Approaching the open door way to the gymnasium the sounds from inside painted the picture. Sneakers screeching, a ball pounding into the hardwood floor, the clanging of the rim from an errant shot, and a primal grunt from the rebounder of the misfire. The noise was born from a competitive sense of purpose and resolve. Collectively the sounds had a serious, there’s work to be done, rhythm to them. The clangor represented individual athletes attempting to demonstrate that they had the tenacity and talents that would somehow fit into the cohesiveness of a team.
There was not any roars from the crowd, nor chanting of young girls in mini- skirts. Ten young men ran up and down the court as fast and hard as they could. The scoreboard was not lit and without referees it was up to the participants to call their own fouls. I was walking into pre season pick-up basketball practice. These sessions always had an extreme intensity attached to them, and this year it appeared the players had raised their focus to an even higher level. The reason had everything to do with the young man who sat alone, five rows deep, in the otherwise vacant bleachers.
His name was Steve Moore, and he was a long way from his childhood home of Monroeville Ohio. I would have thought he was just a student checking out the action. Having seen an article, containing a photograph, pertaining to his hiring I knew it was him. Now seeing him for the first time in person I wondered how a young man of 28 , with such a boyish face, could look so weighty. It was 24 hours after Labor Day 1981, many of the 10 guys on the court and the eight others sitting against the wall I had not seen since May. As I entered Memorial Hall I felt an immediate instinctual need to show ,that on this turf ,I knew my way around.
After a bunch of handshaking and half hugs I was anxious to get myself in a game, ” who’s got winners?” Dirk Oceanik made a circling motion with his fingers, “us five,” The” us five” was made up of a majority the starting 5 of last years’ team. I looked impatiently at the remaining three, “I’m with you next.” Knowing it would be at least a half hour before my team would be ready to take the floor I headed to an open spot across the gym to loosen up. Whether they were or not, I felt the peer of that solitary spectator in the stands watching my every move.
Coach Moore apparently had seen enough basketball for the day and had vanished before I got my turn on the floor. It would be a week before I saw him again at the first pre season meeting of the men’s basketball team. The room above the gym was already filled by the time I made my entrance. I arrived precisely at the scheduled meeting time and the new head coach of the Muhlenberg Mules had already started talking:” If a meeting is at 7 that means the latest you should arrive is 6:55, anything after that and you willed be considered late,” was his opening. ” My only responsibility at Muhlenberg is to coach the Men’s Varsity basketball team. I will guarantee three things that will be true about our team as long as I am the coach: 1. We will be in better condition than our opponent. 2. We will play intense man-to-man on every possession. 3. We will be more efficient on the offensive end than any team we play against. How many wins that will translate into is an unknown, but the before mentioned will be facts about this team. Practice begins October 15th, between then and now I will be meeting with each one of you formally. ” Meeting adjourned.
As the 30 or so basketball candidates passed I remained in the doorway until they had all gone by. Entering my senior year and fourth on the team I did feel a sense of entitlement that went along with being an immature 22 year old who had an overblown perspective of his relevance. I wanted to be the last person left in the room and leave coach Moore with a chance to introduce himself to me in a personal way. Realizing the quiet young man was not going to make the first move, I approached him directly with an outstretched hand ” welcome to Allentown, how do you like it so far?” No response just a nod of the head. “I’m Rich Siegel, I will probably be the only Senior on the team this year.” Still nothing. I made one more try. “Have you found a place to live?” I sheepishly asked. Finally he spoke his first words to me directly,” I am staying in Prosser Dorm until I close on my house.” All these years later I still wish I could take back the following two sentences . “Oh Prosser, I know most of the smooth girls over there. Any time you want me to help you hook up let me know.” Now Coach Moore made eye contact. As I peck on the computer today the look on his face continues to be not erasable for me. It was a posture of disdain, pity, and disgust all rolled up into one scowl. ” I am married with two baby girls,” were his last words to me that night.
