Article by ST Jim Mashek
Perhaps the master of the “sky hook,” the one and only Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, can capture the life and times of Louisville basketball legend Wes Unseld by painting an imaginary construction zone on Interstate 65.
“He was like a big roadblock,” Abdul-Jabbar told the Rich Eisen Radio Show on Tuesday, after the Washington Wizards announced Unseld’s death at the age of 74.
Abdul-Jabbar stood 7-foot-2 or so and took exceptional care of his body. His long arms made for tough sledding near the basket. He had the footwork of a small forward, and the defensive approach that allowed his teammates to take chances on the perimeter.
What did Unseld have?
Grit. Smarts. Muscles. And patience, lots of patience when you go about 6-foot-7, maybe, and 240 pounds or so as a center in the 1960s-’70s NBA.
Thing is, Wes Unseld had it all. The former University of Louisville All-American was a legendary player in that city as a teenager. He remained close to his hometown for the rest of his life.
Unseld was in the twilight of his NBA playing career when he guided the Washington Bullets to the only league championship in club history, in 1978. He went on to work in the team’s front office and as a broadcaster, and, from 1988 until 1994, Unseld served as the Bullets/Wizards head coach.
Watching Unseld go at it with much taller NBA centers — Abdul-Jabbar, Walt Bellamy, the late Wilt Chamberlain and Nate Thurmond, to name a few — was sheer theater. Unseld’s knowledge of the game superseded any physical shortcomings he might have had, and his strength and wide body allowed him to gain position on taller rebounders near the basket.
“Wes was a great guy. He was like a big roadblock on the basketball court,” Abdul Jabbar told Rich Eisen in the radio interview on Tuesday. “He was only 6-foot-7, 6-8, but you couldn’t get rebounds over him.
“He was a great player, and a nice guy. My thoughts go out to his family.”
Legendary University of Kentucky coach Adolph Rupp wanted Westley Sissel Unseld to be the first African-American basketball player in the Southeastern Conference, and play for the Wildcats, but Unseld had other ideas.
Unseld was a high school All-American at Seneca High School, joining forces with teammate Mike Redd to win back-to-back KHSAA state titles in 1963 and ’64.
Unseld chose to play college basketball at the University of Louisville, when the Cardinals were a member of the Missouri Valley Conference. Along with Breckenridge County’s Butch Beard, a friend since childhood, Unseld and Beard gave Louisville an identity. Perhaps a reputation. They did not mess around, and went 60-22 during his tenure with the Cardinals.
Unseld’s reputation was only enhanced by his 12 years as a player in the NBA.
Equal parts tough and tactical, Wes Unseld quickly became the backbone of the Baltimore/Washington Bullets. He won the NBA’s Rookie of the Year and Most Valuable Player awards, in the same season (1968-69), a feat only matched by Wilt Chamberlain’s rookie year with the Philadelphia Warriors a decade earlier.
There weren’t nearly as many NBA teams in those days as there two decades into the new millennium, and the salaries would pale in comparison to those that came along in the 1980s or ’90s, let alone today. Competition, just to make NBA rosters, was fierce. But there were mainstays, guys who obviously belonged.
Like Wes Unseld. And Unseld played the same way. Every night out.
Not the most emotional of players, Unseld was almost quiet off the court. He had his teammates’ respect. On the Washington Bullets’ 1977-78 NBA championship team, Unseld shared the front court with fellow starters Elvin Hayes, a 6-foot-11 Hall of Fame forward from the University of Houston, and Bob Dandridge, a 6-foot-6 blur from Norfolk State, an HBCU school in Norfolk, Virginia.
In reserve roles, Bullets coach Dick Motta could turn to Mitch Kupchak, a solid rebounder from North Carolina, and Greg Ballard, a rookie from Oregon. Ballard died in 2016. In the backcourt, the Bullets started former Kentucky star Kevin Grevey and point guard Tom Henderson, with Larry Wright and Phil Chenier available off the bench.
In a Redskins Town, the Bullets were suddenly a really big deal. They won the NBA Finals in seven games over the Seattle Supersonics; the Sonics returned the favor the next year, winning the Finals in five games.
(Full disclosure: I graduated from Western Kentucky University in May, 1978, and the highlights of that summer were A) a trip to Ocean City, Maryland, with my high school buddies 24 hours after getting home; B ) the Bullets’ NBA championship in June; and C) “National Lampoon’s Animal House” coming to the Cabin John Shopping Center in Potomac, Maryland. I saw it three times. Yes. In the theater. I have three younger brothers, you see …)
Hayes was the mercurial forward who would wear his emotions on his sleeve, but Unseld was the exact opposite. He usually had a stoic expression on his face. He was a defender, and rebounder, first and foremost, and his offensive game was nothing spectacular. What he could do, perhaps better than anyone in his time, was get the ball to a quicker teammate in the open court with his signature outlet passes from the baseline.
In the half-court game, the norm in the NBA playoffs, Unseld’s game was even more valuable. He played 12 seasons in the NBA, and the Bullets reached the postseason each and every one of them.
When Unseld learned he had been selected to the National Basketball Hall of Fame, he described his approach to the game this way:
“I never played pretty. I wasn’t flashy. My contributions were in the things most people don’t notice.”
Ah, but they noticed. And in time, they embraced them.
I remember meeting Warren Central High School head coach William Unseld, a giant of a man and Wes’ nephew, after a WCHS basketball game in January. He told me about Wes Unseld’s charitable work and the school he opened in Baltimore with his wife, Connie. William Unseld was proud of his Uncle Wes, and his coaching strategy reflects the game of his more famous uncle.
Mix it up. Make it happen. Move on.
Wes Unseld was a basketball lifer, but he seemed to have plenty of time for others after his playing days were over. He will be missed.
Godspeed, Mr. Unseld.
