Benny Jay: Norm Van Lier

I'm on the phone with Ronnie, talking about this and that, when he breaks the news in a casual sort of way: Oh, by the way -- did you hear that Norm Van Lier died?

At first I don't want to believe it. Like Ronnie got the story wrong.

"You're talking about Norm Van Lier -- Stormin' Norman Van Lier?"

"Yeah...."

"Of the Chicago Bulls?"

"Yeah...."

I can't talk. I don't know what to say. Can't really feel the full impact cause my mind has gone somewhere else.

We finish our conversation and I go on with my day. But it never really leaves me. I check the Internet coverage. I call a few friends. I listen to remembrances on the radio: Oscar Robertson, Rick Barry, and other great basketball players .

I walk around the house in a daze. I dig out my old diary, circa 1973. It's lying beneath some papers in the bottom drawer of my desk.

I open it gently, afraid it's gonna fall apart. He's there on almost every page. Sometimes I call him Norm Van Lier. Sometimes Stormin' Norman. Sometimes it's just Norm.

I'd quote some of the passages, but, I don't know, it's really a little too embarrassing. The gist is this: Norm Van Lier showed up with the Chicago Bulls back in the early 1970s when I was going through a particularly vulnerable time in my young life. Felt self conscious and insecure. Didn't think any of the girls would ever like me and, believe me, I wanted them to like me. I was crazy about girls. Thought about `em day and night.

Norm Van Lier had no trouble with girls. He drove a snazzy foreign sports car. I think it was red. Had an Afro and beard. Hung with rock stars. Partied all night and somehow or other made it to practice in the morning.

He played like a demon. Skinniest, smallest runt on the court -- he walked away from no one. He dove for balls, skidded across the floor. Scraped the skin off his elbows, arms and knees. He drove the hoop. Knock him down and he got right back up. You couldn't keep him down.

One time he went after Sidney Wicks with a chair. The man was eight inches taller. Norm didn't give a shit. He told reporters: "Wicks hit me in the throat with an elbow. Well, I went after that son-of-a-bitch with a chair."

I was listening to that game on my radio. I listened to damn near every Bulls game on my radio -- a tinny-sounding transistor. Alone in my room. Door closed. Keeping score. I remember the disbelief in the announcer's voice: He's going after Wicks. He's got a chair. They're holding him back. Holy, moly -- Norm Van Lier!

It wasn't just that I wanted to be like Norm. He was absolutely everything I wanted to be. And it was more than the girls or the sports car or the rock stars. It was his attitude. I was weak and he was strong. I was afraid and he was brave. I cowered in the corner and he stormed onto the center of the court. I stayed clear of fights, he fought anyone who got in his way. I needed him as presence or a spirit or an inspiration to show me how to get through my life.

So I took on his identity as my own. I wrote his name in magic marker on my Converse All Stars. I bought a Norm Van Lier T-shirt which I wore until it fell apart. When I scored a basket in a pickup game, I'd yell out: "Norm!" I wrote his name in my diary in big, bold letters. I talked about him all the time. I had arguments with my friends. I said he was the best guard in basketball. They came back with other guards -- Jerry West, Walt Frazier, Nate Archibald -- they said were better. It didn't matter what they said. I argued `til they got tired of arguing. I argued the way Norm played basketball -- just wore `em down.

On March 27, 1973, my buddy, Josh, and I went to the old Chicago Stadium. It was Fan Appreciation Night. They let us on the floor. I waited in a line to shake hands and get autographs. Norm Van Lier signed my Bulls poster, which I hung on my bedroom wall. Josh snapped a picture of me watching Norm sign the poster. I'm looking at that picture now. It's giving me chills. I was 17 -- he was 25....

Years pass. Norm retired from basketball. He left town and came back and became a TV personality. I watched him grow older. But it didn't really matter what he looked like now cause I didn't need him the way I used to. It's like "Puff the Magic Dragon." You outgrow that stuff. I got stronger, smarter, more confident. I didn't need a fantasy figure at my back.

But that's not the point. The point is this: When I needed him, he was there. Norm Van Lier, stormin' the court, swingin' that chair....

Rest in peace, my brother.