On a Thursday night, 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 an inspired victory with movie-perfect moments to 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 lasted over five decades. And Jake Thomas was my best coach ever.
There were 16 or 17 boys who turned out, but only 11 survived the two-cut process. A sheet of paper was posted to the gym wall and my name was written. My basketball skills didn’t save 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 ran lines and more lines until fully exhausted, and then 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.
The Boys’ gym where our 9th grade team ran lines. Our school nickname was the Chieftains.
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. Jim Clem led a short discussion afterward and we all agreed to ignore his fashion tip. 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 formations. 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; sharpshooters like Wayne and Lester; and the 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.
Enumclaw Junior High – the gym was on the second floor with windows on the south and west walls. The locker room was in the basement below.
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, we thought they’d never end. We practiced until 5 p.m., then showered for as long as we liked. In the basement shower 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 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 girl, music, and life, 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 this 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 sneaking desperate glances in Coach’s direction. If games were close, my fate and butt were sealed to the bench. But, if the team 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 lousiest 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 to have her watched me not playing. But she always had kind words back home at dinner. As Monday faithfully rolled around, last week’s game was soon forgotten. We were back together doing things I loved – practice, inter-squad games, 25 free throws, and 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 end. As February ended so did our season. Our last game was played on 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 was done. Spring sports would soon begin. Baseball was another of my favorites, but I progressively lacked the required skills to compete at varsity level. 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 for baseball and skipped summer league. My sporting career skidded to a fuzzy conclusion.
When Junior High ended, we left that old three-story brick building on Porter Street and moved to the modern high school built on the edge of town. It was my first experience of not walking to school. Though my buddies tried to convince me to turn out for sophomore basketball, I knew my 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 where I could compete and create bonds of camaraderie. But since you didn’t wear a jock strap, Chess wasn’t considered a sport. That is until a fellow player, Kris Galvin and I remade our Hornet school newspaper in the image of chess.
By its very nature, a team is a collection of comrades in pursuit of a common goal and the Chess Team took us all the way to State for two straight years. Still, no Letters Awards were presented to players on our highly successful squad.
Pleasant memories of 9th-grade basketball are as precious as the 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. Coach Thomas is still alive and just turned 90.
So, from the bottom of my heart I say thank you to Rick Barry, Jim Clem, Jim Ewalt, Lester Hall, Steve McCarty, Jim Partin, Wayne Podolak, Del Sonneson, Dale Troy, and Gary Varney.
And to 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 9th-grade basketball Letter. It was signed by th principal, Fred Krueger and my greatest coach ever – Jake Thomas.
AFTERWORD
On Saturday, March 8, 2025, four players from his 1968 basketball teams joined Coach Jake Thomas at his 90th birthday party. Tears of joy were shared and stories told at The Claw event center by over 100 family and friends who joined the celebration.
Jake Thomas was raised in Elk Coal and Selleck before moving to Enumclaw. He earned teaching credentials at Western and returned to Enumclaw to teach, coach, administer, and become a friend and mentor to hundreds. After building a backyard swimming pool in 1968, Jake, his wife, June, and later their daughters, Jody and Jana taught swim lessons until 2024 to thousands of children spanning multiple generations at the Thomas Family Pool on Lorraine Street.