The message board on the door outside my dorm room had large black letters scrolled on it:’ Meeting with Coach Moore, his office, Friday 4:40′.” That was it. Nothing about RSVP, please confirm, or hopes that I be available. Just a pure and simple command. A mid September Friday afternoon on a college campus is easy to take. The music blared from the Frat houses, pledges pumped the beer kegs, and the new crop of co-eds were already trying to make an impression on the Greek gods . The walk from my on campus apartment was about a half mile to Memorial Hall and the athletic offices . Despite the temptations and distractions along the way I found myself securely in a chair outside Coach Moore’s office by 4:35. During the week I had decided to give up on the small talk and sophomoric jokes. This was going to strictly a business relationship between player and coach.
About one tick after 4:40 pm the door swung open and my new boss invited me in. Judging by appearance he could not be any older than my fraternity brothers. He was athletic looking with a full head of dark hair cropped much lower than the norm of the day. Even without smiling it was obvious his teeth were well taken care of . Add the dimple to his chiseled chin and coach Moore looked more like a handsome Phi Beta Kappa scholar than a basketball coach.
Already I knew this was not a man concerned with appearance or perceptions, but one focused on pure results. I didn’t know it then but this was what intimidated me the most. Our first meeting was brief, I listened to my new coach’s measured words: “Efficiency, (limited turnovers) ball distributors, and tenacious defenders is what I am looking for in my guards. I have looked at some past seasons tapes, and to me it is apparent you are not strong in any of these three areas. Unfortunately you are a Senior, which does not give you much time to develop your weaknesses. If you come out for the team and want to see playing time you will need to improve rapidly and dramatically in those areas.” I said nothing back. I could not hide the lump in my throat nor the mist in my eyes. His plans were laid out and I was not a part of them. I got up to leave and was heading for the door, but Coach Moore wasn’t done undressing me, “If you plan on trying out you must remove that earring and shorten you hair substantially.”
I felt like a punch drunk fighter as I wobbled back to my room. I was beyond wounded, I was in critical condition. This was not how my Senior year in College was suppose to begin. Grant it, I wasn’t going to the NBA, but I was good enough to have been a starter the last two years. This was my year to be a leader and shine. I had played substantial minutes over the last few seasons and considered myself a key player. The reality was that those past teams did a lot of losing and had caused the dismissal of the prior coach . The brash college boy could not register what makes perfect sense in the present. Coach Moore had a vision that I was not a part of. Very simply it was out with the old and in with the new. There I stood as the most visible representation of the old. There was a new young sheriff in town and you could feel the malaise that was the past lifting.
October 15th 1981 was a very typical fall day on campus at Muhlenberg college. It was easy to recognize the young ladies were displaying minimal exposed skin, colored leafs had started to dot the ground, and what breeze prevailed was making its first bite of the season. The winds of change were all around me and still I had made my decision to enter the eye of the storm. For the first time since kindergarten I sported a G.I. Joe haircut as I entered the equipment room in Memorial Hall to pick up my practice gear. In my entire athletic career I had never been the first person to arrive at a practice, but today was a day for firsts. I sat in front of my locker and removed whatever adornments remained on my being. I laced my high tops with unusual patience and tightened the shoe strings with an impervious edge.
There are remarkable happenings in this life that an exaggerated number of people claim they were present at. A few were actually present, while many others convince themselves it to be true. A majority of those who say “I was there”, are full of their own excreta. Every move Steve Moore made in his first season as a Division III Head Basketball coach I was a direct witness to, no bull. That October day back in 1981 at a few minutes before five pm Coach Moore walked through the doors that led to his new classroom. As much I hated to admit it at the time, what I saw I had never seen before or would never again. A determined , single minded, young man striding toward his first flock of hoop candidates with a sense of purpose and focus that could have moved the Pocono mountains. This was a person on a mission, an unstoppable missile with a direct path to its target. I have never been around anyone who’s mere presence brought the world to a halt. Although I already knew I wasn’t welcomed, I wanted to hang on to this missile for as long as I could.c
My friends questioned my motivation for trying to play a hand with the deck stacked against me. Before practice had begun it was apparent Coach Moore had been grooming the individuals he saw as playing key roles on his maiden team. It was more obvious I hadn’t been called in for any pedicures. To myself, I had answered the question as to why I found my way to practice that day. First, I had played competitive basketball for 10 straight years. I knew this was my last chance and quitting really was not an option. Second, I was considering a career in teaching and coaching and no matter what I could learn just by being on the team. Third, I didn’t like this new guy. He was spoiling the party that was to be my Senior year. In whatever battle I alone was waging, I had to find a way to get the better of this upstart.
