Pete Maravich: Artistry, Talent...Demons

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"You see that?"

"Not sure. What'd he do?"

"Dunno. Not just what – but how?"

"Sure made Bells look foolish, though."

And there was the point. Showtime often showed up teammates. Walt Bellamy, the wonderfully-stoic old center, was never known for his hands. But on the occasion that Pete would fly downcourt, look this way and somehow pass behind his neck that way, it would startle everyone including the man for whom the pass was intended.

Bells rarely said much, but "dammit, Pistol!" became his mantra.

There was never anyone like the kid, however, and perhaps never will be. And to have the honor of his company for a few confusing, haunting, remarkable seasons is something for which I will be forever grateful.

Oh, and that Grizzard fellow?

There seems a strange irony here. When he hired me, he was an ideas guy, a schedule-maker, a layout man. He wrote an occasional column but seemed to dread it – and it showed.

But there was a hidden brilliance there, a behind-the-back, between-the-legs kind of wicked humor that slowly emerged to the shock of nearly everyone who worked with him.

He wrote best-selling books, did sitcoms, had a fabulously-successful standup routine, all the while dealing with his own inner demons.

I always thought there was a resemblance between Lewis and Pistol. That ended with their ends. Pistol died young but in possession of the keys to the Kingdom. Lewis died young, as well.

Funny. I got along with both of them.

Of course, that's what I was hired for.