On the subject of the RONNIE LESTER era at Iowa...............
Olson's heart does talking
Paola Boivin
Republic columnist
Mar. 24, 2005 12:00 AM
ROSEMONT, Ill.
"Maybe you can call back on another day," the mother says. "Kenny is having a hard time speaking."
Another day. That means Lena Arnold thinks her son, a former Iowa basketball standout, will have a good day soon. That says something. advertisement
Tonight in the Allstate Arena, as Arizona tries to survive another round of the college basketball postseason, one of the fans watching is the recipient of the biggest assist of this NCAA Tournament. It was delivered by Wildcats coach Lute Olson and a group of former Hawkeyes teammates.
Kenny Arnold's speech is interrupted by silent ellipses. Words come slowly. Muscle atrophy on his right side limits his movement. The Chicago resident is a sharp contrast to the quick, fluid 6-foot-2 shooting guard who helped Olson's 1980 Iowa team to the Final Four.
Twenty-five years ago, Arnold spoke little because of his personality.
Today, Arnold speaks little because of his fate.
"Kenny was a lot like Ronnie Lester (a Hawkeyes teammate and now Lakers assistant general manager)," said Mark Gannon, another teammate. "Quiet leaders, both took good shots, played good defense. Kenny never missed a clutch free throw, and I never heard him say a negative word about another human being."
Five years after that trip to the Final Four, where Iowa lost to eventual champion Louisville 80-72 in the semifinals, Arnold was diagnosed with cancer and had a tumor removed from the left side of his brain. His teammates, a tight-knit group, knew of the surgery and knew he still faced medical challenges, but never the extent.
"I didn't want . . . to . . . be a . . . burden," Arnold said Wednesday.
When a 25-year reunion of the Final Four team was scheduled for January in Iowa City, Lester received word that Arnold didn't want to attend. That surprised Lester, who insisted on flying out to Chicago and driving to Iowa City.
Arnold's appearance startled Lester. He weighed 70 pounds fewer than his backcourt mate remembered. He was slow to move and talk. When Lester asked what happened, Arnold told him a troubling story of a man who had been turned down for disability benefits, who had no health insurance, who might have suffered an undiagnosed stroke, who was fearful his cancer had returned.
"In other words, he got chewed up and spit out by the system," Gannon said.
When the rest of Arnold's teammates saw him, they agreed they needed to help.
"That's how this group is," Gannon said. "I asked (Olson) recently, 'How did you put 15 guys together that now consider each other brothers, that all have good jobs and are good people?' Every single player has jumped in to help."
That includes Olson, who was unable to attend the reunion because the Wildcats played visiting UCLA that day. Later, he received a call from one of his Iowa players, Bobby Hansen.
"He said, 'The reunion was great, but it was a shock to see Kenny,' " Olson recalled. "He said, 'We knew we had to do something.' "
Behind Olson's CEO exterior, one that seems to exude an unlimited amount of self-confidence, beats a heart that has experienced both great success and great pain. He saw his first wife, Bobbi, lose a long battle with ovarian cancer four years earlier.
Olson knew pain. He wanted his former player to stop knowing it.
He contacted another player from that team, Mike Henry, and asked if he would fly with Arnold to Tucson so that Arnold could visit the highly regarded Arizona Cancer Center, where Bobbi Olson received treatment.
Bobbi Olson's oncologist, David Alberts, saw Arnold and referred him to Bruce Coull, the head of neurology at the University of Arizona's College of Medicine. Despite their fears, the doctors found no return of the cancer. What they did find was that Arnold was taking medication that hadn't been prescribed to cancer patients for 15 years. The drugs were causing muscle atrophy and possible seizures.
There was hope.
Arnold might have never known this if Olson hadn't paid for the flights and tests - very expensive tests - with his own money.
"I'm just glad I was able to be in that position," Olson said.
"He's amazing," Gannon said. "It's right in middle of a key Pac-10 season and he does all this. I can't say enough about Coach.
"And I'll tell you this: He's got a lot bigger heart than he does money."
Arnold's mom, Lena, called Olson "the most wonderful man."
Arnold said, "I thank God for him and for everything that's happening right now."
The former Iowa standout is feeling better. The recovery process is slow, but thanks to a trust fund set up by his teammates (contributions can be made to any U.S. Bank) there's a good chance Arnold's annual expenses - $15,000 for new medications, plus the cost of a physical therapist - will be covered.
