2003 Gold Whistle Award: Bob Delaney

By Alan Eisenstock

Bob Delaney paces slowly in the front of the room. His audience, 75 girls aged six to 14, waits. Delaney stops, points to the three letters that adorn his shirt.

"NBA. You know what that stands for?"

Nodding and a hum of acknowledgment.

Then Delaney throws them a curve.

"Never … Be … Average."

His voice punches each syllable. These are girls at risk, a far too glib phrase, defining them in any combination of abused, neglected, frightened and needy. At this moment, the girls stare in rapt attention at the middle-aged guy in the golf shirt who smiles knowingly. The girls, members of the non-profit youth organization, Girls, Inc., are trapped by him, ensnared in his charm, his cool, his movie star looks.

Never. Be. Average.

The three words echo, leaving a small rippling wake. The girls weigh the message, try it on. There is nothing average about the man who has spoken to them and, nodding again, there is nothing average about them. In the room, the only sound is their breathing.

After his presentation, Bob Delaney will patiently answer questions, then say his goodbyes and disappear. He will soon receive a bundle of thank-you notes written in heartfelt scrawls. He will answer them all, sincerely. The next night, he will return to his paying job, enforcing the laws of the NBA just as he once enforced the laws of the land. His meeting with Girls, Inc., will stay stuck in the back of his mind for some time. He’ll wonder if they heard him. He’ll shrug, not in indifference, but in resignation, because he knows that what they take from him is out of his control. He can only try to make a difference. And to keep on trying.

In 1975, there were two Bobs. The first Bob, last name Delaney, was a trim, clean-cut New Jersey state trooper with short-cropped hair, an easy smile and an upbeat personality. Bob number two, last name Covert, was an overweight, longhaired thug with a Fu Manchu mustache, bloodshot blue eyes, a permanent scowl and a short fuse. Then Bob Delaney vanished. Word was he’d either flipped out or turned bad. In fact, Delaney had become Covert and was living as an undercover police officer among thieves, racketeers and killers, commonly known as the Mob. As Covert, Delaney abandoned his former life, which included refereeing high school basketball.

"People ask me how I deal with intimidation, with what I call the ‘prison stare.’"

A crooked grin tiptoes across Bob Delaney’s face.

"We have some pretty tough players in our league. But they don’t rank up there with Mob guys who have a couple hits next to their names."

Three years later, when he finally emerged from behind his Fu Manchu, Delaney spent his time testifying in front of Senate subcommittees, and was reassigned to surface police work.

"I had to adjust to living a normal life again. For three years, everything was put on hold. A portion of my life was frozen. But once I got back into a gym and experienced that incredible high school basketball atmosphere again – families and kids and all that’s good in our society – that jump-started my passion. I got back into refereeing."

At the same time, Delaney’s police work shifted to hostage negotiation. One day, after Delaney refereed a high school game in Neptune, N.J., one of the coaches introduced him to Dick Bavetta, NBA referee and supervisor of officials for the Jersey Shore Summer Pro League. Bavetta invited Bob to attend his and Lee Jones’s referees’ camp in New York City. Delaney attended the camp, then worked the Jersey Shore Summer League, where he met Darell Garretson, then the director of NBA officials. Garretson offered him the opportunity to officiate in the L.A. Summer Pro League. Next stop, the Continental Basketball Association, which – three years later – led to the NBA. It was 1987.

He is a picture of poise in a black workout suit and black high-tops. A video camera zooms in tight to his swimming pool blue eyes. A microphone dangles two inches from the top of his head. A white-hot light scorches his face.

The director for NBA Films says, "Go," and Bob Delaney recounts his years as an undercover cop. Delaney’s voice is measured and smooth, his words colorful and carefully chosen. He is a natural storyteller. He knows how to build suspense and where to find every punchline. He describes Bob Covert, his former alter ego, the Mob moke who went nightclubbing decked out in wide-lapeled suits and pinkie rings. Covert spent money furiously, drank and cursed constantly. Suddenly, Delaney leans forward in his chair, gestures expansively, lowers his voice, dumbs down his vocabulary and becomes Bobby Covert. It is a character right out of The Sopranos and a performance worthy of DeNiro.

