Norm To The Rescue—Again

Many years ago when I was just a kid, I loved Norm Van Lier with a passion that’s hard to explain and embarrassing to admit.

He was the six-foot-tall guard on the Bulls, usually the shortest, skinniest guy on the floor. But he played with a fearlessness and ferocity that was inspirational.

At least to me. No, especially to me.

This was back in the ‘70s, starting when I was a high schooler, concentrating on politics, pizza and sports—not that much different from what I concrete on now over 50 years later. Come to think of it. 

Norm was everything I wasn’t and everything I wanted to be—a cool and confident overachiever who was never afraid. Backed down from no one. 

Diving after loose balls. Battling the big guys for rebounds. . Relentless on defense. Conceding nothing. The heart and soul of an over-achieving team that, talent wise, fell just shy of the best. Never won a championship—always falling a little short. But I loved them nonetheless cause they gave it their all and walked off the court win or lose head held high. 

I’d be watching from the cheap seats in the nose-bleed section of the old Chicago stadium, which would be rocking on good nights when norm leading the charge, caught some team from behind and led my beloved Bulls to victory.

id be talking about norms exploits the whole ride home. Reliving his great moments in my mind where they live in to this day. i

I needed a strong guy like that back then. A superhero, alter ego whose exploits were mine, if only vicariously, helping me get through the frustrations and anxieties of teenage life. 

Years later, when I was older and more sure of myself and not in need of super heroes and alter egos, I got to know him.

He’d returned to Chicago to host a show on sports talk radio, and I wrote a profile on him for the Reader. Hanging with him, I realized that he wasn’t a fantastical super hero character. He was a human being, coping with the aches and pains and disappointments of existence as best he could. With a sense of humor and irony. Loved to drive in his car with the radio blaring classic rock, talking about everything an anything—just a blast to hang with. 

I also got to know Susan, his wife. She was his agent. Watched over his career like an eagle. A little worried what I might write. I told her to relax. I’m not pulling any fast ones—I’m not one of those Joe McGinness type of journalistic sneaks, who tricks you into thinking you’re gonna write one thing and then smacks you in the head with something else.

No, I’ll let you read the profile I write before I turn it in and then we’ll get together to talk it over.

So we met. Me and Susan. At Ann Sathers on Belmont. She brought along a copy of the manuscript—marked up with her comments in the margins—and went over it sentence by sentence.

In her own way, she played with a ferocity not unlike Norm, back in the day.

Eventually, she gave me the go ahead on every word except for one—wily. I’d called him a wily defender. She said wily had racist connotations—I wouldn’t call a white player wily. I said yes, I would. And she said, no you wouldn’t. And back and   forth we went until I finally realized she was right. So I changed wily to smart, and peace reigned.

When I told Norm about the great wily showdown, he laughed his ass off. Said if it was up to Susan the article would be called Saint Norm, and would be illustrated with a picture of him with a halo over his head. We laughed about that one for years. 

The article ran under the headline “Back in the game.” Great headline. To this day it remains one of my favorite articles I ever wrote.

In the years to come Susan and Norm would become two of my biggest supporters. Showing me love and admiration, cheering on my career. Firing me up.

the last time I saw him was sometime in 2008. At the United Center. I told him I had this great idea to wrote a book with him about his life in basketball back in the glorious 70s.

He loved it. Said I should call Susan and set it up. 

Alas, he died a few months later on tk In 2009, His heart gave out. At age 63. Way too young. I was devastated—I don’t think there’s a man in the universe who was as important to me in the very vulnerable teenage part of my life. 

Susan moved to Cali and we sorta fell out of touch. Then a few weeks ago she called to say the Bulls were celebrating Norm’s legacy, adding him to their ring of honor.

They wanted Susan to attend the game and sit in the box but she could t make and so she asked me and Larry Wolfe, who had been Norm’s friend and accountant, to represent her and the whole Van Lier family at the celebration.

Side note on Larry—we went to high school together! That is correct. Class of 73. Used to play poker together—it’s like everything’s coming full circle.  

And so it was that a bunch of us gathered in a suite at the United Center as the Bulls celebrated Norm along with Johnny Bach, Bill Cartwright, Neil Funk, Horace Grant and John Paxson at the halftime of a game against the Wizards.

Coincidentally, the Wizards are the worst team in the league. But the Bulls stumbled out of the gate, looking sluggish and tentative. Giving up 41 points in the first quarter, and falling behind by 16.

”What a lousy way to celebrate Norm,” I told my friends. “If he were here, he’d be giving them hell.”

But in the fourth quarter, the Bulls found their mojo and stormed back, taking a fragile one point lead with a few seconds left. 

The game came down to one last play wizards inbounding ball five seconds left with five seconds left. A basket gives the game to wiz.

You shoulda heard the United Center crowd—they were rocking like it was the good old days. Felt felt I was back in the sr I d balcony of my beloved Chicago stadium. And folks I’m not usually a religious person but I swear to god I f  ed it norm presence 

Showed up when we needed him just like he did for me when I was little kid coming if age in Evanston.