Free Dream Team by Jack McCallum

United States, however, there was considerable interest. Immediately after the Final Four in Seattle, a group of men from ABAUSA, the body that governed amateur basketball in the United States, flew to Munich for the FIBA meeting. Their official role was to cast a no vote on the resolution, a vote they all knew was pointless because it was obvious that the Inspector of Meat would not have called the meeting if he didn’t have the votes.
    Dave Gavitt had just been elected ABAUSA president and, as such, would be the official voter. He voted no, but what he really wanted to say was yes. By that time, Gavitt had already paid a visit to the NBA offices, where he told Stern and Granik: “Look, we’re going to vote no, but it’s going to pass. You better get ready to decide how you want to handle this.”
    Stern had an idea: the NBA would simply buy the Olympic team from ABAUSA.
    “It’s not for sale,” Gavitt told him. “It’s the country’s team. What you need to do is become part of ABAUSA, and I promise you that in putting together the committee we will protect you andmake sure you have the majority of representation coming from the NBA.”
    It was Gavitt’s insistence that the NBA buy in lock, stock, and barrel that made all the difference in the end. While others feared the coming of the monolithic NBA, Gavitt saw the advantages. For one thing, the amateur organization—which depended primarily on funding from the U.S. Olympic Committee (USOC) and a half-assed contract with Converse that was worth about $300,000, a sum that Nike was tucking into the soles of Jordan’s shoes by then—was nearly broke. The NBA, its Michael/Magic/Larry renaissance still building, was awash in cash. Gavitt suggested that if NBA Properties could step in and do the marketing, everyone would benefit. Stern said okay.
    In amateur basketball circles, Gavitt had done it all, seen it all. He had been a successful and respected coach and athletic director, one of the masterminds behind the creation of the Big East Conference, and, most impressive, the moving force behind the expansion of the NCAA basketball tournament into a billion-dollar bonanza. Soon after the amateur vote, the Boston Celtics would come calling, naming Gavitt CEO. Like many college guys who went to the pros in some capacity—Rick Pitino, Jerry Tarkanian, John Calipari, Lon Kruger, Leonard Hamilton, Tim Floyd, and that is not the end of the list—Gavitt would find that jump a long one, Beamonesque in its difficulty. But that would have no bearing on his importance in what was to become a sea change in Olympic basketball. “In many ways, Dave was the classic college guy,” says Russ Granik, “but he was also someone who saw the whole picture.”
    About basketball, Gavitt was both visionary and romantic. He died at 73 in September of 2011, but in 2010, during a memorable lunch in his hometown, Providence, he conjured up a long-ago evening from the mid-1970s, when he was coaching a college all-star team in Athens. “We were playing a night game and there must’ve been thirty thousand people there and the Acropolis was in the background with a full moon,” Gavitt remembered. “I had chills.”
    Gavitt never spoke from a bully pulpit. He was smooth, awork-the-room diplomat who played both sides and from the beginning knew which side was going to win. Still, Gavitt had to mute his enthusiasm for the idea of open competition, for he was, after all, heading a group that was observing its own extinction.
    “For me it was kind of simple,” Gavitt told me. “I felt that people in our country should have the same rights to represent their country as everyone else. I never bothered to lobby the college community with that opinion because they were squarely against it. They were against pros playing in the Olympics. Period.”
    After Gavitt had cast the no vote on behalf of the United States and the resolution had passed, he asked for the floor. “Now that we’ve done