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A Visit With Ralph Miller
Once a household name in Oregon, Ralph Miller is just another resident at Black Butte Ranch, where he has lived with his wife, Jean, since bidding adieu cold turkey in 1989 to the dynasty he built and the game he in many ways invented and reinvented. Here, the former Oregon State basketball coach can sit all day in his favorite reclining chair in the dining room, smoking his ubiquitous More cigarettes while absorbing a stunning view of Black Butte and watching golfers ply the 12th fairway at Big Meadows. Miller, 81, greets visitors cheerfully and can remember his Hall of Fame coaching career in vivid detail, but the earthy split-level home offers precious little evidence of the accomplishments, plaudits and trophies he accumulated in four storied decades. At the bottom of the lower stairway, which features an electric escalator-style chair so the emphysema-weakened Miller can access his other favorite spot - the recliner where he watches sports, "Walker: Texas Ranger" and "La Femme Nikita" - is "The Wall." On The Wall is all of his most cherished memorabilia: letters of commendation from presidents Reagan and Bush, a photo that includes his former Kansas University professor and mentor James Naismith, and plaques commemorating college basketball's 17th-winningest coach of all time. The lone exception is a giant framed poster featuring Miller and a handful of his best players posing on a train outside Gill Coliseum. That single poster stands alone on a separate wall, a tribute to the team that, for Miller and the university, stands alone. The 1980-81 Orange Express. Twenty years ago this winter, Miller's Beavers were at the top of the national polls for two glorious months. They galvanized the state and captured the nation's fancy en route to winning their first 26 games. Students slept overnight on the steps of Gill Coliseum for tickets. The likes of Steve Johnson, Lester Conner, Ray Blume, Mark Radford and Charlie Sitton became household names. Hundreds of fans joined the team on charter flights and celebrated victories with the Millers in their festive hotel suites. The national media descended on Corvallis in unprecedented numbers to unlock the mystery of a program that had unseated mighty UCLA as the Pacific-10 Conference's perennial power. "It was wonderful," remembers Radford, an all-conference guard who is now a real estate agent in Portland. "I don't think we had any doubt that something special would happen. We didn't expect anything less than perfection. We expected to win every game." At the hub of the maelstrom was Miller, a Kansas native who absorbed what he learned from cohorts Naismith, the game's inventor, and a fellow legend, Phog Allen, and then devised a system of full-court pressure defense that revolutionized the game in the 1950s. Miller's teams were elegant and brilliant in their tactical simplicity. He recruited quick, fast and heady athletes who typically weren't highly touted coming out of high school, then molded them to fit his system. The only other requirement was a love of defense. In a precursor of today's famed "40 minutes of hell," Miller was the first coach to have his players press full-court after every possession. Offensively, he ran only two sets and dared opponents to stop either. Few could. To this day, Beaver Believers have vivid images of Johnson tossing a back-door bounce pass - the one circumstance where it was allowed - to a sharply cutting Blume, Radford or Conner for an easy layup. "It was like taking candy from a baby," Miller says now, barely masking his pride. "A thing of beauty." The Beavers carved up the opposition with such monotonous ease that they often felt like workers on an assembly line. In January 1981, after top-ranked DePaul was upset, OSU moved into the No. 1 spot for the first time in school history. The roll would continue for nearly two months. The Beavers were 17-0 in the Pac-10, with only six of the victories coming by fewer than 10 points, heading into a gala season finale at Gill Coliseum against No. 4 Arizona State. Meanwhile, Miller was steadily moving up in rankings for career victories, eventually passing legendary John Wooden of UCLA to move into sixth place before he retired in 1989. Not bad for a coach who got into the profession purely by accident. Taking life in stride The hallowed former coach, whose perpetual scowl earned him
the nickname "Old Whiskey Sour," is smiling warmly.
The irascible Hall of Famer, whose gruff voice and disdain for
silly questions once reduced young sportswriters' knees to quaking
jelly, beckons with a gentle, throaty "Welcome." Miller returns to his chair just as carefully as he rose, plants a leg on the table and fingers a pack of More cigarettes, the brand that has been his constant companion for 35 years. As he begins to talk cheerfully and with the blunt candor on which his reputation was built, memories pour out in sharp detail. It is as if it all happened yesterday, from his sharing a classroom at Kansas with Naismith to his ill-fated bid for a place on the 1940 U.S. Olympic team as a decathlete to OSU's unforgettable 1980-81 basketball season. Miller is largely confined to this corner of a house his son Paul designed and built 11 years ago, but he has few complaints. Sure, the need to walk with a cane forced him to give up the golf game he cherishes two years ago. The 30-step walk to the bridge room at Black Butte Ranch means he can no longer play a game he once never lost. Respirators in several corners of the home are a reminder of the price he has paid for smoking most of his life. Small matter. Doctors have finally solved the medication-induced summer tailspin that had Jean, his college sweetheart and wife of 58 years, fearing his days might be numbered in double digits - or less. He is sleeping fitfully, but no longer needs a wheelchair or walker to get around. Miller is once again accepting what the fates give, or take away, with a shrug and a wave of the hand - with two or three notable exceptions that haunt him to this day. "Life's not bad," he says, smiling again. "I'm alive. That's better than the alternative."
