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Steve Lipofsky/Corbis
Steve Lipofsky/Corbis

How the NCAA Made Robert Parish Disappear

Steve Lipofsky/Corbis
Steve Lipofsky/Corbis

Hall of Fame center Robert Parish’s place in NBA history is rock solid. He won three titles with the Boston Celtics dynasty of the 80s (and added a fourth as a backup with the 1997 Chicago Bulls), made nine All-Star teams, and holds the league’s career record for games played with 1611. He must have had a dominant college career, too, right?

Yes and no. Parish was awesome, but according to the NCAA, the games he played in at Louisiana’s Centenary never took place. These competitions weren’t vacated like so many other rule-breaking squads’ wins have been, either. The games technically didn’t count even as they were being played. Let’s look at how an all-time great wound up in such a strange position.

Only a Test

Parish’s odd college career traces its roots back to his high school days and an old NCAA rule. When Parish was gearing up for his collegiate days in 1972, the NCAA used a formula known as “the 1.6 rule” that utilized standardized test scores and high school grades to predict student-athletes’ college GPAs. If a player figured to earn at least a 1.600 GPA, he or she was eligible to play NCAA sports. Parish hadn’t taken the SAT, so Centenary converted his score from an equivalent standardized admissions exam, the ACT, and plugged it into the NCAA's predictive formula.

According to a terrific feature Sam Moses wrote for Sports Illustrated in 1975, Centenary had made similar conversions to fit scores into the formula a dozen times over the previous two years. This time the college wasn't so lucky, and the NCAA warned Centenary that the maneuver was illegal. Centenary could avoid major NCAA sanctions, though, if it would rescind the scholarships of Parish and four incoming teammates who had benefited from similar conversions.

They Fought the Law

If this situation arose today, the school would almost certainly roll over to the NCAA’s wishes. But tiny Centenary, then the smallest school in Division I, held firm. The school argued that there was nothing in the rules forbidding such a test score conversion, and it wasn’t just going to suddenly tell five kids they couldn’t go to college because of some arcane NCAA policy. (As Peter May noted in his Celtics book The Big Three, the truly curious part of Centenary’s defiance is that the school could have simply gotten Parish to take the SAT and establish his eligibility. He would have only needed to earn a meager 450 on the test to become eligible.)

Of course, fighting the NCAA is only marginally less futile than fighting city hall. The NCAA dropped the hammer on Centenary to the tune of six years of probation in which the Gentlemen couldn’t appear in the postseason or have their statistics reported in NCAA publications. Even though the NCAA repealed the 1.6 Rule just four days after announcing Centenary’s sanctions, it refused to budge on Parish and his Centenary teammates.

At this point the story takes an odd turn: Rather than give in to the NCAA’s demands, Centenary decided to run out a team full of players the NCAA had ruled ineligible. More amazingly, rather than establishing their eligibility in order to transfer to schools that weren’t on NCAA lockdown, the players stuck around. Parish later told Moses, “I didn’t transfer because Centenary did nothing wrong. And I have no regrets. None.”

In Court and on the Court

Centenary even took to the courtroom to try to get the players’ eligibility reinstated, but it was no use. A federal suit ended in a judge denying the players’ request. By the time this first case had run its course, Parish’s freshman season had ended. During Parish’s junior year, the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals denied the players' appeal and upheld every element of the lower court’s decision.

While the Gents weren’t having any luck in court, they were tearing things up on the court, as a team with a seven-foot future Hall of Famer will tend to do. Parish led the Gentlemen to an 87-21 record over four years, including a 22-5 mark his senior season. He also put up ludicrous stat lines – for his collegiate career he averaged nearly 22 points and 17 rebounds a game – but the NCAA probation meant that nobody outside of Centenary’s fans, fans of the NCAA teams the Gents were dismantling, and pro scouts really knew about the monstrous career he was having. It’s easy to see why Moses’ SI piece on Parish bore the title “Invisible in the Post.”