Delaney played the central role in one of the most significant undercover Mob stings in history. He succeeded because he was intelligent, savvy, an excellent actor and a fearless cop. Mostly though, he succeeded because he deeply, passionately believed that what he was doing was right. Bottom line: Bob Delaney is one of the good guys. And although he would never use the word, there are those in the New Jersey State Police, the FBI and U.S. Senate who would, in fact, consider him a hero.

"Bob is so modest, he doesn’t know how much he really does for people."

Bob’s wife, Billie, blond, beautiful, voice lightly dipped in a Texas drawl, smiles as she remembers her deceit.

"When I read about last year’s Gold Whistle Award in Referee, I knew the perfect candidate for this year. I was living with him."

Billie contacted NASO, wrote a letter of nomination, solicited letters of support and silently spearheaded the campaign on her husband’s behalf.

"I had to sneak around so he wouldn’t find out. I wanted it to be a surprise. He was shocked when he found out and I was so happy, I cried."

Bob shakes his head. "Everybody knows that I am not a speechless guy, but when I found out I was being considered for the Gold Whistle, I was speechless. I know the history of the award. I know the names. Tommy Nunez, for example, is a fellow (NBA) official and someone I’ve known for years. To be recognized in the same sentence as Tommy? I know what Tommy does, how he gives of himself. I mean, it is just humbling."

Billie, her long runner’s legs tucked beneath her on the hotel room’s couch, tilts her head at her husband who sits next to her.

"You had no idea, did you?" she drawls.

Bob counters in his salty New Jersey twang. "B., I was clueless."

Bob Delaney remembers the moment he learned to care.

"I grew up in Paterson, N.J. When I was 10 years old, I tried out for the St. Mary’s Elementary School Little League team, the Blues. Back then, playing ball for the Blues was the big thing. There must have been 40 kids who tried out. They only had spots for 20 kids. I made the team. My dad went to the coach of the Blues and said he was going to form another team, the St. Mary’s Whites, for the kids who didn’t make the Blues. Now, I’m not even playing on that team, but my father didn’t want those other kids to be left out, to have nowhere to go."

Delaney pauses, nods his head once.

"The St. Mary’s Whites didn’t have uniforms or equipment, so my father and mother organized fundraisers at the church to raise money for the team. I mean, their son was taken care of; they could’ve walked away. But they stepped up, just to help other people. When I ask myself, how come I like to get involved in so many things? It’s because of my mom and dad. That’s the kind of family I came from. My dad was the kind of man I hoped to be. I grew up with my role model right across the table from me."

From grammar school at St. Mary’s through high school at Neumann Prep, Delaney excelled in sports, especially basketball, becoming All-State as a high school senior. His parents and younger sister, Kathleen, were regulars in the stands, cheering him on, although "my sister probably got sick of being dragged to every game." After school and on weekends it was more sports in the neighborhood with his buddies, blue-collar kids, sons of firefighters, postal workers and, like his dad, cops.

"My dad was a New Jersey State Trooper. He retired as a captain after 30 years. I never thought I’d be a cop. When I was about 19 years old, it hit me that each person can make a difference. That’s what attracted me to the profession. It wasn’t that my father was a cop; it was that I could help people."

Bob Delaney joined the ranks of the New Jersey State Police in 1973. One of the casualties of becoming a cop was his basketball career.

"I wanted to coach, but my schedule wouldn’t allow it. We worked two days on, two days off; we literally lived at the station. I knew that in order to stay in the game, I had to referee. I started out officiating fifth through eighth grade games. Saturday afternoons, I’d work six games in a row at a Catholic Youth Organization or at the Police Activities League. The fact is, when you talk to other referees, that is how we all started out."

Delaney shifts his weight, searches for comfort on the hotel couch. "You talk about wanting to help. There was a moment …"

He pauses, blinks once.

"When I was a young trooper, I got called on a break-in and entry at this home. When I walked inside, I saw an older gentleman, who was the father of the woman who lived there. Her husband had been killed by a drunk driver two weeks earlier. Fourteen days later, the house was still set up for the dinner that the husband was coming home to. Some … bum … had read this man’s obituary. That is a technique that criminals use. They look at an obituary, find the time of the viewing, and when everyone’s at the funeral home, they hit the house.

