He no longer remembers the bicycle accident.
That’s a good thing, right?
With a foggy brain comes foggy recollection skills. So Jack McKinney, 83-year-old Post Traumatic Brain Injury sufferer and newest resident of the Juniper Village at Naples (Florida) assisted living and memory care center, lacks the ability to replay the morning of Nov. 8, 1979.
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He does not remember that, at the time, he was the recently hired head coach of the Los Angeles Lakers, plucked from the Portland staff to replace Jerry West and guide a team headlined by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and a rookie from Michigan State named Earvin. He does not remember that the 10-4 Lakers had an off day; does not remember that he and his assistant, Paul Westhead, were scheduled to meet up for a game of tennis in Palos Verdes; does not remember pulling out the red-and-white Schwinn La Tour II from his garage.
He does not remember approaching the intersection of Whitney Collins Drive and Stonecrest Road; does not remember tapping the breaks and having them freeze; does not remember soaring over the silver handlebars and crashing headfirst into the concrete.
He does not remember arriving in a coma at the Little Company of Mary Hospital in Torrance.
He does not remember being a John Doe.
He does not remember his wife Claire, sobbing at his bedside.
He does not remember having to step aside from coaching.
He does not remember Westhead taking over and leading the Lakers to the NBA title.
He does not remember learning via a call from his son that Los Angeles had fired him.
He does not remember the ensuing Showtime dynasty that could have—should have—been his legacy.
He does not remember.
Any.
Of.
It.
And that—as you read this—is the bright side as we slowly approach the concluding chapter to one of the most tragic stories in modern sports history. See, as you stare at your iPhone or computer screen, taking in these words, Jack McKinney rests happily inside his new residence, recalling precious little but smiling and laughing with blissful ease. That’s one of the strangest parts of memory loss. As loved ones mourn a departure, the impacted is oftentimes at peace. “Dad’s doing well,” says Susan McKinney, his daughter. “He really isn’t unhappy.”
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Claire, Jack’s wife of 60 years, brought him to Juniper Village a month ago, after the long-eroding effects of PTB became too much for her to handle. The decision was an agonizing one. All these years of going to bed beside her husband, waking up beside her husband, living side by side with her husband. It wasn’t a specific episode that forced a move, just repeated middle-of-the-night strolls through their Naples townhouse and, at times, out the front door. “Mom’s 5-foot-2, Dad is 6-foot-2,” says Susan. “She could only do so much.”
I first met Jack McKinney seven or eight years ago, while researching a book on the 1980s Lakers. We sat outside his home, and for an hour I participated in one of the most impactful-yet-frustrating-yet-heartbreaking interviews of my life. McKinney had vivid recollections of a young Magic, of a dignified Kareem. He recalled attending Babe Ruth’s funeral as a boy, as well as his eight years as the head coach at St. Joseph’s University. And yet, he also asked my name five different times; had very little to share of his Lakers days; offered long pauses that failed to disguise fruitless grasps for words. At times he turned painfully quiet. At other times he seemed frustrated. When, at one point, I mentioned that he coached the legendary Spencer Haywood, McKinney said, “With Milwaukee, right?”
“No,” I replied. “Los Angeles.”
Silence.
Thoughon the surface it took Jack McKinney only a year or so to bounce back from the bike accident, he was not completely the same. There was permanent damage to his brain. His memory came and went. His concentration wavered. He coached the Indiana Pacers for four seasons in the early 1980s, but never felt entirely whole. Members of the team took the unprecedented step of writing their names in black marker on the front of their shorts so their coach wouldn’t get confused. In a later coaching stint with the Kansas City Kings, he drew up a play during a timeout, then told his befuddled men, “Just like we did against St. John’s.”
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McKinney last strolled an NBA sideline in 1984, then went on to a fruitful-if-not-dreamy career in sporting goods sales. He and Claire raised their four children in Pennsylvania, and Susan says, without a moment’s stutter — “He wasn’t a good dad, he was a great dad. He’s just such a fine human being. He’s your moral compass. He made good choices.” A few years ago Susan visited the St. Joseph’s website to find some information. She was struck by one of the school’s slogans—GET AN EDUCATION SO YOU CAN DO FOR YOURSELF AND OTHERS. “That defined my dad,” she says. “One hundred percent.”
So, truly, when Susan says she’s not overly heartbroken by her father’s move to the facility, she means it. Claire visits every day and, the daughter says, “it’s a beautiful highlight for Dad.” Jack McKinney is not concerned about Vladimir Putin and Donald Trump, just as he’s not concerned with Dancing with the Stars or the Kawhi Leonard trade. “Dad spends a good amount of time walking around the facility, investigating the trees, the cottage next door,” says Susan. “There are moments when he’s consumed by the disease and he’s unsure where he is. And there are other moments when his old self is there and it comes out. But even when he’s confused, Dad is still joking, still teasing. It’s him. Always him.”
A few months ago, Susan visited her parents and sat at the television as they watched a Boston-Philadelphia playoff game. Her father had been confused and forgetful throughout the day, but now—with the familiar orchestra of dribbling rising from the screen—he snapped to attention.
As if sent here from four decades ago, the basketball coach made astute comments about the plays, picked up on moves and mannerisms his companions missed. “I looked at my mom and she looked at me,” Susan says. “Weneededthat moment.”
It was a reminder, she says. A necessary reminder.
Jack McKinney has lost most of his memory.
He’s still Jack McKinney.
(Top photo: Nick Ut/AP)