First attempts at coaching Ralph H. "Cappy" Miller was born in Chanute, Kan., and would become the state's top high school athlete at the time. He set the state record in the low hurdles in 1937. He was all-state three consecutive years in football and basketball. By 1940, he was beating '32 gold medalist Jim Baush in seven of 10 events in the decathlon. But fate intervened. "Mr. Hitler got in the way and tried to blow up the world," Miller recalls. "So I never got to participate." In the fall of 1937, while at Kansas University, where he was an all-conference basketball player and a standout in football, he took a physiology class. The students were seated alphabetically. Next to him was an attractive coed from Topeka named Emily Jean Milam. They were married five years later. The year before they said their vows, Miller was asked in a pinch to coach boys basketball at Mount Oread High School in Lawrence. The team consisted primarily of professors' sons. "They were smart as hell, but they didn't have much physical talent," Miller says. "I'm not sure we won a game. I think we lost every damn one. When I got out of that, I really didn't think too much about coaching. I thought there were better ways to make a living." Miller didn't have to go overseas during World War II because of knee problems that began at KU. He enlisted in the Air Force and held desk jobs in Florida, Texas and California. After the war, he became an assistant director of recreation and oversaw a swimming pool and playground in Redlands, Calif. Soon, he joined a friend in the business of hauling fruit. "They thought they'd make a fortune stocking grocery stores," Jean recalls, "but everything went wrong." In 1949, eight years after his ill-fated first attempt at coaching, a friend from Wichita, Kan., named Fritz Snodgrass sent Miller a telegram asking if he might be interested in returning to guide his son's team at East High School. Reluctantly, the Millers left sunny California and returned to their native Midwest. At East, Miller became a student of the game. He was fascinated by the full-court zone press defense that had been developed at Kansas in 1930, but he wondered why it was only used after a basket was made. Nobody could give Miller a solid answer, and so he began tinkering with ways to press after missed shots, too. His idea was to assign each player a man to guard, and when an errant shot went up, they were immediately to pick up their man. It worked. In three years at East High, Miller's teams finished second, third and first in the state using his system of execution and pressure basketball. "The experience at East more or less changed my whole philosophy about coaching," he says. "It made me cocky. I could coach with these guys, and I spent the rest of my life doing it. "All of a sudden I had my own system. I used my system for 40 years without changing the concept, so it was worthwhile." In 1951, the president of Wichita State University offered him a job. The rest is storied history.
Building a collegiate career Miller spent 13 years at Wichita State, winning 220 games, earning three National Invitation Tournament berths and a spot in the NCAA Tournament in 1964. That spring, the Millers left for the University of Iowa, where he built one of the greatest offensive juggernauts in NCAA history. The Hawkeyes averaged more than 100 points a game in 1970 and went undefeated in the Big Ten Conference en route to an NCAA Tournament berth. Miller seemed destined to build a dynasty in Iowa City. They cherished their home in the hills, and the fans offered unconditional support. But one element was too much to bear. "The last year we won them all - we were 20-0 - but it was the worst weather you could imagine," Jean Miller recalled. "It was below zero. Students had to cover their faces to avoid frostbite. That year, there was hail that killed cattle. We had to take the kids to the coliseum basement when the tornado sirens sounded. "When we got to the Final Four that year, I said, 'find a place with an opening that has a moderate climate.'" That place was Oregon State, where Paul Valenti had just stepped down. It's difficult to fathom now, but Miller's first three years in Corvallis were so rugged they contemplated returning to Kansas. One of his players, Mike Keck, was killed in a car accident on a trip to Reno, Nev. The Beavers went 12-12, 18-10, 15-11 and 13-13 in the first four years. Less than a decade removed from Slats Gill's Final Four team, fans were getting restless. Part of the issue was the perception of Miller as a demanding, harsh and militaristic leader, an image that dogged him even through the glory years. Friends who knew him as a caring father with a kind soul would plead his case, but it fell on deaf ears. Another vivid image among OSU fans was of a player making a mistake and getting benched. Once the player sat down, usually as far away from the coach as possible, Miller would slowly rise from his chair, walk slowly down the bench and tower over the offending party with pointed gestures and words. A chorus of nervous "oohs" would flow from sellout crowds of 10,000 as they watched the theatrics. Miller acknowledges that he was a demanding perfectionist. It was his way or the highway. "I had one basic concept: I am one person, the squad is many," he says. "It's easier for many to adjust to one person than for one person to adjust to 20. So you adjust to me. You either do what I want you to do, or