You had to feel bad for Oliver Purnell.
Back in the early 2000s, Purnell was the Dayton men’s basketball coach. He had the second slot (10:20 a.m.) in the weekly Atlantic 10 men’s basketball conference call, where each coach would get 10 minutes to answer questions from various reporters.
You had to feel bad for him because he went on immediately after John Chaney.
First rule of covering the Atlantic 10 was never be late for the conference. Chaney, the legendary Temple coach, always had the opening slot. It was scheduled for 10:10 a.m., but he was usually on early and moderator Ray Cella always let him start early. National basketball writers often joined the call to ask Chaney questions for stories and columns they were writing about the national issue du jour. Chaney was never short of opinions, never short of stories, and it was often that he went long on time, leaving Purnell (and anyone who wanted to talk about the Flyers) with a little less time.
But nobody really minded.
When Chaney spoke, you listened.
A career in journalism is inextricably connected to a handful of people. For me, Chaney — who died Friday at age 89 — was one of those people.
I came to covering Chaney after he was already a national figure. He had already led Temple to several Elite 8s and was at the forefront of protesting NCAA policies he felt unfairly hurt and targeted black athletes. My first year covering basketball as a student was two years after he threatened to kill John Calipari.
If that incident is all you know about Chaney, you are missing out. The man was a Philadelphia icon, a true American legend. He had a voice that was booming and raspy at the same time. He always claimed to wear expensive clothes, but as my boss’ wife used to say, he always looked like an unmade bed.
Sometimes, he’d spar with you in a press conference. Sometimes, he’d go to war. One time, after a Bona-Temple game, he started ranting about the all-sports radio station in town (for reasons lost to history), saying “Those assholes at WIP are assholes!” Mike Harrington of the Buffalo News and I quote that rant to this day.
In 2000, his Temple team crushed Bona in the A-10 title game on national TV. It was ugly — 32-4 at one point — and the Bonnies were firmly on the NCAA Tournament bubble. In the press conference, I asked him if he thought Bona was an NCAA Tournament team.
“Damn right they are.” he said. Wrote the lede of my story, he did.
And then, there’s Cookiegate.
Earlier in 2000, the Bonnies beat then-nationally ranked Temple on a last-second 3-pointer by J.R. Bremer (right corner, 9.1 seconds left I think?). But earlier in the second half, a student from the Bona section threw a cookie toward the Temple bench. Chaney picked it up, trying to get the attention of the refs, and slammed it down on the court. He earned a technical for that, as did Bona (for the fan who threw said cookie.)
Two days later, the story kept growing. On the conference call, Chaney claimed he had been picking chocolate chips out of his hair and was fuming when asked about it. The Bona athletic department had to release a statement apologizing to Chaney for the incident.
To this day, whether or not Chaney was actually hit remains the stuff of Southern Tier lore. But he was quickly able to joke about it. “Tell them, I like oatmeal raisin cookies!” Chaney also loudly supported Bona after the player-eligibility scandal in 2003, and the school recognized him after his induction into the basketball hall of fame.
If you only know Chaney from the Calipari clip, you know a sliver of the story. Yes, he had a temper. Yes, he could be mean. But he was a coach who cared about his players. I covered his 700th career victory, and the number of players back to celebrate with him that day was remarkable. He was a fountain of hard-earned old-school wisdom. My sister is fond of one quote: “In defense, as in life, you are going to make mistakes. The key is how you recover.”
He cared about the sport. That’s why national writers came to the conference call.
He always had a story or 12. He always had an opinion or 12. But they were rooted in that passion, that care for what he felt was right.
When Chaney spoke, sometimes he argued with you. Sometimes he yelled. Sometimes, he cackled.
But you always listened.
