They all had an impact on me at Penn and beyond. I wish I could have realized this at the time, as much as I realize it now. More than anything I would want to thank them in person. But I can’t --- many of them have died. This is the best I can do to thank a few of them with this essay --- Irv “Moon” Mondschein, Richard “Digger” Phelps, John Wideman, Bernie Cataldo, C.J. Burnett, E. Digby Baltzell, Dick Harter, , and my teammates Corky Calhoun, Bob Morse, Ron Billingslea, and Billy Walters.

3

Moon

Irv Mondschein would be surprised and laugh if he saw this --- Moon was a special human being. No one laughed, smiled and was as upbeat in life as Moon. He was the first Penn person I met when I began my friendship with the Palestra.

The morning after my parents drove away down Spruce Street that summer night, as I waved goodbye I felt a feeling I never knew before --- isolation. I was unmoored. I was anxious, excited, really not sure of anything. Up to this my life was secure every day. I was a high school basketball star with many friends on and off the court. My identity and brand were established in the small world from Bayside Avenue to Union Street in Queens. I had grades, a jumper, and was All third team (probably the only one with grades). Every day I studied, played ball in the school yard, which was known as “Cotler’s Court,” watched my sports and ate at my favorite hangouts. I was “solid,” as we used to say at the school yard.

This first morning strolling around an empty campus, I had no brand, I didn’t know where I’d be eating, and I had no idea how smart the kids were from outside Queens, let alone, around the rest of the country. I didn’t know what to expect from college basketball, and when I walked onto Franklin Field through the Weightman Hall entrance I found a cavernous stadium of loud silence. And there I was standing in front of that weird clock behind the west end zone. I knew no one and was not sure how I was supposed to behave. I was not “solid.”

4

My first 17 years of life felt scripted for me with few choices to make. Indeed, looking back, the first real choice in my life was deciding to turn down my acceptance to the elite Stuyvesant High School in Manhattan, so I would not have to travel in subways three hours a day and so I could play basketball at Flushing High School which was 15 minutes from the apartment complex and school yard where I lived. I was now 17 in a small town called Philadelphia and living life without a script. Basketball was my anchor.

I brought my gear with me, but all of the Palestra doors were locked. I was used to the schoolyard where I would cross the street from where I lived at all hours of the day and night to shoot --- and no one ever closed the school yard. I found my way to the Weightman Hall offices that cloudy, humid morning in August , 1968. The heavy wood doors at the top of the many steps were not locked, thank God. I walked in and saw the white lights on in the administrative offices this Monday morning.

I was no longer Al Cotler, Flushing Red Devil stud with my high school Red Devil leather jacket that had a white basketball on the back. I no longer was getting looks as I strutted down Union Street. I was a freshman nobody. I was two steps in, as I watched rising from his seat a 6 foot 2 inch prematurely bald guy with a huge smile from cheek to cheek who came toward me as if he knew me. What’s going on here? His smile was electric and aimed right at me. He wore thick glasses and was big and strong. I felt his warmth and caring. Is this what Penn is like?

Moon told me he was the track coach. I had a basketball in my hands and I was six foot five inches--- and he said --- “You’re a recruit.” I explained I wanted to get in the Palestra early. Moon loved that. Moon loved jocks who wanted to work. Moon loved what he did for a living. He gave me a hug and said, “I’ll take care of you.” He said none of the basketball coaches were around. We bantered for 20 minutes or so about Penn, basketball, and Philadelphia. Moon was animated, unpretentious, athletic and a kid at heart. Moon walked with me and unlocked the metal and glass doors for my first personal visit to the Palestra. A script was beginning to take shape. Moon patted me or punched me (it felt like both) and told me to go have some fun. Moon left me on my own --- and I felt like I was home again. Only instead of an outside schoolyard with a short cement full court that was on a 15 degree angle with clangy, heavy metal backboards and slightly bent rims at the corner of Union Street and 31st Road where buses and cars spewed noise and pollution, I was shooting in the historic Palestra. I loved the smell of the empty field house. It was an aroma which I cannot put into words.

5

Moon made me feel safe --- like someone cared. That entire week, Moon opened the Palestra doors for me so I could be the best shooter on the Class of 1972 Penn basketball team (nobody warned me about Bobby Morse). The next four years, every time I bumped into Moon at Weightman on Locust Walk, at Hutch or in the Palestra, there was the hug, the joke, some trash talking and love from Moon.

Moon was a super athlete in his time; he ran track and played football at NYU. He coached Olympic teams and he mentored hundreds of kids. He died in 2015 at the age of 91. In the obituary, Moon’s son Brian is quoted as saying, “He gave so much of himself. He loved everybody. He was driven. He wanted to win, but he sort of saw the whole person. And he was funny as hell, funny and kind of outrageous. He had absolutely no filter. He brought out the best in a lot of people. I can’t tell you how many people said ‘He was like a second father to me.’”

Moon will never know how happy I was that he was the first person I met at Penn. Moon knew what it meant for me to get on to the Palestra floor by myself to study the angles of light from the rooftop windows, and where the dead spots were on the floor (there weren’t any).

Moon’s son said that his father did not want a funeral because “When he died, he was just going to disappear. He didn’t want to make a fuss.” Like a Zen Master.