The first three days of practice that year I felt like I had signed on to be in the army. I had never imagined you could conduct basketball try-outs without basketballs. Every second of every session under this new coach was meticulously planned and on the clock. Five minutes of stairs, six minutes jumping rope, eight minutes teaching defensive stance, 3 minutes of defensive slides, 10 minutes of screening. Directing, teaching, encouraging through it all was Steve Moore. He never raised his voice, as a matter of fact his cadence was more of a whisper than a shout . Amazingly, when he spoke you could hear the silence around him and his words resonated. A total of 34 candidates had shown up to battle for 12 spots on the Varsity squad. On the fourth day, the first one that we touched an actual basketball, 15 remained.
As November moved into December our season opening game was upon us. Mostly through voluntary attrition, I was still standing to make the final 12 man roster. Although officially not declared it was evident to me I was the last man on the team. During team scrimmages sides were divided into red and white. The players who wore red were the starters and the ones who wore white were the second team. The two remaining were just scrubs without regard to jersey color. Despite by selfish disdain for the man, in the six weeks leading up to our first game I knew I was watching a master teacher and coach on the first step of what was sure to be 1,000 mile road to triumph. In the initial weeks of our player coach relationship I cannot recall any direct verbal communication between the two of us. All messages that coach Moore sent to me were through his eyes. After I botched an assignment there was the “what is guy still doing here?”( look) After the occasional productive play I would execute there was the “son of gun, this guy won’t go down easy.”( look) My motivation every day in practice was to see the latter in my coach’s eyes.
Coach Moore’s attention was on much more than any personal battle with the 12th man on his team. He was developing his blue print for the way his team was going to play and conduct themselves. He was forging out a plan, with his personal stamp on it. Like was true with the words he chose, to Coach, less was more. The offensive and defensive schemes were not complex, but were to be executed with precision . He had a few key words and phrases he emphasized with an undeniable passion. Efficiency, desire, team, purpose, were ones he repeated over and over. Easily understood, yet rarely instituted phrases such as: we must protect every possession , the best teams have players who know, accept, and execute their roles, we will play to our strengths and exploit the oppositions weaknesses. I had heard a lot of it before, but never than ,or after, had I observed any person live those passages they preach with an uncompromising passion. How could I question a man who was so committed, so sure of himself, a man who’s presence was so much bigger than any of my selfish gripes.
On paper coach Moore’s coaching career did not get off to an illustrious start. As the Christmas break approached we were a 1-5 basketball team. Steve Moore’s first career win came on a mid-December Tuesday night, 1981, when we visited Albright College. It was third game he coached. The victory was accomplished with three freshman on the floor and two returning letterman. For the first time I did observe a smile on coach’s face in the bowels of the visitors’ locker room. But whatever celebrating he did after his first career victory was reserved. As the competition of games began there was two things I observed from this neophyte mentor. One, was that his demeanor was calculatingly measured. The low of losses came with more teaching, encouragement, and reemphasis in a belief of his system. The high of that first victory came with a” this is what is suppose to happen” and” it is just the tip of ice berg.” I remember his words that night in Reading Pennsylvania on the campus of Albright College “get use to this feeling men, winners know what it takes and expect to win every night. Keep doing what you are doing, keep listening, keeping believing, and I promise there will be many more wins like tonight in our future.
The consensus on campus, and in the local papers was that the new General at Muhlenberg had the makings of a great tactician. Despite the 1-5 record, the way the team was performing, and the competiveness of those early games seemed to be a precursor that something special was on the horizon. In the meantime the battle between the 12th man senior and the new messiah waged on through the holidays. The fight was a silent struggle of wills that only one of the combatants seemed to be focusing on. As I continued to be the obedient grunt, my commander paid me little mind. In those first six games before Christmas my warm-up jacket never came off. After each game Coach Moore made a point of shaking each of his players hands and usually offered some congratulatory words of wisdom or constructive critiques. This ritual included even myself despite not having logged a single minute of playing time. He took my hand, shook it firmly, stared at me with his deep blue eyes and without expression gave a slight nod of the head till he moved onto his next pupil.
