Basketball is a game of legends. It's drawn its share of good writers, but none has begun to adequately describe the effect of the presence of Wilt Chamberlain on the court, of Kareem, of Michael Jordan. On a more local level why tell your friends you hit a 20-footer if you aren't sure it wasn't 25?

Poetry and tall tales were invented by writers frustrated that they couldn't get their words to explain the truth. Maybe Pecos Bill didn't make some poor gal bounce back and forth to the moon 150 times on her corset, but obviously there's no sensible way to explain what really happened.

I offer this story in that spirit. Most of what is written below is well known fact. No one could have explained the rest of it properly if they were standing courtside with a video recorder, and Jacques Cousteau's sonar equipment.

I don't think the principals of this epic need much introduction. Dr. J, Julius Erving, is the greatest forward of all-time. He didn't invent levitation, but he perfected it-leaping from mid court and floating happily over the opposition like a black male Mary Poppins until he came to a landing in an explosion of slam, net, and flashbulbs. He single-handedly gave the ABA credibility, was its MVP three years in a row, and its all-time leading scorer. He added another MVP in the NBA, and a title to go with his two ABA titles. He was an all-star every single year. When he was done only Wilt and Kareem had scored more points professionally.

Pete Maravich invented so many moves that it's arguable that no one has invented one since. He exhausted the art forms of ball handling and passing, he saw ten thousand gyms and shot the lights out of every single one. His lowest scoring average in three years of varsity at LSU was 43.8 ppg (not a misprint). He holds every NCAA scoring record worth holding, and this was all before the three-point shot. Thirty-footers were fairly routine for Pete, and credible commentators suggest that with the three-point rule Pete might have averaged close to 60. His gunning for LSU (then strictly a football school) earned him an undeserved reputation as a ball hog that would hound him throughout his career. Ball hog? Pete was regularly among the league's assist leaders, but it was one of those unfair labels that partly stuck. In the NBA Pete took a scoring title the year he lit up Earl "The Pearl" Monroe for 68 in the Superdome one night, and was regularly an all-star, but he played for otherwise mediocre teams and never caught that elusive championship.

And so it came to pass in late 1972 that Dr. J and Pistol Pete took the floor together, for the Atlanta Hawks. The Doctor was involved in a contract dispute with the ABA Virginia Squires, so he jumped to the Hawks. The NBA, and particularly the Milwaukee Bucks who had drafted him (think on that one for a minute, Kareem and Oscar Robertson were already there) were unimpressed. The various forces that be ensured that Julius and Pete were only together for two exhibition games, but those games were enough to offer a sense of what could have been.

While guys huddled over beers on stoops and in bars deliberated on whether there could ever be enough balls on the court for the two superstars, Pete and the Doctor saw only limitless possibilities. Maravich could do more with the ball than anyone in the league, Julius moved as well as anyone without it. They could both hit outside all afternoon, they could both drag an entire defense to the hole. They were both professionals, they both wanted to win.

What happened next isn't entirely clear, and might best be set forth by the authors of Paul Bunyan and Pecos Bill. It is clear that something happened, and from formal and informal sources it appears that it happened something like this.

The crowd was going wild. Both players had that effect, and together the sense of possibility was increased exponentially. They strutted around the court and it was impossible that something big wasn't going to happen.

The other side missed. Dr. J soared with the wingspan of a condor, flapped the rebound into the fold of his arms, and fired the outlet pass to Maravich even before he landed.

Pete drove the court, slipping one of his between-the-legs dribbles in somewhat unnecessarily, but giving Dr. J the opportunity to streak up the other end. They had a two-on-one on some guy, some faceless victim of history and circumstance. It's not that I refuse to name the victim, it's just that no one bothered noticing who the poor sod was.

Maravich streaking with the ball on the right, Dr. J like a locomotive down the left, some poor guy in the middle like a baby deer caught in the headlights and trying to stop the flood.

Pete gunned the ball behind his back hitting Dr. J on the numbers as he neared the lane. Pete pulled up at the foul line to witness and enjoy the inevitable slam by the master of the realm. The first slam of thousands yet to come.

Dr. J flipped the ball behind his back, left-handed, it clanged Pete in the head, and bounced harmlessly out of bounds.

Dr. J went on to win a title for the 76ers a few years later, Pete's knees gave out before he got to a decent team. They both scored bucketfulls of points, received almost as many accolades as they deserved, and inspired the generations to come. It's tempting to kick up your feet, and dream of what might have been.

this piece originally appeared in Hoop Nation

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