Digger

One afternoon in March, 1967, Duke offered me a basketball scholarship. The next morning Richard Phelps, Dick Harter’s assistant at Penn, called “to confirm” I was going to Penn. I felt the force of Hurricane Digger coming through that phone. I was hypnotized in 15 seconds flat. You did not say “No” to Digger. He was the first “bigger than life” person I had ever met. My teammates and I today still tell Digger stories -- about his bark, his facial 6

expressions, his mantras, his brilliance, his old school and new school ways that he used to motivate us in the late 1960’s. Digger still lives in us. I hear his voice from time to time in my head.

Digger was the ace recruiter who, with the help of wise men like Dr. Howard Mitchell and John Wideman, turned a mediocre program into a national basketball powerhouse that created a Penn brand which lasted for 25 years or so. Digger and Dick Harter orchestrated the polar shift in Penn basketball and the resulting wide-ranged penumbras.

Digger cracked me up. He could be funny, inspiring, cruel in an old school coaching way, sarcastic, mesmerizing, scornful, and charismatic. He hated the fact that he had to invite all the “interested” freshmen to tryouts. To weed out the “walk-ons,” the first drill at tryout was “roll out and dive.” Digger would stand under the hoop and roll the ball to the foul line. There was a “walk-on” on Digger’s left and a “recruit” like 6’7’’ 220 pound Corky Calhoun on his right. The aim was to get to the ball first and dive on it. Unavoidably, there would be very physical collisions --- like the free for all of recovering a fumble in football but this was on the concrete Palestra floor. After that first drill (we would do it five or six times) the ranks of “walk-ons” thinned to almost nobody. I loved looking at Digger’s self-satisfied face after their departure.

Which brings me to October 15, 1968 and the first official day of freshman practice. Freshmen did not play varsity in those days. We were introduced to our first “Digger production.” After practice was over and the “lesser recruits” and maybe one “walk on” left the Palestra, Digger called the six top recruits, Corky Calhoun, Bob Morse, Ron Billingslea, Billy Walters, Dave Tritton and me into the center circle on the Palestra floor. He told us to form a circle around him. Then all the lights went out except for the spotlights blinding us in center court. Darkness throughout the rest of the Palestra.

Digger was in the middle of us (Digger was 6 foot, we were 6’8’’, 6’7’’, 6’9’’, 6’5’’, 6’4’’, 6’0’’) and stared into each of our faces with the Digger Scowl. He was wearing his gray slacks, sneakers and white collared shirt with the Penn logo. Digger turned to each of us as he scowled with emotion and thrust his forefinger in our solar plexuses. He yelled with that Digger jabbing style (similar to his machine gun delivery on his ESPN gig as basketball analyst 30 years later) with piercing inflection: “Calhoun, Cotler, Morse, Tritton, Walters, Billingslea (the finger thrust was close to a punch as he said your name) I worked my ass off to recruit you guys. I brought you here to this great Ivy League institution. You chose to have me teach you how to play championship basketball. And I chose you and you are here for one reason and one reason only --- that’s to beat the fucking Tigers.”

7

Sometimes Digger was so serious and overly dramatic that several of us would have to hold in the laughter, such as the time we trailed someone at halftime and Digger made each of us go into the locker room bathroom and stare into the mirror. I remember looking at the mirror, thought about nothing and figured 10 seconds was long enough before I left the bathroom and went back to the team in the locker room. I found out years later that we all thought of nothing when looking into the mirror.

Fortunately, over four years we beat the ”fucking Tigers” seven out of eight times. But I can tell you we hated losing that one time, and to anyone else. Our class played 105 basketball games in four years. We lost six of them --- only one in the Palestra (to Temple in 1972). That’s the second best four year record in NCAA history after UCLA (I know, UCLA did not play Dartmouth and Brown). Digger taught us to despise losing; winning was all we knew. Nobody cared about their stats, how they played (well a little), who was doing what, as long as we won. Winning symbolized our hard work, our commitment to each other, our search for perfection and our loyalty. I never experienced that before -- first with Digger and then with Dick Harter.

Digger was so much like a God that you never knew when he was going to pop up in your life. One late night I was studying in McClelland Hall in the quad. Do you remember that little oasis for studying in the bowels of the western side of the lower quad? I had my head buried in a legal studies text in a carrel. All of a sudden, I could feel “His Presence.” Some force was staring at the top of my head. I peered up from my textbook, and there was Digger at 11 pm with his face six inches from mine. “Cotler, good thing I found you studying. I’m going to check on your teammates.” I was fully spooked.

Late in our freshman season (a couple of thousand would show up for our games) at the Palestra the fucking Tigers threatened our unbeaten record. We made a push in the second half. I got a pass on the foul line extended in front of our bench. Digger screamed (seemed like he was standing inside my ear) “Shoot it Cotler!” Naturally, like a dog following his owner’s command, I launched a 25 foot swish. You never ignored Digger’s commands.

We were 20-0 heading to Columbia for the final freshman game. We were the 2nd ranked team in the country and we knew we were going to crush the Lions. On the train to New York Digger decided to pick on Cotler (he loved to razz my New York City roots --- e.g. how could an uncool Cotler come from cool NYC?). Digger dragged me through the cars and approached all of the prettiest young ladies on the train. He stopped to ask each one if they know me because I claimed to be a sharp ladies man “from the Big Apple.” The thing was that Digger had this charm and, instead of cursing us out, the ladies smiled at Digger. I was 18 and never thought college life would be like this.

