Magic's Chuck Daly: Substance Over Style

ORLANDO - Two days after he signed a contract worth more than $5 million annually to coach the Orlando Magic - making him richer than he ever imagined - Chuck Daly walked into the upscale men's clothing store near his home in Jupiter, Fla.

Daly is a shopper. Loves to browse. Does it when he's happy. Does it when he's sad. Does it at home and on the road. It clears his mind. It makes him feel good inside.

He hardly had entered the store when not one, but two clerks came running to greet him. Like everyone else, they knew about the contract. Their eyes, with dollar signs sparkling, gave them away.

He nodded like he usually does - but put his hands up, palms out - and headed directly where he always goes. He went to the sales rack, looking for a bargain. The clerks looked at him like he was crazy.

Daly left the store that day without buying a thing. That's how 80 percent of his shopping trips usually end.

"Their attitude kind of upset me, because they tried to treat me differently," because of the contract, Daly recalled. "I told them, `Hey, guys, wait a minute. Nothing's changed. If I can't get a deal here, or get a sales item, I'm probably not going to buy anything."'

Success never changed Chuck Daly. Money won't touch him, either.

Daly may be one of the best-dressed, highest-paid, most-respected coaches in the NBA today, but looks can be deceiving. The Orlando Magic have put their fate in the hands of a working-class throwback.

For a guy who has won it all, and done it all - two NBA titles and an Olympic gold medal - Daly never has strayed from the philosophical roots of his youth, or the lessons he learned long ago.

He found fame in the '80s by molding the Detroit Pistons into champions, creating his own image as a sideline maestro, an impeccably groomed, sharply dressed, easy-to-laugh showman.

He found himself long before.

The substance behind the style everyone talks about - the reason he is one of the best - still comes from his early years, growing up in a poverty-stricken pocket of western Pennsylvania during the Great Depression. It left an indelible stamp on his life.

His uncanny knack of handling people, of getting the most out of what he has, comes from growing up with little or nothing. His greatest accomplishment isn't a title or a medal. It was the journey he took.

Of the four most-heralded coaches in the NBA today - Pat Riley, Phil Jackson, Lenny Wilkens and Daly - only one never played the game professionally. Only one had to scratch his way up the ladder. Only one knows what it's like as a coach to drive a broken-down yellow school bus to road games in tiny high school gymnasiums. Only one reached the top after starting on the bottom.

"I guess I've paid every due you can pay," Daly said. "But I never thought I was anything special. I've always admired those other guys, tried to learn from them. I'm a very average coach of average intelligence. I'm a lifer, just a working coach. That's all I am. I got lucky to be where I am today. And I'll never think otherwise."

The fear of failure still is what drives him. The thought of being without work scares him - even at age 67. The recurring nightmare of dying poor still awakens him in a sweat.

"You can't change who you are and where you came from," Daly said. "I'm a product of my parents' genes. They were humble people. Sure, I enjoy nice things now, but you never really know for sure if you will still have them tomorrow. Anyone who grew up in the Depression will understand how I feel."

After he helped the Pistons win their second NBA title in 1990, Daly wrote his autobiography. It never sold very well. People were puzzled by the title. But he understood. He had lived it: "Every Step a Struggle."

`Daddy Rich'

In Detroit, his nickname was "Daddy Rich" for the way he dressed and for his fatherly approach to coaching.

In Kane, Pa., where he grew up and played high school basketball, his nickname was "Hungry," because he usually was.

He was raised in an Irish-Catholic family during the '30s. There was love in the home, but little on the table. He had one set of clothes to wear, but the pants never seemed long enough. When he wore out the collar on his only shirt, his mother just reversed it. He was poor, but he never really knew it.

"I don't remember it (the Depression) as a bad experience. I was young. I do remember men coming to our back door looking for meals. We never had a lot of food, but my mother fed everyone she could," he said. "Life wasn't about saving money, or clothes, or cars then; it was about trying to get something to eat. That's something a Depression baby never forgets."

Daly worked as a kid, for 25 cents an hour cleaning the YMCA pool. The pool never sparkled like it did then. In high school, he spent his summers working at a tannery, cleaning smelly animal hides from South America. He was a popular student at Kane, although not a particularly bright one.

"I don't remember Chuck as being unusually smart. My girlfriend always had to help him with his homework," said Natalie Wilkinson, a childhood friend from Kane who now lives and works in Central Florida. "I just remember him as always being hungry. I don't think he got enough to eat at home. He'd come to my house and would just devour a pie."

