Coach Phillips enlisted in the U.S. Army shortly after Pearl Harbor and served in North Africa, Italy and France before becoming a teacher and basketball coach. He was in his early 40s in 1963 when I attempted to play for him at Greer High School in Greer, S. C.
After I knew him as “Coach,” he served as Greer High’s principal. He then served 12 years in the South Carolina Legislature, and, after retiring from the legislature, served 10 years on the S.C. Higher Education Commission.
My family moved from a rural area near Greer to the city of Greer when I was an 11-year-old, and I participated in school band from my seventh through 12th-grade years. I had never played on a basketball team until, at the encouragement of my 10th-grade gym teacher and Phillips, I landed a spot on the Greer High varsity basketball team. That year I was a near-sighted 11th-grader with a bad case of acne and a worse case of self-doubt.
Not very court-smart, I became a substitute player on our ’63 team that enjoyed a 16-win-5-loss season. At 6-foot-2, I was the second-tallest man on our team and, I suppose because of my gangly limbs and my name, Coach nicknamed me “The Bird.”
In the middle of the season, our team traveled to Spartanburg, S.C., for a tournament. Our first opponent was the Spartanburg High team, and they were favored to win. Somehow that night, I contributed seven points at a critical time during a hard-fought victory. After the game, a smiling Phillips, who was short, wore his hair close-cropped, and always seemed to have an excitement about him, approached me.
“Somebody asked me what the turning point in that game was,” he said, “ and I told him that it was when we put the big Bird in the game.”
Weeks later, we traveled to another school and sat waiting in a locker room for game-time. I was surprised when Coach announced that I would start at a forward position that night.
At tip-off, our opponents took possession, and we quickly set up a 2-1-2 zone defense. The goal was 15 feet behind me and the base line that ran behind the backboard was three feet to my left as I positioned myself between the goal and the opposing team’s star forward.
The clock ticked away the game’s beginning seconds as my opponent gathered a sharp pass. Facing me squarely, he gripped the orange orb in both hands before faking a drive to his left. I took the fake and lunged to stop him, but he drove to his right, stayed close to the base line, and laid the ball high on the backboard for a smooth layup, chalking up the game’s first points.
The crowd roared, and I remembered Coach’s words: “Never give your man the base line.” I felt instantly depressed. Coach saw I was out-manned and that my inexperience was showing. I had only lasted one play as a starter. The needle on my self-worth meter drifted to its lower limits that night as I sat on the bench while Coach kept our most experienced players in the game.
After the game, I dressed quickly — we always wore ties and suits or sport coats when we played away from home — and stood, looking dejected as others finished showers or sat on benches in various stages of dress.
I played sousaphone in our school band and liked to experiment with musical instruments. That night I carried a “Tonette,” a fat, black plastic, recorder-like flute in the inside chest pocket of my suit coat. Coach, who played the piano at his Methodist church, had heard me play the little flute and knew I carried it with me.
Seeing my sad face, Coach said, “Hey, Bird, how about playing us a little tune.”
Obviously, Coach was trying to make me feel better about disappointing him and looking stupid in front of my teammates. I hesitated, but then I took the little flute from my inside chest pocket and played “Sweet Georgia Brown,” the theme song of the Harlem Globetrotters basketball team. The cheerful, jazzy melody echoed off the ceramic, cement and metal surfaces of the locker room.
As I finished, Coach said, “That’s good, Bird. That’s good.”
Steve Crain lives in Southern Pines.