8

I saw Digger two years ago when he was doing an ESPN gig for the LaSalle/St. Joe’s game at the Palestra. I observed him in the Class of ’71 room in the Palestra with his ESPN crew eating pizza. Digger tackled me and gave me a hug and the same friendly scowl as if we just finished practice. He successfully beat cancer just a few years before. The beauty of coaching 12-15 basketball players each year is that you have a couple of hundred sons who are your sons forever.

Digger taught us to think big, to think that you can win it all. Never be afraid of that opponent or that seemingly insurmountable challenge. Digger taught us that nothing is too scary or too frightening that it can’t be conquered. He made you believe you could do anything.

Digger left us after our sophomore year. He coached an overachieving Fordham team to a 26-3 record in 1970 -1971 and then lived his dream at Notre Dame for 20 years where he was 393-197. In 1974 his Irish scored the last 12 points to beat UCLA 71-70 and end UCLA’s 88-game winning streak. It was a colossal achievement. ESPN 30/30 has a wonderful documentary on that remarkable accomplishment. In that film, during a timeout, Digger is is shown screaming at each Irish player one by one when they were down by 10 in the last minutes. You can hear him say, “If you don’t think we are going to win this, sit down and I’ll play someone else.” Digger holds the NCAA record for the most upsets of a number one ranked team at seven.

Bobby Morse, who now teaches Italian at St. Mary’s College in South Bend, has lunch with Digger from time to time. We had given Digger a basketball in 1969 that said “21-0.” Recently, Digger gave that ball back to Bobby for safe keeping. Corky, Bobby and I again saw Digger in South Bend for the Notre Dame/North Carolina game in February.

9

John Wideman

I would sit by the window in quiet bucolic setting of Bennett Hall. I felt calm in this class. There were no screaming coaches, and no competitive Wharton students. It was English, more specifically poetry, with John Edgar Wideman. John then was 27, about 6 foot 3, prematurely balding, and had big bold brown eyes which fit his serious and intelligent face. You knew John was really smart. He spoke beautifully and softly in a high pitched voice that was lyrical. A transcript of his lectures would require no editing.

I loved listening to John talk about Robert Lowell as he gracefully walked around that quiet room of 25 kids. I was the only jock. I loved this class because more than half the class were Penn women. Wharton classes were filled mostly with guys. Unlike today, the jocks were told to apply to Wharton - it was easier to get into than the College.

John also was a former star basketball player at Penn and an assistant coach for Harter and Digger. In 1963, John led Penn to the Big Five Title. John not only was all Ivy, but he was a leader. He could carry a team on his back. He was a black man from the tough neighborhoods of Pittsburgh who married a white Jewish woman and became only the second black Rhodes Scholar. John was not like your typical basketball coach. I admired his accomplishment of being both a star athlete and an accomplished teacher and writer. I admired John’s love of writing and his grappling with the struggles and the unanswerable dilemmas of life.

Three afternoons a week, when I sat in that class by the huge vertical windows that touched the leafy trees, I felt like John treated me differently because he knew what it was like to work intensely at basketball and still try to be focused in class. Perhaps it was be my projection and own ego, but I felt like he and I had a secret the other kids did not know about John knew the “the other side.” He had endured the fierce competitive struggle of being a Division 1 athlete at the highest level --- the commitment and the pain you go through physically and mentally to 10

compete. And then have to go home and start studying at 9 at night, while he was already exhausted. And yet, here was gentle John teaching poetry at 1:30pm.

Two hours later I saw a different John Wideman at the Palestra for practice. John was quiet on the sidelines. He and Dr. Mitchell helped recruit Corky and others. He was someone who looked you in the eye, and you knew he was not just recruiting you but trying to understand and help you. If he saw something in practice he would pull you aside and talk in that serious quiet way, about how you did not open up your feet and hips on weak side defense so that you could better see the whole court. You then would know where the ball was and where the man you were guarding was. John was a teacher in the Palestra as well as in Bennett Hall.

After practice a bunch of us would shoot around. John would then say “Hey let’s play some 3 on 3.” I learned quickly that I did not want to guard John or have John guard me. John was tough, physical and determined. He threw lots of elbows, as he slashed to the hoop (you wanted to force John to take the outside jumper.) John took no prisoners. His game featured lots of banging, hard rebounds, explosive first steps and jabs to the body. Often I was John’s road kill. I would think to myself where did that mild soft spoken English professor go? With the big soft brown eyes? Often he elbowed me in the gut on his way to a lay up.

In Bennett Hall Wideman was a cerebral professor; on the court he was a darting volcano. However, when I would run into him at Clarke Park, he was just a friend. The last two years of school I lived at 44th and Osage. When I walked my dog in the park and I saw John he had an engaging smile. He and I would just talk a little, naturally and without any teacher/ coach overlay. I appreciated that intimacy and felt honored when he wrote a law school recommendation for me. John went on to write a number of well-reviewed books including some about struggles in his life and basketball. He taught at several different universities around the country, and his writings have appeared in the New York Times and various other publications.

