A Revelation (redux)

 What follows is a reprint from nearly three years ago; considering that November is National Adoption Awareness Month, I am reposting with the hope that my readers may find it of interest.

Paul Fromm

St. Ann's Hospital for Women
Columbus, Ohio

September 10, 1955

 

Do you know that guy? He's a handsome dude; colorful--sometimes a bit off-color; some like him, some don't; some think he's wrapped pretty solidly, others think the "butter dun slid off his biscuits."  Again, do you know him?
 

The answer is that boy--with the exception of the "handsome dude" comment--is me, Mike Gunther.  I am an adopted child.  In February 1956, my parents chose me to be their son. Two years previously they had chosen my soon-to-be sister from the same hospital/orphanage to be their daughter. To many, I assume that revelation is somewhat of a shock . . . to this boy, that adoption was my life. 

 

At birth, I was given the name of Paul Fromm; anyone born prior to 1964 has the right to purchase for a nominal fee his or her original birth certificate, so after being married and realizing that my wife and I wanted to have children, we decided that it was in our best interests to try finding out my health history. Therefore, the documents I received from the State of Ohio were hoped to be helpful--they weren't, at least regarding my health history, which simply stated "Normal." What I did learn was that my mother's last name was Fromm and she lived in Columbus. My father's name was nowhere to be found. To inject a bit of humor into this conversation, whenever anyone would refer to me as a bastard--which certainly has happened in my teaching/coaching background--I would reply, "How did you know that?" It usually stopped the conversation immediately.  (Anyway, I apologize to anyone I may have offended with that last comment.) In simple terms, I have a mother's name, but I have no record of a father's name . . . and I really don't care about either one.

 

The question of whether to pursue my original birth parents has never been an overwhelming desire.  Yes, as an adult, I have been curious, but not enough to want to pursue a search. Nearly twenty years ago, when I was staying at a Columbus-area hotel for a weekend, I went through the phone book just to see; encountering a whole slew of Fromms, I closed the book and abandoned my search. Since that time, I have taken no steps to ever find out anything more. Again, yes, the curiosity is still there, but I really don't know what discovering my actual birth mother would achieve if I even knew other than to perhaps bring disappointment to another family, something I am not willing to do.

 

So, the issue is simple: Why am I even writing this? The answer is because it seems to me to be a topic others might want to read about . . . perhaps many readers have a similar background. With that said, let me share a few other tidbits about this situation. When I was probably six, I was in the backyard shooting baskets on my eight-foot basket when my parents called both my sister and me into the kitchen. I distinctly remember their formally seating us at the green kitchen table--which even had a pull-out tray, bigtime stuff!--and their telling us that they wanted to share something with us. Having no idea what this was about, my sister Carol and I sat there waiting . . . and they told us we were adopted--we both had different parents (Carol, FYI, was not my blood sister). A magical moment in retrospect, but at that time, I asked what that meant. My dad told us that they had gotten us in Columbus but they--Marge and Jack, my parents--were not our "real" parents. Carol and I looked at each other, said, "so," and then asked if we could go outside and play again. That was the impact the announcement had on us . . . nothing. The reasons were simple: We were loved, cared for, and encouraged--we didn't need anything else.

 

As my life unfolded, nothing changed. Yes, I had the proverbial shout-outs with my dad because my hair was too long (imagine that), I was lippy, and I didn't listen--with the exception of the hair, all the aforementioned were true. However, my mother soothed the waters, thus creating a happy home where being adopted meant absolutely nothing. A typical home in typical small-town America, Gnadenhutten provided a wonderful upbringing . . . safe, fun, and conservative. I suppose Peyton Place moments occurred, but growing up I had no knowledge of that side of life. What I did know is that I was secure with what I didn't know! We took care of our own little world, and that was enough for us. My friends and I were no altar boys, by any stretch--got caught doing stupid stunts . . . got away with far more than we should have . . . always knew right from wrong, whether we followed the proper path or not . . . tried to appear as innocent although anyone who really knew us understood we tried to get away with whatever we could--sound like kids today? In simple terms, my friends and I were ornery, but we were certainly respectful. The reason had so much to do with the way we were raised: I suppose we were afraid we would "get a paddlin'" when we got home, but, truthfully, I had already had enough of those to last a lifetime--I'm not so sure fear of my dad's scorn scared me that much. What really kept me in line was the anticipated disappointment my mother would point my way . . . no way did I want her to see me negatively . . . the ol' man, I guess he probably expected my behavior just because I was a boy. 

