A Big Man, an Even Bigger Job

The vast desert, desolate and determined, stops here. The familiar landscapes of cactuses and tumbleweeds are away to the south. Here, on the Natanes Plateau, the coming of the high mountains is announced by receding lines of buttes, arrayed like jutting chins.

The land rises sharply. Baldy Peak, at 11,590 feet, presides over lush forests of ponderosa pine and deep red rock valleys cut by snow-fed rivers. Covering 1.5 million acres near the New Mexico border, the Fort Apache Indian Reservation is as beautiful as it is empty.

“No one comes through here, not really,” said Kyle Goklish, who attends Alchesay High School, home to the White Mountain Apache Tribe. The observation is true. If you find yourself on the Mountain, either you’ve always lived here, or you’ve wandered badly off U.S. Highway 60.

But if you are Kareem Abdul-Jabbar--former NBA superstar, millionaire, historian, seeker--you are purposefully here. From your home in Beverly Hills you followed a road that will connect your cultural past to your brooding present. You are here to teach, but you know that it is you who will learn.

It was Abdul-Jabbar’s friendship with a tribal elder that brought him here, first to research a book, then to learn about Apache culture, and finally, to coach and continue his own education.

The sight of him here is improbable and logical, all at once. The town of 3,000 is scarcely more than a scattering of modest, low-slung homes fronted by dusty yards supporting clumps of slumbering dogs.

Yet, for toddlers, teenagers and achy-kneed adults, basketball is a singular passion on the mountain. The young men, and women, launch leaky balls into hoops fashioned from the rims of bicycle tires. They play on dirt courts in the snow. They play in their relatives’ old sneakers, the pair with the sole that flaps when you drive to the bucket.

It was one of life’s caprices that brought a revered man of basketball to this remote place, where one sport offers residents a rare opportunity to come together and celebrate Apache children doing something seldom seen: traveling off the reservation, competing against teenagers from big cities and affluent schools. And winning.

Now they have something even better. The Alchesay High Falcons have Abdul-Jabbar--their moody, 7-foot-2-inch, 51-year-old Hall-of-Famer assistant coach.

Negotiating a Deal for 20 Cents a Month

“When the basketball season comes around, the community comes alive. When the season ends, there’s a letdown. Seems like everybody goes back and there’s nothing to live for.”

That’s the assessment of Raul Mendoza, Alchesay High’s basketball coach and guidance counselor. Basketball long ago eclipsed rodeo as the most popular sport on the reservation. The passion for basketball is, in part, fueled by success--the girls have won the state title and the boys were runners-up last season.

“We don’t have a lot of height, but we can compete with the speed we have and we can shoot,” Mendoza said. “The kids here start at [age] 7 or 8. They all play. I don’t know what it is, but my grandson is 4 years old and he’s been shooting since he was 2.”

It was John Clark who made the job offer to Abdul-Jabbar, and he still tingles in the retelling. He knew the basketball player had spent time on the reservation and was interested in Native American culture. Clark, superintendent of Whiteriver Unified School District No. 20, was nervous about even possessing the slip of paper with the closely held information--the private phone number for Abdul-Jabbar.

Clark suggested Abdul-Jabbar come and meet with the school board, tribal council and other coaches. He did, and a contract was quickly hammered out: Abdul-Jabbar was to receive $1 for five months of coaching and occasional history lectures. Suddenly, an obscure school of 727 students on a remote Indian reservation could claim to have the most famous person coaching at the high school level anywhere in America.

As it is in other depressed areas, like New York City’s Harlem section, for example, where Abdul-Jabbar grew up, basketball is an outlet for adolescent expression and a focal point for neighborhood pride. More than half the population here lives at or below the poverty level. Absent anything else to get excited about, the Falcons fill the vacuum.

A recent Friday night game was a case in point. The state-of-the-art, $5-million gymnasium was packed with bawling babies, cruising teens and attentive parents and grandparents. The visitors from nearby affluent Pinetop had to make do with the scarce seats available.

(The tribe derives the bulk of its income from the Hon Dah Casino, which it owns and operates. Unlike some Arizona tribes, which divide gaming proceeds among the tribal members, the White Mountain Apaches place the surplus in a general fund, which supports education, building and other projects.)

Abdul-Jabbar, in his third month here, living in a lakeside condo, was not quite the tourist attraction he once was. He is at the bottom of the pecking order on the staff, junior to even the freshman girls’ coach. With the other coaches, he sits on the sideline, knees pinned to his chest in a too-small folding chair. He coaches in much the same style as he played. There are no histrionics. He is quiet, watching intently and nodding from time to time. During timeouts he towers over the players even as he bends from the waist to join a huddle.

However quiet, his impact is being felt.

“These kids need to see someone do it, someone take that first step off the reservation and to school,” said Dallas Massey, chairman of the White Mountain Apache Tribe. “They need to leave and to come back and help their community here. But they first need to see someone do it. Kareem, in his way, has done it. The kids are learning that.”