John represented for me the natural flow of a life that defies categorization, easy pigeon holing, predictions, or stereotyping. John represented to me an honest life wherein he was not willing to surrender to the expectations of others. John stayed in my library of Penn memories as a shimmering example of being loyal to one’s individuality with all of the successes and challenges that come with living your life that way.

Twenty-eight years later, I got a call from Senator Bill Bradley asking me to join his Pennsylvania finance committee for his run for President. After I made a fool of myself fawning over him, Senator Bradley asked me if I knew his “good friend, John Wideman.”

11

Dr. Bernie Cataldo

A kinder man could not be found. Dr. Cataldo was in his late 60’s I guess, maybe early 70’s, when I had B Law 2 in Wharton with him. Dr. Cataldo and Professors Stockton and Kempin wrote the text we used with synopses of cases. Three times a week in Dietrich Hall, Dr. Cataldo would demonstrate his command of the English language, his analytical prowess and precise observations of the world and of the 25 or so kids in his class.

Dr. Cataldo was an Italian gentleman, about 5 foot 7 with a bald head and white whiskers on the sides with a huge nose and very white skin with huge black framed glasses too big for his face. He always wore a dark blue suit. Dr. Cataldo had a quizzical face as if he was always surprised at learning something new, when in fact he was a wise Yoda, --- grand master of business law and all things concerning Penn students --- though he would beg to differ and proclaim ignorance.

Dr. Cataldo ee-nun-see-ay-ted every syllable of every word. His words and thoughts came from deep in his experience and heart. He had a dry sense of humor which I usually understood better after class when I would replay in my mind what he said. His default line when we mumbled (because we did not know the answer) was: “Excuse me Mr. Cotler I am having trouble hearing your response. I have prez-bee-cue-sis, please speak louder.”

What I remember most were the quiet moments after class when Dr. Cataldo and I would chat. Up close you could see in his face his focus on you and his seriousness, but there was always an impish charm and one quarter smile under that heavy dark blue suit, white shirt and boring tie. His voice was sonorous and thickly Italian. “Alan, you suffer from difff-ih-dennce.” I could tell Dr. Cataldo wanted to help me understand something about myself. He knew more about me than I did. But I didn’t know what “diffidence” meant. Dr. Cataldo saw something in me that I was blind to. I now know that he could see I was not really aware of my full potential --- that he had a higher opinion of me than I did. I didn’t see that then. I wish I could tell him that now and thank him.

12

When I went to law school, I wrote to Dr. Cataldo and let him know how it was going. Dr. Cataldo wrote back a four-page single-spaced hand written note that exhibited diamond-like precision. Every line of writing was level straight, every letter of every word the same size and height as if he used a ruler for each word. Dr. Cataldo wrote about the law, about hard work, and about his confidence in me. I could feel Dr. Cataldo’s presence in his note. Dr. Cataldo died in 1990.

C.J. Burnett

C.J. Burnett had a smile and body that reminded me of W.C. Fields. He had a paunchy, ruddy complexion, a large, round face and a few strands of hair delicately combed in a row across a wide bald head. His hugely round body and protruding chest spilled over his short legs. His stubby fingers had a yellowish tinge from smoking cigarettes. C.J. was in his early 60’s when I was in his Poli Sci class studying the sacred, thick, light-blue Sabine text. C.J. was born to teach about Plato, Aristotle and the Philosopher Kings. C.J. loved what he did for a living. He loved his students. After class when C.J. had office hours, there literally was a line of 20-30 students in the Dietrich hallway waiting to sit with the Buddha and discuss Sabine, sports, politics, and to laugh.

C.J., who played football and lacrosse at Penn, loved jocks. He went out of his way to make sure we could get our work done and compete. While some professors made rescheduling exams because of travel a formidable undertaking, with C.J. it was “Alan, you, Corky, and Ron --- when you get back from Boston, let me know when you can take the exam --- and you can go to the library to take it.”

What I remember most about C.J. was his positive affect. He was jovial, his laugh contagious and he had a signature wink that made you want to hug him (if you could get your arms around him). He knew I maneuvered to always sit next to this attractive blonde from Kentucky in his class. C.J. would remind me to pay attention in his class --- and then give me that wink.

13

During one of our little office sessions C.J. said he had a present for me. He pulled out this classy dress shirt that had thin light multi-colored stripes running through it with the monogram “CJ.” He said the shirt was too small for him. When I brought it home it was large enough to cover my bed like a blanket. I wore that shirt for years even though there were many cubic yards of air between my chest and the fabric.

C.J. was all Penn. In addition to his athletic accomplishments, he graduated in 1933 with a degree in education , was a freshman Penn football coach, earned a Masters in political science, and was devoted to his students. C.J. died in 1989 at the age of 81. C.J.’s obituary confirmed that his nickname was “Smiley.”

