The Passions of Doug Collins

One day last month in Charlotte, the Philadelphia 76ers were warming up before a game against the Bobcats when coach Doug Collins emerged from the tunnel near the team's locker room. He made a beeline toward Lou Williams, the team's leading scorer. For the better part of a week, Williams had been mired in a slump, shooting 10-for-35 over the previous three games, all losses.

Approaching Williams, Collins pulled a piece of folded paper from his pocket and handed it to the player, then made his way over to the Bobcats' bench to exchange pleasantries with the Charlotte coaches. Note in hand, Williams looked around, took a quick inventory of his teammates' whereabouts, and covertly unfolded the paper.

When the horn sounded for warmups to stop, Williams made his way toward his coach, and the two shared a long embrace. That night, Williams went on to hit eight of his 12 shots, scoring 19 points in 23 minutes and helping the team break its modest skid.

This is the coach Philadelphia has come to know, and love: Intense but caring, tough but paternal. It's a change that has not only helped the Sixers achieve a surprising level of success over the last two seasons, but it's also a change that would surprise anyone who was familiar with Collins as a player or young coach - including Collins himself. The old Collins probably wouldn't recognize the new Collins, and he certainly never would have imagined having the type of relationships he now forms with some of his players.

Basketball has provided an awful lot of joy for Collins. But it's also caused him no small amount of anguish, the sort of pain that comes loving something so much that it will never love you back the same way. The torment started when he was 29 years old, when - 8 years into an impressive NBA career - injuries forced him to retire. Collins could no longer play the sport that had given him so much, that had made him a star at Illinois State, that had allowed him to represent his country at the 1972 Olympics, that made him the first overall pick in the NBA draft.

Instead of entering the prime of his career, Collins was left to wonder what was next. The obvious answer was coaching. He had always been a cerebral player, seeing the game a few steps ahead of most other players, and so he joined Bob Weinhauer's staff at the University of Pennsylvania before moving on with Weinhauer to Arizona State.

The transition from player to coach wasn't easy. As he Watched the players, Collins wanted - craved, even - to be out there competing at the highest of level, and knew that he could, had his body not betrayed him. He wouldn't, or couldn't, understand why players couldn't see what he could see, couldn't do what he would have done. "I think one of the things that hurt me early as a young coach was my playing career was taken away from me prematurely," says Collins. "I felt like I still should have been playing. It was still in me and still very much a part of me. It took a while to get that out of me."

In 1986, at just 35 years old, he was named head coach of the Chicago Bulls, who had gone 30-52 the previous year. Over the next 3 years, the Bulls under Collins would average about 46 wins a season, and make it to the Eastern Conference finals in 1989. Yet Collins' tenure in Chicago also forged his reputation as a fiery, sometimes volatile presence. Collins was most definitely not a "players' coach," and that was part of the reason he was let go in favor of Phil Jackson after that 1989 season. Two years later, of course, the Bulls would go on to win their first NBA title, the first of the six they would win from 1991 to 1998 with Michael Jordan, whom Collins had coached for two-plus seasons with the Bulls.

Collins would get another shot. A few years later, he was named head coach of the Detroit Pistons. He led the team to 100 wins in his first two seasons, but was fired 45 games into his third season. Again, the reasom for the firing was that his ultra-competitive style turned off some of his players.

Part of the problem, say friends, is Collins' inability to do anything but think about basketball. Since his earliest playing days, Collins has had a mind that could never stop trying to figure out ways to make himself better, ways to make his team better. It was an engine that had, and still has, a hard time shifting into idle. Former Sixers forward Bobby Jones first met Collins when they were teammates on the '72 Olympic team. Collins quickly left quite an impression on the introverted Jones. "That Olympic team was so close, a lot of young guys," said Jones. "I remember that Doug and I went out for pizza one night, just hanging out, and I felt we had a real camaraderie there. He was my first roommate when I got traded to the Sixers. He had so much energy. I took this medicine because I had epilepsy and it made me drowsy. I had to go to sleep at like 10 or so because I was so tired. After a game, Doug would be walking the hallways. He wanted to keep the door to our room open a crack in case anything was going on he wanted to be aware of it. I had to keep the door closed because I had to get my sleep. We had to part ways as roommates."

