When I was in kindergarten, I was the biggest and strongest kid in the class. By far. Same for first grade all the way through 6th grade. There are significant advantages to such a situation that are obvious. I never got picked on, bullied, or bothered by any other kid, ever. Accordingly, I excelled in sports at the elementary school level simply because of my accelerated physical maturity. I could throw a ball harder and farther, dominate any basketball game given my height, and was a commanding figure in the then equivalent of Pee Wee football. Such stature absurdly translates into a degree of respect as well, though I'm not sure I can explain that even today. We're talking elementary school here.
By the time I hit 6th grade, age 12, I was 5’ 10” tall and though somewhat slender of build, fairly strong with almost no body fat, with good hands and coordination. The high school coaches in our school district were licking their chops, from the basketball coach to the football coach to the track coach and even the gymnastics coach. I was going to be a superstar. Had they bothered to look at my parents, I'm fairly certain they would have had second thoughts. My father was 5’ 6” and my mother was 5'1”. I'm not a huge fan of genetics in medicine, but there are things that are genetically predictable.
During the summer between 6th and 7th grade, I played summer league basketball in Long Beach, New York. The same venue in which Julius Erving played, among others. He was one year older than me. I averaged about 16 points per game, in games that were quite short, around 6 or maybe 8 minute quarters. I believe the future Dr. J was averaging pretty much the same. Nevertheless, to put things in proper perspective, we were playing in different leagues. I was playing in the age-appropriate 12-13 year-old league, and he was playing in the 16-18 year-old high school league at the age of around 14. And then all the young kids would stick around for the late games to watch the Open League, which consisted mostly of collegiate basketball players with a league rule that no more than two NBA players could play on any one team, or so I was told. There was a 16-year-old player who seemed to occasionally play in the open division and we loved watching him. His name was Lew Alcindor, later known as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. These guys were from another planet. I was not.
By the time I hit freshman year of high school and was eligible to play freshman ball, I was frustratingly still 5’10”. To my shock and dismay, there were now lots of kids as tall or taller than me, and several athletic ones well over six feet. My era of greatness was slipping through my fingers and there was nothing I could do about it short of praying for a pituitary tumor that secreted growth hormone. I could still hold my own and play ball but the words “physical dominance” never again were uttered in a sentence regarding my athletic ability. And in fact, I never grew another quarter of an inch for the rest of my life. Go figure.
As I transitioned into high school sports as a shrinking athlete, I recollect two stories. The first involved our high school basketball coach, Bill Munch. He was an incredibly well respected and brilliant high school coach in the New York metropolitan area and in current times, would be nationally known. With a very limited talent pool, his teams would routinely be highly ranked in the New York area. No simple feat. Though these names are likely not known to my readers, when Joe Lapchick (Basketball Hall of Fame - 1966) stepped down as coach of St. John's, which was a national basketball powerhouse in those days, the first name mentioned in some NY newspapers as his replacement was Bill Munch. After he supposedly turned it down, a guy named Lou Carnesecca got the job (Hall of Fame - 1993). To my mind, Munch would have been a Hall of Famer as well had he taken the job. He had been working with me since the 5th or 6th grade and we got along really well but he saw what was happening and how I was being passed by, both in talent and size. Nevertheless, he was always gracious and cordial to me.
In my sophomore year of high school, I participated in tryouts for the varsity basketball team. It was a mere formality. Everyone knew exactly who was going to be on the team because everybody had been working for years with the coach. Though I knew I was not going to be a major player on the team, the simple fact was that I enjoyed playing basketball more than any other sport, despite the fact that I was better at football and track. Football was rather painful, and track was a bit too individualistic for my taste. At the end of the 2-day tryouts, Coach Munch asked me into his office. He didn't ask any other player to do so. For unknown reasons, in those days, all coaches smoked huge billowing cigars in their offices, in the locker rooms, and in the gyms. Just the way it was. I guess it was a men's club sort of thing.