It was January 6th 1982 and the greyhound chartered bus was about halfway to Western Maryland. I sat alone, staring out into the already faded twilight. I was a pretty out going Senior in College, but around the team I had taken on the persona of the coach. Instead of being crushed over not playing, I had found a calmness, an inner peace that made me feel everything was going to turn out for the best. I was anything but insightful back then but my sub-conscious must have been telling me I was part of something bigger than myself. In the seat in front of me sat Gary Eisenbud, a freshman who was our teams starting point guard. He initiated some small in a way that demonstrated he respected the non-basketball pecking order of seniority. He picked my brain about life in general and it wasn’t too long before he popped the question,” Rich, why are you sticking this out? All the practice, all the demands, giving up Christmas break, just to ride the bench?” The question was logical enough, and asked with a significant amount of sincerity for me not to be offended. Of course at the time there was no way I was going to reveal my true motivation to this flash in the pan, but I did give him an answer.” I am thinking of being a basketball coach and want to learn as much as I can,” was all I said and went back to peering out the window into the dark.
The game vs. Western Maryland was not going well. At halftime in our locker room was the first time I saw coach’s loud and frustrated side. “17 turnovers in one half, when are we going to learn to protect our possessions?” he shouted as he headed for the door before stopping abruptly, ” I have to go and throw up, Coach Agler (Brian Agler who is currently the head coach and general manager of the Seattle Storm ) try to talk some sense into these guys.” Coach Moore rarely sat, but as we headed to the floor to start the second half there he was alone seated on our bench. His eyes were fixated to the ground in front of him. It was the only time I witnessed Steve Moore show an expression of self doubt. His pout didn’t last more than a few moments. Before the ball was thrown up to begin the second half he was back stalking the sideline. It was not unusual for Coach to walk up and down in front of our bench during games. Once in a while during those strolls he and I made eye contact. The connection never lasted more than a fleeting second, until that night in Western Maryland. With approximately 18 minutes left in the game he stopped directly in front of me and for at least three seconds looked me up and down. It was the, ” son of a gun, he’s still here” look. “Are you ready?” I was frozen and gave no response. “Go in for Gary.”
My snap off sweats hit the floor as I knelt at the scorers’ table waiting to be buzzed into action. It was only a minute before the ball found its way out of bounds and the horn sounded for me to enter the game. I pointed at the freshman point guard who already was headed to the seat I had been warming. I remember the referee handing me the rock to inbound. Instead of any uneasiness from stage fright I was relaxed and quite possibly comfortably numb. While I certainly saw my entrance into the game as opportunity ,it was more about a hard fought, bitterly earned victory. Coach Moore had at last recognized that I was part of his team. In return I was prepared to help him move mountains. Although I had one of my personal best halves of basketball it was more about the way I played then points or assists. I had reluctantly been the loyal soldier who now had a chance to report for official duty. Managing to stay under control I flew around the court with a sense of purpose and focus that I wasn’t sure I was capable of. I sporadically checked in with my leader as he implored us on to a second half comeback. Muhlenberg outscored Western Maryland by 15 points in the second half falling just short of triumph 73-71. For the first time in my basketball career I had no idea what my line score looked like. (points, assists, etc…) I sat at my locker afterward with a towel stuck in my face to hide the flood of tears. Coach Moore did not shake my hand that night after the game like he had all those other nights . Instead, he sat on the bench next to me and put his arm around me. He said nothing . He arose from the wood bench and put his hand on top of my head. He rubbed my tightly trimmed hair for a couple of seconds and then walked away to perform his normal ritual with my teammates. I had won a battle and was prepared to go to War with a man who was on his way to becoming one of the greatest Generals of our time.
