The players, UD coach Oliver Purnell and his staff, fans and everyone associated with the program were devastated. A game that night against La Salle was canceled, but the university made the difficult decision to make the trip to New York for a weekend game at Fordham.
Bucky Bockhorn and I made it through a tough game to broadcast. I choked up completely during the introduction of the starting lineups. It was our first chance to deal with Chris’ death together, and we both felt emotionally raw as we joined the team for a meal following the 68-58 loss to the Rams.
We traveled as a group from the Bronx to Times Square and the All Star Café. The players enjoyed the bright lights and the sports ambiance of the restaurant, but try as they might to get lost in the moment, well-meaning people seeing them in their Dayton Flyers warm-ups kept offering condolences.
The sudden death of Chris Daniels and the visit of the Flyers had been played out big in the New York sports pages.
As the meal ended, the players were told they could walk around Times Square for an hour, before the bus would depart for the hotel. Assistant coach Pete Strickland approached Bucky and me, saying he needed to get away and do something to take his mind off the game and Chris. We were of the same mind and began walking with Pete.
A few blocks later we stopped at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and said a prayer for Chris and then were on our way again, destination still unknown. Pete wanted to see if we could catch a college or high school game in the area, and bought a paper. Bucky was thirsty, so we ducked into a nearby bar.
Runyon’s was very unassuming from the outside, but I recognized the name as being that of the famous sportswriter Damon Runyon, plus Bob Costas at one time broadcast a national radio show from the bar. Inside it looked like a scene from a Mickey Spillane novel, with sparse furnishings and black-and-white photos of boxers on the walls.
We ordered some beers and didn’t bother to sit down, as we had decided to go watch the St. Francis-Wagner game. Two older gentlemen were standing nearby, watching a game on the TV above the bar.
“Hey, do you guys know who won the Virginia game?” one of them asked us.
“Virginia,” I answered.
“You guys look like sports fans,” Pete said.
He had a silly grin. I could see he was up to something.
“Do you remember the old Cincinnati Royals?”
“Yeah,” one replied. “Oscar Robertson, and they also had another helluva guard, a guy from Dayton named Arlen Bockhorn.”
“Well, guess what,” Pete said. “Here he is!”
What ensued was one of the most amazing evenings of my life. Three guys from Dayton became the toast of a bar in New York City, but Pete Strickland and I were just sidekicks. The man of the hour was Bucky. He placed himself in the middle of the bar and held court.
Drinks were served, but never did we have to go into our pockets. Each time the door opened our newfound friends greeted the entrant with:
“Guess who’s here! Arlen Bockhorn!” (It sounded more like Ah-lin Back-horn.)
Bucky told stories about taking the ball out of bounds for Oscar, being hoisted into the air by Wilt Chamberlain and playing for the Flyers in the NIT finals. Time flew by and it was 2 a.m. before the stories ran out and the crowd broke up.
Once we flew back to Dayton we could resume the grieving process. There was Chris Daniels’ funeral to attend, and the attempt to regain normalcy in the season. But for one night we were the kings of New York, because we were in the presence of royalty. Cincinnati Royalty. The Legend. Bucky Bockhorn.
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