Mr. Porter

I wanted to be Howard Porter. In fact, countless times in our backyard, I was Howard Porter. Howard Porter was my first basketball hero.

On May 19th, he was severely beaten and left for dead in an alley. A week later, he died. He was 58. Although I hadn’t thought of Porter for a solid 20 years, I was shocked. And I grieved. Howard Porter was there at the beginning of a lifelong love affair.

Basketball has been in my bloodstream as long as I can remember. I played in grade school, high school and college. I even hung on for years in rec leagues and pick-up games until I ran out of meniscuses, ankle ligaments and the desire to trash talk middle-aged civil servants. It bonded me to my brothers in a way nothing else has.

I haven’t played competitive basketball in five years. And not a day goes by that I don’t miss it. Basketball was my obsession. And college basketball has been — and remains — my favorite.

Luckily , I grew up in Philly — where the heart of college basketball is located. (It’s not even up for debate, so put a sock in it New York, Indiana and Tobacco Road.)

That heart beats loudest in the Big Five. For the uninitiated, the Big Five includes LaSalle, Penn, Temple, Villanova and St. Joe’s — as well as the most heated rivalry in college basketball — St. Joe’s-Villanova. (Again, don’t even try with Duke-North Carolina, people. St. Joe-‘Nova is about hate… Philly hate. It’s no contest.)

First my sister Pam, then Trip enrolled at St. Joe’s. By default, I became a rabid ‘Nova hater.

But when I was seven years old, all I knew was that I loved college basketball and Howard Porter took Villanova to the NCAA championship game against UCLA. ‘Nova lost 68-62 but Porter was named the most outstanding player of the tournament.

A guy who played basketball three parishes away was the best player in the country. Of course I idolized him. It was 1971. Howard Porter was king. Three-time All American. Sure-fire NBA prospect. Philadelphia folk hero. Then it all fell apart.

He’d dealt with an agent during that magical season, in violation of NCAA rules. Villanova’s runner-up finish was vacated and Porter never received the MOP trophy because that was 86’ed as well.

Villanova turned him out and Porter was never really the same. He went on to a disappointing NBA career, retiring quietly in 1978. He then promptly spiraled into drug addiction.

I don’t really remember the agent scandal of ‘71. I was seven. Howard Porter was larger than life. He was the coolest person in the world. Even as my duty as a ‘Nova hater became a blood oath, I loved Porter. I followed his NBA career religiously even when it slipped into irrelevance.

By 1985 — the year Villanova pulled the greatest upset in NCAA history by beating Georgetown for the title — Porter was a broke, forgotten coke-addled mess living with his mother. He was also completely out of my consciousness. And would be until two weeks ago.

Porter had pulled himself together, gotten straight and become a probation officer in Minnesota. He had become a pillar, a role model. He had faced down the worst in himself and came out the other end better for having gone through it. He may even have lost his life to one of the people he’d been trying to help. The police don’t know yet.

I knew none of this.

Villanova eventually welcomed him back. In 1997 — 26 years after ending the greatest career in school history — they retired his jersey.

A few years ago, Jay Wright, the Villanova coach, stopped practice one day when Porter was visiting. Wright pointed at Porter and told his players, “That right there is Howard Porter, the greatest Villanova basketball player of all time.”

The players all called him “Mr. Porter.”

Once again, he was a man among boys.

Once again, he is a hero.