There was never an armistice signed between the two us, not even a conference. The next day in practice I couldn’t help but see the chalk board while entering the dressing room. Your shirt color for that day in practice was always posted. Under the line of red, the fifth name down, was Siegel. The Muhlenberg Men’s Basketball Team of 1981-82 would win 7 more games that season to finish 8-15. Steve Moore would never be close to having a losing season record again. After that game in Western Maryland I held on to my starting position for the remainder of our schedule. There were vivid memories, both in victory and defeat, forged in those last 16 games of my playing career. Two of those memories fortified in my mind the greatness that laid ahead for my Coach. One was in Lancaster Pa. where we played the Franklin and Marshall Diplomats in late January of 1982. F and M was a perennial power in our conference, and the Mules had not beaten them since 1972. The game was back and forth the whole way. I played the entire 40 minutes that night and in my heart never really believed we were going to win. With eight seconds remaining in the game we trailed 62-61 with Franklin and Marshall’s Donnie Marsh at the foul line. He missed the front end of a one and one, as my teammate Ken Chiawtek grabbed the rebound. Kenny outlet the ball to me near half court and I immediately headed up the floor. Rich Siegel of the past would have pounded the ball into the floor and headed for the rim. Not on this night. I couldn’t literally hear him over the crowd noise, but I could hear his voice in my head coming all the way from practices in Memorial Hall,” Ahead Rich, look ahead. ” I spotted our best player Dirk Oceanik in front of me and passed the ball to him. Dirk drove into the lane and threw up a floater that tingled the chords at the buzzer. Muhlenberg 63 Franklin and Marshall 62.
In the stairwell leading to the visitor locker room was a frenzied jumping lunatic that resembled Steve Moore. Tandem, hopping bear hugs went around with players and coach for at least 5 minutes. I am confident this was most dramatic display of celebration Steve Moore had ever put on, or would ever again. I am fully aware all these years later that before that game started their was not a sane person in that gym who thought we had a chance to win. It was a 28 year old lunatic who willed us to victory that January night. I can still see him jumping up and down.
Approximately one week after the stunning upset of Franklin and Marshall we traveled to conference leading and undefeated Dickinson. The Red Devils were known for their suffocating zone defense. They had smothered us on their visit to Allentown back in December 78-54. Coach’s plan was for us to hold the ball and force them to come out of their zone and play man to man. In a remarkable battle of wills between Muhlenberg’ Steve Moore and Dickinson’s coach Gene Evans the lowest scoring basketball game in NCAA history broke out. In a era before the shot clock, Dickinson stubbornly stayed in the their zone, and we stubbornly did not attack the basket. Dave Saylor hit a long jumper from the corner seconds before the half ended to give us a 2-0 lead at the break. Two thousand fans in Carlise Pennsylvania booed us off the floor as we headed to the locker room with a two point advantage. “We have them right where we want them,” Coach implored us at halftime. “The game is ours to win.” Dickinson scored off the first possession of the second half to knot the game at 2-2. The opposition went back into their zone, and we continued to stall. Twice, the game was stopped after I was hit by coins thrown from the crowd. With five minutes remaining the score was stuck at 2-2. “O.K., let’s beat them in a five minute game,” Moore said calmly during a time-out. The Red Devils outscored us 13-4 in that shortened contest. The fact was Steve Moore had given us a chance to win a game that appeared unwinnable. Several NCAA records were established that night that still stand. In 1987, on the fifteen anniversary of that game a coworker brought an article (Allentown Morning Call) into work about that night 15 years prior. The coworker had no idea I was a participant in the game. His connection to the game was that his daughter was married to Coach Evans’ (Dickinson) son. The article quoted coach Moore who at the time had won 360 games.” It is the most memorable game I have coached in. I will never forget that night.” My coworker who knew I was a former player asked me what I thought of the game and the strategy.” I think it was great. I was there. I played 40 minutes in that game.” “Yeah, yeah, and I was on the beaches of Normandy in 1944.”