E. Digby Baltzell and 90-47

In March, 1971, our junior year, our Penn basketball team was 28-0 ranked 2nd or 3rd in the country, and one game away from advancing to the Final Four in Houston. On a mild, sunny, peaceful Saturday, we played 26-6 Villanova in Raleigh in the final eight. We had beaten them earlier in the season at the Palestra. ‘Nova had three future NBA players --- Howard Porter, , and Tom Inglesby. We had four --- Corky Calhoun, Bob Morse, , and Phil Hankinson. Villanova had just beaten Digger Phelps’ Fordham team by 10, and we had beaten a loaded South Carolina team (John Roche, , Tom Owens, ) by 15. In the locker room after we beat the Gamecocks, Digger visited to wish us luck against the Wildcats. We had our tickets punched for Houston. But we didn’t go. While the sky outside was a sweet Carolina blue, there was a Wildcat tsunami crushing Penn inside the field house. We were down by 21 at the half. Howard Porter scored 35. We shot 20 for 67. Phil Hankinson was our leading scorer with 8.

On national TV we lost 90-47. I scored the last bucket with a sky high lay up to avoid being doubled up. 90- 47. ‘Nova never substituted. Porter played 39 minutes. We had owned them up until that Saturday. This was ‘Nova’s nuclear response to years of frustration. There was a fierce rivalry between the Augustinians of the Main 14

Line and the elitist Ivy Quakers. We had destroyed Nova’s manhood by not only being an elite academic institution, but by beating the Cats at their own game over and over. They got their revenge on March 20, 1971. The loss seared Coach Harter. The late night trip back to Philly ended with our bus breaking down high atop the middle of the Platt Bridge. We waited a couple of hours for buses. It was the height of sports-induced trauma.

The following day, Sunday,. I had to prepare for my presentation the next day in Dr. Baltzell’s sociology class. I was opining on “Three Who Made A Revolution --- Trotsky, Lenin, and Stalin.” My head was spinning, and within hours of the debacle t-shirts were already popping up all over the Main Line that said simply “90-47.”

On that Monday, I strode to the front of the recitation to give my synthesis and themes of the Russian . Dr. Baltzell interrupted before I could begin. “Alan, we cannot deal with Russian history right now. We have to discuss what happened Saturday.”

Well, I could go into the many theories, explanations, rationalizations, and hypotheses about how the undefeated 2nd ranked team in the country which eight weeks earlier in the Palestra beat ‘Nova by eight could lose by 43 to ‘Nova in the final eight. The bottom line is it was a perfect storm of many things including what “Shogun” author James Clavell would consider to be the “joss of life.”

‘Nova had aimed its arsenal at us since we beat them on January 23. Nova was building toward us, as they had beaten relatively easy St. Joe’s and Fordham teams before getting us. We had a much tougher draw to reach the Eastern finals. First we beat a great Duquesne team by five (the huge Nelson twins, Jarett Durham and Mickey Davis) in their own backyard in West Virginia, and then a superbly talented South Carolina team which Frank McGuire had recruited from New York. We were drained, I believe. My theory was that in the Ivy League we never played two super teams in a row, let alone three. We were not prepared for three super tough games, like the other teams. We paid the price for that. Coach Harter believed because we never fell appreciably behind for 25 games, we psychologically did not know how to respond to falling behind by 10 early. Then came the tsunami. The drone-like response was contagious. Many believe what Forest Gump wore on a shirt, “Shit happens.” I suspect many of us have had that thought occur to us about events in our lives during the last 45 years.

Dr. Baltzell was truly astonished. Dr. Baltzell was inimitable. He was smart, classy, charming, and charismatic with a wrinkly face and radiant smile. He spoke with a patrician inflection --- he reminded me of a male version of Katherine Hepburn. Digby thought out of the box. He could give context to many complex and perplexing life events with wonderful short hand phrases that captured what was really going on. His thought process was incredibly creative and unique. He was a wealthy Episcopalian who got credit for coining the phrase “WASP.” He

15

was a Penn graduate who lived in his beloved Delancey Place. He studied the cultural and historical differences between Boston and Philadelphia --- and wrote classics such as Philadelphia Gentleman and Puritan Boston and Quaker Philadelphia. Digby earned a multitude of awards from around the country for many of his expansive accomplishments. Wikipedia tells us that Digby was “dapper in tweed jackets and bow ties, popular in a slightly aloof way but always courteous and accessible. He could often be seen pedaling an old one-speed bicycle between his Delancey Place home near Rittenhouse Square and Penn’s campus.”

Digby was an expert on class distinctions in society. And Dr. Baltzell loved and followed sports. He strode the sidelines of every Penn football game and observed many of Penn’s teams on the fields and in the gyms. We never came to a conclusion that Monday afternoon in Digby’s class. But it was astounding to me how deeply Digby was thinking about the debacle and why such a thing could happen. But it was what Digby did --- trying to understand social and cultural phenomena and learning from it about the past and what it means for the future. Athletic events included. I never did opine on Lenin, Trotsky, and Stalin. I submitted my written report.

Over the years, Dr. Baltzell and I had several lunches around Rittenhouse Square. He would cross examine me about the law, lawyers, judges, courtrooms and give me some of his ideas about contemporary life, many that trashed conventional wisdom and popular mores.

During one lunch, after talking hoops, Digby said he had found a poem he had written back in 1972 about Corky Calhoun and me, the starting backcourt at 6’7” and 6’5” respectively.

