Hardwood Huckster

The University of Maryland's fieldhouse is jammed and jumping. As the Terrapins trot onto the court, the 20-piece pep band belts out the Maryland fight song. Cheerleaders somersault into the air. Pompon girls wiggle and wave. Then suddenly an expectant hush falls over the crowd as the public-address announcer booms, "And now . . . heeerrre's Lefty!" Pandemonium again breaks loose, the band strikes up Hail to the Chief and out shuffles Charles Grice ("Lefty") Driesell, the loose, lanky (6ft. 4-in.) Maryland basketball coach. He is wearing a $250 double-knit suit and the "aw-shucks" grin of a plowboy at a tea dance, and when he casually flashes the awaited V-for-victory sign, the cheers resound all the louder. Lefty and his legions are ready for another game in their drive to become the nation's No. 1 college basketball team.

Such is the scene when the Maryland Terrapins suit up for a home game. The spectacle is in marked contrast to the atmosphere at Maryland when Driesell arrived three seasons ago. Back then, the hapless Terrapins could barely sell a ticket, much less win a game. So Driesell staged his own gate-building, one-man show. In times of crisis, he would leap off his Hollywood director's chair stationed next to the bench and fall on his knees--or tear off his jacket and stomp on it. In more joyful moments, he would dance the boogaloo and even lead the crowd in cheers. To confuse opponents, he once had his players switch jersey numbers. To "get the crowd going with us," he has charged onto the floor and deliberately drawn a technical foul. "I know some of them coaches are smarter," drawls Driesell, "and some are better lookin', but none of 'em is gonna outwork ole Lefty."

Today, having skillfully assembled one of the most talent-laden teams in college basketball, ole Lefty has turned center stage over to his Terrapin terrors. Hitting a hot 56% of their shots last week, the fast-breaking Terrapins rolled over Virginia 93-74 to register their 14th victory in a row--and make good on Driesell's promise to build his team into "the U.C.L.A. of the East." True to his word, Maryland as of last week was ranked No. 2 behind the West Coast's six-time national champions. "Sellin'," says Lefty, "that's all there is to coachin'."

Driesell should know. A huckster most of his life, he owes his success to a unique mixture of sweat, salesmanship and show biz. Raised in Norfolk, Va., he won a varsity letter as a third-grader for managing the equipment of the Granby High team. At Duke University, he rode the bench as much as he played but figured it helped him become "a better coach 'cause it made me hungrier." After graduation, he coached the Granby High varsity for the princely salary of $4,000 and became a two-time state champion--in the sale of encyclopedias, a job he took on the side to keep from getting hungrier. Moving on to Newport News High, he led the team to a bona fide state basketball title and then in 1960 graduated to a $6,500 job at Davidson, a small Presbyterian college in North Carolina better known until then for its academic excellence.

Within no time, the Davidson Wildcats were as hungry as ole Lefty. To beef up a puny $500 recruiting budget, he siphoned off the bulk of the team's meal money by feeding the players pimento-cheese sandwiches, once even sending them to bed without supper after they lost six games in a row. In the off season he logged 50,000 miles on the back roads of the South and beyond, searching for talent. He parked in gas stations overnight, bedding down in the back of the car with a pistol for protection. At dawn, he would shave in the station's rest room, eat a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast and then hit the road. "I learned sellin' encyclopedias," says Driesell, "that if you knock on enough doors, you'll find somebody who wants what you're sellin'."

The hard sell worked. Within four years, Davidson, with only 1,000 students, became a big, nationally ranked powerhouse. In 1969, after the Wildcats finished No. 3 in the U.S., grateful Davidson alumni presented Driesell with a new Thunderbird. A few weeks later he drove off to College Park, Md., and a new $25,000-a-year coaching job.

Bang. Driesell arrived with a splash--a four-column ad in the Washington Post informing four local high school stars that "the University of Maryland needs you." The N.C.A.A. censured the gimmick ("They found it distasteful," Driesell says with distaste), but one of the prospects, Jim O'Brien, currently the team's second highest scorer, found it "pretty original" and signed with Maryland. Driesell's second season with the Terrapins began with another bang--a punch in the mouth administered by a 240-lb. South Carolina player during a full-court brawl. Driesell loudly criticized South Carolina Coach Frank McGuire for "standing idly by and grinning." McGuire just grinned some more, claiming that the game films showed that Lefty had inadvertently punched himself. "Are you kiddin'?" screamed Driesell. "Do I look that uncoordinated?" South Carolina certainly did when, in a rematch a month later, Driesell's boys froze the ball for most of the game and then pulled off a 31-30 upset victory.

Driesell likes to inspire his charges by festooning the locker room with little homilies: THERE IS ONLY ONE YARDSTICK IN OUR SPORT AND THAT IS WINNING--SECOND PLACE IS LIKE KISSING YOUR SISTER. While a few players do not wholly buy his pitch, most agree with Center Len Elmore: "Lefty's the flim-flam man. It's a confidence game with him, but you buy it because he's honest about it." Now 41, Driesell is too busy chasing the national championship and overseeing sundry enterprises--the Lefty Driesell Insurance Agency, the Lefty Driesell steakhouse, the Lefty Driesell summer basketball camp, the Lefty Driesell TV and radio shows--to worry about his image. Says he: "I doubt that everybody who soldiered for General Patton liked him either, but Patton got the job done, didn't he?"

Driesell figures that his job will not be done until Maryland is No. 1. How long will that take? Ole Lefty isn't saying, but, like the cars of hundreds of Terrapin fans these days, his complimentary Lincoln Continental bears a boastful bumper sticker: U.C.L.A.: THE MARYLAND OF THE WEST.

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