"I didn’t know any of that when I walked into that house. I thought the family was getting ready to sit down to dinner. Until I spoke to her father, I didn’t know that the woman had not been able to come back into the house for two weeks. She was traumatized. She didn’t know how to put her life back together. That night was my first step in understanding victims.

"You look at the disabled adults and children of southwest Florida who are the main focus of the fundraising that we’re involved with now. These people were dealt a bad hand in life. They didn’t have a choice. They don’t feel sorry for themselves. They go forward. But somebody’s got to be there to help them, the same way that woman needed help getting through that time when her husband was killed. That’s what’s been the motivating force for me. Helping victims. Having the letters NBA next to my name allows me to get some things done and raise some money."

Delaney suddenly smiles and catches his wife’s eyes. She squirms on the couch and he smiles wider.

"What?" Billie says.

"Just looking at my girl here," Delaney says, eyes locked on her. "We’re married two years –"

"– People think it’s more like 20 –" Billie says.

"– We finish each other’s sentences," Bob says.

"It’s unbelievable," Billie says.

"She is so involved. She just doesn’t like the limelight. I’m the talker –"

"– I’m better behind the scenes –"

"– For example," Bob says, "Billie is running in the L.A. Marathon for Easter Seals, which is part of the Meadows Golf Tournament, which we started seven years ago to benefit the disabled children and adults of southwest Florida. It’s now become a gala event the night before: auction, dinner, entertainment, with the golf tournament the next day. The tournament is a 100-hole challenge, a marathon, and we decided to tie that idea into Billie’s running of the L.A. Marathon. We asked people to sponsor Billie for a dollar a mile, or whatever they could afford. We’re up to $6,000 in pledges for tomorrow’s marathon."

"The goal is to get the entire community involved," Billie says.

"There’s a kid – Bryan Montgomery – whose parents own Monty’s pizza parlor, where we go to eat all the time. Everybody in town knows that Billie’s running and we’re doing the golf tournament. Well, the kid says to his mom and dad, how about we have a night where kids from my school eat pizza for free, but we’ll have a pot here and whatever money they donate, we’ll give to Easter Seals. The word spreads. The Sarasota Red Sox is the minor league team in our area. Opening night, two dollars off every ticket goes to this event. It’s not our idea for the pizza thing. It’s not our idea for the baseball thing. Those ideas were generated from the original idea of the golf tournament. That’s how it started to become a community event."

"Bob is involved in so many things," Billie says.

Delaney flicks his hand in the air as if he’s brushing away a fly.

"The Michelle Wells Golf Tournament," Billie prompts him.

"Well, yeah," Bob says. "The sheriff in our area, Charlie Wells … his daughter was killed by a drunk driver. The tournament was named after her. All the money goes to the local youth ranch. The youth ranch is for kids who haven’t been able to catch a break. For example, there are these two kids who don’t know who their father is and their mother is a junkie. She just left them on the street in Key West. She’s signed off all papers, making them wards of the state. Great kids – 13 and 11. We spend time with them over at the cottage where they live with professional parents. We hang out with them whenever we can."

"The youth ranch is only five miles from where we live and our neighbors didn’t even know it existed," Billie says. "Once you’re exposed to it, it gives you the drive to do something, to help. Oh, there is another project we’re involved in, Project Heart."

Delaney’s eyes grow wide. He leans forward.

"This is something we read about in the newspaper. This is in our own backyard. There were about 70 homeless children in the school system. Their families are too proud to take any kind of federal assistance. They’ve lost their jobs. They were living in cars, in parking lots, using the public bathrooms. A teacher named Deborah Bailey started Project Heart. She began by just asking for clothing. We donated some clothes and generated some dollars and it’s become another passion. These kids are in school with our kids. This is not something that you see on TV that’s happening millions of miles away. You’ve got to step up."

"You’ve got to serve somebody," wrote Bob Dylan. The words seem written for Delaney. He lives to serve. It was only natural that he would serve eight years on the National Basketball Referees’ Association Executive Board.

"I’m proud of that," Delaney says. "That’s our union; those are our guys."