His teammates have hired a lawyer to help him receive disability benefits so he won't have to rely on 75-year-old Lena's Social Security checks anymore.
"Thank you, Coach O," says Arnold, who then excuses himself because he is tired and can't speak anymore.
No problem. His message came through loud and clear. <!-- / message --><!-- sig -->
__________________
"What are you going to do today Napoleon? Whatever I feel like. Gosh."
-Napoleon Dynamite
<!-- / sig -->
Iowa's 1980 Final Four 'family' rallies behind ill teammate
By Greg Boeck, USA TODAY
TUCSON — To this day, Mark Gannon is convinced the 1980 Iowa basketball team would have beaten NCAA champion Louisville in the national semifinals that year if star guard Ronnie Lester had not reinjured his knee eight minutes into the game. But that haunting loss no longer consumes him or any of his Hawkeye teammates. Kenny Arnold does.
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</TD><TD class=sidebar vAlign=top width=75>Arizona coach Lute Olson shares a laugh with Kenny Arnold during a reunion Olson held for his 1980 Iowa Hawkeyes team at his home in Tuscon.</TD><TD rowSpan=2>
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A quarter-century after its magical run to the Final Four under coach Lute Olson, that overachieving team of youthful dreamers is beating the odds again — this time as middle-aged men reaching out to a stricken teammate who had fallen through the bureaucratic cracks of government and medical assistance.
In college, Arnold was a 6-2, 200-pound guard, part of that Hawkeyes team that staged a late-game rally without Lester, only to fall short, in an 80-72 loss. In 1985, however, Arnold underwent surgery for a malignant brain tumor and had chemotherapy and radiation treatment at the University of Iowa. Arnold recovered, but his physical condition began to deteriorate again several years ago.
When Arnold reluctantly attended the team's 25-year anniversary reunion in Iowa City last January, former teammates barely recognized him: He looked frighteningly frail at 120 pounds. His condition triggered another rally.
"We're playing a different game now," says Gannon, 44, a 6-6 freshman forward on that team. "And it's much more important to us."
In the past year, the Hawkeyes, all in their mid- to late-40s, have raised almost $40,000 to defray medical costs and ease the financial burden on Arnold's 76-year-old mother, who cares for her son in the same South Side Chicago home where Olson recruited him out of high school. Former teammates hired an attorney, who won disability benefits that Arnold was refused in the early 1990s.
The team members lined up doctors from Arizona to Illinois to evaluate Arnold's condition and set up their friend in a Chicago rehabilitation center, where he received physical and speech therapy.
Mike "Tree" Henry, Arnold's roommate in college and the 6-9 forward who literally had to carry his buddy last March into the office where Olson now coaches at the University of Arizona, says it's the "biggest game" his Hawkeyes have faced. "And we're winning this one," he says.
Physically, Arnold is still fragile. Although he weighs 160, no longer suffers seizures and says he "feels good," he limps with a cane, speaks haltingly and gets confused at times. However, at a holiday reunion at Olson's home in Tucson in late December, Arnold flashed that infectious smile that first galvanized this team 25 years ago.
"We were close then," says Arnold, "but we're closer now. I've been blessed. I can't put into words what they've done for me."
His mother, Lena, can. "It's amazing. It's fantastic. It's wonderful," she says. "To make it short, it's L-O-V-E. Love, that's what it is. They're all so involved."
Rallying support
When team members gathered at last January's Iowa home game against Wisconsin to reminisce the 25-year anniversary of their Final Four run, their mood swung in another direction after Arnold arrived. Arnold, who originally had said he wouldn't attend, dragged his right leg and was forced to sign autographs with his left hand.
"When we saw him, we hardly recognized him," says Gannon. "He looked like he was going to die."
They had kept in touch with Arnold and each other through the years and had occasionally seen one another. But not in recent years. None was aware of Arnold's deteriorating health.
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</TD></TR><TR><TD class=sidebar align=right>By David Sanders for USA TODAY</TD></TR><TR><TD class=sidebar>Kenny Arnold, front left, and fellow members of the 1980 Iowa squad joke around before having their picture taken at Lute Olson's home.</TD></TR><TR><TD>
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"I'd call and ask how he was doing, and he always said, 'I'm OK, I'm OK,' " says Henry, who lives in Deerfield, Ill., about 40 miles from Arnold's home. "I took him at his word."
