Just One More Season

By Tom Callahan

If the legs go first, how soon will pride follow?

The style of athletic leave-taking seems to have diminished since Ted Williams homered in his final at-bat, when the Boston fans failed to draw him back out of the dugout for the purest reason, put perfectly by John Updike, that "gods do not answer letters." In mortal and modern contrast, Guy Lafleur, a Montreal Canadien once of the highest rank, lingered several aimless shifts before exiting last month as sheepishly as former Pittsburgh Running Back Franco Harris, who was bluffing along a few extra downs in Seattle. Babe Ruth limped away in midstream too, so departures of this sort are hardly new. Still, there is an impression that boxing has been spreading around its patents in the allied areas of recovered faith and mistimed goodbyes. Perhaps it is the money.

Money made as regal a figure as Jack Nicklaus fling a putter a few weeks back in his alltime display of rapture over an eight-footer, not to win the grand slam, not even to clinch a 20th major championship, but to publicize a condominium development in Arizona at a made-for-TV golf tournament. Ben Hogan would never have wet his pants over such a glory, but there are levels of ego in this. When Bjorn Borg slipped merely to second, ahead of everyone but John McEnroe, Borg had to go. Eleven years removed from his No. 1 rating, Ilie Nastase pursues the tournament allures as profanely as ever, but now he adjourns to the disco after the second round. People begin to forget that he ever was a great tennis player. As pride stalled and greed rallied, Borg reappeared momentarily, still young and naive about how fast and far a delicate skill can plummet, only to find that he had lost it.

"When you talk about a professional athlete losing it," Bob Cousy says, "it comes down to what he can settle for. In the individual sports, you lose it more quickly, or show it more. In a team concept, it's not that you can fake it exactly, but you can hide the subtle decline better. I did." This is more than surprising because, when Cousy retired against the Boston Celtics' wishes in 1963, the common feeling was that he was still on top of his game, one of those considerate treasures who chose the time grandly. "I chose it pragmatically," he says, laughing lightly. "I knew I'd be exploiting this notoriety for 20 years. Keep in mind that my salary was $30,000 in 1963." In other words, exchanging some of his legend for its full cash value up front might have made economic sense. "If it had been $300,000, chances are I would have played until 1969." But bleeding the fund by such small increments would have been shortsighted.

He has not picked 1969 randomly. That was the year Bill Russell retired. Cousy was 40 then. "I could have played that long without hurting myself or anyone else too badly. If the aging superstar continues to carry the load, the aging process accelerates." However, Russell bore most of the heavy equipment, and when Cousy became unable to hold up all of his traditional parts, he changed roles without anyone noticing. Here was the magician's finest sleight of hand.

Coaches and customers frequently hail the pro who "wants the ball" down the stretch, the taker of the buzzer shot, Mr. Clutch. For eight or nine seasons, Cousy thought of himself that way. But over the final two or three, he tumbled to an almost opposite criterion for a professional. "I was very conscious of my skills eroding. Franco Harris can say what he likes, but the moment a back can't get to that hole, he realizes it. The minute there is even a subtle diminishment of legs, you're the first to know. I became aware of when I should stop wanting the ball in key situations. For a couple of years, I decoyed myself at those moments, making sure Sam Jones, Tommy Heinsohn or whoever ended up with the shot."

The odd thing is, Cousy says, "I shoot better now than I did 30 years ago," which he has occasion to know, for last week he started shooting again. "Of course, if I have to run five feet to get my own rebound, my touch deteriorates accordingly." At 7 o'clock in the morning, he lets himself into the Assumption College gymnasium about a quarter mile from his home in Worcester, Mass. Why Cousy has returned to the court at 56 he finds embarrassing to say, confessing to having made "a conscious decision never to play in oldtimers' games," a principle he has violated only in small measure.

At the Maurice Stokes game, an irresistible charity, he was exposing himself only to a few thousand "screaming precocious kids." While coaching the Cincinnati Royals in 1969, Cousy actually came back for a few N.B.A. minutes, merely as the pragmatist cooperating with the merchandisers "trying to jazz up business with old No. 14 on the bench." Sitting beside him, actually inside him, was the sentimentalist. "I never wanted to expose the old bod' before that 35-and-over group, to spoil the illusion, destroy the myth, look like what you are, a tired old man."

But a call has gone out too ironic not to answer. A gala N.B.A. all-star oldtimers' game, which he found easy to ignore when the proceeds benefited the Players Association, has shifted its cause to the codgers themselves. "Sort of an old actors' fund," he says, "for prepension guys in dire need." The game is not until Feb. 9, in Indianapolis, and maybe some will start shooting around a week or two before, but not Cousy. Meanwhile, saying "I feel I still have another good year to give," Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, 37, has changed his mind about quitting after this season, and for $2 million has agreed to play a 17th year. And Franco Harris, 34, will take on Jim Brown, 48, in the 40-yd. dash at an Atlantic City casino during Super Bowl week. Gods may not answer letters, but their agents do. --By Tom Callahan