Chaney during one of his regular card games at Walnut Lane Golf Club: ‘Getting old is tough,’ he says. ‘There’s no question about that.’ (David Maialetti/Staff Photographer)
I had the privilege of covering John Chaney for his last decade and a half as the basketball coach at Temple. It was many things, but never once was it dull. And the best part of covering John Chaney was, well, hanging out with John Chaney. Whether it was back in his hotel suite after a game, sitting in the stands before one, at an airport waiting to board yet one more flight, in his cramped office following a predawn practice, or even on a shopping excursion to Barney's for more Armani ties. Maybe the best sessions were his indelible Christmas Eve appearances on "Daily News Live," where he did the full 90-minute show as a solo act - and then treated the folks at Comcast SportsNet to an even more entertaining encore performance once the cameras stopped rolling.
The setting didn't matter. It was about the experience, which can best be described as unique. As Chaney once told former assistant Dean Domopoulos: "Don't look me up in the dictionary. I'm not in there."
It's been almost 6 years since he coached the last game of his Hall of Fame career. But he is still around. Still being Chaney. These days you can often find him holding court at Roxborough's Walnut Lane Golf Club, not far from Philadelphia University, home of his good friend and fellow Hall inductee Herb Magee.
"You see where they hung that big sign up [to commemorate Magee's enshrinement]?" Chaney has been known to bellow. "Well, go ask him how many times he beat my ass[]?"
He lets out a laugh, knowing the answer will forever remain zero, and that he'll never let Herbie forget it.
He's gone through life very much on his terms, something that isn't going to change just because he turned 80 this weekend (which, of course, he doesn't want anyone to know. "If they know where to find me, I'll have to move out to Flourtown," he explains). Still, it seemed like as good a time as any to catch up once more with a bona fide Philly original.
It's mid-afternoon and "Coach," as he's still almost always referred to, is playing cards with the usual suspects in the Walnut Lane clubhouse. When the weather turns, they'll venture out to the course, although for Chaney that usually means playing the first seven holes. Occasionally, he might play them twice. He rarely crosses the street to take on the other 11, since it's hillier over there. At least that's his story.
He's actually not a bad golfer for someone who didn't take up the game until he retired. Once, during a grudge match, he and a handpicked partner were taking on my colleague Dick Jerardi and me (otherwise known to Chaney as the Digit and the Midget). He somehow saved par with a blast out of a bunker that rolled to within a foot of the cup. Even he had trouble believing it. But there's the other stuff that comes with playing with Chaney, too. Like the time a guy in an adjacent fairway yelled at him to get off his cellphone, and Chaney responding by letting him know exactly what he thought about that suggestion.
Anyway, when it comes to cards, the stakes are more or less an afterthought. They play for quarters, and there are few raises. They're all on fixed incomes, after all. They play Tonk, a version of gin rummy, and pinochle, but generally it's poker, in various forms. Chaney's been known to bring food for the masses, from sandwiches and soft pretzels to cheeses and pizza to pretty much you-name-it. It's part of the reason for showing up. This is their barbershop.
"Doc, would you stop looking at his cards?" Chaney implores. "Didn't we tell you about that?"
Doc is a mortician. I've been told he also digs graves. Makes perfect sense, even if you're never quite sure what's real and what's not with this group. They take the cards seriously, but only to a point.
Eventually, phones start to ring, reminding folks that they have places to go. Off they head until the next time. But not before they ask me to sit in for a few hands. In the penultimate game, I catch a fifth ace on the final community card to trump Chaney's five kings.
"You believe that?" Chaney huffs. "Don't come back. Who invited you anyway?"
When I ask if we can finally talk, he huffs some more. "OK, but you'll have to come with me." He has places to be, errands to run. Along the way maybe I can talk him into finally doing that book.
"Shut up," he says, not for the first time.
Turns out Chaney has to take a loaner car back to the dealership, where his wife's ride is being serviced. It's still a BMW. He still has two.
John can get philosophical, without much prodding. And the stuff he says can make you laugh, cry, or get angry, sometimes from the same sentence. And if you get past the bluster, he'll make you think. Rick Brunson, one of Chaney's favorite Temple players, once noted that if you listen to what Chaney says and not the way he delivers the message, you'll find a whole bunch of truth.
"I wish I could have become a lawyer or a judge, somebody who could change how people live, who set the rules," Chaney says. "That's the only thing missing from what I really wanted to do. That's so important. You look at the Republicans. They get up there and when they do answer a question, it is the most ridiculous I've ever heard. And the people in the audience clap. I mean, what kind of world is this?
"Poor people have a tendency to inflict harm on each other," he continues. "And I don't see an end to it. That's pretty sad. We're a society that cannot find a medium, a middle ground, for everybody. That's frustrating, man. If people could just once rule this world with their hearts, instead of their minds, there would be no problems. If I had a magic wand, I'd go about [getting rid of] every bad person in this world, I swear to God. That's the way I feel. There's a lot of people without a heart.
"When I turn the television on, then I become very pissed off. Especially when someone goes on the air and tells a lie. That drives me out of my mind. And I can't go through the television to tell them that."
Now, that might make for a hit reality program.
"Getting old is tough," he says. "There's no question about that. I'm not as agile as I used to be. You only come this way one time. And you find yourself in a situation where you begin to ask questions. Did you do all you could do? I'm a person who doesn't look back. I used to teach my kids, it's always tomorrow. A lot of people don't do that. And they find themselves suffering for a long time. I just can't go there. I'm resigned to who I am now, and where I am.
"A lot of young people today have lost hope. I don't think I'd want to be a young person today. If you don't have hope, it's over. You don't have alternatives. For those that are not educated, it becomes worse. Then it turns to the first law of nature, which is self-preservation. And that means they go out and create big problems for themselves and their families. How do you change that, when the people involved in politics don't [care]?"
