The rest of that JR Rider story

... Most of my time covering the Blazers was fine, but not this time

I gave away the punchline to this story in my column yesterday, but some have asked for the rest of the story. And even after all these years, it’s still vivid.

In those good old days, the print media sat courtside at the same table as the official scorer, usually at the same end of that table as the bench of the team they were covering. On this night, P.J. Carlesimo was coaching the team and Cliff Robinson was a contributing player.

I cannot remember what happened to cause Carlesimo to remove Robinson from the game, but Cliff wasn’t happy about it. As he passed the coach on the way to his seat on the bench, Robinson muttered “Why did you take me out of the game, M——F——?”

Whoa. That was a surprise.

But he muttered it loud enough for us at the table to hear. Apparently P.J. heard it, too, because Robinson did not play in the second half.

After the game, I approached Robinson about the situation and why he would use that language toward his coach. I mean, somebody had to ask and I knew it would be me. At first he denied he said it, but then switched his answer to, “I wasn’t talking to him, I was talking to a fan.”

My statement, as you might guess, was “So why did you accuse a fan of taking you out of the game?”

At this point, Rider, whose locker was nearby, stormed into the conversation.

“Every time you come in here you are trying to start something,” is an approximation of what he said, moving closer to me. “You’re the devil on earth.”

It was an interesting moment in my career, as media and other players began to crowd around the conversation. Even though I had heard all the stories about Rider threatening a writer in Minnesota, I had no choice here.

His face close to mine, I laughed. Right in his grill. With a smile, I gave s smart-ass answer. I wasn’t going to back down — and remember I was a much younger guy back then and certainly more foolish than I should have been. Still, I had no thought that Rider would take a swing at me. He was just so accustomed to his intimidating size and fury taking care of business.

I don’t have a clear memory of what happened next, but I believe the team’s great PR department, which was stressed to the limit by Rider in those days, intervened.

Rider was a real beauty. At one point, after a practice, he want on a rant about how “people are still being hung from trees” just outside of town. That one caused some chaos in the team’s front office, but nothing compared to what it would have been like today, with social media and camera phones.

During one almost comical interview, I tried to ask Rider about some of his actions and he answered every question with the same bewildering retort: “You can only know.” Every question, even when I asked him what that meant.

OK.

He was a man with great talent. Great passion. And it was largely wasted. Why?

He could only know.

A postscript to the story: As time went on, I had increasing respect for the late Cliff Robinson. I always called him “Clifford” in print, after being told by a reader that the shorter version and the whole “Uncle Cliffy” thing was disrespectful to a Black man. We talked about it later and he said that Cliff was just fine with him. In retirement in Portland I saw him frequently and liked him. We had a fun sit-down interview for NBC Sports Northwest when he returned from his stint on TV’s “Survivor.” He was a real pro and had a terrific career. I miss him.

AN UPDATE ON ME: You may not get a column from me Friday, as I am making a one-day trip to Las Vegas to see The Eagles in The Sphere. A fantastic birthday present from Nancy, my beautiful and patient wife. You can count on a full review of that concert and venue soon.