However, Lester sensed something awry when Arnold begged out of the reunion. Lester, an assistant general manager for the Los Angeles Lakers, flew to Chicago and drove Arnold to the reunion, where his condition shocked teammates.
"We looked at each other like, 'How could this happen?' " says Henry. "We kicked ourselves for not following up closer. Kenny said he didn't want to burden us. We told him, 'We're family,' and everybody jumped on board."
In the ensuing months, Gannon, the only team member living in Iowa City, organized the fundraising effort for the Kenny Arnold Trust through the US Bank in Dubuque, Iowa. A memorabilia auction held at an Iowa City bar in May generated almost $13,000. "We're making it," says Arnold's mother.
Until the team stepped forward, she made ends meet with her Social Security check and help from her other six sons and daughters.
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Mark Gannon, a forward on the 1980 Iowa basketball team, left this letter at Lute Olson's home after the team's Christmas reunion in Tucson. He gave permission to reprint it.
12-21-05
Dear Coach O,
I am writing this letter on Wed am after a wonderful 3 days of fellowship with a group of people who helped shape my life. It is very hard for some men to express their feelings; I certainly fall into that category. I learned a lot from my mother and father, two people who set a great example on how to live life. I still regret that I had a hard time telling my father how I felt about him, I always thought I would have more time with him. God makes all the decisions and we just go on. With that being said, I hope you know how much you are loved and thought of on a daily basis by me and the rest of your former players. I spend very little time today thinking of the ways you made me a better player, however, I use your lessons in life quite often. When you think of your family you must be overwhelmed due to the size it has grown to be. I am sure all of your former players have the same feelings for you. Thank you for letting us still be on your team, we have always been proud to be your players and your friend. "Teammates for Life"
Mark Gannon
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Henry and former team manager Bob Gardner spearheaded the medical care. In March, Olson flew Henry and Arnold into Tucson. There, David Alberts, head of the Arizona Cancer Center and the specialist who treated Olson's first wife, Bobbi, who died in 2001, allayed the Hawkeyes' worst fears: Arnold was not suffering from a recurrence of cancer. Tests revealed that outdated medication caused his seizures, weight loss and muscle deterioration.
After Arnold returned to Chicago, a Northwestern doctor prescribed a rehabilitation program, which is overseen by Henry and Gardner. They also hired an attorney, who won Arnold's disability benefits. The team effort, the old Hawkeyes say, is nothing new. That's how they played.
"Everybody is digging in, doing whatever it takes to get it done," says Henry, 46, who works for Xerox. "That's what got us to the Final Four. We weren't the most talented team, but we were close-knit."
Year, team of overcoming adversity
Olson, who coached nine years at Iowa before moving to Arizona in 1983, says his first Final Four team was special from the start. They bonded quickly, their relationship cemented by a series of hurdles that tested their resolve.
In the eighth game of the season, Lester, their best player and point guard, injured his knee against Dayton. He wouldn't return until the final game of the regular season. Arnold, a quiet sophomore, moved from shooting guard to the point but played most of the season with a broken right thumb.
That same season, assistant coach Tony McAndrews was in a near-fatal plane crash returning from a recruiting trip.
"They had a lot of adversity," says Olson, "but they were a tough-minded group that lived through it."
They finished the regular season 19-8 but made the 48-team NCAA field. "We were lucky," says Olson.
Underdogs from the start, the Hawkeyes traveled east and beat Virginia Commonwealth and North Carolina State. In the East Regional, they stunned Syracuse and Georgetown. That sent them to the Final Four in Indianapolis, where they lost to Louisville in the semis and Purdue in the consolation game.
That ended that season but not the team. "We've always been there for each other," says Henry.
Even now, Gannon, in the mortgage business, says Arnold is there for them, as well. "Kenny makes the mistake of thinking we've done a lot for him, but he's done more for us. He's the teacher. We're the students. He just doesn't realize that."
Vince Brookins, a 6-5 forward who is in the distribution business in Cleveland, says Arnold is an inspiration. At the reunion, Brookins, 47, says he shared with Arnold some personal difficulties he was having; his old teammate grabbed his hand and led him in prayer.
"Here he is, in the worst situation he's ever been in, and we start to pray and he's praying for everybody else," Brookins says.
He pauses as tears well in his eyes. "That is what a team is all about — thinking more than just about yourself."
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