you don't play. "My weapon was simple: You want to play? It's your choice." Further perpetuating the "Grinch" perception were sportswriters who melted in his presence. Miller had as much tolerance for inept questioning as he did for the bounce pass. One of his favorite "stupid question" stories involves another OSU legend, broadcaster Darrell Aune. Miller recalls that when they first conducted postgame radio shows together, Aune would shuffle papers and neglected to pay attention to the coach's answers. When Miller would finish talking, it was Aune's cue to ask another question. One time, Aune asked a question that Miller had already answered. On the air, Miller said, "Darrell, that's a stupid question because I just got through answering it!" Says Miller now: "We never had any more problems for the rest of my career because he listened, and we would have nice conversations about the game." Nevertheless, his image was sealed, and with a glint in his eye, Miller now says he was acutely aware of sportswriters' dread. "That's the way I liked you to be," he says. Yet largely unseen was the relationship Miller had with his family, friends and players. He rarely had disciplinary problems with his players, most of whom policed themselves on and off the court. Epitomizing this scenario was former point Gary Payton, who Miller now says is the best he ever coached, even better than former Wichita State standout Dave Stallworth. Fans assumed that Miller and Payton were two stubborn stars who constantly had a clash of wills, even in front of 10,000. Truth was, Miller says, that he and Payton never had a disagreement in the three years they were together. Payton recruited himself by showing up one day at a pregame shootaround in Berkeley, Calif. After an unknowing Miller was informed by assistants Jimmy Anderson and Lanny Van Eman that he ought to take a chance on the Oakland high school star, Payton never gave the head coach trouble. "Gary had a strange demeanor, and when he talks he always looks like he's jawing," Miller says. "People used to be concerned that I was having trouble with Gary because he'd come over to the bench and jaw at me. Well, all he ever wanted to know was, 'What do you want to do next, coach?'" And it's also worth noting that of the dozens of sportswriters who covered Miller during his 40-year career, he lists many among his friends today. He can recall only three sour media memories: His rocky relationship
with a former Oregonian columnist, the Gazette-Times' investigation
into allegations of NCAA violations in the early 1980s and a
newspaper story six years ago out of Wichita that suggested Miller
had racist tendencies. "You could say a lot of things about my husband except that he was a racist," Jean says. "He once asked his (high school) principal if he could put five black players on the court at one time. He was a young and volatile coach, but he's literally colorblind. I don't know many coaches who did more for black players than Ralph. If one player couldn't eat in a restaurant, they all ate somewhere else." Indeed, Miller was recruiting black athletes at Wichita State long before it became fashionable at many of the major southern universities. His 1980-81 team that was favored to win the national title started four black players who still maintain contact with him. The Millers toughed out their first few years in Corvallis, in part because they loved having the two youngest of their four children living here. They are grateful they did. Miller had only two losing seasons in 19 years at OSU, but even by his perfectionist standards the 1980-81 Beavers were extraordinary. The veteran team revolved around Steve Johnson, a mobile 6-foot-10 center with a wide body and a soft touch around the basket. His eye-popping 74.6 shooting percentage, an NCAA record, was a function of not only his talent but a disciplined offense that OSU ran with such precision that it established a school record for shooting (56.4). Johnson, Ray Blume and Mark Radford would be chosen all-league. Lester Conner, a junior-college transfer who was the final piece to this remarkable puzzle, and Charlie Sitton made the all-rookie team. Everybody who played for Miller had to operate within the system, and those who didn't eventually disappeared, but no team embraced his concepts like this one. "We completely believed in Ralph's system," Radford said. "It was a very simple system to master, a system where he really allowed us to groove and become very proficient at one way of playing. And we were able to master it based on a certain amount of skill level and a certain amount of hunger." Indeed, the Beavers were so focused and businesslike that they couldn't always enjoy their achievements as much as the screaming denizens who packed Gill every night. They were almost robotic in their work. Smiles were infrequent, high-fives rare, chest-thumping nonexistent. "One of my disappointments personally was that it wasn't as much fun as it could have been," Radford said. "It was too businesslike. You'd beat somebody by 20 and it should've been 30. That was the perfectionist in Ralph, but it could've been a little more fun." Miller's teams usually ran themselves and he rarely had to do much coaching once seasons began, but with this group he virtually became one of 10,000 appreciative spectators. At practice, he rarely had to say a word. Heading into the season finale against Arizona State, the Beavers were 26-0 and