Appalachian Heritage

Just Who Is Bernie Bickerstaff? Bob Hill You may know the name. Now meet the man. Born in the poverty of Eastern Kentucky coalfields, tempered in youth by the smoldering fires of racial prejudice , he succeeded in a world ofgames— and became a man at peace with himself. Bernie Bickerstaff had forgotten his identification card, and he wasn't happy. Bickerstaff is a man who prides himself on taking care of details, on being organized , on being ready when the time comes. That was the philosophy that had lifted him from the coalfield poverty of Benham, Kentucky, to Coach of the Year in the National Basketball Association. Being organized, being ready, then making the best of it, had made him general manager of the Denver Nuggets—with the fine salary to match. Now here he was, standing in line on a chilly night at the "will call" window outside the University of Cincinnati's Shoemaker Center. He needed a floor pass to scout college players for the Nuggets, and he'd left his identification in the hotel. Bernie Bickerstaff would have to explain who he was—and where he came from—all over again. Bickerstaff doesn't like to do that. For all his charm, his quick and biting wit, his ability to be gregarious, he is also a very private man. What he believes, he believes deeply, but he came by those feelings the hard way; they are not necessarily for public consumption . Although he would never say it, there was also the sense that a man who has done all the things Bickerstaff had done shouldn't have to worry about an identification card. So he stood there in line, looking annoyed but ready to deal with the situation , when a large, prosperous-looking man in a beige sweater saw him. It was Oscar Robertson, the fabulous "Big O," a University of Cincinnati and NBA legend , one of the best who ever played the game. Robertson recognized Bickerstaff, an old friend. He greeted him warmly, took care of the floor pass and guided him inside. Oscar Robertson knew Bernie Bickerstaff. He knew where he'd come from. It's just taken the rest of us a little longer to find out. He was born Bernard Tyrone Bickerstaff on November 2, 1943, in the tiny home of his grandparents, Joseph and Georgia Bickerstaff, a boxy, four-room house heated by coal, its "bathroom" thirty feet out the back door. Joseph Bickerstaff was a coal miner, swept into Benham with a huge wave of blacks from Alabama who came to work the mines for International Harvester; he retired thirty-five years later with black lung and a small gold pin. Georgia Bickerstaff was a large, strict Christian woman; old school in every way; strong, protective, loving and proud, devoted to her children and grandchildren; a woman to be reckoned with and remembered. Bernie's grandmother helped deliver 38 him. His birth created some temporary problems. His father, Ralph Hood, never married his mother; Hood was never a factor in Bernie's life and has since died. There were no decent jobs for black women in the mountains, so Bernie's mother, Olivia Harris, moved to New York when he was two. No one was happy with this; Joseph Bickerstaff would permit the move only if Bernie stayed with his grandparents in the Kentucky mountains, where life would be better. A short time later they adopted him. "My mother would become more like a sister to me," Bickerstaff said. "My grandmother was the greatest influence in my life. She had so much of what we used to call 'mother-wit'—common sense." Bernie's grandparents were born poor and stayed that way. They never owned a car. They raised hogs on the slopes above their house, chickens in the back yard, and vegetables in a garden. Bernie watched his grandfather go off to the mines and learned about the work ethic. When it was time for Bernie to get a bath, his grandmother would drop him into a No. 2 galvanized tub. Summer nights Bernie and his grandmother would sit huddled near the radio listening to the Brooklyn Dodgers play Pittsburgh...