http://www.nola.com/hornets/t-p/index.ssf?/base/sports-1/108892848680060.xml COMFORTS OF HOME New Hornets executive Willis Reed has experienced stardom and the big-city spotlight, but he prefers nothing more than the quiet country life and spending time with a lifelong friend Sunday, July 04, 2004 By William Kalec Staff writer RUSTON -- Where the bright lights and attention don't dare trespass, Willis Reed bought land and built a house in the only place he could ever call home. On this 60-acre sanctuary, out of place compared to the humble trailers and one-story residences from here to the freeway, are three ponds -- the signature of the property and the inspiration in naming the private drive leading to it. A novice fisherman should be able to snag a decent-sized bass in the two ponds located left of the whirling driveway, separated by a thin manmade dam. Catfish are found in the other. "I'm a Cancer," Reed says. "And Cancers like the water." It's quiet this day, as it is most early evenings when the sun is leaning on the ropes, close to throwing in the towel. A tiny rowboat the 6-foot-10 former center somehow manages to fit into comfortably is resting among the brush, the back end bobbing slightly in the water. There is another one just like it down in the second bass pond, but the tall weeds obstruct the view. Under a dying sky, it's easy to forget that the world doesn't begin and end on this sliver of seclusion. "Yeah, it's peaceful," says Howard Brown, a friend. "But they still come. Some people know Willis lives here and they stand over there and take pictures of his house. They probably don't even realize they're taking a picture of the back of his house. They probably don't care, either. Sometimes, I guess, they just want a small part of what they remember of him on the basketball court." Because when someone says the name Willis Reed, northern Louisiana, catfish, rowboats and the three ponds they're docked on never come to mind. It's always Game 7 of the 1970 NBA Finals and from the Madison Square Garden tunnel limps Reed, unknowingly creating the standard by which all subsequent acts of athletic heroism will be compared and measured. Like children playing telephone, facts from that night are slightly fuzzy in most retellings. Reed says it wasn't "a knee" hindering him but rather something much more complicated, a pain shooting through his entire leg, particularly around the thigh. We choose to forget the particulars that interfere with the story's allure, whether it is a misdiagnosis, a Hall of Fame playing career, a college and pro coaching tenure and finally a transition to the front office, most recently as the Hornets' newly named vice president of basketball operations. No, Willis Reed isn't all those things to the people snapping photos from his drive. He's the guy who played hurt. And this is where he lives. But to the left, past one of the huge mobile meat smokers found on the grounds, is another house -- smaller and on a slightly less-elevated hill. Inside, Brown (always "Coach Brown" when speaking to Reed, his longtime friend) is unwinding after catering an event all afternoon, wondering whether to pour himself a glass of wine while waiting for his wife, Cora, to return from Bible study. The two friends live on the same private property. Unlike the curious trespassers, Brown knows Reed -- the person, not the moment. They grew up in the segregated South, meeting in high school, winning a championship there and later at Grambling. Brown understands that Reed's tolerance for pain is rooted in the long summer hours spent working with his late father, in an unforgiving, hot warehouse, used mainly for storing wheat and rice, and is further strengthened by his mother, Inell, who continues to fight recent health problems. And more than anything, Brown can tell you why this isolated property is so important and so special to someone who spends much of his life in the spotlight. "You're talking about a guy who never sought the notoriety and glory," Brown said. "He's comfortable here. We're comfortable here. For me, he's done so much. I don't know where I'd be without him." A man of vision If you believe the man dressed in the immaculate suit, with the perfectly tied tie in this St. Charles Avenue members-only club, he's still a hillbilly. Those are his words. It's hard to envision, though, as Reed sits between Hornets owner George Shinn, General Manager Allan Bristow and Coach Byron Scott for this forma! The bright television lights follow Reed into the hallway where he thoroughly explains the job description and eloquently dances around inquiries involving Jamal Mashburn and other lingering question marks. Each word is calculated. According to Brown, who wasn't in New Orleans on Tuesday, that sounds a lot like Willis. But when the crowd thins and the glare is lessened, Reed adapts to his element -- propped up on a white-clothed table traditionally used for serving, not sitting. He's talking about Grambling football, trying to explain why recent exceptional seasons have been dampened dramatically by losses to Southern in the Bayou Classic. Soon he's speaking about hunting, about Howard and about home, smiling at the mention of each. The two friends met in high school, after Brown transferred from Junction City High to Westside High in Lillie. Reed cracks that Brown must have grown tired of getting blown out by Westside, kind of a can't-beat-em-join-em situation. Brown dismisses such a notion. They roomed together at Grambling -- Reed, Brown and two other basketball players, crammed into