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. Especially to me. This was back in the ‘70s, when I was going through a challenging phase of high-school existence. 

Norm was everything I wasn’t and everything I wanted to be—a cool, confident overachiever. Never afraid. Backed down from no one. 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. But I loved them nonetheless cause they gave it their all.

I’d be watching from the cheap seats in the nose-bleed section of the old Chicago Stadium, usually with my dear friend Josh. On good nights, the joint was rocking, with Norm leading the Bulls to victory.

Back at school, I was the kid endlessly talking about Norm. Reliving his great moments in my mind where they live to this day.  I needed a strong guy like him--a superhero, alter ego whose exploits were mine, if only vicariously, helping me get through my frustrations and insecurities. 

You could say Norm was there when I needed him most.

Still got this photo by Joshua Michael Lev-ee-on in my high school diary...

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 sports-talk show, and I wrote a profile on him for the Reader. Hanging with him, I realized he was much more than Stormin’ Norman, a fantastical super hero character. He was a human being, coping with his own anxieties and disappointments as best he could. With a sense of humor and irony. 

It was a blast hanging with him for that story. We did a lot of driving around town with the radio blaring classic rock–playing air guitar to Jimmy Page–and talking about everything and anything. Laughing like crazy. 

He also had a serious side. Talked about how he beat his addiction to the pills he took at the end of his career to dull the agony of the pain in his back and knees brought on by years of pounding his body into the hardwood floor, giving his all for the Bulls.

Talked about the racism in the NBA. The contrasting attitudes and double standards white coaches and executives had (and have) toward white and black players. 

I also got to know his wife, Susan. She was his agent. Watched over his career with an eagle’s eye. A little worried about what I might write. Relax, I told her. I’m not one of those journalistic sneaks, who misleads you into thinking he's gonna write one thing and then smacks you in the head with something else. Told her I’d let her read what I wrote before I turned it in--then we’d talk it over.

So we met at a restaurant on Belmont. Susan brought 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 Norm-like ferocity.

Eventually, she gave me the go ahead on every word except for one—wily. I’d called Norm a wily defender. She said wily had racist connotations—I wouldn’t call a white player wily. We went back and forth `til I conceded she had a point. 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--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.” To this day it remains one of my favorites–got it hanging on my wall.

Great headline, Mike Lenehan...

In the years that followed, Susan and Norm became two of my biggest supporters. Showing me love and admiration, cheering on my career. Firing me up with praise and encouragement.

The last time I saw him was in 2009--at the United Center. I told him I had this great idea to write a book with him about basketball back in the glorious `70s. He loved the idea. Said I should call Susan and set it up.

Alas, he died a few weeks later--on February 26, 2009. His heart gave out. At age 61. Way too young. 

I was devastated—so disappointed we never got to write that book. Shoulda acted on that idea much earlier–before the clock ran out. 

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 her to attend the game, but she couldn’t make the trip. She asked me and Larry Wolfe, who had been Norm’s friend and accountant, to represent her and the Van Lier family at the celebration. 

(Side note on Larry—we were friends at Evanston high school! That’s 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 a game against Washington. 

Shoulda been a blow out, as the Wizards are one of the worst teams in the league. But the Bulls looked sluggish and tentative. Giving up 41 points in the first quarter, and falling behind by 16. “There’s no defense,” I told my friends. “What a lousy way to celebrate Norm’s legacy.” 

But late in the fourth quarter, the Bulls stormed back, taking a fragile one-point lead.  The game came down to one last play—Washington inbounding with five seconds remaining. If they scored, they’d win. 

Out of nowhere, the Bulls defense finally showed up. Josh Giddey and Trey Jones swarmed Kyshawn George, who panicked and lost control of the ball as it bounced out of bounds. Just like that the game was over and the Bulls had won. 

Man, you shoulda heard that United Center crowd—the joint was rocking like the Stadium in the good old days. And, folks, I swear–I felt the presence of Norm Van Lier. Like his spirit was the one who brought the Bulls defense to life.

You could say, he showed up when the Bulls needed him most—just like he did for me back in the day.