You see how it all comes together? No excuses offered--strong family, strong values, caring community--those were the keys. Oh yeah, we had our supposed heathens, but even those kids weren't bad--perhaps different circumstances influenced their lives, but they weren't bad kids. We all wanted attention, recognition, love . . . didn't matter what home we came from because at our core we had the same desires. (Here's a hint about a future blog:  Kids today aren't as different as we from our generation think.)

What that adoption did for me was give me a life, one I have cherished for a lifetime. As stated, I was and am not any kind of angelic figure . . . trust me on that. What I learned is that Paul Fromm is eternally grateful that he became Mike Gunther, the son of Jack and Marge and brother to Carol . . .it's a ride that I owe to them, my buddies, and my hometown . . . what a great way to live!

 





 

Donald Trump: The Reincarnation of Billy Martin?

Sitting at my computer desk trying to determine just what the hell is unfolding in our country at the moment, I am struck by the numerous similarities between President Trump and the legendary, swashbuckling former baseball player and manager, Billy Martin. For the younger crowd, Martin's name signifies a shrug and a "who's that?" response, but to the somewhat seasoned crowd and baseball fans, the name represents anti-establishment stances, controversy, arrogance, winning, and an everyone's picking on me mentality . . . but he was a fearless fighter who challenged anyone who interfered with him. Ironically, his numerous disputes created the persona that he was a tough guy, but so many of his fights ended up with his getting thumped. For those reasons and more, I sense a strong similarity with our president.

 

Growing up in a somewhat antiquated time that allowed me to get our primary news via The Daily Times, The Dover Reporter, or The Evening Chronicle and periodicals like Sports Illustrated and Sport with the occasional televised "Game of the Week,"  I was able to follow professional baseball mostly through the written word. Yes, I listened to the Indians games with the legendary Jimmy Dudley at the mike and the Reds games with Al Michaels, Marty Brenneman, and, of course, Joe Nuxhall calling the action, but my primary understanding came from sportswriters, those media members who created pictures with words and allowed readers to visualize what action had occurred. Of course, videos were rare, so my understanding was dependent on the writers' descriptions. In time, however, television's rise to prominence sprouted, so, eventually, I was able to actually view the various exploits of the baseball stars and, specifically, the numerous temper tantrums and press conferences of managers like Earl Weaver, Lou Pinella, and, of course, Billy Martin . . . and what tantrums they were. 

 

Of course, it goes without saying that the world I knew and the world I know are unlike in many ways. However, the spirit of humans really has not changed as much as we might like to believe. Larger-than-life personalities have always been present, but today's easy access to television, Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, . . . has allowed us to be more aware of people's deficiencies, creating a much more sensationalized and nit-picking public. Along with that, my friends, comes much more analyzing and/or dislike . . . just as most of America is doing today when discussing our political climate. I digress, I realize, but to make my point, the foregoing needed to be said.

 

Billy Martin was a master at creating distractions; he loved to keep his clubhouse on edge, recognizing that in a long 162-game season, players would be disgruntled with his decisions. Rather than be specific with his individual players, he created a climate where basically all the players hated him at various points. His philosophy focused on a shared hatred--hate me but pull together and win the damn games. On the outside, he was not an easy touch who soft pedaled his players; no, he stirred controversy to deflect the pressure to him rather than to his players' performance. Be not mistaken: he loved the limelight and wanted recognition and acknowledgement, and, on so many occasions, it worked to his advantage due to his aggressiveness and fearfulness. Similarly, President Trump appears to be in his element when he casually distracts the story of the day to another story of the day. On one hand, he thrives in creating his version of organized chaos, and I sense he silently chuckles to himself at the frenzy he often causes with his unpredictability. Just like Martin, he wants to color his way, not necessarily inside the lines.