Oh, Black is Black, and white is white, And never the twain shall meet, Till all men come Before God’s great Judgment Seat. But there is neither Black or white, Nor border, breed, nor birth, When two strong men, like Corky and Al, Play side by side In any great Palestra feat. “Reflections at the Palestra, Leap Year, 1972.” - E Digby Baltzell

Dr. Baltzell died in 1996.

16

Dick Harter

Dick Harter (left) went 88-44 as at Penn, winning two Ivy League and two Big 5 titles.

Coach Harter didn’t get the credit he deserved. He installed in the late 60’s the coaches, players, systems, and a way of thinking that changed the Penn Basketball brand for decades, as well as the support of alumni, the esprit de corps of a major university campus, and the way a community thought of Penn. We are not Penn State. A great university is great not only for its superlative graduate and undergraduate academics, but also for achieving excellence in all of its endeavors in music halls, in research facilities, in theaters, in medical facilities, in business, and on sports fields to name just some. Coach Harter believed that and succeeded --- and he did so - on a national scale when not all of the academic winds were blowing in support of his effort. The Ivies did not seem comfortable with national athletic success in the major sports. It is something that still frustrates me and others. It would not take much to make Penn a national basketball powerhouse again and take the Penn brand to a national scale where it belongs. We should be the Stanford of the East Coast.

Coach Harter was a military disciplinarian -- old school, inflexible but with a huge Cheshire cat toothy smile. He would drive us crazy with his rules. We had difficulty feeling comfortable with. Coach Hater and at times we didn’t understand his ways. However, he never lost us. While Coach Harter’s communication skills were somewhat lacking, his heart was in the right place. As a team we knew that Dick Harter was loyal to us and we were loyal to him. In his own sometimes heavy-handed way, Coach Harter wanted the best for us as a team and as individuals. He bled a deep red and blue.

Coach Harter played basketball at Penn before graduating in 1953. He coached at Germantown Academy, was an assistant at Penn, coached at Rider and then took over at Penn in 1966. He and Digger changed the face of Penn Basketball. 17

In 1968, our frosh team’s most competitive games were with the varsity. We would scrimmage the varsity and, especially in the beginning, we would embarrass them. Harter seethed during these routs. I loved watching Digger’s self-satisfied face as he grinned at Coach Harter. We had two games against the varsity before the season started. In the first one, we beat the Varsity easily. No one on the varsity could handle Corky and Bobby. I shot well. Harter was not a happy camper.

The second game taught me about Coach Harter’s desire to win and his demand for respect. I was surprised to see senior Decker Uhlhorn guarding me. What could this be about? Decker was a sub with modest skills (a hatchet man like Jungle Jim Luscotoff of the of the early 60’s). Decker, who off the court is a gentleman, became a dear friend of mine over the years and has served in many roles for Penn, was in my face. As chance would have it I took the first shot of the game, a jumper from the top of the key. I never saw the result. Instead I received a Uhlhorn elbow between my eyes and landed on my back three feet behind my lift off. The ref did not blow his whistle. That set the tone for the game. The freshmen lost.

Coach Harter loved to teach us lessons. He often would pick on one player to send a message to the whole team.. Before we played Navy one year Harter decided Steve Bilsky was not committed to playing defense. That whole week in practice Steve got the brunt of the coach’s “focus.” All of the coaching staff’s eyes (and criticisms) were on Steve. They would get in his face and ear drums. On other occasions just about everyone else was fair game, except Corky and Bobby. They had no weaknesses.

For me, it started innocently during freshman year. I had a girlfriend from my Queens neighborhood. Let’s call her Susan. Susan was remarkable --- super intelligent and warm, an athletic 5 foot 7 with a radiant smile and dirty blonde hair. Susan was two years older than I and a junior at Cornell.

In late October of freshman year, Susan took the train to Philly to surprise me. She showed up at the all male quad on an early Friday afternoon. I am told that about 15 Penn freshmen gallantly escorted her and carried her bags to 318 Magee, and then down Spruce Street to the Palestra where we were practicing. Well, about the only thing that could get Digger off his cadence is a woman who looked and smiled like Susan. Digger stopped the practice and the Cotler ragging continued for 20 minutes before we were done for the day.

Fast forward to sophomore year, January 30, 1970. We are bussing up to Cornell to play a game on regional TV the next afternoon. We were ranked in the top 20 and Coach Harter wanted to show us off to parts of the nation. There was no ESPN in those days and televised games across the nation were few in number. Cornell was supposed to be easy prey for us. Somehow, in the bus word got to Harter and Digger that I wanted to visit with Susan past the

18

11 pm curfew in Ithaca. Digger decided there should be a team vote. After some comical debate Coach Harter gave his imprimatur to my being the only one who could stay out until 2 AM. Perhaps my being a sub at the time emboldened the ex- Marine Harter to bend his own rules. This deviation was revolutionary.

As fate would have it, we performed poorly on TV and barely edged the Big Red 64-60. Our performance was uglier than the score. Coach Harter was ready to blow the bus up with the team in it on the long trip home. For most of seven hours, Coach Harter and Digger announced how Cotler set the wrong tone for the team by breaking curfew. Cotler’s selfishness ruined our focus was their mantra. That theme lasted a couple of practices as well.

