I doubt that many would have characterized me as shy, even noticeably modest. I was just always most comfortable and happiest in front of a keyboard, alone with my words and my whims. And while I’d had some experience speaking to audiences for one professional reason or another, I just never fancied the spoken word as my strength, the spotlight as my friend.
The speech was formatted to be no longer than five minutes, though I’d been told by prior winners and a few basketball officials not to worry if I exceeded the requested limit. (Just avoid Peter Vecsey territory, they said. A onetime colleague of mine at the New York Post, in 2009 Vecsey had droned on for roughly half an hour before no less a luminary than Jordan walked out, music was queued, and the mic was cut.)
Given that precedent, I actually wasn’t too concerned about the length of my speech. But I had been forewarned that there was to be no teleprompter, as there would be the following night at the nationally televised show for the induction of players and coaches. Naturally, I didn’t want to read the speech at the expense of eye contact with the crowd. Nor did I want to lose my place and stutter myself into a state of babbling incomprehension. Hence, my nerves. Falling asleep, I had visions of fumbling the papers while the crowd murmured uneasily and my embarrassed sons slouched in their seats. Practicing in front of Beth—each attempt short-circuited by a glitch that elicited convulsive laughter or a string of profanities—was driving us both nuts.
So I took her sound advice. I called Michelle, who began by telling me to relax; I would be fine no matter what. She also knew me well enough to guess that such a promise was a waste of her breath. An hour later, an email landed—in all uppercase letters, as were all of Michelle’s messages, legibly shouted to get my attention.
HARVEY . . . WHY NOT TRY REDUCING YOUR SPEECH TO BULLET POINTS . . . AND PRACTICE WITH JUST THAT OUTLINE INSTEAD OF TRYING TO READ & LOOK AT THE AUDIENCE . . . IT MAY JUST SOUND . . . MORE SINCERE.
Great idea, I wrote back. And got right to work, grateful as always that Michelle, who had made her living managing and coaching corporate executives, was always happy to hear from me and to help. During my years at the Times and for most of my days in the newspaper business, I had covered all sports, traveled around the world, shared great adventures with too many bright, talented people to count. But there was no one quite like Michelle. No smarter friend. No better mentor. At the crossroads and crises of adulthood, there was no wiser and more trusted elder. Her little speech tip was but a tiny example of the times she had been a lifesaver for me in a multitude of more challenging life crises. I owed her so much.
“Come to the Hall of Fame dinner,” I had told her weeks before, knowing that without her it would not be complete.
“That’s a time for you and your family,” she said.
“You are family.”
“I know, but you know what I mean,” she said.
I did. I also knew that wasn’t the real reason why, at eighty-one, sixteen years my senior, she declined the invitation.
• • • • •
My brief time in the Hall of Fame spotlight began awkwardly, those seemingly endless few seconds of unfolding sheets of paper on which the speech was printed, complete with bullet points. I looked uneasily into the crowd, glanced to my left, to the table where my family was watching. Please don’t botch this, I begged myself.
I talked about coming of age in New York when the iconic basketball figures were Willis Reed, Walt Frazier, Dave DeBusschere, Earl Monroe—the championship Knicks of the early seventies. I transitioned to covering the Dream Team in 1992, starring Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson, and Larry Bird. I don’t remember the exact moment I began to relax and even enjoy my five-plus minutes of so-called fame. Michelle’s suggestion of bold-faced bullet points no doubt helped the flow of the speech, allowing me to improvise and feel at ease in the moment and especially to enjoy the part I had looked forward to most: a few lighthearted but loving words in tribute to Beth and my sons, Alex and Charly. Momentarily, my mind wandered: Was I missing anyone else? It hit me in a flash, more nearly egregious oversight than epiphany.
Over the years, at four newspapers, I’ve had so many great colleagues: reporters in the trenches, editors who mentored and put up with me . . .
And one remarkable, irreplaceable woman I managed to ad-lib into my speech, in the nick of time:
Michelle Musler—a special lady who’s been sitting right behind the Knicks bench for the past forty years. My de facto career coach.
Only those in the crowd who were regulars at Knicks home games would have recognized the name, or grasped why I had singled her out. I was just relieved to have avoided an omission that would have gnawed at me for the rest of my life. The following day, I eagerly sent Michelle a link to a video of my speech. She wrote back not long after, still digitally shouting:
YOU DID A GREAT JOB. AND I THOUGHT YOU LOOKED TERRIFIC TOO. I LOVED MY MENTION—YOU WERE RECOUNTING YOUR ENTIRE CAREER AND YOU TOOK THE TIME. THANK YOU! I SAID, WHOA, I FEEL LIKE I ALSO MADE THE HALL OF FAME!!!!
Those who knew Michelle, who had in one way or another shared their love of the game with her, would have unanimously agreed: In the pro basketball annals of Madison Square Garden, in the history of the Knicks and their most devoted fans, she was one of a kind. In my life, she held the same hallowed place.
One Homecoming
The instant I steered into her narrow driveway, Michelle emerged
