All it Takes is One Good Friend: Remembering Willis Reed

I can still see it clear as yesterday - maybe even clearer.

I was about eleven years old, sitting in the back of Willis Reed's car. He was sitting in the driver's seat, telling my dad - who was in the passenger's seat - something I didn't quite understand about getting the vehicle from a dealership where he'd done an appearance. We were parked outside the front office of the NJ Nets at what was then the Brendan Byrne Arena, getting ready to head to Western Jersey to my extended family's farm property.

None of this was unusual to me. My dad and Willis were long-time hunting and fishing buddies, who'd been separated for a number of years by geography, but reconnected when Willis came to live in NJ and coach the Nets. The first time I met him was in that front office in a somewhat comical scene. I'd been seated in a chair that was super low to the ground. Willis, already tall enough to dwarf most people, from my child's eye floor-level view seemed like a giant in the extreme when I first laid eyes on him in person. Until he smiled, then Willis just seemed like love.

Willis soon became one of my favorite people - not because he was a famous basketball player, but because he was one of the best human beings anyone could ever hope to meet.

Willis was warm, kind, generous, and lots of fun. But that day in the car, he was suddenly very serious., Willis Reed demanded my focus. "You hear that, back there'? Pay attention to what I'm saying. All it takes is one bad friend." Their conversation had shifted to some player or other who had lost his way to drugs or similar, and Willis wanted to make sure his friend's child really heard him. "I would never do drugs," I said emphatically. I was the nerdiest of nerdy straight-laced kids and the concept of doing anything remotely bad was anathema to me. But Willis wasn't satisfied with that answer. "I'm telling you," he said. "And you remember this for the rest of your life. I lot of people think they would never do a lot of bad things. But I've seen it over and over again. All it takes is one bad friend. Make sure your friends are always good friends." I promised. He nodded.

What Willis didn't know that day, and neither did I, was that I would never ever forget his words of very sage advice. More than that, I would never ever forget how Willis Reed made everyone around him feel: totally special, entirely valued, and wholly important.

I don't have many regrets in life. I'm a hugger, I'm effusive. I make it weird sometimes by telling people how much I care about them, because saying so matters. But the one thing I do regret is that as an adult - when geography and life once again took our families far apart - I never made the time to write Willis a note and thank him for the ways in which he'd unknowingly shaped my life or to express how much I appreciated the way he'd been with us.

With the NY Knicks in such finals focus right now, I can't stop thinking about Willis as mentions of him and his image seem to pop up everywhere. Footage of a post-game interview appears, he squeezes together his lips in a way he always did when focused, and I see him next to me, waiting for a fish to grab his line. He laughs as an older man in an interview, and his demeanor and smile so many years later remain so familiar to me. I miss him, plain and simple. While I can't tell him directly about his positive impact on my life, the least I can do is pay tribute to him here.

Willis radiated warmth, patience and love. He was so very gentle - especially with kids. He was always interested in what I had to say and what I was doing. He never minded that my dad was the type of very good father who took me everywhere with him. It didn't bother him if he had to slow down because I couldn't keep up when we walked in the woods.

In one story my dad and I still laugh about to this day, the three of us had gone tromping through the forest in Newton because Willis and my father were figuring out stuff to do with their hunting tree stands and the boundaries of the property their club was renting from my cousin. For a kid, the walk we took seemed like it lasted forever. I finally said, "How far have we gone?" Willis said, "Bout a mile." "Oh wow!" I said. I walked a whole mile!" "How far do we have to go back?" I asked with a purity only kids possess. My dad and Willis looked at each other and started laughing. "Bout a mile!" Willis said. "Oh man!" I moaned. I couldn't understand what they found so funny then, but I do now.

On that same trip, my dad - as most of us do with our own children - was getting aggravated because I was super chicken about walking along the edge of drop offs in the woods and I was really slowing things down with my long contemplative stops and tentative terrified steps. "Will you just come on! Don't be silly!" my father playfully growled. But Willis, seeing I was genuinely scared, bent down and said, "Come on, Little Darlin'. I got you." He took my tiny hand in his gigantic one, and walked me through those woods, while my dad shot him a look of "you're gonna spoil that kid." Willis just smiled his million-dollar smile. That moment, more than any other, is the thing I remember most about Willis: he was so very understanding, loving, and aware. And when I was with him? I understood I was safe.

I rarely asked him to sign stuff, but sometimes the kid in me took over. I remember him autographing a book for me, "To my dear young friend..." I'd never felt so great about myself. If Willis thought I was worth befriending, I believed I could do anything.