One thing that Daly learned early, though, was how to look good. He didn't have much, but he took great care of what he did have. His only shirt was always clean. The pants neat. His appearance, even then, was important.

He was a good high school basketball player, willing but not really talented. He was Kane's best player, but from a graduating class of 40, that didn't say much.

"Chuck was meticulous like you wouldn't believe," said Stu Edwards, 78, who was Daly's high school coach at Kane. "We'd get ready to run out of the locker room for warmups, everyone was all ready to go, and Chuck would yell `Wait, wait,' while he went back to comb his hair and straighten his shorts. He took care of what he had, and he always looked nice. That was important to him. He was a leader."

It was Edwards, now living in Bloomsburg, Pa., who helped Daly land his first head-coaching position, at Punxsutawney (Pa.) High School. Daly played some college basketball, at St. Bonaventure and then Bloomsburg State, realizing early that coaching would be his lifelong love.

He spent eight years in Punxsutawney, making $3,600 to coach basketball and golf and teach English and speech. He sunk his roots deep, becoming the second-most recognized figure in town - next to Punxsutawney Phil, the groundhog.

The players he coached there, and the people he met there, understood early that he was no ordinary high-school coach. His passion for the game was incredible. He would regularly drive - and sometimes hitchhike because it was cheaper - across the state to attend basketball clinics. His now-famous ability to handle athletes was emerging.

"School would end at 3:19, and he'd have us practicing by 3:20," said Gary Buffington, one of his high-school players and now a physician living in Pensacola. "Even as kids, we knew he would become something big one day. He was tireless, and what a great guy. He made everyone who played for him feel special."

Daly then was a stickler for details. He raised money so every kid on the team had a nice blazer to wear. He convinced the local Elks Club to provide pregame meals. He taught his players table manners, gave them off-season, daily workout routines to follow. He made everyone wear a tie when they traveled. And he drove the school bus. At Christmas, he had every player to his home for dinner. Each got a personalized place mat.

"When Chuck coached in Detroit - and they had that team plane - I always wondered how the pilot did his job," Buffington said. "Because I just knew Chuck was up there telling him what to do, too."

Mickey Depp, now in the real-estate business in Colorado, was one of the more talented players Daly coached at Punxsutawney. It was Daly who got Depp to North Carolina State for a basketball camp in the summer. It was a 17-hour drive, which was nothing to a nonstop coach who treated his players like family.

"I saw a work ethic in him that you wouldn't believe," said Depp. "When you played for Chuck, you just wanted to do better. I've seen him over the years, and I don't think he ever really changed. He was so far ahead of his time when he coached us. I'd watch the Pistons in their glory years, and I'd see some of the same plays we used to have."

Daly also was the best-dressed high-school coach anyone in Punxsatawney had ever seen. He had made friends quickly with Ted Swartz, who owned the local clothing store. They remain friends today. Swartz, a big basketball fan, always had a good deal waiting for Daly.

A few of his former high-school players love telling the story about the road trip to play rival Bradford, a town 100 miles from Kane. They drove home after a tough loss, arrived in a driving rainstorm after midnight. Daly, as usual, stepped off the bus first, then waited for every player to depart.

The last one off was the student manager, who tripped on the final step, landed in a mud puddle and splashed water and mud all over Daly's new suit. Daly was not amused.

"Chuck was a clothes horse, even back then," said Kip Lukehart, who went on to become a district attorney in Punxsutawney. "Chuck was furious, but he realized how funny it looked. And even he started laughing at himself. The great thing about Chuck, he remembers all those stories. He still remembers where he came from."

Friend to the end

Like many of his generation, Daly remains fiercely loyal to his friends, especially those from his early years.

He still goes home every summer to visit Kane and Punxsutawney, always staying for a round of golf with Swartz, who is 93. He usually stays at Swartz' home, too.

"My eyes aren't so good anymore. For me, it's therapy. For Chuck, it's golf," said Swartz. "He doesn't have to do that, but he still does. That's the kind of guy he is. No airs at all. He's still the same guy I played golf with when our greens fees were $1 a day."

Daly, when he was coaching the New Jersey Nets, chartered his own plane so he and his wife, Terry, could see Punxsutawney play in the 1994 state tournament and still get back in time for Nets' practice the next morning. In 1995, they were back for the the first Punxsutawney Athletic Hall of Fame induction.

