Personal Foul. Tim Donaghy
was clear to me that the league was complicit in the culture of fraud and often wielded its awesome power to steer and direct the way games were played, officiated and, worst of all, decided. Protecting superstars, ensuring marquee big-market matchups, and prolonging playoff series were of primary concern to NBA big shots, and the faithful throng of referees did its part to please the bosses in the league’s New York office.
I’ve seen all the skeletons in the NBA’s closet. When I sat down with FBI investigators, they wanted to see those skeletons for themselves. In giving this account of my life in the NBA, I am making public the events that unfolded as I worked with the FBI in its effort to obtain a full picture of my involvement regarding betting on professional basketball games.
After my fall from grace, many people encouraged me to write a book and share my experiences. There were times when I winced at the notion of opening myself up to further public scrutiny. But in the end, the decision to write this book afforded me the opportunity for genuine self-examination and introspection. What personality traits do I possess that compelled me to lie and deceive? Why would I engage in risky behaviors when my life was so completely satisfying? How could all this happen to a nice kid from suburban Philadelphia who was living his boyhood dream?
The answers to those questions are painful to admit, but admit them I do. More importantly, I have embraced my faults with vigor and have developed a healthy desire to keep them in check. After writing this book, I sat back and read it beginning to end, shaking my head and wondering who in the heck this guy named Tim Donaghy was. For me, there have been times when he was incredibly difficult to recognize.
Despite much public speculation, gossip, and rumor, it is often the case that only those on the inside truly know the full story. Keeping in mind that the truth is usually stranger than fiction, this book is my inside account of the wild and often predictable world of NBA basketball. This is my story.
CHAPTER 1
Ba Ba and the Black Sheep
Tommy Martino drove a Lotus. So when he pulled up to the curb behind the wheel of a four-door Honda that night, I had a bad feeling. It was December 12, 2006, and I had been patiently waiting for Tommy in front of the Philadelphia Marriott near the airport. Reaching for the front passenger door, I glanced through the window and laid eyes on the last guy in the world I wanted to see. There he was, James “Ba Ba” Battista, flashing me a crooked smile that could only mean one thing: trouble.
Like Tommy and I, Ba Ba was a student more than 20 years ago at Cardinal O’Hara High School in Springfield, Pennsylvania. Ba Ba played football with my older brother Jim and with Tommy’s brother Johnny. Back in those days, Ba Ba thought he was a big tough guy, always lifting weights and wearing tight shirts that showed off his pecs; I thought he was kind of goofy, a cartoon character who was constantly flexing his muscles. Ba Ba never saw a mirror he didn’t like. We were both Catholic school guys in small-town Pennsylvania and always friendly to each other, but I never considered him my friend. As a matter of fact, I thought I was better than he was. Better family, better looks, better athlete, better future. Little did I know that one day our names would be linked and that we would wear the same badge of dishonor for the rest of our lives.
By contrast, Tommy was a true friend whom I maintained contact with over the years. He was the quintessential mob-guy wannabe, always dressed to the hilt with perfectly groomed black hair, a dark Mediterranean complexion, and flashy jewelry. Only 5’4”, he may have been slight of stature but he walked tall with style and confidence. Tommy had a heart of gold and a knack for being hilariously funny. And as for the women, he always wore the best-looking girls on his arm. It was hard not to like Tommy.
Although I stayed in touch with Tommy, I hadn’t seen Ba Ba in years. I knew that Ba Ba was a bookie and a professional gambler; Tommy had told me that much. Apparently, Ba Ba was doing very well—a nice house, wife, and kids. Tommy, on the other hand, had a job as a computer technician at a local bank. He never went to college, but he was a smart guy and a straight shooter. At least that’s what I thought.
Since graduation, I had been pursuing my passion officiating basketball, and in 1994 I made it all the way to the top: I became a referee in the National Basketball Association. That same year, Tommy called me at my home in Havertown, Pennsylvania. “Ba Ba wants to talk to you,” he said. By then Ba Ba was heavily into gambling, a guy who in his own words “makes bets, places bets, and moves money.” He considered himself a professional money mover, and he actually listed his occupation as “professional gambler” on his tax forms.
“Why does he want to talk to me?” I asked cautiously.
“Are you gonna be on the up and up with the NBA games?” he asked me. In other words, would I be willing to give Tommy and Ba Ba inside information on how the games were going to come out?
I was enraged and demanded that Tommy get Battista on the phone. “Don’t ever call me again,” I warned him. “I’ll turn you in.”
They backed off, and a dozen years went by before Tommy raised the subject again. By 2006, Battista had become a high-level bookmaker with connections to the Gambino crime family. Tommy served as his driver, running him from Philly to New York to pick up or drop off large sums of cash. I knew Tommy was involved with Ba Ba, but I didn’t know the whole story. To be honest, I really didn’t want to know. It turns out that Battista, who had long since quit working out and had ballooned to over 300 pounds, was not an actual member of the Gambino crime family, but Tommy did talk about how he was “connected.” If Tommy and I were talking on the phone and he mentioned that Ba Ba was in the house, I’d tell him, “Okay, I’ll talk to you later.” To his credit, Tommy had told Ba Ba after that initial approach in 1994 that I was really pissed and that I wanted nothing to do with him. Supposedly, Ba Ba let it go…at least until that night at the Marriott.
Over the years, I had become quite the sports gambler myself. Maybe it was all that downtime on the road as an NBA referee. Maybe I just needed something to fill my days. Whatever it was, I began betting on golf, baseball, football, and eventually pro basketball.
Lots of people make bets, but for an NBA referee, gambling is seen as the kiss of death. The NBA was so concerned about the integrity of the game that it contractually required referees to abstain from all forms of gambling, with the sole exception of horse racing during the off-season summer months. No casinos, no cards, no office pools, not even a wager over a friendly game of golf. Nothing! For a good Catholic boy from Philly, an innocent wager might qualify as a venial sin, at worst. But in the NBA, gambling was a mortal sin punishable by eternal damnation. I knew the rules going in, but for reasons that to this day are difficult to articulate, I did it: I gambled. And worst of all, I bet on pro basketball.
For bets that required a bookie, I relied on the connections of Jack Concannon, yet another high school friend of mine. Jack and I had mixed results on most wagers, but when it came to pro basketball, our winning percentage was off the charts. The reason for our success was simple: because of my years of experience in the NBA, I was intimately familiar with the other NBA referees, their strengths and weaknesses, and their unique relationships with various players, coaches, and team owners. That’s all it took. If I knew which referees were working a particular game, I could generally pick the winner or at least cover the spread. Predicting the outcome of a game using my subjective formula proved to be unbelievably easy. Let me explain.
Allen Iverson provides a good example of a player who generated strong reaction, both positive and negative, within the corps of NBA referees. For instance, veteran referee Steve Javie hated Allen Iverson and was loathe to give him a favorable call. If Javie was on the court when Iverson was playing, I would always bet on the other team to win or at least cover the spread. No matter how many times Iverson hit the floor, he rarely saw the foul line. By contrast, referee Joe Crawford had a grandson who idolized Iverson. I once saw Crawford bring the boy out of the stands and onto the floor during warm-ups to meet the superstar. Iverson and Crawford’s grandson were standing there, shaking hands, smiling,