March Madness

I can remember standing outside the old gym, in the cold, with snowflakes falling from the sky. There was a long line of people waiting to get in. Fortunately, my family had season tickets, because there weren’t any tickets available to this game. The old gym only seated about 2000 people, a few hundred more if the fire marshal wasn’t looking.

This wasn’t big-time college basketball, and it was nothing like you’d see today when you’re watching March Madness. This was the early 70s at a small college in a small conference, which had always had a dreadful basketball team.

Until now. Now the basketball team was winning, and everybody in town wanted into Memorial Gymnasium to watch them. There were no plush seats in this gym; everybody sat on wooden bleachers that came almost right up to the court. Our seats were in the end, just to the right of the basket, in the second row. To this day, I like watching a basketball game from the end. I love watching the flow of the game as it’s coming towards me.

Why was this team suddenly winning? A couple of streetball players from New York City had been recruited to this sleepy little Southern town, and they were changing the way the game was played here. Their supporting cast were mostly local kids, who had never seen basketball played like this, for both good and bad. Think about what you’d get if you put a couple of street kids on the team from Hoosiers, and that’s sort of what it was like. It wasn’t exactly great fundamental basketball; it was wild and unpredictable. At the center of it all was Fly Williams, the wildest and most unpredictable of all.

If you’ve read Heaven is a Playground, by Rick Telander, you know a lot about Fly Williams. If you haven’t, you should; it’s a great basketball book. I didn’t read it myself until much later. Back then, I was a kid, mesmerized by what the Austin Peay Governors were doing.

I remember more than just Fly. I remember Danny Odom, another New York kid, much quieter than Fly. I remember Richard Jimmerson and Mickey Fisher, local kids that I had watched in high school. I remember Percy Howard, who would later go on to play football briefly for the Dallas Cowboys, briefly, but long enough to catch a touchdown pass in a Super Bowl. I remember Howard Jackson, whose college career was cut short when he shattered both ankles in a fall while working a summer job in construction. Lake Kelly, the head coach, took Jackson into his home to live while he recovered.

Leonard Hamilton was the assistant coach who brought Fly and Danny Odom to Peay (and yes, the cheer really was “Let’s Go, Peay”, and yes, Peay is pronounced like pee.) I remember his younger brother, Willie, who played one season for the local high school, but then it was determined that he was ineligible, that his transfer was not allowed.

I remember all those stories. That’s what college basketball is to me, stories. I learned to follow a team back then, going to games with my dad. I watched the players come, grow and develop, and leave. I read the sports section every day, following their exploits. I listened to away games on the radio; listening to a close basketball game on the radio is a heart-stopping experience. Basketball is still the easiest way for me to connect with my dad; we’re both passionate about it.

Over 30 years later, I still love to follow college basketball. Today I follow women’s college basketball more closely than men’s. I guess the smaller scale reminds me of those long ago days, when that old gym was rocking, and I was shouting myself hoarse, chanting “Let’s Go Peay!”

Today, my favorite team bears little resemblance to those long ago Governors, and not just because of gender. They play a tight, disciplined game; not much streetball in their game. But then, these kids aren’t on this team because their options are limited; these kids are at the other end of the spectrum from Fly. Their options are limitless. They’re playing basketball for an elite private college, being coached by a former Olympic coach. And their stories are still fascinating to me.

Go Cardinal! (and Let’s Go Peay, for old-time’s sake!)