On Thursday evening of Leap Day, 1968, I played my last game of school sports. It was the greatest team I ever played on. Also my last. There were no epic come-from-behind victories or marquee moments. No half-time speeches to inspired victories with movie-perfect moments that we remember for the rest of our lives. It was just a bunch of 14-year-old boys playing basketball after school. Our team disbanded the following day, yet those 9th grade friendships have lasted over five decades. And Jake Thomas was my favorite coach ever.
There were 16 or 17 boys who turned out, but only 11 survived the two-cut process. A sheet of paper with names was posted to the gym wall upon which mine was written. It wasn’t my basketball skills that saved me from the cut – the coach liked me. Practice began the next day and Coach Thomas had us run ‘lines.’ That meant darting up and down the length of the court, bending to touch the baseline, then back again. We then ran lines and more lines until fully exhausted, and then we ran more. I thought we were here to play basketball, but all we seemed to do was race back and forth along the gym floor.
We called him Coach Thomas to his face, but Jake, behind his back. On the second day of practice, Coach suggested we all buy white, high-top Converse sneakers, but everyone ignored his fashion tips. Jim Clem led a short discussion afterward and the next day we showed up in black, low-top Converse, everyone of course except Del Sonneson.
Each day we worked on fundamentals – dribbling, passing, set shots, jump shots, and rebounding. On defense, we learned man-to-man and zone. Coach taught us how to press and how to avoid it. We had two offensive plays, cleverly disguised by holding up one finger or two.
After drills, strategy, and more drills, we’d play five-on-five. That meant I was playing against much bigger stars like the towering Jims: Clem and Ewalt; sharp-shooters such as Wayne and Lester; and big-butt, box-out rebounders, Rick Barry and Del. With no special skills save a modicum of speed, I delighted in practice, relishing time spent running up and down the court with my pals.
Each night before leaving, we shot 25 free throws and posted results to a clipboard hanging from the gym wall. Lester Hall was particularly good – making 21 or 22 shots most nights, and sometimes even 24. I was mediocre, my best was 17. Steve McCarty, our manager kept stats during games, picked up balls after practice, and generally cared for team needs.
Those were the days my friend, I thought they’d never end. We practiced until 5 p.m., then showered for as long as we liked. In the basement locker stalls at the old junior high, we plugged drains creating mini-pools where we sloshed about. After soaking up an excessive amount of hot water, we dried off, got dressed, and then walked home with heads steaming in the cool winter air.
On Thanksgiving weekend, Coach Thomas ordered drills for Friday and Saturday, “We’re gonna run off all that turkey.” After morning sessions, Coach left the gym open for the rest of the day. We practiced, goofed off, played pick-up games, talked on the wooden bleachers about what boys talk about, took even longer showers, and walked to Mrs. Lofthus’ store for candy and soda. Could life get any better than this?
There was one slight problem with my perfect world – the actual basketball games. While practice was grand, real games were the worst. There I sat at the end of the bench patiently waiting through three and a half quarters, while disparately sneaking glances in Coach’s direction. When games were close, I knew my fate was sealed to the seat. But, if we were winning convincingly or losing badly, I’d be sent in for a couple minutes of ‘rat ball.’ It was pretty much a joke. But opposing coaches entertained the same drill by dispatching their lousy players, meaning both you and your opponents competed for fumbled passes and tossed up awkward shots.
I particularly agonized whenever Mom showed up for a home game. I felt embarrassed as she watched me not play. But she always had kind words at dinner back home. And Monday faithfully rolled around as last week’s game was soon forgotten. We were back doing the things I loved – practice, inter-squad games, 25 free throws, hot showers – the real stuff that builds bonds. Oh, how I loved practice!
I don’t recall how our season ended, but a surviving issue of The Chieftain newsletter told of our 5-2 win-loss record in early January. Our best players were top notch and we no doubt won more games than we lost.
Yet all good things must one day come to pass. As February closed in on March, so did our season. Our last game was played February 29, 1968 against cross-river rival, White River. It was our only night outing, a 7:30 tip-off in Buckley. That day’s school lunch menu read, “Meat in brown gravy on whipped potatoes, vegetable sticks, bread and butter, orange-coconut cookie, and milk.”
The final seconds ticked off the clock and our season ended. Spring sports would soon begin. Baseball was my other favorite, but I progressively lacked the required skills to compete at varsity levels. Plus, our family was traveling to Europe for six weeks that spring. We’d leave in early May so I’d miss much of the season. I didn’t turn out that spring and skipped summer league. My sporting career was skidding to a fuzzy conclusion.
As Junior High ended, we left that old three-story brick building on Porter Street and moved on to the modern high school built on the far edge of town. It was my first experience of not walking to school. Though my friends tried to convince me to turn out for sophomore basketball, I knew the gig was up. Short guys with no special skills were sure to be cut, an even greater humiliation than sitting on the bench.
In high school, I found a new team on which to compete and create bonds of camaraderie. But since you didn’t wear a jock strap, Chess was not considered a sport. That is until a fellow player, Kris Galvin and I remade our Hornet school newspaper in the image of chess. Still, no Letters Awards were presented to players on our highly successful chess squad. Yet, by its very nature, a team is a collection of comrades in pursuit of a common goal and Chess Team took us all the way to State for two straight years.
These pleasant memories of that 9th grade basketball season are as precious as those friendships cemented 55 years ago. More than half of these guys are my best friends. Only one of the eleven, Del Sonneson has passed away. Even Coach Thomas is still alive.
So, I say thank you from the bottom of my heart to Rick Barry, Jim Clem, Jim Ewalt, Lester Hall, Steve McCarty, Jim Partin, Wayne Podolak, Del Sonneson, Dale Troy, Gary Varney, and Coach Thomas.
Thanks for being part of our greatest team ever.
Post Script: In a final act of kindness and respect, Coach Jake Thomas awarded me the precious Letter that was signed by Fred Krueger our principal and the greatest coach ever.