Unpredictably, 25 years later, Coach Harter and I became very good friends. After “90-47,” Coach Harter coached for Oregon, Penn State, the and several other NBA teams. When he was ’s assistant for the in the 1990’s, Dick and his wife Mari would invite me and my wife to a couple of games at the Garden every year and for dinner afterwards

I got to see an older and funnier Dick in a totally different context. I saw how caring and natural he could be. One summer weekend, we visited Dick and Mari at their summer home in the mountains of Vermont. Dick and I spent a couple of hours one warm afternoon sitting in tire tubes in the lake by his house as we talked about our Penn days, the NBA, and life in general. It was a father and son moment. We spent most of our time laughing. Time, context, personal growth and the “joss of life” can have a remarkable effect on people.

For years, Dick would call me at work to see how things were, especially how Penn basketball and Dick’s favorite athletic director, Steve Bilsky, were doing. Dick’s career spanned 12 college and NBA teams, including the Sixers when I saw him more frequently, but his love of Penn was always at his core.

In 2012, Coach Harter was fighting cancer. We spoke on the phone while he was getting chemo. He was animated and giving me instructions for the Penn AD about what needed to be done to improve Penn basketball. Then Coach Harter spoke in a tone I had not heard before: “Alan, the real heroes are these nurses and doctors treating me.” Coach Harter died a couple of weeks later. He was 81.

His death was keenly felt, especially in Oregon where Coach Harter created the brand of Oregon “Kamikaze Kid” basketball that energized the Ducks for years and challenged the UCLA habit of winning the PAC 10. On December 23, 1974, three years after “90-47,” Coach Harter’s Oregon Ducks beat Villanova by 39, 116-77. ‘Nova was coached by , Chuck Daly’s assistant at Penn in 1971-1972. . Payback knows no limits. I miss those calls from Coach Harter.

19

Chuck Daly

Almost to a person, if you ask a player, coach or anyone who spent time with Chuck Daly, they will tell you he was unique. Chuck had a way of seeing the whole you and bringing out your best. I have never met anyone like him, in law, business, sports or anywhere else.

There was a calm aura that Chuck carried around with him. In a time when the Bobby Knight school of coaching based on shame, intimidation, and fear was still prevalent, Coach Daly worked at making you feel good about yourself. The glass was always ¾ full. It is a coaching style that predominates today in all sports.

Chuck’s style was jolting to the Penn Class of ’72. We embraced it. We loved the guy. Chuck created lightness of being and fun. He had a rubbery face that smiled a lot and lots of well-combed hair. Even when he got intense his affect was positive. Chuck was flexible on and off the court. He was not dogmatic or tied to any particular philosophy. With Harter and Digger, “zone defense” were not acceptable words. Chuck used that zone with us effectively on many occasions. Chuck’s favorite phrase was “it is what it is.” He rarely lost his cool. He was at peace with himself. After losing Bilsky and Wohl (two guards under 6 feet), and installing Corky and me (two forwards) at guard, Daly responded to reporters questioning this decision before the season started with this comment: “If we lose a couple of games, I ain’t jumping off a bridge.”

20

Well, we lost 3 games our senior year out of 28. We were ranked third in the country and lost to ’s North Carolina in the Final Eight. Carolina featured Bob McAdoo, , , and Bill Chamberlain, with future 76er Bobby Jones coming off the bench. Ironically, Coach Smith had offered me a scholarship to Carolina but candidly said I would hardly play there. Coach Smith did something that game nobody had done before. He full-court zone pressed us from the start. We fell behind by eight or nine, and played them evenly the rest of the way. We could have beaten Carolina. We just didn’t feel that way at tip off, I believe. In our 1972 Penn yearbook, there is a picture of the starting five running off the court after pregame introductions. Our facial expressions and body language, in my opinion, did not suggest optimism. The affect was flat.

Chuck and I sat together on the plane back home. We talked about life without basketball and lots of other stuff. He joked that he had to do it all over again next year. I remember that conversation like it was yesterday. You can tell when the people you are with are at peace with themselves --- theirs faces are relaxed, they hear every word you say, and they look into your eyes. And they can laugh in a quiet meaningful way. That was Chuck. I always wondered what my life would have been like if I had accepted his offer to be his assistant at Penn.

ESPN 30/30 has a brilliant documentary on Chuck Daly’s Detroit Pistons called “Bad Boys.” That film helps explain Coach Daly’s gift in coaching and managing college kids and NBA super stars. From Penn, to the NBA, to the Olympics, Coach Daly was a Hall of Fame coach. I never thought I’d play for a guy like Chuck or Digger or Dick or Rollie Massimino (Chuck’s assistant) when I was a Red Devil in Queens. Rollie left Stonybrook to be Chuck’s defensive guru our senior year. He was short fiery Italian who loved us and then all his Villanova players when he became their head coach and won an NCAA title in 1985. I saw Rollie last winter at ’s Temple practice. Rollie and I caught up and, as always with him it was all laughs and warmth. Rollie and I would talk every few years. When his best friend, Chuck Daly, died, Rollie called to say he had enjoyed an article I wrote about Coach Daly. Rollie now coaches Northwood College in Florida. He is 81 and as energized as ever.