During his tenure on the board, Delaney involved the NBA referees in aiding the victims of two of our country’s worst disasters.

"September 11 had a profound effect on all of us and personally affected the NBA referees. Lee Jones’s son, Brian, was killed in the towers. Because of my contacts in the state police and the FBI, I was able to arrange to take all of the referees down to Ground Zero. It was about 10 days after the attacks. Before we went, we all threw some money into the pot. We ended up with close to $60,000 that we gave to the Twin Tower funds.

"Ground Zero was an unbelievable experience. We visited a couple of firehouses. We stayed for a couple of hours. Those firemen and police officers were so drained … they needed a release, someone to talk to. When we were leaving, the firemen were standing outside, waving goodbye. It was like two o’clock in the morning, this one fireman yells at me, "Hey, ref, don’t forget, don’t mess with our Knicks this year.’

"It underlined to me how sports is such a necessary diversion. The same diversion it was for me when I came out from undercover. For a few minutes, we were able to take their minds off of the horror they were dealing with. I remember one cop saying to me: ‘I cry from the minute I leave this place until I get home. Then I stop crying because I don’t want my family living through all the agony I’m living through. I want to put on a happy face for them. Or at least a face that helps them understand that we’re going to get through this. When I get back to work, I want to be strong for my fellow cops, and citizens, and firefighters.’ It was amazing how they opened up to us. The relationships that developed between the referees and some of the firemen and police officers still exist today."

The other event was in 1995, after the Oklahoma City bombings.

"The trials were being moved from Oklahoma City to Denver," Bob remembers. "From having dealt with victims, I knew that the people who’d lost loved ones needed to be there. I’d heard about a victims’ travel fund. At our next union meeting, I said, ‘United Airlines has agreed to offer a special round-trip fare for the victims’ families. If we could donate a couple hundred dollars each …’ The referees stepped up. We raised almost $8,000. We held a press conference and I gave the money to the United Way. We knew that the eight grand would only help so much, but we were hoping to get some media attention. After that press conference, money started pouring in. We got close to $100,000 for the families."

"It’s in their eyes," says Delaney. "When you help someone, especially kids, they say thank you with their eyes."

He clears his throat, doesn’t fight the smile that appears on his face. "Every Christmas we give gifts at the Manatee County sheriff’s youth ranch. Charlie Wells started a boot camp to give kids an option other than jail. Some of those kids never have visitors, even at Christmas. Each year, we put Christmas gifts together, wrap them, put their names on them. We go there for dinner, then afterward, we hand out the gifts. Their reactions are so interesting. We’re used to seeing kids rip off the paper. These kids unwrap their presents without tearing anything. Some of them unwrap them, then wrap them again, because they want to have the thrill of opening them again. These kids have never had a gift given to them. Some kids start acting up toward the end of their time at boot camp because they don’t want to leave. They figure if they act up, maybe they’ll get sentenced to another term. One kid told me, ‘I’ve never had a bed to myself. I don’t mind being here. I’ve got people who care about me here.’ If you show somebody that you care about them, it’s amazing how that makes their life so much better."

Delaney looks over at Billie. Instinctively, wordlessly, they entwine their fingers, forming one hand. "It’s as basic as the one painting we have in the –"

"– Center of our home," Billie says. "Norman –"

"– Rockwell," Bob says.

"Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. The painting has every ethnic background, every walk of life –"

"– Muslim, Catholic, Jew, black, white, American Indian. Every person, every group is in there. That’s what it’s all about, living together, helping each other."

To Delaney, living any other way is a mystery, an impossibility. Then, as if to illustrate that, Bob Delaney – former state trooper, undercover operative, hostage negotiator, union leader, current NBA referee and 2003 Gold Whistle Award winner – scratches his head.

"I believe that giving of yourself is not a choice; it’s a responsibility. I have a pretty good life and I want to share what I have. There are givers and takers in life." He looks sideways and then smiles. "It’s a lot more fun being a giver."

Alan Eisenstock, a freelance writer from Pacific Palisades, Calif., has officiated baseball and basketball. He co-authored Inside the Meatgrinder with NFL official Chad Brown. His latest book, Ten on Sunday: The Secret Life of Men, is currently available from Atria Books.