Parish didn’t have to play in such obscurity, though. He could have jumped to the ABA and cashed in as a professional player. The Utah Stars drafted him after his freshman season, but Parish refused to make the leap to the pros. Instead he stayed at Centenary and kept winning games that – at least in the NCAA’s eyes – weren’t technically taking place. The relative obscurity didn't put a damper on Parish's NBA prospects - when he finally made his ascent to the pro ranks, the Golden State Warriors selected him with the eighth overall pick in the 1976 NBA Draft. 

The Greatest There Never Was

Parish graduated from Centenary in 1976, but the NCAA still hasn’t eased its stance on his numbers. To this day, none of Parish’s eye-popping stats appear in the NCAA’s record books, even though his career average of 16.9 rebounds per game would hold the post-1973 record by nearly two boards a game. The only real relic of the Gents’ dominant run with Parish in the middle is the 14 weeks the team spent on the old Associated Press Top 20 poll. Parish’s school days might just be the greatest college career that never happened.

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Photo illustration by Lucy Quintanilla, Mental Floss. Saint Nicholas: HULTON ARCHIVE, GETTY IMAGES. Skulls, backgrounds: iStock
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Tomb Raider: The Story of Saint Nicholas's Stolen Bones
Photo illustration by Lucy Quintanilla, Mental Floss. Saint Nicholas: HULTON ARCHIVE, GETTY IMAGES. Skulls, backgrounds: iStock
Photo illustration by Lucy Quintanilla, Mental Floss. Saint Nicholas: HULTON ARCHIVE, GETTY IMAGES. Skulls, backgrounds: iStock

Throughout history, corpses have been bought and sold, studied, collected, stolen, and dissected. In Rest in Pieces: The Curious Fates of Famous Corpses, Mental Floss editor Bess Lovejoy looked into the afterlife of numerous famous corpses, including Saint Nicholas, one of the many canonized bodies whose parts were highly prized by churches, thieves, and the faithful.

Don't tell the kids, but Santa Claus has been dead for more than sixteen hundred years. No, his body is not at the North Pole, and he's not buried with Mrs. Claus. In fact, his remains are thousands of miles away, on Italy's sunny Adriatic coast. And while Santa might be enjoying his Mediterranean vacation, he's probably not too happy about what happened to his remains. They were stolen in the eleventh century, and people have been fighting over them ever since.

Of course, the Santa Claus of folklore doesn't have a skeleton. But his inspiration, Saint Nicholas, does. That's about all we can say for sure about Nicholas: he was a bishop who lived and died in what is now Turkey in the first half of the fourth century. Legend tells us that he was born into a rich family and delighted in giving gifts. Once, he threw three bags of gold into the window of a poor family's house, saving the three daughters who lived there from a life of prostitution. Another time, he raised three children from the dead after a butcher carved them up and stored them in a vat of brine. He also protected sailors, who were said to cry out his name in rough seas, then watch the waves mysteriously smooth.

The sailors spread Nicholas's cult around the world. Within a century of his death, the bishop was worshipped as a saint, lending his name to hundreds of ports, islands, and inlets, and thousands of baby boys. He became one of the best-loved saints in all of Christendom, adopted by both the Eastern and Western traditions. Christmas probably owes something to his December 6 feast day, while Santa Claus’s red outfit may come from his red bishop’s robes. "Santa Claus" is derived from "Sinterklaas," which was how Dutch immigrants to New Amsterdam pronounced his name.

As one of the most popular saints in the Christian world, Nicholas had a particularly powerful corpse. The bodies of saints and martyrs had been important to Christianity since its beginning: the earliest churches were built on the tombs of saints. It was thought that the bodily bits of saints functioned like spiritual walkie-talkies: you could communicate with higher powers through them, and they, in turn, could manifest holy forces on Earth. They could heal you, protect you, and even perform miracles.

Sometimes, the miracles concerned the saints' own bodies. Their corpses would refuse to decay, exude an inexplicable ooze, or start to drip blood that mysteriously solidified and then reliquefied. So it was with Nicholas: at some point after his death, his bones began to secrete a liquid called manna or myrrh, which was said to smell like roses and possess potent healing powers.