21

One of my fondest memories of Chuck was Thanksgiving 1971 when Corky, Phil Hankinson and I, along with one or two other out-of-towners, had turkey at Chuck’s home with his wife in New Jersey. Campus emptied out that weekend, but we had practiced hard every day with the season starting in a few days. After dinner, Chuck said he had to show us something. He was smiling like a kid on Christmas Day as he led us into a walk-in closet that was larger than 318 Magee. Inside were a couple of hundred suits, shirts, ties and shoes neatly arranged in rows. We all laughed --- a lot. What struck me was Chuck’s being secure enough to show us who he was and what he loved. He loved being a sharp dresser. In the same way, Chuck invited us to let him know who we were.

When Chuck died of pancreatic cancer in May 2009 at 78, players, coaches, friends, everyone, expressed their love for him. Many people wrote tributes and shared their experiences with him. I wrote the piece about Coach Daly and our one year with him at Penn for a Philly sports blog. If you would like to read it, please click here. Corky, Bobby, Ron, and Wally

Pictured above: Alan Colter with his teammates (Players in order are: Bob Morse, Corky Calhoun, Alan Cotler, and Ron Billingslea)

Phillies great Larry Bowa used to say that on the day Steve Carlton was pitching it was “Winday.” That’s how I felt about being on the floor with Corky Calhoun and Bob Morse. They were classy, hardworking winners and All-Americans as well as great teammates who led by example. I never heard a word from them attacking or criticizing anyone. 22

Corky and Bobby kept us in line by their presence and their integrity on and off the court. Like Derek Jeter, their actions made words unnecessary. Many times in my life I have seen the damage done in business, law, government, and in sports by leaders whose values and character were deficient. It all really does start at the top -- - and on our team Corky and Bobby had no peers.

Corky was the 4th player picked in the 1972 NBA draft, by the . Corky may not have won an NCAA championship, but he won an NBA championship with Jack Ramsey’s Portland Trailblazers in 1977 beating Dr. J’s 76ers. Corky went on to executive management positions with Exxon Mobil.

Bobby was drafted in the 3rd round by the old . Instead, he went to play in Italy where he became a European sensation. For 15 years, Bobby dominated European basketball draining three pointers but only getting two points awarded. He was voted one of the top 50 players in European history--not bad for a quiet kid from Kennett Square, Pa. Bobby has been teaching Italian to college students in Indiana and lecturing on basketball in Europe.

Ron Billingslea and Billy “Wally” Walters were great Philly - bred players who could have started all three varsity years at St. Joes, LaSalle or Temple but struggled to get playing time at Penn. Ron, the writer and poet of our fivesome, went on to coach with Harter at Oregon, and then for the last 35 years he has become one of the leading coaches in a number of countries including Norway where he now lives.

Wally and I received special attention from Digger that first year because of our purported “matador defense.” Digger loved to yell at his two guards claiming that defense was a novel concept for us --- he called us the “Gold Dust Twins.” I had blondish hair and Wally’s was reddish. Wally became a lawyer and businessman in Delaware.

My teammates were great players, but much better people. We competed in practice but in games we had each others’ back. There was no back stabbing and no infantile behavior on or off the court. We respected each other and enjoyed each other. We loved playing basketball. We loved to play together. And we took great pride in our record.

Over the years we five, in various combinations, have had many dinners, sent many emails, had many calls and went to a number of Penn games together, along with teammates from other years as well. Steve Bilsky and I have been close friends all these years since the time he recruited me. When he retired after 25 years as Penn Athletic Director last year, I put together a ‘roast’ where about 40 players and fraternity brothers met at the

23

Palestra for a night of celebration and frolic at Bilsky’s expense; I have to admit I did my best Dean Martin that night. After all we had been through together, the bond lasts forever, especially for the members of winning teams.

When Ron is back from Norway for a few weeks in the summer a bunch of us get together at the Greek’s in Narberth and spend a few hours mostly laughing. Just last season, Corky, Bobby, and I drove to Charlottesville at the invitation of our center on the 71’-72’ team, , to see the Duke-Virginia basketball game at the John Paul Jones Arena. Page has been doing an outstanding job as Athletic Director at UVA for the past 15 years. The trip gave the four of us a chance to catch up and watch some great basketball. Corky, Bobby and I got to shoot around in the hotel gym before the UVA game. Bobby could still shoot from three-point range. Bobby and I had driven together for eight hours. It was a time for us to catch up on our lives --- 47 years after we first met at the Palestra.

Final Thought Mrs. Spitzer, my English teacher, knew what it would mean for me to leave Queens and go onto the University of Pennsylvania. At 17, my world and vision were confined to a few small blocks of life. Penn opened my eyes to a life with many miles of opportunity, thanks to my teachers and friends above.

My 89 year old Uncle Bernie moved from Queens to Delray Beach in Florida after he retired at about our age. He got me my first baseball glove. We often trade stories, analyze our New York Giants, and laugh. He has had more surgeries and health related issues than most, but there he is leading his pack of 90 year-old buddies onto the executive golf course every day. When I told him I was going to write this memoir, Uncle Bernie reminded me of what he had been telling me over the last 20 year: ”Alan, remember, the older we get, the better we were.” I quickly responded: “Uncle Bernie, remember after all the money and things we’ve accumulated and after all the wins and losses we’ve experienced, in the end it’s really about our relationships and connections with family and friends.” Then, as we always do, we both laughed.

24