a dormitory. Both majored in physical education and intended to coach basketball and teach. Reed suggests that their lives could have easily paralleled. Brown knew it would never happen. "We all knew Willis was a special player," Brown said. "He had a vision. He had one since I knew him. But he just didn't have a vision for himself. He had a vision for others. He had a vision for me." Comfortable living on an educator's income coupled with performing odd jobs here or there -- causing Reed to gushingly refer to his friend as a "hustler" -- Brown had keys made for his famous friend. It wasn't uncommon for Reed to split offseason time between his parents' place in Bernice and Brown's house on the south side of Grambling. Reed -- an NBA superstar -- stayed in the guest room. For the longest time, Reed suggested Brown return to college for his master's degree -- a no-brainer in his opinion that would allow his former teammate and roommate to maximize his earning potential and explore alternative career opportunities within public education. Brown balked. He had everything, right here -- a job, a home. It had been nearly a decade since college. Go back, now? He couldn't imagine it. So the suggestion slowly transformed into harassment then finally a near-order as Reed tirelessly attempted to convey that Brown would earn more money for the same job if he had an advanced degree. "He finally got the message," Reed said. In 1975, Brown received his master's from Northwestern State. In the audience, Reed watched his friend walk across the stage. Reed never thought to be anywhere else but Natchitoches that night. Brown would later become a principal. The promotion would have been impossible without more schooling. They've always been there for each other -- good, bad or indifferent. When Reed's Manhattan restaurant folded, Brown bought many of the kitchen supplies. Even now, lying on Brown's kitchen counter is the local sports section from Wednesday, the banner headline reading, "Reed returns home to work." The new post will involve some involvement in personnel decisions, but more so, Reed serves as the Hornets' link to the community. Everyone knows his name, knows of his defining moment. He won't really shake hands but rather swallow them in his huge grip. His imposing figure is softened by his warm face and hair whisked with white and gray, as Reed hopes to recapture local interest after the Hornets enjoyed a brief honeymoon with the city. He claims this will be his last job -- the closest he can get to home before retiring there. "Willis has some unfinished business," Brown said. "Something big." A friend for life When the phone rings, Brown is cutting through the garage to grab a soda. The caller ID reads a New Orleans number. On the fourth ring, the machine picks up. It's Willis, leaving his new cell phone and office numbers. Rushing back in after hearing the familiar voice, Brown answers the phone while Reed is in mid-message. They don't talk long; knowing they have tentative plans to get together in Ruston this weekend. Brown is prepared but wonders if two cans of baked beans are enough to last through the holiday. They'll eat catfish. Fresh not frozen. Reed always tells Brown to never place fish in the freezer. Keep 'em on ice, he says, but not frozen. This is routine but Reed always reminds him anyway. Just a five-hour drive away, Brown suspects Reed will spend much more time on the property, originally purchased in 1989. This weekend should be the first of many reunions between friends. Expect Reed to wheel across the dam on an ATV, like he always does, looking for Brown to go fishing. The boat will be equipped and packed, thanks to Reed's meticulous manner. On the water, they might talk about the time Willis almost missed the bus to a game in high school to the dismay of assistant coach/driver Duke Fields, about playing college games in New Orleans and the pretty girls from Xavier in attendance, about future hunting plans, about nothing of absolute importance but still significant enough to listen to every word. "I don't think Willis and I can picture our lives without each other," Brown said. "His wife Gale is like a sister with my wife and we're like brothers. I think, somehow, we always knew that our ending place was right here. That we'd be doing the same things we've always done in the places we've always done them." Like so many 62-year-old men, Reed is near obsessed with his lawn and landscape. Brown says his friend's garage looks like a home improvement store -- seed, fertilizer and every instrument imaginable to disperse it. He'll spend two days at a time, caring for his seemingly endless yard. Red clay collects on his shoes -- as much a nuisance as it is nostalgia. You don't find this clay, this particular color, anywhere else. Reed's lived in cities with a racing pulse but finds comfort in the country where life moves so slowly you can count the heartbeats. While in New York, he had an escape residence an hour-and-a-half away. Nice place. Next to a lake. He could have retired there someday, and maybe the thought popped in his head once or twice. But, as hard as this is to explain and comprehend, it wasn't home. "This is where I belong," Reed said. "I'm that northern hillbilly, up in the hills with all those Baptist folks. I'm glad to be back in the state of Louisiana. This is a great time in my life. . . . when it was all over, I wanted to go home." . . . . . . . William Kalec can be reached at [email protected] or (504) 826-3413. --

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