Personal Foul. Tim Donaghy
finishing his day at GE, he would immediately jump in the car and travel to a game destination, often making a four-hour, one-way drive. It was not unusual for him to get home at 2:00 in the morning, get a few hours’ sleep, and then start the cycle all over again. During basketball season, nothing got in the way of his commitment to the game—not the winter in the Northeast, not the long hours on the road, and not his wife and four boys back in Havertown. It seemed to me that he was gone all the time, and for those months during the season, he was.
Until I finally figured it out, his time away from home was a puzzle to me. He certainly didn’t need the headaches of monotonous travel, bad weather, angry coaches, and boisterous fans. It was something deep within him that called his name and inspired him to get in his car and drive or fly to faraway places like Chapel Hill, North Carolina, or Morgantown, West Virginia, week after week.
He knew of my enthusiasm for basketball and began bringing me along with him to road games when I was seven or eight years old. Night after night, I studied him on the court very closely: how he moved, where he positioned himself, the quiet confidence he projected, the manner in which he handled the tough situations, and the commitment he made to letting the players, not the refs, determine the outcome of the game.
My father has always been larger than life to me; a serious man with a firm hand, a big heart, and an unimpeachable character. And there was something else. Watching him in action and listening to the reverence with which he spoke of the game, I discovered his true passion. I think that’s when I made the transformation from mere basketball fan to something more. Basketball became a metaphor for something larger to me. It was about hard work, discipline, talent, tradition, fairness, and integrity.
By allowing me to get a glimpse of his world on the court, my dad unwittingly groomed me to follow in his footsteps. He knew I was nuts for everything basketball, and when he talked to me about the game he could plainly see that I hung on his every word. I like to believe that he thought I had what it took, that intangible instinct that is sometimes passed along from father to son. Although he never told me so, perhaps he wanted the Donaghy basketball legacy to continue—and I was his best shot.
If there was one thing my dad stressed to me more than basketball, it was the value of a college education. He was aware of my dream to play in the NBA, but he also knew it was a fantasy, not reality. On many occasions, he reminded me that precious few players, even talented ones, ever made it to the NBA. On the other hand, a college degree lasted forever and was something that could never be taken away. I recall driving through poor neighborhoods with my dad on frigid winter nights in Philadelphia. He would point to a homeless person huddled over a steam vent trying to get warm and say, “See that guy over there? He thought he was going to be a first-round draft pick in the NBA, so he didn’t bother with an education. See what happens?” My dad knew just how to drive a point home and, as a young boy, it made me think. The only problem was school was never my strong suit.
I grew up with three brothers who had all the brains in the family—they breezed through school with straight As while I struggled to get Bs and Cs. Bringing home my report card was not something I looked forward to. School was tough for me, and I learned at an early age that I couldn’t compete with my brothers’ grades. My options were simple: I could either be the family screwup or the funny guy. I chose the latter. A sense of humor was my way of glossing over my academic shortcomings, and for the most part it worked. People saw me as the practical joker, the guy who made everyone laugh. In my senior year of high school, I was voted class clown.
From first grade through high school I attended Catholic school where everything was very black and white—and I’m not just referring to the traditional habit worn by the sisters. Things were done one way and one way only—very strict, very orderly—which was not the best environment for a funny kid who liked to shake things up. Most of the trouble that came my way was because I was always goofing off, and I usually didn’t think of the consequences before I acted. Oh, there were other kids my age that pulled a prank or two, but for some reason I was usually the one who got caught. I suppose it was all self-inflicted. Besides, me being the master showman, my stunts were usually first-rate and always over the top—vintage Timmy Donaghy.
Sadly, my teachers never appreciated my sense of humor. In sixth grade, I once waited for Miss McNulty to walk out of the room before grabbing the only other kid in class who was smaller than me and shoving him in the closet. Then I opened the window of the third-floor classroom and waited. When Miss McNulty returned, I started screaming at the top of my lungs, “Oh my God, Miss McNulty! Richard just jumped out the window!” I thought Miss McNulty was going to die of a heart attack; she ran to the window with an ear-piercing scream. When Richard came out of the closet in one piece, she realized what I had done. Everyone in the class was laughing their ass off, but Miss McNulty wasn’t too pleased. Neither was my father when he came to pick me up that day.
Like any kid, I wanted to make my dad proud, but I could never get my act together. Growing up with three brothers didn’t make it any easier. We were very competitive, and regardless of the sport or activity, the goal was to bring home the first-place trophy. In my family, you simply didn’t come home with anything other than first place. I remember once in high school winning second place in a three-on-three basketball tournament. On the way home, I rolled the car window down and chucked the trophy over the side of the Walt Whitman Bridge in Philadelphia. It was better to come home with nothing than to be second place. I hated the feeling of not winning and would do anything to avoid it.
My parents weren’t openly affectionate, but my brothers and I knew they loved us. My mother Joan taught me the importance of family and friends. She put her family and friends above herself in a very selfless way. Mom was always there for me; she checked my homework, helped me through school, and came to every one of my baseball and basketball games. From my dad I learned the importance of a strong work ethic. Both my parents had strong values and taught us by example. For whatever reason, I didn’t always get the message. But when I messed up, my parents were adamant that I take responsibility for my actions. I was never allowed to cover anything up because “it would make it worse down the road.” How prophetic those words would turn out to be.
After finishing high school, I went to night school at Villanova University and cleaned fish in the seafood department at Super Fresh Food Market during the day. After my first semester, I transferred to day school and stopped smelling like grouper and red snapper. My friends and I had some great times at Villanova. The campus was small enough that everybody knew each other, and it was close enough to my home that some of my friends from high school would come up to visit and party.
Tommy Martino was one of my friends who’d swing by Villanova from time to time. He was a lot of fun and really knew how to make the girls laugh. Tommy was the guy who had what every college kid wanted—the car, the money, and the cute girl. He didn’t go to school and didn’t work, so partying seemed like his main occupation. I didn’t really know how he supported himself back then and I never asked. At the time, it didn’t seem like it mattered.
I graduated from Villanova in 1989—not bad for a guy who never read a book and survived almost exclusively on CliffsNotes. During college, I did some refereeing on the weekends, mostly high school games and park ball, nothing serious. But a year or so after graduation, I was sitting at the kitchen table with my parents when my mom suggested I pursue a job in the NBA. Talk about out of the blue! But for some reason her suggestion hit me right between the eyes. I had three “real” jobs after college and I hated each one. I was a sales representative for a packaging equipment and supply company, an insurance adjuster, and a sales representative for a cellular phone company. There were many days when I feared growing old behind some office desk, wilting away right along with my dreams. One thing was for sure: I never stopped dreaming about the NBA, and my mother’s suggestion was the only push I would need. So I took a shot, sent a letter to the NBA, and made a few follow-up phone calls. I never heard back.
In 1990, I decided to attend a camp in South Carolina for referees who wanted to improve their skills. Dr. Aaron Wade, who worked for the Continental Basketball Association and also helped train referees for the NBA, also attended the camp. Dr. Wade was the kind of no-nonsense guy you didn’t speak to unless he started the conversation. So when I noticed him watching one of my games,