In terms of wins and losses Steve Moore’s first season as a head coach was unimpressive. Despite the record he made a huge impact on all those who made contact with him. To opposing coaches, the Muhlenberg administration, and the Allentown community it was obvious they were observing a young man on the first leg of a long and special journey. What wasn’t as clear to everyone was the effect he imposed on a cocky, immature, mediocre at best guard , who fought against him and with him during that initial campaign. In early March of 1982 Muhlenberg Mules Men’s Basketball Team gathered for the team picture. Only 11 people occupied an otherwise empty Memorial Hall, in addition to the photographer. Coaches Steve Moore, and Brian Agler, our team manager, and eight players in uniform. After the photos were snapped seven of eight remained for a meeting regarding preparation for the next season, while the other headed out into the cold March air with a melancholy, bittersweet feeling of both deep loss and dramatic victory.
I cannot recall many direct conversations I had with Steve Moore all those years ago. The lessons I took from him came through observation. All the things that make Coach Moore a master teacher somehow were more evident to me thanmmaybe they were even to himself. His passion for his craft was uncompromising. He was more prepared than an eagle scout. He conducted his business and personal life with a sense of purpose and focus so intense it left his followers no room for doubt. The work ethic, integrity, and discipline that he wore on his sleeve surely made him a tremendous salesman to every player he recruited through the years.
By the time I graduated from Muhlenberg I was convinced I wanted to teach history and coach basketball. Although our time together was brief I knew a lot of the principles I built my program on would be modeled after my most recent mentor. I spent seven years in the classroom and on the sidelines. To be fair to myself, I was good at my trade, but even then I knew I was no Steve Moore. I couldn’t live my teachings the way my old coach did. I could not drive myself 365 days a year to put a product out on a basketball court 25 times a year for which the performances would be a reflection of my success or lack of. In 1989 I left education and coaching to pursue a career in business, family, and pleasure. The last time I had any type of communication with Coach Moore was the fall of 1987.
Thirty 32 basketball seasons have passed since that March day I departed Memorial Hall. Today I own my own Insurance Agency, and dabble at golf and writing. I have been married for 25 years and have two daughters ready to enter college. Occasionally in a spare moment I Google my old Coach to see how far his shooting rocket has traveled. After doing so I wonder if my real calling was that of a prognosticator. Coach Moore spent five more seasons at Muhlenberg, compiling an 80-47 record while capturing successive Middle Atlantic Conference Titles. He then moved back to his home State of Ohio to coach the Fighting Scots of Wooster College where he turned what was the beginning of a legend into the lore of an immortal . In this his 27th season with Wooster he has a record of 640-143 for a winning percentage of .817 giving him the best record of any coach in any division over that time. His total of 726 wins makes him 3rd all-time among division III coaches and 33rd of all colleagues who ever coached college basketball. Not one person in front of him on the ladder is younger. Steve Moore has led the Fighting Scots to three final four appearances as well as 17 NCAC championships. When the time comes for him to walk away it is quite possible he will own the best winning percentage and most wins of anybody who ever coached college basketball.
In the perspective of a lifetime the duration I was around coach Moore was the blink of an eye. Yet as the years go by it becomes more evident to me that he is the person who has most influenced who I am today. I got a firsthand look as a rocket headed for stardom was launched. I saw the direction at takeoff. It was so perfect, so pure, that hitting the target wasn’t in question. We are only waiting to see how big the impact will be. In the present there are still days I hear the screeching of sneakers in an otherwise quiet gym. My mind always connects the sound to a picture of that early September day in 1981 and the first time I got a glimpse of Steve Moore in the flesh. On occasion I can feel his eyes looking at me. Could he have ever imagined that day in Memorial Hall all the success that was in his future.? Could he have imagined the effect he would have on so many boys as they attempted to grow into men. Over the span of the last 33 years, there were multiple times I have been knocked down in life and business. I have been given up on, and on really bad days contemplated giving up on myself. In those stressful periods of self doubt and rejection I find my mind drifting back to my Senior year at Muhlenberg. I see coach Moore’s blue eyes make contact with mine. He never speaks but I always can hear his message: “Son of a gun, this guy just won’t quit.”
I witnessed Steve Moore take that first step on his journey of 1,000 miles. As his amazing career continues, the wins, and the stories about him will keep piling up. Approximately 10 years in the future someone will ask me if I read about the most triumphant college basketball coach ever and the details of his first season 45 years in the past. I can’t wait to give my reply. ” I don’t need to read it, I was there.”
