It’s the weekend, and if you will indulge me, I’d like to take a look at a subject that has nothing to do with ICE, Jeffrey Epstein, Pam Bondi, or Democrats.
I used to be a huge sports fan — so much so that during football playoffs, I could tell you which team needed to defeat another team so an entirely different team could have a shot at a wild card slot. But my true love was basketball. Forget Christmas, Lent, and Easter. My holy season was March Madness. At work, I would turn the TV in the newsroom to a game, while pulling up the internet feed of another in my studio.
And I loved the Utah Jazz. This was in part because I was an hourly employee, and I made extra money segueing commercials during the radio broadcasts. Over time, through sheer osmosis, I became a die-hard fan. As I got promoted to news and sports director, I discovered two cool things. One: I could get skybox seats at the Delta Center once a year, and two: I could get press passes whenever I wanted them. The Jazz were not a legendary team like the Lakers, and they did not have the star power of the Chicago Bulls, who boasted players like Scottie Pippen and Michael Jordan. But we did have Karl Malone, John Stockton, Antoine Carr, and Jeff Hornacek. Of course, we also had Greg Ostertag, but let’s not dwell on that.
I mainly covered the Jazz during the two years that they went to the NBA Finals, and man, what a time to be there! Keep in mind that I was a broadcaster from a tiny town in Nowhere, Utah. But you would not have known it. We were allowed to go down and shoot around before the press dinner, back before franchises let people do it before games. So I used to say that I once came off the bench at the Delta Center to sink a free throw. Once at a press dinner, I was almost run over by Jazz legend Mark Eaton. That’s understandable since I’m 5’5” and Eaton is 7’4”.
And then there were the postgame interviews. Being a part of the coach’s scrum with the iconic and laconic Jerry Sloan, who was never at a loss for an insightful, not to mention sarcastic, comment. After that, it was into the locker room to talk with the guys who were taking Utah to greatness.
The reason behind it all? Frank Layden. Frank passed away on Wednesday at the age of 93. Already an NBA veteran, he served first as general manager for the Jazz in 1979 and then added head coaching to his duties from 1981 to 1988. He helped the Jazz make the transition from New Orleans (where the only big name associated with the franchise had been “Pistol” Pete Maravich, who is a legend in his own right) to Utah. It was Layden who drafted Karl Malone and John Stockton, and it was under his aegis that the Jazz became a serious team to be reckoned with, instead of another no-name team.
From the Jazz press release:
Layden pulled off a rare feat in 1984 when he was honored with a trifecta of awards: he was awarded the NBA Coach of the Year award, was named Executive of the Year, and won the J. Walter Kennedy Citizenship Award, which is given to a player, coach, or staff member who showed "outstanding service and dedication to the community."
After eight seasons as Jazz head coach, Layden stepped down from the position during the 1988-89 season and returned to the front office as team president, appointing Jerry Sloan to take over the head coaching duties.
Although Layden led the Jazz to the playoffs in five consecutive seasons (1984-88) and played a key role in drafting two of the greatest players in NBA history, it was his eccentric personality and engaging approach to his interactions with those around him that had the greatest impact.
Layden was known for his humor, which often extended to the court. Never one to hold himself back from cracking a joke or attempting to entertain the fans, Layden established himself as one of the more colorful characters in league history.
With Layden at the helm for the Jazz throughout the 1980s as Pat Riley was bringing Giorgio Armani suits to the sidelines, Utah’s head coach quipped that Riley “buys his clothes… I find mine.”
After a tension-filled 1987 playoff game between the Jazz and Golden State Warriors, Layden showed up to the next game in a full Groucho Marx nose, glasses, and mustache getup to lighten the mood. It was Layden’s personality and willingness to be the target of his own jokes that made him a compelling interview and the co-host of two NBA blooper tapes along with Marv Albert.
Frank once remarked, “One thing I tried to emphasize is, it should be fun. Anything you do. If you go to school, it should be fun. If you go to work, it should be fun. And then you work, and each day there should be some satisfaction that you accomplished something.”
His son, Scott, served as a coach for the Jazz for a time. He eventually moved on to serve as VP and GM for the Knicks and had a great career of his own. One time, I had him scheduled for a call-in interview. He gave me his home phone number, and his wife picked up. She told me he was doing an interview with a Salt Lake station. I somewhat sheepishly told her he was supposed to be on the air with us. She said with an air of authority that only a wife can use, “I’ll take care of this.” Two minutes later, the phone rang. It was Scott. He apologized profusely and gave us one hell of a segment. The Laydens were always down-to-earth and put people first. Frank taught his son well.
Scott once gave us an interview during draft night after the team’s first championship run. He let us up on the stage. As we were interviewing him, the camera lights blinded me, and I realized I was on ESPN, holding a mic up for Scott Layden with a dumb look on my face.
When Frank left the Jazz, he stuck around Utah, doing charity work, taking on speaking engagements, and even hosting the Frank Layden Chili Open, a charity golf event. He was very kind when I booked him as a speaker for the Rotary Club. He was presented with a golf gift basket, and he told me, “Ahh, I’m just a half-a**ed golfer.” Frank loved the Jazz, he loved Salt Lake, he loved Utah, and he loved the people. He was what made the franchise different.
Frank retired in 1989. As time went on, something changed with the Jazz. It wasn’t just the fact that we couldn’t get a skybox anymore or that it had become a royal pain to get press passes. The team seemed less fun. In the Layden era and the years immediately thereafter, we had Hot Rod Hundley with his West Virginia accent doing play-by-play with phrases like, “With a gentle push and a mild arc, the old cowhide globe hits home,” or “This one’s in the refrigerator,” and “You gotta love it, baby!” It was commentator Ron Boone, with his insightful and sometimes thinly veiled, snarky comments.
It was Jerry Sloan. I remember in one post-game interview session, a Salt Lake reporter asked him, “Is it important to win on the road, coach?” Sloan looked at the guy like he’d grown a second head and said, “Hell, son, it’s important to win every game.” I was right in front of him and snickered over one of my "betters" getting slapped around a little. Sloan gave me a look. He didn’t smile, but we were both in on the joke.
It was Sloan’s favorite move: the pick-and-roll. Maybe it was old-school, but when the Jazz executed it, it always seemed to work. It was Hornacek rubbing his cheek before he took a shot from the foul line: a signal to his kids watching at home that he loved them. And naturally, it was always “Stockton-to-Malone.” When Stockton hit that three-pointer against the Rockets in 1997 to send the Jazz to the NBA finals, the whole state, including yours truly, lost its collective mind with joy.
Frank was gone by then, but Scot was still with the team, and the "Layden Effect" was still there. Whatever happened to the Jazz as Frank’s legacy faded, it wasn’t as fun as it used to be. There was a lesser sense of community. The Jazz went from being something special to just another NBA team. I covered the Jazz after Frank retired, but the Layden influence was still strong. His presence was still palpable. When I walked into the Delta Center with my pen, pad, and tape recorder, I got the same feeling I used to get when I was a little boy and walked through the gates of Riverfront Stadium to watch the Big Red Machine. Frank built that. His influence lingered for a while, but not long enough.
Frank was from another era, before virtual signaling, kneeling, and rainbows. Before people named Kelce and Taylor Swift. Back when sports used to unite us.
Rest in peace, Frank, and thanks for everything.
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