Freshman At Work

The play UNLV wanted, too. The Rebels would settle for anything but Macon on his own. When Causwell missed the front end of the one-and-one, Tarkanian momentarily whirled his arms to get a timeout but then waved off his own signal, leaving it to Todd's jumper to make the strategy pay off.

Temple's first loss was, like the 14 victories before it, another in a series of stolid, laborious efforts—"men at work," as Perry defines this approach to the game—characteristic of Chaney's coaching philosophy. In Biblical terms: Thou shalt not turn it over, else thou shalt pay with thine hide. Against Vegas's superior quickness, the Owls made only eight floor errors, dropping their average to an amazing 9.1 a game.

Simple. Uncomplicated. No frills. Disciplined. In 5½ years under Chaney, Temple has become the college hoop equivalent of the old Green Bay Packers. "You don't even need to scout 'em anymore," says Tarkanian. "You're prepared to stop everything they do. Then they go ahead and do it anyway."

The Owls' style and ethic not only reflect their coach's personality but also the history of Temple, a school whose founding charter written a century ago reads in part, "intended primarily for the benefit of Working Men." In 1982 Temple found Chaney, then 50, working less than an hour west on Route 3 at little Cheyney (no relation) State, where he'd become a guru among black coaches and had once won the Division II national championship.

Chaney was no stranger to Philly. He'd grown up on the south side, gone to Ben Franklin High, 10 blocks from the Temple campus, played against Lear and Rodgers and, during summers, teamed up with a young giant named Wilt Chamberlain. There were few blacks playing in Philadelphia's Big Five in those days, so Chaney went off to Bethune-Cookman in Daytona Beach, Fla., to re-emerge later in the Eastern League, where he played 10 years and reinforced his reputation as a dazzling ball handler as well as a nasty sonofagun.

"Mean?" says Chaney. "Yes, I was mean. Nobody took the ball off me, and after a while the defense was too scared to try. I deny I ever got stripped. Once somebody tried it and ended up with a broken ankle."

Chaney's playing career ended with a head-on auto collision one rainy night on yet another road trip. But as a coach he retains a competitive intensity that becomes evident just moments into any Temple game, when his unmistakable voice—a rusty needle scraping across an album of Greatest Foghorn Hits—booms over the court.

If that weren't enough to attract attention, his clothing resembles that of a victim of a sudden Delaware River flood. But even that sight is an improvement over Chaney's disheveled ensemble, complete with hunter's hat, worn on those cold mornings when the Owls wander into McGonigle Hall at 5:30 for practice and doughnuts.

Somehow it works. In the past four seasons Temple has won 25, 26, 25 and 32 games and reached the second round of the NCAA tournament each year. "The morning practices aren't that bad anymore," says junior forward Mike Vreeswyk. "It gets us up, gets us to class on time. The rest of the day is for study. Then we're free. We're sure not going to stay out late either. Of course, the man says this is best. If Coach says a flea can pull a plough, we say hitch him up."

Temple president Peter Liacouras—who last week greeted the team at the Las Vegas airport, sporting leather pants, wisecracks and soul shakes all around—knew what he was getting when he hired Chaney. At Cheyney State, Chaney's first recruit had been a kid who played with one blind eye and a bullet in his back.