Easily my favorite in-person autograph of all time…George Gervin signed a jersey for me at Kemper Arena in the early 2000s when he was the head coach of the Detroit team in the rebirthed ABA league.
This story is amazing (well, at least to me it is):
I knew that The Iceman was coming into town and, being very familiar with the layout of Kemper Arena, I knew exactly where to be standing in order to get a chance to meet him. Just two days before the game I got the idea to try to find a jersey for him to sign instead of a basketball, a picture, or a card which is what I usually went with when trying to acquire signatures of my favorite players. This was the legendary George Gervin, after all…ABA god, NBA god, Hall of Famer, king of the finger roll, and — at that time — the all-time leading scorer for points in a single quarter in league history (the man scored THIRTY-THREE points in the 2nd quarter of a game in New Orleans in 1978 BEFORE the advent of the 3-point shot).
I went online and tried to find one on NBA.com. Nothing. I then used AltaVista (does that tell you how long ago this was?!?) to try to hunt down a jersey. Zip. Stumped, I began calling up various sports shops in San Antonio to try to find his good old #44 jersey down there. Crickets. One guy suggested that I contact Mitchell & Ness, a company that creates high quality nostalgic sports gear. I got in touch with them and, lo and behold, they had a limited run of Gervin jerseys in stock… along with a hefty price tag that far outweighed me just going to get a basketball, a picture, or a card to sign. “I don’t care, this is George Gervin. I’ll take it.”
I got out my credit card and, knowing full well that I was going to need this jersey ASAFP I asked him how long it’d take them to get it to me. It wasn’t going to work. I explained the situation and got him to overnight me the jersey — another $75 added onto my growing tab — but this was quickly becoming a growing obsession of mine so I did the deal.
The jersey arrived the next day and it was incredible looking. I immediately took a trip down to a local art store, got a thin silver paint pen, tested it out on the front of the jersey in a tiny area and it worked like a charm.
Jersey? Check.
Paint pen? Check.
Court side tickets? Check.
Game time!
I couldn’t tell you much about the game itself other than George’s son Gee led the Detroit team with the most points. I did erupt with joy when I saw him slash his way to the basket and then beautifully score two via a finger roll. Like father, like son.
The game ends and I haul ass with my jersey back to the tunnel where I know the players and coaching staff will exit to get on the bus. While there was already a faction of kids back there with their programs wanting to get various players’ autographs, there was a small throng of us “old school” NBA fans anxiously awaiting the appearance of George Gervin.
Gervin’s son comes out and spies me holding his father’s jersey. He walks over, leans in, and says “Man, you are going to make my Dad’s day with that jersey. He’s always talking about how much he wishes they had made it back in the day before everyone started wearing jerseys today like Kobe’s and Jordan’s. Make sure he sees it.” I assured him that I would.
As the rest of the players came out and signed autographs, the staff began to trickle out. The very last person to come through the doors was the man I had spent the prior 24 hours readying myself to meet.
My mind began racing – “Does he have time to sign?” “How’s he going to sign this thing?” “How should I try to get his attention?!?”
Turns out the answers to all three of those questions would be solved over the course of the next five minutes.
Expressionless, Gervin began walking down the hall. He glanced at the crowd, then at me, and then the jersey. His reaction was instant and I immediately knew that I had won the George Gervin lottery. Surgery couldn’t have removed the smile from his face.
He approached me with the excitement of a child on Christmas morning and took the jersey, held it up, and happily asked me “where did you get this?!?” I explained to him my fast-paced adventure on acquiring it and then getting it to me when he enthusiastically asked me “Can I sign it for you?”
Hmm, let me think.
I handed him the silver pen and he asked me my name. We both looked around for a second for a surface upon which he could put the jersey to write when a nearby fan quickly handed out his clipboard with his own 8×10 on it over. Gervin got to work, very carefully signing “To Ken, George Gervin, Iceman #44”. While he signed it, someone on the bus began to call to him saying that they needed to get going. He motioned with his finger that he needed a minute which, naturally, they gave him.
After signing, he handed the guy’s clipboard back to him (not having signed his 8×10 but thanking him for letting us use his clipboard) and then held the jersey up to get another look at it, all smiles, while the rest of the crowd continued holding out their arms with pictures, posters, basketballs, and cards like zombies reaching for flesh. Nothing existed in the world for him at that very moment, it seemed…other than that jersey.
He turned to me, handed it back, and I immediately thanked him for signing it. I put out my hand to shake his and he grasped mine. “Hey hey,” I said as I clasped his hand, “I’m currently holding one of the hands that was used to set the all-time scoring record in a single quarter!” Gervin, ever gracious, shook my hand and said “That’s right!”
He patted me on the shoulder and then began to make his way through the surging group of fans that had hoped to get what I had — a signature from one of the game’s greatest players to ever lace up. Already late, he had to apologize to the crowd and said that he’d get them the next time the team came through Kansas City. Unfortunately for them, he resigned as head coach before the team made its return trip to Kemper.
But, for a few minutes there in a noisy exit tunnel, I had the legend all to myself. Well, the jersey and I did.