Barbara Walters Special: “A Conversation with Joe Dumars” (1985)
By Barbara Walters
In 1985, the New Peoples Sim Basketball League feels like a living museum of basketball eras colliding—fluid scorers with painterly jump shots, granite-strong post bruisers, and an incoming class of rookies trying to prove that the future belongs to them. One of the most intriguing newcomers is a soft-spoken guard from Louisiana by way of McNeese State: Joe Dumars. He is new to the Kansas City Kings, new to the bright lights, and new to the dance of microphones and cameras that follow a professional athlete.By Barbara Walters
I met Joe in a quiet corner of the Kings’ practice facility. The air smelled faintly of leather and pine resin, the soundtrack a metronome of balls on hardwood and the squeak of sneakers. Joe arrived five minutes early, sat down with a careful smile, and—despite his reputation for understatement—proved not shy about a playful jab or two. Consider me warned.
Barbara Walters: Joe, thank you for joining me.
Joe Dumars: Thank you for having me, Ms. Walters—though I’ve got to admit, sitting across from you might be tougher than guarding some Hall of Famers I’ve watched on tape.
Barbara Walters: (smiling) We’ll see about that. Let’s start at home. You grew up in Louisiana, the youngest in a big family. What did that teach you?
Joe Dumars: How to fight for the last biscuit. (laughs) Being the youngest of six boys means you learn to compete early or you go hungry. We had backyard games that felt like the playoffs—basketball, football, whatever had a ball and a scoreboard.
Barbara Walters: You were a football kid too, yes?
Joe Dumars: Absolutely. Down south, you’re practically handed a football in the delivery room. I loved the sport, but basketball spoke to me. It was more… personal. In football there’s a lot of noise. Basketball felt like this honest dialogue between you, the ball, and the man in front of you. Plus, I was polite. (grins) Linebacker never suited me.
Barbara Walters: McNeese State is not exactly a national television fixture. Did that anonymity help or hurt?
Joe Dumars: Both. It helped because I could make mistakes in peace. It hurt because you worry if anyone’s watching when you’re doing things right. But the gym in Lake Charles had a heartbeat. People knew me. Folks shouted my name not because of a program on the marquee, but because they lived five streets over and had seen me since I was little. There’s something grounding about that. It keeps you honest.
Barbara Walters: And now, suddenly, you’re here. Bigger arenas, bigger men, bigger expectations. What has shocked you most?
Joe Dumars: The pace. In college, a bad closeout might cost you a jumper. Here, a bad closeout gets you benched. The court is the same size, but the floor feels smaller because everyone is so fast, so smart. And then there’s the travel—my suitcase and I are already on a first-name basis.
Barbara Walters: How do you manage the nerves?
Joe Dumars: (smiles) By flirting with Barbara Walters? Kidding—mostly. Honestly, nerves are fuel. When I feel them, I know I care. I breathe, I listen to a little music, and I remind myself: the basket is still ten feet, the ball still weighs the same. Also, I keep the pregame meal light. If I get near Kansas City barbecue too close to tip, I’m in trouble.
Barbara Walters: You’re new to this, yet you already have admirers whispering about your composure. Where does that come from?
Joe Dumars: My family. My parents taught me that emotions don’t have to be loud to be strong. And my brothers beat the drama out of me a long time ago. (laughs) You cry when you get elbowed in the backyard? They hand you the broom and make you sweep the court.
Barbara Walters: Speaking of brothers, I’ve heard stories of a homemade goal in the Dumars yard. True?
Joe Dumars: True enough. We didn’t need fancy. We needed something to play on. Those games, those little moments—iron rim, cracked concrete—that’s where I learned to compete without complaining. You can’t argue with the ref when the ref is your brother and he’s also the center and the timekeeper.
Barbara Walters: Tell me about your first days with the Kings. Walk me through a moment that made you think, “Oh, I’m not in college anymore.”
Joe Dumars: First full practice scrimmage. I turned the corner on a pick-and-roll with a move that worked every time at McNeese. Here, the help was there before I finished the dribble. Forced me baseline, took away the passing window, and suddenly the only option I liked was the one where I didn’t dribble off my shoe. You learn humility fast.
Barbara Walters: And yet, there’s a confidence about you. Not loud, but steady. Where does it live?
Joe Dumars: In the work. I’m not the most athletic guy in the league, but I’m working on my quickness and my bounce every day. If I can’t be the fastest, I can be the first to the spot. If I can’t jump the highest, I can jump at the right time. That’s defense. That’s study. That’s pride.
Barbara Walters: You mentioned defense. A great many rookies prefer talking about their scoring. You light up when you talk about guarding people. Why?
