Personal Foul. Tim Donaghy
Pathetically, I still clung to the notion that I might somehow be able to hold onto my job. I figured that since the NBA didn’t know about the gambling I did with Jack, I might be in the clear on all of that. I even tried to convince myself that the whole thing with Ba Ba would only run until the NBA Finals, and then he would cut me loose. Clearly I was grasping at straws, trying to keep myself from facing the horrible reality of what was occurring. The lives of my wife and children had been threatened. Harm would come to them, to me, or to all of us if I didn’t give picks—winning picks—to this low-rent hoodlum.
I always stayed close to my wife and daughters during the season, and when I was on the road, I would typically call them on the phone five or six times a day. That night, my wife Kim called around 10:00 PM and she could tell I was not myself. Obviously, I couldn’t tell her what had just happened. She was peppering me with all kinds of questions: “Is everything okay? Did you see your mom and dad? What’s going on?” I just told her I was tired and we said good night.
In bed, I tossed and turned, thinking, There’s got to be a way out of this. I couldn’t go to law enforcement. Can you imagine what that conversation would have sounded like?
Donaghy: Ba Ba threatened me and said that if I didn’t give him my NBA picks, he would do something to my wife and kids.
FBI: Why did he come to you?
Donaghy: Because he knew I had been gambling on NBA games for years.
FBI: Oh really?
The next morning, I visited my parents as I always did on trips to Philadelphia. I also saw a buddy of mine who was struggling with cancer. I never said a word to anyone. Instead, I dutifully showed up at Tommy’s house at 2:30 that afternoon. Tommy was divorced with no kids and lived in a middle-class neighborhood in the Philadelphia suburb of Chichester.
When I entered the house, Tommy’s handgun was on the kitchen counter; he explained that the gun was for “protection.” What am I doing here? I thought to myself, feeling trapped. Why did I ever bet on NBA games?
In the end, I did exactly what they wanted me to do. I told them that Allen Iverson was gone from the 76ers and that because it was still early in the season, the underachieving Celtics would be competitive. I told them that Boston would start tanking games in late January or early February, but for the time being they were still playing hard. On top of that, at the pregame meeting that morning one of my fellow referees, Derrick Stafford, told us he thought Philadelphia coach Maurice Cheeks didn’t have a clue about coaching and that forward Chris Webber was washed up and couldn’t jump anymore. So at least Stafford seemed convinced that Boston was going to win. When the refs make up their minds in the pregame meeting, it often becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. That’s the type of information I used in many of my picks. That was it: I told Tommy and Ba Ba to go with Boston, and then I got the hell out of there.
That night on the court, as the national anthem played and the Boston Celtics and the Philadelphia 76ers stood at attention, I just stared straight ahead, knowing I had given Ba Ba inside information. In a lame attempt to deny complicity in the dirty scheme, I made a personal promise that I would not make any calls to influence the outcome. I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind and do my job as though it was just another game. And then, just before the anthem was finished, I looked about 10 rows up in the crowd and thought I saw Ba Ba. Oh my God, I thought. He’s here to remind me of our deal. It turned out to be just a guy who looked like Ba Ba, but the sight of that fat slob sent a chill through my entire body.
The game was a blowout: Boston won 101-81. Somehow, I was able to get lost in the game and concentrate on my job as a referee. I actually managed to put the business with Ba Ba out of my mind for a couple of hours, but then I truly disgusted myself by thinking, Wow, I’m getting $2,000 tomorrow!
I knew I was screwed and in a tight spot, but I also knew I was going to Tommy’s house the following day and getting $2,000 in cash. My gambling instincts were taking over, and I was perversely excited.
My family, my career, and my personal freedom all hung in the balance, but I was actually juiced about winning the bet. On top of that, I still thought that somehow the whole thing might blow over and I would be able to keep my job as an NBA referee. Talk about delusional! I am a compulsive gambler and I actually thought that this mess could be resolved in my favor. It’s like chasing one bad bet with another. It’s all an illusion; it’s smoke and mirrors. The only thing that’s real is the incongruity of feeling total desperation while simultaneously experiencing exhilaration and euphoria. They call that feeling the “gambler’s high,” and for reasons that defy logic, I had it—and I loved it.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Ba Ba and I met the next day and he tossed me $2,000 rolled up in a rubber band. I wondered how I would hide the money; I couldn’t put it in the bank and I certainly couldn’t tell my wife. I began to convince myself that I was making the best of a bad situation.
Ba Ba immediately wanted my next pick for a game that night. I had already done my homework, studying the master list of referees and scoping out the matchups slated for that evening. I liked San Antonio against New Orleans, primarily because of the referees. In the NBA, three refs work a game, and that night Joe Forte, Sean Corbin, and Eli Roe would be on the court. Forte always like San Antonio coach Greg Popovich and the way he ran the Spur’s organization. One vote for San Antonio. Pop was tough on refs, and I knew he could control Corbin and Roe if they weren’t giving him the calls he wanted. Corbin, in my opinion, was a weak referee, and Roe was young and not likely to stand up to the intimidating ways of a veteran coach like Popovich. So it was an easy call: San Antonio.
That night, San Antonio blew out New Orleans 103-77 and I earned another $2,000.
Through it all, I failed to realize that I had suddenly become the central figure in a Mafia-controlled gambling ring and that my picks would generate millions of dollars for the Gambino crime family. I never dreamed that within eight short months, I would be the focus of an NBA betting scandal, a target of the FBI and federal prosecutors, and a national disgrace. All I was thinking about was my $2,000 cut, what I would do with the money, and my naïve and misplaced notion that Ba Ba would eventually release me from his grasp and allow me to retreat into the shadows.
From respected NBA referee to mafioso. What the hell happened to me?
CHAPTER 2
The Education of an NBA Referee
I’ve loved basketball for as long as I can remember. When I was growing up in Havertown, Pennsylvania, I lived for the game. Morning, noon, and night I was somewhere, anywhere, shooting hoops, perfecting my dribble, working on my jump shot, and always dreaming of playing in the NBA. If there was a game on television, I was watching. I knew all the teams, each player, and every recorded statistic. Living near Philadelphia, I was a huge fan of the 76ers. In those days they had Dr. J, Moses Malone, Billy Cunningham, Mo Cheeks, and Andrew Toney. My favorite players were Doug Collins and Mike Dunleavy; they were scrappy guys who always hustled, real gamers with lots of heart and respect for the game. I played competitively through high school, but at 5’9”, a college or pro career was not in the cards. Of course, no one could convince me of that back then. I had a dream to play in the NBA and I was determined to go all the way.
A true love of the game was instilled in me at an early age by my father, Gerry Donaghy. For upwards of 30 years, he officiated basketball games in high school and college. For the last 20 years of his career as a referee he worked big-time Division I college basketball. He was a regular in the NCAA Division I Men’s Basketball Tournament and had the privilege of working the Final Four on four occasions. My dad was respected by everyone—the very epitome of honesty, integrity, and impartiality.
Being a referee was not my dad’s primary job, however. He worked for more than 30 years for General Electric in Philadelphia, retiring in 1996. Still, from late November through early March, my dad had a second full-time job, one that kept him on the road and away from his family. He worked games primarily in the ACC, Conference USA,