When I reflect back now, Willis could have had a lot of reasons to not be bothered with my family. We didn't have means. We didn't really always know how to act around him or his world. We probably sometimes seemed sort of like the Clampetts, I cringe now at the thought. But none of that mattered to Willis. Not even a little. "You're my friend, Johnny." He'd say. "You're my friend." Once, Willis asked my dad if he'd come take a deer for him and have it butchered. My dad's pride meant he didn't tell his friend he couldn't afford to do that right then. So my dad said no without explanation. Willis was miffed. Finally my dad came clean about the reason why. "Don't you ever do that again, Johnny. Money doesn't matter. I thought you didn't want to do a favor for me, that mattered. The money part, I'll take care of. Next time, you tell me." And he meant it. When I had special occasions, he knew we didn't have a lot, and he always made up for that fact with his generosity.

When I was in about 7th grade, a boy in my class who loved basketball and I got to talking, and I told him I went to games a lot because of Willis. I guess he figured that couldn't be true. What I didn't know was that kid went up to Willis - by then usually somewhat accessibly seated in the stands near the press box, watching games through the eyes of a basketball executive - and said "Hey, does April Klemm know you?" Next time I saw Willis, he said to me "Do you lie a lot or what? Your friend didn't believe you knew me!" I laughed and said, "No. But what did you tell him?" Willis smiled and said, "I told him you're one of my best girls." The street cred back at school lasted for months.

Sometimes, it was sort of like Willis was too big for our world - larger than life. But still, he came to my little one-square mile hometown to see us. I remember so very clearly him ducking to walk through the doorway between our living room and kitchen, my dad and him still in camo after a hunting trip. He didn't mind duckng. Somehow, he was able to make himself small enough to fit next to his friends.

When my dad's father died, there was Willis at the funeral mass in my father's hometown church. He shook my dad's hand, hugged me, and then told us he had to go. The men in the crowd already had their mouths hanging open, whispering "That's Willis Reed." And he knew his presence would fast become a weird distraction on a bad day. But just seeing him there for a minute made me know everything was going to be ok no matter how sad I felt.

My dad called Willis "Willie" and Willis called him "Johnny" - the only other people I ever heard call my dad "Johnny" were his sister and his mother. That tells you everything about how Willie and Johnny were together: at ease. It was beautiful to see.

There were always comp tickets to games. I got to see Jordan, Magic, Kareem - over and over again. One of the best nights I ever spent with my dad was from the third row of the arena watching the underdog Nets beat the mighty Lakers - our daddy-daughter high fives sponsored by a never-put-upon Willis. If we didn't ask for tickets often enough, he came our way to offer them. He was that sort of person, through and through.

When I met my future husband, the first thing I did was take him to a game. My dad had a rule: if Willis gives you tickets, you go see him during the game and say thank you. I took my very awestruck NY sports fan of a first date to meet Willis - who was gracious and kind as ever. When we went again now as boyfriend and girlfriend a few months later, Willis looked my fella up and down and said, "This the same guy?" then grabbed him by the shoulder lovingly, laughing uproariously. To this day, if I want to break any sort of tension with my husband, all I have to say is "You the same guy?"

Like Willis, his wife Gale - who was so beautiful, I thought of her almost like a princess in childhood - always made sure my parents were invited; social rank didn't matter. I'll never forget my mom coming home from a party for Willis, a little schoolgirl giddy from having hung out with the very handsome Earl the Pearl Monroe. Gale is wonderful, and never turns down a phone call from my dad, even now. She doesn't have to bother, but she always does.

On the day I heard Willis had passed away, I felt like someone kicked me in the face. It had been so many years since I'd seen him. But I'd never stopped carrying him around in my heart, in my decisions, in the way I tried to treat people. I made a picture of him and I fishing my screensaver that day, and I rarely swap away that image. Every time I pick up that phone, Willis's caring loving image - his huge hand resting on my little shoulder, holding fishing poles - reminds me what matters in this life.

You aren't ultimately remembered for what you've accomplished - no matter how big - and my goodness, Willis's career accomplishments were immense. You'll be remembered for how you treated people, how you made them feel, what you taught them, and the good times you shared.

I have very good parents who taught me a lot. Wonderful teachers, mentors, friends, family - they are the people who appear like an inspiring cast of characters time and again in this blog: just the way I like it. And in my little personal blog hall of fame, Willis's jersey hangs very, very high and always will. Because he was always the same guy: a Louisiana outdoorsman who never got too important to be truly loyal to his friends.

Perhaps the greatest homage I can pay to Mr. Reed, as I always called him, is this one: as soon as my daughter - who never met him - was old enough to understand, I told her too, "All it takes is one bad friend." She gets it, just like I did. And it helps her, just as it has always helped me.

If Mr. Reed was still here, I'd tell him I'm so sorry I missed my own shot to tell him how much I will forever treasure our little times together during my formative years. I'd thank him for loving us when we had absolutely nothing to give him in return but friendship. And most of all, I'd tell him that he was only partly right that day in the car: sometimes all it takes is one good friend to make a difference that lasts a lifetime - a friend like Willis Reed.