The appearance of the manna was taken as a sign that Nicholas’s corpse was especially holy, and pilgrims began flocking by the thousands to his tomb in the port city of Myra (now called Demre). By the eleventh century, other cities started getting jealous. At the time, cities and churches often competed for relics, which brought power and prestige to their hometowns the way a successful sports team might today. Originally, the relics trade had been nourished by the catacombs in Rome, but when demand outstripped supply, merchants—and even monks—weren't above sneaking down into the crypts of churches to steal some holy bones. Such thefts weren't seen as a sin; the sanctity of the remains trumped any ethical concerns. The relics were also thought to have their own personalities—if they didn't want to be stolen, they wouldn't allow it. Like King Arthur's sword in the stone, they could only be removed by the right person.

That was how Myra lost Saint Nicholas. The culprits were a group of merchants and sailors from the town of Bari, located on the heel of Italy's boot. Like other relic thefts, this one came at a time of crisis for the town where the thieves lived, which in this case had recently been invaded by a horde of rapacious Normans. The conquerors wanted to compete with the Venetians, their trading rivals to the north, who were known for stealing the bones of Saint Mark (disguised in a basket of pork) from Alexandria in 827. And when the Normans heard that Myra had recently fallen to the Turks, leaving Nicholas’s tomb vulnerable, they decided to try stealing a saint for themselves.

According to an account written shortly after the theft by a Barian clerk, three ships sailed from Bari into Myra's harbor in the spring of 1087. Forty-seven well armed Barians disembarked and strode into the church of Saint Nicholas, where they asked to see the saint’s tomb. The monks, who weren't idiots, got suspicious and asked why they wanted to know. The Barians then dropped any pretense of politeness, tied the monks up, and smashed their way into Nicholas's sarcophagus. They found his skeleton submerged in its manna and smelled a heavenly perfume wafting up from the bones, which "licked at the venerable priests as if in insatiable embrace."

And so Nicholas of Myra became Nicholas of Bari. The relics made the town, and the men who stole them. The thieves became famous in the area, and for centuries their descendants received a percentage of the offerings given on the saint’s feast day. The townspeople built a new basilica to hold the remains, which drew thousands of pilgrims throughout the Middle Ages. Even today, Bari remains a major pilgrimage site in southern Italy, visited by both Roman Catholics and Orthodox Christians. Every May an elaborate festival, the Feast of the Translation, celebrates the arrival of Nicholas’s relics. As one of the highlights, the rector of the basilica bends over Nicholas’s sarcophagus and draws off some of the manna in a crystal vial. The fluid is mixed with holy water and poured into decorated bottles sold in Bari's shops; it is thought to be a curative drink.

But Bari is not the only place that boasts of the bones of Saint Nicholas. If you ask the Venetians, they will say their own sailors visited Myra during the First Crusade and stole Nicholas’s remains, which have been in Venice ever since. For centuries, both Bari and Venice have claimed the saint's skeleton.

In the twentieth century, scientists waded into the dispute. During renovations to the basilica of Bari in 1953, church officials allowed University of Bari anatomy professor Luigi Martino to examine the remains— the first time the tomb had been opened in more than eight hundred years. Martino found the bones wet, fragile, and fragmented, with many of them missing. He concluded that they had belonged to a man who died in his seventies, although because Martino was given only a short time with the bones, he could say little more.

Four decades later, Martino and other scientists also studied the Venetian bones. They concluded that those relics and the ones in Bari had come from the same skeleton, and theorized that the Venetian sailors had stolen what was left in Myra after the Barians had done all their smashing.

As for Demre, all they have is an empty tomb. And they want their bones back. In 2009, the Turkish government said it was considering a formal request to Rome for the return of Nicholas's remains. Though the bones have little religious significance in a nation that’s 99 percent Muslim, there’s still a sense in Turkey that the centuries-old theft was a cultural violation. Its restitution would certainly be an economic benefit: according to local officials, tourists in Demre frequently complain about the barren tomb, and they weren't satisfied by the giant plastic sculpture of Santa Claus that once stood outside Nicholas’s church. Even though Santa has become an international cultural icon, his myth is still rooted in a set of bones far from home.

From REST IN PIECES: The Curious Fates of Famous Corpses by Bess Lovejoy. Copyright © 2013 by Bess Lovejoy. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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