Joe Dumars: Because defense is a promise you make to your teammates. Scoring is a handshake with yourself. Both are important, but defense says, “I’m with you.” And it travels. Some nights the shot won’t fall. The feet still can.
Barbara Walters: (grins) The feet—and the charm. You have already slipped in one compliment and two jokes at my expense. Do you flirt this much during games?
Joe Dumars: Only during free throws. (beat) And only if the reporter in the baseline seats is Barbara Walters.
Barbara Walters: I’ll have the broadcasters move my seat, then. Now, what part of your game has surprised veterans in camp?
Joe Dumars: Passing, probably. People see a guard from a smaller school and think “gunner” or “specialist.” I like to move the ball, get two feet in the paint, and make the next pass. I’m learning timing with bigger teammates—finding the window that’s open for a heartbeat and no more.
Barbara Walters: The league can be unkind to rookies. What’s the welcome been like? Any hazing?
Joe Dumars: (chuckles) Nothing cruel. Some towels went missing. A pair of shoes wandered off to a high shelf. The usual. The real hazing is the veteran who pretends he’s tired in practice and then takes your soul for five straight possessions when coach blows the whistle. You learn fast that “old man game” is a myth. Those “old” men are strong as bridges.
Barbara Walters: You were a prolific scorer in college. What does “a good offensive night” look like for you here, this season?
Joe Dumars: It’s not a number. It’s the tape after. Did I force help? Did I get to the line? Did I make the right read when they shaded me? Did I sprint the lane hard enough to pull a second defender and open a shot for someone else? If I answer yes to those, the points come on their own timeline.
Barbara Walters: You are disarmingly practical. Do you have a romantic bone in your basketball body?
Joe Dumars: (grins) I’m sitting with Barbara Walters—I’m all romance today. But honestly, the romance is in the work. In the sound of a net when you’re alone in a gym and you’ve just made nine in a row and you’re chasing ten. That tenth is poetry.
Barbara Walters: Your coach says you come early and stay late. What are you adding to your game right now—tactically, physically, mentally?
Joe Dumars: Physically, it’s quickness and vertical—short, focused sessions to squeeze a little more bounce and a little more pop into my first step. Tactically, it’s angles. How to use a screen to get a sliver more space. How to get into a shooter’s chest without fouling. Mentally, it’s the reset. Next play. Good or bad, next play.
Barbara Walters: You carry yourself like a veteran. Where did you learn that reset?
Joe Dumars: Family again. If you took a bad shot in a backyard game and pouted, somebody dunked on the low rim and told you to get over it. There was always another possession, always another way to help your team. It’s simple: sulking slows your feet.
Barbara Walters: Kansas City is a proud sports town. Have you explored yet?
Joe Dumars: A little. I can tell you which barbecue spots have lines at lunch and which have lines at dinner. (laughs) I’ve also found a quiet bookstore where they don’t recognize me—yet—and that’s been a nice place to catch my breath.
Barbara Walters: What are you reading?
Joe Dumars: A little everything. Some history, some fiction. Stories about people who kept showing up when things were hard. That’s comforting to a rookie. You’re reminded that most good things are built, not handed.
Barbara Walters: Let’s talk about fear. What scares you?
Joe Dumars: Wasting the opportunity. Not giving everything I’ve got. I don’t want to be the guy who had a chance and coasted because he liked the new jacket the team gave him. If I ever forget what it felt like to chase a ball in the backyard, someone please remind me—preferably loudly.
Barbara Walters: Consider it my personal assignment. Now, indulge me. Dream big. If everything goes perfectly, what does your career look like?
Joe Dumars: All right. I stay loyal. One franchise—build a life with a team and a city. I play with great players—guys who end up in the Hall of Fame. We win—more than once. I somehow make that Hall myself. Then I go upstairs, learn the front office, maybe win Executive of the Year if the votes are kind. I’ll bounce around a bit—learn different organizations, different ways to build. And then, when the timing’s right, I go back home to Louisiana and try to turn around the shittiest franchise in the NBA.
Barbara Walters: (laughing, bewildered) But Joe, there isn’t even an NBA team in Louisiana.
Joe Dumars: I know. (smiles) But I have a feeling they’ll get one someday. And if they do? Well, Barbara… they’ll definitely be the shittiest team in the league. Somebody will need to love them anyway. Might as well be me.
Barbara Walters: (covering a laugh) You are terrible. And possibly prophetic. I’ll clip this interview for future use.
Joe Dumars: Please do. If they call me, I’ll tell them Barbara cleared my schedule.
Barbara Walters: Back to the present. Fans often mistake quiet for timid. You’re quiet. Are you timid?
