A ham-handed mixture of fawning adulation for the ""marvelous, magical, supersuperstar,"" coach-like platitudes, and grandstanding vignettes, including an opener which describes a playground game of one-on-one in terms that mimic a street fight. Strip away the posturing and you have a less substantial profile than Haskins' plainly-called Dr. J. (1975), and of course Sabin too stops short of this fall's trade and the hometown following's disillusionment. A forfeit.