had earned a first-round bye in the NCAA's West Regional at Pauley Pavilion in Los Angeles. By then, OSU seemed invincible. The players believed it, and even opposing players seemed to believe it. In those rare close games, the Beavers found a way to win - and the opponent found a way to lose. "That's a certain rarity to achieve in athletics - and in life," Radford said. "People don't think they can beat you." Certainly nobody expected it at Gill Coliseum, but that's exactly what happened in the final game. Fourth-ranked Arizona State, which featured five starters who would wind up in the NBA, was the one team that had the talent to overcome the crowd noise, the precision offense, the tenacious defense. The Sun Devils shocked the basketball world by blistering the Beavers 87-67 at Gill, shattering the perfect season. Up next was Kansas State, which had won its first-round NCAA game over San Francisco and had exorcised tournament jitters. The Beavers, meanwhile, were feeling the pressure, and it didn't help that crank phone calls to the starters' motel rooms near campus kept them awake until 1:30 a.m. the previous night. Still, the Wildcats couldn't stop Johnson, and the Beavers built double-digit leads in the second half. There was no reason to think their journey to the Final Four would end on this night. But Johnson was called for two second-half charging fouls, negating two baskets, giving K-State four free throws and sending OSU's most formidable player to the bench permanently. The Beavers began committing rare turnovers. They missed free throws. Amazingly, with time ticking away, the game was tied and Kansas State had the ball. Every Beaver fan over age 25 knows what happened next. K-State's Rolando Blackman pulled up for a jump shot with Radford flying at him. Radford, who had perfected the art of "snakebite" - tapping a shooter's elbow hard enough to alter the shot but lightly enough to not get called for a foul, ticked Blackman's elbow precisely the way he wanted. Yet when he looked back, the ball was dropping through the net, giving K-State a shocking 54-52 victory. The Beavers couldn't believe it. "The shot was incredible," Radford said. "I got him and he still made the shot, and in my mind if I'd not done that, he'd have missed it." The shot wound up on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Afterward, Miller said little to the players. He usually returned to the team motel with the team, but on that night he walked the streets of Westwood alone, trying to purge the sick, empty feeling. It remains the most vivid basketball memory of his stay in Corvallis. And it's the second-most painful experience he's known, exceeded only by the death of his son, Ralph Jr., in 1986. "I was devastated," Miller said. "That trip was a bummer." It was his last best hope for a national title. He would coach eight more years, finishing with 657 wins in 38 seasons. In 1989, when he was the same age that his former mentor Phog Allen retired, he'd had enough. "Hell, I was 70," he explained. "I don't think I ever knew anybody in the coaching business who worked at 70. I looked at it this way: What more could I accomplish? I was in every Hall of Fame wherever I was associated. A high school gym in Chanute is named after me. There is a Ralph Miller Court and a Ralph Miller Avenue on campus. What's left? "When I got to 70, I was very happy to step out, and I've had no regrets whatsoever." But he left a legacy that will never be forgotten in Corvallis and around Oregon. "I never had a better coach, and I think he prepared us as good as he could and we achieved huge success," Radford said. "He had his moods and his temperaments, but he was very fair and you knew what you'd get day in and day out. There were very few surprises. "I respected him, but what I liked about playing for him was that it was a challenge. A lot of players left, so it wasn't for everybody, but I started every game for four years so obviously I had certain success with him. Not every player had what I had, and obviously it was challenging, but I don't think there's anybody quite like him. "Overall, he's a rare breed in the game." Life at Black Butte "Most people complicate it," he said of the offense. "They try to add a few more wrinkles, and that just confuses it." Most of his time is spent watching television while Jean visits with neighbors or participates in activities at the ranch. They often play gin rummy well into the evening. It takes a lot of effort to get Ralph out of the house, but the motorized chairs in both stairwells get him up and down. Once a week the couple will drive to Bend to see doctors and stop at The Gallery Restaurant in Sisters for breakfast. For a scenery break, they will drive to their other home on Yaquina Bay. They rarely reminisce about the glory days, though occasionally Jean will play tapes of games or interviews and they'll listen together. That he can't coach or golf or even play bridge hasn't affected his demeanor. "There are things that happen and you can't do nothin' about it," he said. "So I just more or less take it in stride." Miller takes another puff on a cigarette and shifts carefully in his seat. He is content to live whatever life he has left in this picturesque setting on the 12th hole. After all he has accomplished, he has reduced his life's goals
to this: Jeff Welsch is sports editor of the Corvallis (Ore.) Gazette-Times.
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