When his father died in 1952, he was in Army basic training in Virginia. He hitchhiked home to bury him.

When his mother died in 1978, Daly had just completed his final season coaching at the University of Pennsylvania. He spent her last five days sleeping in the hallway outside her hospital room in Kane, wanting one last goodbye.

One of the last things she asked him was whether her bills had been paid. The Great Depression had never left her, either.

He and Terry have been married for 40 years, since his second year at Punxsutawney. She once conducted a high-school practice for him when Daly got stuck in a snowstorm returning from a basketball clinic. She often helped him recruit during his days as a college coach. Their daughter, Cydney, now lives in North Carolina, where she is attending graduate school.

One of his closest friends today is John Ginopolis, who owns one of Daly's favorite restaurants in Detroit. Ginopolis lost a son 20 years ago, and now holds a charity golf tournament in his honor every summer. Daly hasn't missed it once. When he coached in Detroit, Ginopolis often traveled with the team during the playoffs. He would stay in Daly's hotel room on a rollaway bed.

"Chuck is so loyal that he's always there if you need him," Ginopolis said. "I have all kinds of athletes and celebrities in my restaurant, but no one as genuine as Chuck. The one thing you can say about him is, he remembers where he came from, and he remembers his friends."

One of Daly's most enduring qualities is his way with money. He loves good art, fancy watches, fine food and everything about the good life, but he spends very little to enjoy it.

"Does he pay for stuff himself?" asked Bill Laimbeer, Daly's center with the Pistons. "Absolutely not. He's not going to spend money if he can help it. He used to dress (in Detroit) like he was loaded, but everyone knew he didn't have any money then."

The home Daly bought near Jupiter in 1995 cost him $375,000, but he considered it a steal. The homes surrounding his were mostly in the $1 million range. In Daly fashion, he found a distress sale.

"I got a real good deal on it. I found out later it was close to foreclosure. It bothered me that I didn't wait a little longer. Maybe I could have gotten it for less," he said.

The suits he wears are the finest - Adolpho, Giorgio Armani - but rarely does he pay full price. They come with clothing contracts he signs, or side deals he cuts. Or he finds sales. On the road, he window shops, but buys only the bargains. The BMW he drives in Orlando was given to him by the Magic. Same with the $1 million home he will live in. He negotiated that into his contract.

"I love Chuck, but after all these years, I've told him I'm going to start claiming him on my income tax return," said Ginopolis. "He doesn't mean to be cheap. He just really doesn't think he has any money. I think that's always in the back of his mind."

New sheriff in town

Daly never discarded all the rejection letters he received when he was looking for jobs. They are his reminder. So is the 93-day stay he had in Cleveland, where he first became an NBA head coach at age 51, only to be fired 41 games into the season.

He was an assistant coach at Duke for six years - driving all night long from Punxsutawney to make the first morning interview. He was head coach at Boston College for two years, leaving for the University of Pennsylvania. He joined the Philadelphia 76ers as an assistant to Coach Billy Cunningham in 1978.

"Chuck will make a difference in Orlando," said Cunningham, one of Daly's neighbors in Jupiter. "The greatest quality Chuck has, to this day, is that he absolutely loves the game. He loves everything about it, the competition, dealing with players. And he's coming back for all the right reasons."

The two played golf regularly during Daly's three-year absence from coaching. He loves the game. Yet golf, even coupled with his previous television job as a basketball analyst for Turner Sports, couldn't keep him away from coaching again.

"He would talk all about the fun he was having playing golf, but he was just bored. He's a coaching lifer," said Matt Dobek, the Detroit Pistons' publicist and a good friend of Daly's. "He's the Dick Clark of coaching, 67 going on 27, and still worried about whether he can find work."

Daly built a champion in Detroit, winning acclaim for his ability to handle a weird cast of players that included Laimbeer, Dennis Rodman, Isiah Thomas, Mark Aguirre and John Salley. Handling players is his forte.

"This is a players' league, and you're only as good as the players you have," Daly said. "I'm just the guy who gets to drive the bus. I don't have any master plan. I'm a seat-of-the-pants kind of guy. I'm of average intelligence, but one of the things I pride myself on, I can listen to someone and say, `Maybe you're right.' I can usually see both sides of the coin."

It was Daly's ability to handle stars and juggle egos that made him the perfect choice to coach the original Dream Team, the 1992 Olympic team that included Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson and Larry Bird.

It was the gold medal he won that cemented his reputation as one of the best coaches in NBA history.