He sat me down in a gray haze through which I could barely see him and said: “Well, Killer (the bizarre nickname he always used from my elementary school days), here's the story. I got 12 spots on this team. There's no question that you deserve to make the team, but you are roughly in the 10th to 12th spot. You are absolutely never going to get into a game in a moment of meaning. You play hard and you're athletic, but you are not a great basketball player. You know that yourself. I've spoken with the other coaches (football and track), and we all feel it would be better for you to focus on those areas during the winter, rather than waste your time sitting on the bench with me. Additionally, I have some kids who haven't physically matured yet that I'd like to have on the team to work with them, because I think some may have significant potential. If you absolutely insist, I will put you on the team, but I don't think it is in your best interest or in the best interest of the other teams you are on. So I'm going to let you make the decision.”
I was flabbergasted. Not because he demeaned my basketball skills (which was accurate), but because of his blunt explanation of the situation, and treating me like an adult. I told him how much I enjoyed playing basketball more than anything and asked if it would be worthwhile for me to be on the team just in terms of being a practice player. He smiled and simply said no.
I accepted him at his word, but did ask if I could play on the junior varsity team, just for the fun of it. He gave me a puzzled look.
“Are you sure you want to do that? You're a lot better than a typical JV player.”
I said, “Sure. I don't care. I just want to play some ball. Purely for fun.”
He thought about it and then smiled again and told me that I certainly could play on that team, but once again would seldom play in games. Not because I wasn't in the top five players on Junior Varsity, but because that was really his developmental team and he again needed to play the taller, ganglier and physically immature kids, one or two of whom that he hoped he could groom into a good player. And he added that I could only do it for one year because he really did need those spots for new sophomores each year. So we agreed that for my sophomore year I would play JV ball without any expectation of significant game time, but for the fun and opportunity to play organized ball. And that would be the end of my basketball career.
We shook hands in an almost formal manner, as if finalizing a business deal. Despite the disappointing outcome for me, I always remember the absolutely unique graciousness he displayed towards me and how he let me down gently, but honestly. Though I never played for him, I believe he may have been my favorite coach. We had a nice relationship throughout my high school years, and somehow he always seemed to be around me in other various roles, almost but not quite a real friend.
Which brings me to the second story. The JV basketball coach was my varsity track coach, Jim Hart. Now Coach Hart was a smoke machine. His cigar never left his mouth and smoke billowed out of it on a continuous basis. It was impossible to have a conversation with him because it was impossible to speak through the smoke without having a coughing fit. He was profanely funny, told great dirty jokes, and was so foul-mouthed, that even in those halcyon days, there were complaints about him that went nowhere. I absolutely loved the guy.
So I played my one season on the JV basketball team, greatly enjoying the practices and occasionally getting in some games, but that wasn't the point for me. Anyway, I do remember a rambunctious incident in practice one day. I was bringing the ball up the court in a cocky sort of manner and made a move toward the basket and abruptly fired a behind the back pass to a non-existent player. There was simply no one in the vicinity of where I threw the ball that went into the stands.
The whistle blew and Coach Hart calmly walked up to me, smoke coming out of his mouth, nose and seemingly both ears. He put his arm around my shoulders and walked me off to the side of the court so no one could hear what he was saying. He then grabbed my shoulders so that I was directly facing him, gagging in the blue gray smoke cloud. And he said, “Stern, you're a good kid. I like having you on the team and this is a great way for you to stay in shape. But I don't have a lot of fucking leverage here. You already spend most of your time on the bench, so I can't bench you for this sort of shit. So I'm asking you as a direct personal favor to me, please do not ever fucking do that again. Please. It sets a very poor example for everybody else. If I let you do it, every one of these fucking morons is going to try to do it. I can't have that.” I couldn't help but start laughing and neither could he.
About 5 minutes later, another opportunity arose to make such a pass, and I cupped the ball between my hand and forearm (my hands were too small to palm the ball) and I faked another behind the back pass, but didn’t actually throw it. The whistle blew again. Coach Hart glared at me and said 50 laps (around the gym). Which wasn’t a big deal for a 16 year old. Nevertheless, I protested vehemently, saying I didn't do anything. He smiled, and said, “But you thought about it after I warned you. You still WANTED to do it. Same thing. 50 laps.” We both cracked up and I ran the laps.
I loved playing basketball, even if I wasn't quite good enough.
Great memories! Maybe you were the biggest kid in kindergarten because you were 8?
This is a fantastic story! It's saturated in youness.