Kings’ Jerry Reynolds has a heavy heart and sweet memories in retirement
Jerry Reynolds is retired, a basketball lifer who is finally out of the arena.
At 76, Reynolds is away from the sport for the first time since he was too young to know the difference. He is no longer consumed by the Kings and the NBA, both of whom he’s had a love affair with since 1985 as a man of many roles: assistant coach, head coach, front-office man, television color voice, goodwill ambassador and perhaps the most beloved of any King. Reynolds will watch the Kings on TV this season from his Placer County home, though he is not a fan of piped-in crowd noise. He stays a little busy, recording a biweekly podcast with The Kings Herald, but mostly, he enjoys not being glued to the game that defined his adult life.
“I’m now at a stage where I don’t need to watch 10 games a day and, sadly, there were a lot of days I did that,” Reynolds said with a laugh.
His laugh masks a lot of hurt. Reynolds lost a sister to COVID-19. His 52-year-old son, Jay, is battling Stage 4 cancer. He and his wife of 53 years, Dodie, visit their son most everyday in Sacramento, to offer comfort and a hand to hold.
“He’s handling the cancer better than his mother and I are,” Reynolds said. “We’re very hopeful, and we have reason to hope. We spend as much time with him as we can. My wife and I are extremely careful with the virus, being older and me being a diabetic, so we’re on that list of risky people. We’ve become very reclusive. I still take walks, but I’m never near anyone.”
Humor has defined Reynolds over the years, be it at a Rotary Club meeting, explaining the draft or defending why he keeps 38-year old suits in the back of his closet. He provided comedic relief to a 35-year Kings run in Sacramento that includes just eight winning seasons and 10 playoff outfits.
But real-life issues reveal the human side of Reynolds, too.
“It’s just a terrible time,” Reynolds said of the pandemic and its toll. “People and businesses are getting crushed. Small-market NBA teams are in trouble. The vaccine can’t get here soon enough. There is hope. We’re all in this and we all want to get back to normal, and normal in the NBA will be with there are actual people in the stands, not plastic pictures of people. This sport needs fans, when safe, for the energy, the revenue. Basketball more than any sport is better with fans.”
Reynolds’ first public act with the Kings was nearly 37 years ago, in front of a sea of television cameras and media.
It was the last place a small-town guy expected to be, but it was also a moment that captured his humor and loyalty to his Indiana home-town roots.
Reynolds in early 1987 was named interim coach of the Kings, days after the club was outscored 40-4 in the first quarter by the Lakers in Los Angeles. That led to the termination of coach Phil Johnson and assistant Frank Hamblen.
Reynolds was the third and final coach on the roster, well before today’s era of an army of assistant coaches.
Kings owner Gregg Lukenbill was “as livid as as any human being I’ve ever seen,” said then-Kings general manager Joe Axelson on that February day. Lukenbill, vital in bringing the Kings to Sacramento from Kansas City in 1985, said then, “When the whole organization needs a swift kick in the ass, you’ve gotta do it.”
In came Reynolds, to hold the ship together, not to save it.
“First of all,” Reynolds said smiling into the camera lights for that first presser, “You’re probably disappointed that I’m not Bobby Knight. But I’ll work on my profanity if you’d like.”
Reynolds stuck to guffaws over salty words in his varied role. He said at that same news conference, “All I know is I’ll do the best job I can. If I’m not the best guy for the job, then I don’t want to have it. That doesn’t bother me. I’m not on a big ego trip. I’m a country boy. I can go back and work in the piano factory in French Lick if it doesn’t work out.”
It worked out just fine.
Another Indiana native who rose to fame in Reynolds’ time was singer John Mellencamp. Reynolds was a physical education instructor at Vincennes University in Indiana when a spirited young sort darted through his class, probably on his way to a microphone at a downtown bar.
“I had Mellencamp in my last year at Vincennes (1972), a freshman,” Reynolds said. “He went by Johnny Cougar. I could tell he was a rebel type of guy. Lasted one semester. I’m a fan of his. He hit all the buttons for me, including being a small-town guy.”
This story was originally published December 17, 2020 at 5:00 AM.