Because of that intensity, Collins has always found it hard to comprehend a player not wanting to do whatever is needed for the team. "I think it could take a while for people to realize what Doug is like" as a coach, says Jones. "Some [players] come in skeptical and kind of hardened thinking that it's an act by Doug, knowing as much as he does. But it's not an act. That's who he is. It could take a season or a season and a half for a player to realize that he's trying to help, he's not trying to hurt."

In 2001, Collins got a call from his former player, Jordan, who was finishing out his career in Washington while also a part-owner. Jordan wanted Collins to be his coach. It was an interesting choice, given that it was always assumed that Jordan was the one who wanted Collins out in Chicago more than a decade before. "The one thing you can't do is fool people who know," says Collins. "That's why I say the greatest compliment Michael has ever given me is he wanted to build something down in Washington and he asked me to do it with him. That to me is everything. That to me is respect."

After his stint in Washington, Collins moved into the broadcast booth, calling NBA games on TNT and doing to work for NBC at the Olympics. It was a good gig: it kept his hand in the game, provided him a handsome paycheck, and allowed him to continue the lifestyle that he and wife Kathy had grown accustomed to, with a house in Scottsdale, Ariz., and a place in San Diego. But there was something unfulfilled that the TNT job couldn't address. "TV is a great job but it almost felt as if I was retired," says Collins. "There's no winning or losing. The broadcasting is a great team thing. When you're broadcasting, it's all about team. You and your partner are out there, you have the producer, director, you have your camera people, stat guy, graphics people. It's the ultimate team. But it's like gymnastics, there's a judge about whether or not you did it well. In basketball, the judge is that scoreboard. You walk off and either you won or you lost. And if you win, you get that sort of feeling of 'I won,' and if you lose, you get that thing that sort of hits you in the gut at the end of the game . . . I wanted to be the best broadcaster I could be, that's what I tried to do, but it's a different kind of life and I just felt I had one more run in me."

After Collins became the Sixers's coach in 2010, it quickly became apparent that he wasn't the same guy he'd been in Chicago, Detroit, or Washington. Part of the change was simply getting older, of having an actual life outside of basketball. "As you get older, I think you get a little more mellow," says Collins' son, Chris, an associate head coach at Duke. "The thing is, he's much more secure with who he is as a coach now. He was so young when he got that job in Chicago, and he had no head-coaching experience. He is so driven and so competitive a person that coaching back then probably wore him down."

And part of it was due to Collins introspective nature. "Everything is a change. If you don't change, you're making a huge mistake in life," he says. "I think you become a product of your experiences. Every time you get fired you look back at your situation and you say, 'How could I have been better?' You coach again and how could I better handle that situation and then you do it again and how could I better handle that situation."

Yet there are other factors. Collins is now 60 years old, and has become a doting grandfather of four (soon to be five). Nothing in his life, not a last-second win or the thought of an NBA title, can bring the same look to Collins' face that his grandchildren do. As important as basketball remains to him, as much as he is driven to bring the Sixers organization into prominence again, there's no doubt that his family is a much higher priority than the game that has provided him a nice living for 40 years. But other exerpeiences have given Collins more perspective. In August 2007, Collins' brother, Jeff, was killed in a house fire in Benton, Ill., where Collins grew up. His sister, Linda, had a leg amputated recently due to complications from diabetes, and his mother, Geraldine, is now suffering from Alzheimer's.

"There's nothing that means more to him than his family," said son Chris. "He's a passionate guy and caring guy. No one cares more deeply about family than he does. Having four grandchildren and on the way to having five puts things into perspective for him. He's had to deal with a lot with his brother, his mom and sister. With his brother gone and with his dad having died when my dad was young, he is the only male presence in their family. That is hard on him sometimes because he wants to do so much for everyone."