Joe Dumars: No ma’am. I’m thoughtful. And when the ball goes up, I’m competitive. Quiet can be a tactic. People talk themselves into mistakes. I prefer to listen and slide my feet.
Barbara Walters: Has any veteran given you a piece of advice that stuck?
Joe Dumars: Two pieces. One: if you’re on time, you’re late. Two: most big plays start with little details nobody sees. Step early into your shell position, bump the roller, get your hands ready—boring stuff that wins games.
Barbara Walters: What’s your favorite boring thing?
Joe Dumars: Two-handed chest pass on time, on target. The world is obsessed with highlights. I love a pass that arrives exactly when a shooter’s feet hit the floor. That rhythm feels like music.
Barbara Walters: Speaking of music, what’s in your headphones before a game?
Joe Dumars: Depends on the day. Some old soul, some funk. Something with a groove that keeps my shoulders loose. And if I’m feeling brave, something romantic—so I arrive in the arena ready to impress Barbara Walters.
Barbara Walters: (laughs) You do realize that line won’t save you from my next question, yes?
Joe Dumars: I hoped it might buy me a softer one.
Barbara Walters: Not a chance. What will success look like for you this rookie season?
Joe Dumars: Daily improvement. Fewer mistakes with the ball. Fewer fouls from bad angles. More plays where the tape shows I was in the right place early. Trust built with my teammates. If I leave April a better player than I was in November, I’ll call that a win.
Barbara Walters: And what will failure look like?
Joe Dumars: Chasing stats, ignoring defense, cutting corners in the weight room, letting travel be an excuse, letting praise be a pillow. Any of that happens, and I failed, regardless of my points per game.
Barbara Walters: You sound like a coach already.
Joe Dumars: My brothers coached me first. The league is just more polite about it.
Barbara Walters: Your reputation includes a sharp mind and a respectful manner. Where do swagger and humility meet for you?
Joe Dumars: Swagger is how your shoulders feel when you’ve done the work. Humility is remembering that someone else did their work, too. I can respect you and still try to beat you by twenty.
Barbara Walters: If I were to interview you again in five years, what do you hope I’d notice first?
Joe Dumars: That I look older and calmer, but my feet are quicker. (smiles) That I learned how to lead without shouting. That my defense became something people counted on, not just something I talked about in a rookie interview.
Barbara Walters: And in ten years?
Joe Dumars: That we hung banners. That I made the people who believed in me proud. That I stayed the same person, even if my address changed.
Barbara Walters: The rookie wall is a real thing. What will you do when you hit it?
Joe Dumars: I’ll tell on myself early. Ask for help. Sleep. Eat better. Simplify. Sometimes the best adjustment is remembering how to breathe. Also, call home. My mother’s voice fixes more than a new shooting routine.
Barbara Walters: What do you want Kansas City to know about you?
Joe Dumars: That I’m grateful, and that I’ll earn the cheers. I may not say much during a game, but I hear everything. I feel the city. I’m going to carry it with me on defense, every single possession.
Barbara Walters: Last one, and it’s selfish. Am I getting invited to one of those barbecue dinners you all keep teasing me about?
Joe Dumars: Barbara, I’ll save you a seat. We’ll even order the salad—after the ribs. And I’ll try not to be late to practice the next day.
Barbara Walters: I will personally call your coach with a character reference. Joe Dumars, thank you. I suspect this will not be the last time we talk.
Joe Dumars: I hope not. You make this rookie thing seem almost easy—almost.
Rookies can be loud or quiet, reckless or careful, charming or guarded. Joe Dumars is a study in balance: an unassuming voice that grows firmer when the subject is defense; a worker’s mentality wrapped in a gentleman’s manners; a teenager from Louisiana who steps into a professional locker room and does not try to outrun his age, only to honor it. He talks about loyalty without bravado, about winning without a sales pitch, and about the long arc of a possible life in basketball without sounding like he’s selling a fairy tale.
He blushes when he flirts, and then, just as quickly, he resets to footwork and angles, to the small truths of improvement that are almost invisible on television and essential in real life. He projects steadiness. He projects care. He projects the kind of future that is built quietly, with the same patience it takes to make ten in a row on an empty hoop when no one is watching.
And then there is the joke about Louisiana—the “shittiest franchise” no one has yet seen. It is a wink to a future not yet written, a line with enough audacity and affection that you can almost imagine it one day becoming prophecy. If it does, Joe Dumars will have been ready, because Joe Dumars is making a habit of being ready: for the next possession, for the next town, for the next conversation, and perhaps for a career that continues long after the last whistle. For now, he is a rookie with a good head, a quick step, a steady heart—and a very dangerous sense of humor.