The lessons travel in both directions. Abdul-Jabbar is learning to speak Apache, and often asks the members of the team questions about Native American life. He is writing a book about his experience.

“He’s learning from us about our culture and traditions,” said Brandon Butterfield, one of the team’s most energetic players. “He’s teaching us about basketball. But we teach, too.”

Abdul-Jabbar’s responsibility is the big men, basketball jargon used euphemistically when applied to this group. His gift as a teacher is the ability to impart his lifetime of acquired knowledge and have teenagers listen. Abdul-Jabbar does not raise his voice. He does not poke fingers into chests or blow a whistle. And yet the boys listen as closely as if his words might be some sort of earthly salvation for them.

“He gives me hope,” said one player, who, like many of his teammates, is watchful and reserved among strangers.

Abdul-Jabbar, who has five children of his own, believes his path through life has resonance for the children here.

“I’m hoping that they’ll get the idea that they can be athletes and scholars, and that scholarship will help their lives,” he said in his soft, deep voice. “My background is quite disadvantaged. I’ve managed to do something with my life, and not just limited to sports. Here, we’re dealing with pioneers. The state of Arizona did not even undertake to educate them until 1960.

“Their language was outlawed. I’ve talked to men who told me that if they spoke Apache at school, they’d put brown soap in their mouths. Down in San Carlos, they’d shackle their feet together if they spoke Apache. The effects of racism and lack of educational and economic opportunities,” Abdul-Jabbar said, “has had the same impact on blacks as it’s had on the Native American population. Same impact, same results: substance abuse, child abandonment, violence because of the self-hatred.”

He had once aspired to coach in the NBA, but found no open doors. After his time here, he said it was hard to imagine finding a more fulfilling coaching job.

In Search of History

For Abdul-Jabbar, the decision to uproot himself came after a series of life changes that each nudged him west. A New York City high school star, he led UCLA to three national championships. After a 20-year professional career with the Milwaukee Bucks and the Los Angeles Lakers, he retired after the 1989 season, taking with him the title of the league’s all-time scoring leader.

Abdul-Jabbar was tired of basketball and nearly half a lifetime performing on a public stage. He was so mentally exhausted it took him several years to reach the burnout stage. He immersed himself in projects. He had already explored his own history in the bestselling book, “Giant Steps,” and he wrote another history book, with Alan Steinberg, “Black Profiles in Courage: A Legacy of African American Achievement.”

It was in 1995, while researching that book, that Abdul-Jabbar first met the White Mountain Apache. He went to Fort Apache, where the black Buffalo Soldiers of the 9th and 10th Cavalry divisions were based after the Civil War. He sought direction from Edgar Perry, then the director of the Fort Apache museum.

Perry, a lean man with a mischievous look in his eye and long silver hair, told Abdul-Jabbar about the Buffalo Soldiers and the Apache scouts who rode alongside them, including Perry’s grandfather. He told of the kinship that flourished between the black soldiers and the Apaches, twinned in their status as outsiders. Some soldiers married Apache women, and later generations of their offspring are still here.

As the two men explored history together, that historical alliance repeated itself. Abdul-Jabbar returned to Whiteriver to dedicate the school’s new 5,200-seat gymnasium.

Later, Perry took Abdul-Jabbar to Baldy Peak, the Apache’s sacred mountain. Together the men climbed. In the thin air at the snowy peak, they prayed: Abdul-Jabbar, a Muslim, facing east, and Perry standing, head facing skyward and celebrating the spirits who provided such a place.

Then Abdul-Jabbar took a step that bonded him to Perry’s family: He participated in a Crown Dance that Perry’s sister was sponsoring on the neighboring San Carlos Apache reservation. The ceremony celebrates a young girl’s coming of age.

“There was a big bonfire. ‘Lots of sparks. Beautiful,” Perry said, closing his eyes at the memory. “You could see the aura of the light and the people. Jabbar danced. Later, he says goodbye, and I could see him--so tall--walking, walking, his head high above the fire. Then he disappeared to the north.”

Calm and Focused, Bridging the Gap

In this game, the Falcons play with passion and unflagging energy. They fall behind by nine points with 2 1/2 minutes to go. They rally. The Pinetop players are panicking and their coach is pacing the sidelines, gesticulating wildly. The Falcon players are calm. Trailing, with 2.4 seconds left in the game, star guard Tony Parker takes the ball, stops at the top of the key and rises high amid the din. The ball traces a high arc and slices through the net for a three-pointer. The game is tied.

After stealing the ball, another Falcon player is fouled. With preternatural poise, the White Mountain Apache youth steps to the free-throw line with one second left on the clock. The crowd is electric. He stares at the rim, crouches and lets fly. The shot is good.

Families swarm the court. Children are tangled in parents’ legs. Cheerleaders hug the sweaty players. The Pinetop team lines up to shake hands, respectfully slapping their opponents’ backs. Off to the side, Abdul-Jabbar looks on and laughs and laughs.

For both coach and team, giant steps.