The winter I took on three professional athletes | Bob Shryock Column

I could lie and tell you I whipped all three blindfolded, but I'm not that kind of guy.

Bob ShryockTimes file photo 

This is about the winter I challenged  three top-level professional athletes at the zenith of their games in the late 1970s. I could lie and tell you I whipped all three blindfolded, but I'm not that kind of guy.

Pressed into service, I engaged all-world Julius (Dr. J) Erving in a foul-shooting contest, then, in a less memorable charade, volleyed simultaneously against touring tennis rivals Rod Laver and Bjorn Borg, and all I had to show for my efforts was inadvertently conking a befuddled spectator, sitting in Row Z, on his head.

Before you utter the word "Why?" you need to be informed that my Courier-Post features editor, the late Stan Goldstein, couldn't find a sane subject for the dual assignments. Why else would he pick me?

And since proceeds from each showdown were designated for charity, I good-naturedly overcame the embarrassment. Good thing, too, because in the tennis match I was beyond laughable.

A crowd in excess of 2,000 showed up to cheer Dr. J and boo me in a 10-shot foul shooting exhibition at the Cherry Hill Mall. When the guy on the PA announced us as combatants, the good doctor received a minute-long ovation. On the other hand, I received a full minute of "Who did he say that was?"

The scorecard:

I shot at the makeshift backboard first, and, amid the catcalls of the spectators, swished my shot. Dr. J also hit his initial try. If you're scoring, that makes it two 1-for-1s. Excitement city.

After the seventh try for each, the crowd getting psyched, I was 5-for-7, the Dr. J 6-for-7.

I finished 7-for-10, Dr. J 8-for 10 with a banked in shot on his last try saving the day. The crowd obviously was relieved I didn't beat their hero, because they went bonkers.

Although Julius was a great player, and a flashy one with a bevy of celebrated dunks, he was not a great foul-shooter, hence the close game.

Nonetheless, his coterie of fans would not have been amused if this chubby over-the-hill guy had been victorious.

I wasn't a bad foul shooter, having dropped 10-of-12 one night in a seventh grade game against Hagerstown, but the same can't be said for my tennis.

Unlike the foul-shooting contest, the tennis match was not remotely competitive. My assignment was simple enough: Lob Laver's and Borg's shots back at them and report in a story what it's like to volley with two future hall of famers at the same time prior to the main event.

And at best, it was comedic relief for the fans who packed the Cherry Hill Centrum to try and figure out who was attempting to fire shots back at Laver and Borg. And why.

I was at center court for seven or eight minutes and managed to return about 10 shots, whiffing the remainder or whacking tennis balls hither and yon into the surprised crowd, which should have been suited in armor.

Afterwards, while some perplexed spectators stood transfixed, or confused, I got handshakes but forgot to ask for Laver's and Borg's autographs.

I was such an exhibition afterthought that the organizers didn't even assign me my own stall in the men's locker room.

I was informed I had to dress in the community bathroom.

And figure out how to dry my pants, which during the on-court theatrics had fallen unceremoniously into the toilet.

That's just where my tennis game went.