Popovich Finds Life After Parks Is the Ultimate Transition Game

He’s a crafty one, they say, coaches basketball as if it were a game of chess. An offensive change here, a defensive switch there. . . . when it comes to making adjustments, county coaches say few have the knack like Marina’s Steve Popovich.

Isn’t that right, Steve?

“Ummm . . . “

What was that?

“Ughhh . . . “

Uh-oh. We either called too early, or Popovich is still suffering over his team’s 33-29 loss to Ocean View Friday night. Lucky for us, the latter seems to be the case.

OK, so Marina went 10 of 38 from the floor, including four of 20 on three-point attempts. So the Vikings blew their big chance to close in on the Sunset League title. So there were a few times you wondered: Is that the Viking varsity out there, or did a pack of Cub Scouts get lost on the way to the marshmallow roast?

Either way, is that any reason to be down?

“Let’s put it this way,” Popovich said, “I’ve felt better.”

Fair enough. After all, Popovich is having to deal with LAC--Life After Cherokee. You remember Cherokee, Cherokee Parks? Easy-going guy, mop-top haircut, loves to munch on pound cake while watching the movie “Time Bandits”? (OK, he was also a 6-foot-11 superstar who scored at will and is now playing at Duke, if it matters).

Anyway, even for a master of adjustments, this year has been one heck of a trick. Marina is 15-9, 7-3 in league and still has a chance for a Sunset title. Judging from Friday night’s performance, the scrawny Vikings have offered their coach one of his greatest challenges in his 17 years at the school.

Popovich, a former All-CIF player at Warren High in Downey and a three-year starter at Wyoming, took over the Viking varsity in 1975 after leading Marina’s junior varsity to a 47-5 record over two years. In his first season, with standout Rich Branning, Popovich went 22-5. He has had only two losing seasons, gone to the playoffs 10 times and won five Sunset League titles.

During his college playing days, Popovich spent summers working. He stacked cinder blocks in a cement factory; chopped down weeds around L.A. County; stood on his feet from 3 a.m. till noon at a bakery, making hamburger and hot dog buns. His official title was “pan-setter,” but Popovich was no dough boy. The long hours made him appreciate tough basketball practices all the more.

Popovich averaged about 12 points, helping Wyoming to a Western Athletic Conference title in 1969. He remembers, as a sophomore, helping to double- and triple-team a guy named Alcindor from UCLA and, as a junior, injuring his knee while defending LSU’s Pete Maravich. As a senior, he played against Bobby Knight’s Army team.

Not that he says much about those days. You have to pry it out of him. Popovich is a modest man who couldn’t care less if he gets any credit. Off the court, he’s a laid-back movie fanatic, a voracious reader of newspapers and historical novels, a bowl-a-day ice cream eater, a husband and father of two (Marc, the team’s ball boy, is 11; Alison is 9).

But on the court, he’s a nervous (though entertaining) wreck. Is this a basketball contest he’s watching or the last race at Santa Anita? I mean, give the guy some worry beads. He can’t sit still. He’s kinetic and frenetic. A man of perpetual motion. He’s an atom waiting to split.

He’s a batch of Orville Redenbacher over a hot, open fire. Jiffy-Popovich.

When the Southern Section called for coaches to remain seated a few years back, Mike Thornton, then Popovich’s assistant, said they seriously considered installing seat belts on the bench. Aside from tackling--which they did often--there was no other way to keep Popovich in his place.

During a game, Popovich’s arms are forever flailing. No one’s safe at his side. Is he flagging down a taxi? Conducting a symphony? Having Woodstock concert flashbacks? Pity the sleeves of his sweaters. During games, they take a beating. Popovich is always shoving them up to his elbows. They’re always falling right back down. The battle wages on. And then there’s those little claps with his hands. And the little taps with his feet . . .

“Hey--I’m not as bad as McCluskey,” says Popovich, referring to the county’s supreme being of scream, Tustin Coach Tom McCluskey. “He makes me look mellow.”

OK, in the shout-it-out world of high school hoops, Popovich, 43, is no old yeller. But when you’ve got the body language he does, what’s the use of vocal chords? Besides, he rarely raises his voice, at least not to his players. He says he treats them as they are, like kids. Doesn’t expect miracles, not from 17-year-olds. Has patience when his patience feels like giving up.

Of course, he really has no other choice. Not if he wants to keep his sanity. Great players come and go--before Parks, Marina had 6-10 center Mark Georgeson to fall back on--and now Popovich is having to coach a little bit more with a lot less. That’s OK by him, he says. That’s high school basketball. You take what you get.

And make your adjustments.