Basketball John
John Clare Stokes
It was probably instilled in the few months I lived in Vicco, Kentucky after being born in January of 1955 during basketball season before moving to Sopchoppy, Florida in June. It wasn’t a particularly great season by Kentucky standards for Adolph Rupp’s Wildcats, finishing 20-6 and second in the SEC behind Alabama.
But that’s not the point. Point is, it rubbed into me unknowingly. It dwelt there when we moved to Sopchoppy and the Yellow Jackets in the old native rock gym that is now a landmark. Though I wanted to be Walt Dickson, the all-conference running back, there was also inside, Walt the basketball player.
When we moved to Monticello in my third grade year, I do not know if I asked my father, or if he too had the passion, having been invited by Adolph Rupp to say the prayer for the boys before a game, but he erected a basketball backboard and goal with swoosh net behind the new parsonage. Though I took second in punt, pass and kick and wanted to paint the Redskin helmet I won green, after Green Bay, I began to spend most of my time shooting and less time punt,pass and kicking. I finally got my first opportunity to get on a real court in a real game when the 4th grade A boys took on the 4th grade B team during halftime of a Tiger basketball game. My best friend Marc Bishop, the superintendent’s son and I led the B squad against the talented Butch and Bobby Plaines twins of the A team. The game was frenetic, in the end we lost 7to5. I was high scorer with 3, making my first free throw. Marc had 2.
That year we moved to Wilmore, Kentucky where my father and mother attended Asbury College. Daddy was to be the alumni director under ZT Johnson, the President and life long family friend.
It was here, as a Cub, with my two new best friends, Stuart and Steve Smith, whose dad was a science professor and coach, we had free rein of the Asbury gym. Steve would go on to be the legendary coach of Mouth of Wilson Prep school. It was here, just a few miles from Mecca Lexington, that my Uncles William and Billy, living with us in the apartment out back, took me to my first and only Kentucky basketball game in Memorial Coliseum , where their friend Chuck Wade from their home in Forest, Mississippi beat Louie Dampier and Pat Riley. We got to go down to the State locker room and meet Chuck, still living in Forest. #My Uncle William hoped it would cement me a State fan. It only solidified my blue colors.
In 1967 we moved back to Florida after two years, to Williston. Those first years in 7th to 9th grade, the passion was at a zenith. Orville Wheeler, my coach, being equally passionate, from Jerry West Virginia, was inspiring and encouraging. For a white boy, the future was bright. Then something happened. The Mighty White Red Devils played an exhibition game with East Williston, then all black, a year before segregation. I should have redirected the passion playing on another field, but I was color blind.
Like my days as a sprinter came to an end, taking up the hurdles, I should have seen my days as a basketball player ending. As all my white friends one by one quit, I ended up the only white player. Where I was once a shooting guard, I was now a point guard like the current Reed Sheppard who could get the ball up court past any press, only to pass it off. We never won many games. The team was too concerned with scoring stats. I was Mr Defense.
Once a friend of my mother, trying to impress her, said, “I just love to watch your son play, now what number is he?”
My fondest years of basketball came from playing on our all white Masonic Demolay team where we were state runner ups. Likewise the many nights playing pickup games in the Williston gym with the great Kentucky meatcutter Bill Boyd, my former JV coach the great Dean Chesser, Truby English and other former players. In my senior year, I gave up track and football, which I loved, to concentrate on basketball. Even though I got the Mr Basketball award at graduation, on hindsight, the day I saw that East Williston team with Wilson James dunking and giving meaning to white boys can’t jump, I too should have taken a enjoy football and track too attitude, for it was the end of the line for a lifetime. That’s why tonight I’ll watch UK play South Carolina, but I’m not going to worry near as much as once I would have if they lose.
And to conclude, I still have that goal daddy set up for me in 1964. Times I go out to the shed where it hangs to see if it still glows a hot orange.