 

Martin was an egomaniac; his most famous confrontation occurred when he challenged his Mr. September, Reggie Jackson, to a fight in the dugout. Jackson, as many remember, was a stout, well-muscled, home run hitting machine with a superstar ego. Although many smaller incidents led to Martin's dislike of Jackson, Jackson's "I'm the straw that stirs the drink" comment particularly irked his manager, ultimately culminating in a dugout skirmish viewed by millions. Martin was not going to allow anyone to show him up--particularly on national television--basically echoing our president's words, "I hit a point where I'll fight back, and it won't be pretty." I sense that most observers would agree with the belief that President Trump has an oversized ego that has allowed him to push and maneuver most everybody out of his way for the better part of his life. In today's political world, he is facing the same battles, but I sense that he will back down from no one, whether he is right or wrong. Stubbornness has a way of creating controversy --both Martin and our president would understand that, I presume.

 

Baseball managers are accustomed to being in control of players and situations; they operate with the idea that their philosophy is what got them to their major league positions and that is what will keep them there. Any interference from general managers, sportswriters, fans, or owners is generally seen as an attempt to undermine that philosophy. Therefore, it is not unusual for those same managers to have short careers. Most notably, Martin feuded with the legendary Charlie Finley and George Steinbrenner, then owners of the Oakland A's and the New York Yankees respectively, ultimately resulting in his firings on several occasions. To coin a phrase, he "did not like anyone else playing in his sandbox." President Trump seems to reflect that same approach; he has been obviously successful in his corporate world and typically could confront and defeat those nasty underminers who challenged his philosophy. The major contrast, though, was that he controlled the sandbox and really had to answer only to himself. In that sense, he has pretty much always had more power than Martin, but the similarity is obvious: neither were overly tolerant of dissenters, as evidenced by Mr. Trump (or his corporations as he often equivocates)  having been sued over 3,500 times including 98 times regarding golf courses he has purchased. 

 

Interestingly, Martin was extremely popular in the baseball world with a strong base of devoted followers simply because he was a change agent. Owners brought him in for one reason: change the culture. For short bursts, he did just that. In time, however, his act got old, his antics grew wearisome, and his controversies became old news, eventually leading to his ouster from Major League Baseball. Similarly, President Trump campaigned as being a change agent for our country, appealing to educated and well-read Midwesterners, Southern evangelicals, rednecks, and numerous other classifications of people throughout our country. His act worked, and as we know he is our president. Many sense, however, that his antics are growing increasingly wearisome and his controversies seem to be never ending. How this soap opera will end remains to be seen, but Americans certainly cannot ignore his presence. Like Martin, his swashbuckling personality is always in the forefront.

 

Martin was viewed by his managerial peers with "backdoor" respect because he was not immune to challenging those same peers, occasionally criticizing them for instigating controversy and routinely lambasting them for anything he did not like. In fact, his criticisms were usually quite biting referring to several as being guilty of overmanaging while trying to make names for themselves. In short, it was not unusual to compare himself with other managers, to which he found himself to certainly be superior. Along that same line, President Trump has made no bones about how much better he is than most all other presidents, proclaiming that he has done more in his short-time presidency than most all his predecessors. His fixation with former President Obama is a constant in his numerous tweets. Just as Martin's chief rival was Earl Weaver (Baltimore Orioles), Mr. Trump's chief rival is his immediate predecessor--both Martin and Mr. Trump have self-created the arrogant image of "look at me; I'm the best!"

 

As stated in previous blog entries, I am disturbed by the current state of our country. Most concerning is I clearly recognize that changes are needed in our immigration policies,  tax codes, national security, as well as other hot areas. However, what I fear is that even though both Martin and Mr. Trump have been labeled as change agents, both could/can only accomplish so much before their self-fulfilling arrogance emerges as key factors. In any persuasive situation, the ethos (credibility) of the persuader has major influence on the message's effectiveness. As Martin eventually burned out as an effective manager due to his combative personality (ultimately being killed in an unrelated automobile crash), I sense that our president's effectiveness as a deal closer may, too, burn out. Bottom line is that Americans may eventually (if not already) just begin to hear "blah, blah, blah" when he speaks because his act has gotten old. Pity our country, I suppose, but he is our president . . . I can only hope that his overbearing personality and unpredictable decisions are part of a grand master plan currently unknown to anyone other than him . . . and that plan will ultimately benefit us--not just him. I am figuratively holding my breath.

 

 

Politics, Grading, and Synchronization . . . Take Your Pick!