"I think as a person, I'm at tremendous peace with who I am and where I am at this stage of my life," said Doug. "I had a great friend, Milt Weisbecker, I called him Doc, he was the athletic director at Illinois State and he told me something one time. He said, 'The most turbulent times in a man's life are between the ages of 25 and 50. He said because that's a 25-year window professionally for you to do it. After that, you really know who you are. And that's so true for me. I'm at this stage in my life now where I'm 60. I have an incredible wife, we've been together since 1972. We've got two great children; I have four grandchildren and another one on the way. So I have this incredible family. That's what my focus is every single day. How can I be a better husband, how can I be a better father . . . how can I be a better friend?

"I felt like when I came back here that it was more than basketball, and I still do," Collins continues. "People might think I'm crazy, but there's something spiritual about me being back here now. It's the circle of life."

Collins has been around long enough to know that few coaches get to decide how, or when, their tenure ends. "It could be one of those situations where I pour myself into this and get this team ready to win a championship and [Sixers owner] Josh Harris might think he needs somebody else to take it over the top," he says. "I'm OK with that. My job is to build this franchise . . . When the media come walking in and you see our staff and you see our players, you say, 'That's a professional organization. They do things right, they work, they honor the game, they respect the game, they play hard, they're a team.' That's the environment I want here, because I'm a purist. That's what I was taught. You honor the game and that's what I try to do."

The work, though, has really just started. Last year's 14-game improvement over the Sixers previous season was a steppingstone, Collins insists. Now it's time for this young team to learn how to win a playoff series, to continue the maturation process in order to become that prominent team this city will start talking about regularly again. "I talk to Josh Harris, and I said that my job as your coach is not only to win games but to make this team a great investment for you, by making our young people better every day in every way. . .That's what I owe Josh Harris and the city, get these young guys better. Maybe we're gonna get lucky, and one of these players that help put you over the top will come play here. They do for the Phillies. They do for the Eagles and they do for the Flyers. It's a great city, and there's no reason why they shouldn't want to do it for the Sixers."

Shortly after his daughter Kelly delivers her baby, Collins will make a trip to the tattoo parlor and have the new grandchild's name inked over his heart, joining the four other tattoos of his grandkids' names already there. He will no doubt shed a few tears, as he often does when sharing stories about his children's children. He is not a guy who's afraid to show his emotions, although the emotions are different now. Winning is still a high priority in his life, just not as high as it used to be. Many of those feelings he used to have - the sense of loss from having his career end prematurely - have subsided, overshadowed by the importance of family, friends and this city that he loves. "There was nothing like playing," said Collins, looking off into the distance as if trying to rekindle that memory. "You become a kid. This game, that's the beauty of it. If I knew I had 24 hours to live tomorrow, I would say let me play basketball for 3 hours the way I could play it, the way I used to play it . . . and then give me 21 hours with my loved ones. Just get me in a room and give me 21 hours with my loved ones and then I'm ready to go."

There's no doubt that Collins has learned from the mistakes he made as younger coach, yet he still struggles sometimes to balance his intensity with his more nurturing, paternal instincts. "I'm always going to be competitive as hell, that ain't ever going to go away," says Collins. "I think you just put a handle on how you use it or how it comes out. It's OK to be intense and competitive, but it can overwhelm people . . . I probably was and I didn't know it."

No relationship has proved this more than the one between Collins and second-year guard Evan Turner. Collins has anointed Turner with the nickname "Pistol" after Pete Maravich, one of the coach's all-time favorite players. Collins and Turner often share laughs, hugs, high-fives and jokes. But Collins is hesitant to praise Turner, just as there was trepidation with inserting Turner into the starting lineup.

It's strictly to help make the former No. 2 overall pick the best player he can possibly be, Collins insists. Others question his motives. Does Turner not possess the same burning desire to compete as Collins did? If that's the case, is it impossible for Collins to reach Turner?

Only time will tell, of course. The relationship, like the Sixers, like Collins himself, is still a work in progress.