Spare Parts

On the heels of a story about my high school basketball coach (“My Coach”), I thought it best to stick with a consistent theme for our next two monthly posts.

On a recent trip to my favorite watering hole (Maxie’s) in Pinehurst, North Carolina, I found myself sharing two high school basketball stories with regular patrons, Jeff and Will. Stories so deeply rooted in my subconscious and so traumatic,  they took fifty-two years to surface.   

Story #1 (Circa 1970): Basketball has been a life-long passion; playing through college and coaching elementary, middle school and boy’s high school ball for decades in my adult life.

I have few, if any, memories of my sophomore year campaign, playing Junior Varsity basketball for Lou Piccolo and the Johnathan Dayton Regional High School Bulldogs in Springfield, New Jersey.  It must have gone reasonably well as I was invited to practice and suit with our varsity team for their post season State Title run.  This distinction was meaningful as our Head Coach (Ray Yanchus) was a man I admired, our Program was regarded as one of the best in our area and I wanted to make a difference.

We opened our quest at Bloomfield High School against a team I have long forgotten. I do recall carefully packing my school-issued royal blue and orange basketball travel bag with my home white uniform, trimmed in blue with my last name ironed on the back of my jersey, a pair of size 10 ½ white Adidas basketball shoes, blue and white high stockings, two pair of Wigwam socks and our flaming orange fleece warmup pants and top.  Resting at home, waiting on a win, was my away orange uniform, trimmed in white and blue with my last name ironed on the back of my jersey and our matching orange suede Converse basketball shoes. 

Suffice it to say that this was really big deal, all the while knowing that my home white uniform, trimmed in blue with my last name ironed on the back of my jersey, would never see the light of day.

Dressed in jackets and ties, the Varsity, plus one, boarded a yellow school bus, making our way northeast to the neutral site in Bloomfield.  Arriving thirty minutes later, I proudly walked through the lobby, into the gym, gauging the size of the stands, anticipating the throngs soon to be in attendance.  We quickly changed, settling into a pregame ritual that included defensive assignments being scribbled on a rolling chalk board with finite pieces of broken chalk and a dusty old eraser laying in the tray, a motivational speech that concluded with the playing of “The Impossible Dream” from the 1965 Broadway musical, Man of La Mancha, on a small battery-operated cassette player/recorder.   

Moments before the official locker room festivities began, Coach Yanchus made eye contact and began walking my way with conviction.  In short order I was in full scramble mode, attempting to sort out what in the world he might want with me.  Had he reneged on my previously bestowed distinction, did he want me to lead the team onto the floor, was there playing time in my future…what the heck was happening?

At six-foot-three, Coach Yanchus was an imposing man, even larger when my five-foot-six, one-hundred-and-thirty-pound minimalistic frame sat on a wooden locker room bench, peering upwardly, awkwardly, in a complete state of confusion.  Matters came to a head when my coach asked the following question;  “Jimmy, what size basketball shoes do you wear?”  I responded, “10-½.” My coach’s response was straight to the point, “Perfect, take them off!” Apparently Frank Bucci, a.k.a “The Machine”, the finest pure shooter of our time, arrived in Bloomfield a bit light. Being a team guy and wanting our/my post season run to continue, I promptly unlaced my shoes and bid ado to my Adidas, full well knowing that running through warmup drills in my Wigwams would be a bit dicey.

In the event my Junior Varsity campaign wasn’t enough to secure my post season varsity playing time fate, sliding around the court in my white Wigwams certainly sealed the deal. “The Machine” had a big night and the Jonathan Dayton Regional High School Bulldogs lived for another day.

Contributions can be made in many ways!

Next month, Story #2; “Do No Damage.”

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 The back nine can only get better!