When I first began presenting Views from the Hot Seat in 2013, I wrote these words: Give the readers something to think about, make the writing easy to read in 5-7 minutes, try to interject a bit of humor when possible, use everyday words, and take a stand. For those who have read my blogs, I appreciate your loyalty and hope I have remained married to my original intentions. At no point, however, did I infer that I would expect readers to agree with my perspectives. Truly, of the aforementioned objectives, the one that I remain most loyal to is give the readers something to think about. In today's emotionally charged political world, it is quite safe to say that many, many people may not share my views . . . but if I can get my readers to think, not just react, maybe I am accomplishing my objectives. With that said, today's blog is a compilation of thoughts gathered in the past few weeks . . . hope I can sustain your attention!

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I might as well begin by elaborating on a previous expression: Donald Trump scares the hell out of me. As stated in my last blog, I have tried to give him space, but the proverbial "shooting himself in the foot" just will not go away. Interestingly, I understand a few of his objectives and am not out-of-my-head opposed to everything he represents, but he is not the man to bring about needed changes. If he were the CEO of any company around here, a mayor, a commissioner, a boss of any kind, my hunch is he would have been dismissed long ago. However, for whatever reason, he holds a guillotine to his challengers. When a person can ruin another's livelihood by simply threatening or writing a tweet, that is a dangerous power that can ultimately destroy confidence and support. Again, I stress: my problems with our President are character related . . . connecting the dots of his alleged inproprieties throughout his career indicate to me that many of us have been shammed.  

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For the past eight years, I have been honored to serve as an evaluator for the national Advanced Placement (AP) Language and Composition exams. In that time, I have spent eight days per summer in locales such as Daytona Beach, Louisville (KY), Kansas City, and, most recently, Tampa, grading over 1700 essays per week. This past year our 1282 readers were challenged with reading over 1.7 million essays written by 581,598 students throughout this country . . . intimidating numbers, for sure. From my experience, I am able to offer a few observations:

   *The numbers of students taking the AP exam have become overwhelming and not indicative of the AP program's integrity. My hunch is that because of the legislative, administrative, and parental pushes to get kids as prepared for college ASAP that the quality of students is being sacrificed for the appearance of school districts and family bragging rights. As evidence, I offer this tidbit: More than ever before, the papers that I graded this year were, in a nutshell, immature, lacking depth of thought, and, most of all, reflective of basic writing skills. The common grumble among so many evaluators was that "most of these kids are not even ready for this level." Trust me, I get it. Having played a role in beginning the AP English programs at Dover High School several years ago, I realized that when kids are forced to take an upper level jump we may be hurting them in the long run. Do not misinterpret my point: I understand that kids need challenged--no problem there from me. However, if  kids are not mature thinkers and lack strong writing skills, we have set up those students for subtle embarrassment and potential failure. My point is simple: Too many unprepared kids are taking advanced level classes for all the wrong reasons . . . I remain unconvinced that this is good for education. As for students attending college as high school students, that is a topic for another day!

   *Trying to decipher kids' handwriting skills has put me "over the edge" and is the primary reason why I have graded my final AP essay. Like so many tests, students' writing samples are in blue or black ink and not on a computer. As a result, evaluators are exposed to the most bizarre handwriting one could ever imagine. Because we are strictly instructed to ignore handwriting in our evaluation due to maintaining consistent standards focusing on content, we are forced to read writing that challenges our eyesight. When I am forced to determine kids' letters by using a magnifying glass, that is "pushing the envelope" for this boy. I must stress that our jobs would be so much easier if we were reading typed essays, but that possibility raises new questions for test security and, therefore, has not been utilized. Additionally, the role of teaching cursive vs. printed lettering is not that big of a factor--most kids print anyway. My point is the sloppiness that we see is a direct offshoot of rushed time and lack of pride in a finished product.

   *Although I have written of this before (and probably will again), the greatest weakness that I see with the AP students and my college students as well is the inability to present a successful argument with logic, explanation, and detailed examples. If parents want to offer encouragement for their students' college preparation, nothing better could be done than to read the editorial section of any newspaper. By examining what columnists are advocating, determining those writers' strategies, and by being exposed to others' thinking, those students will truly be demonstrating the mature thinking that I mentioned previously. Trust me when I say what distinguishes our top-level students from our average is the ability to use logic and reasoning, two traits that are directly related to reading!

   *Having made my observations, I must also stress that a few of the essays I read were off-the-charts, outstanding writing that--if I were teaching the kids who wrote those--I would want the world to know that our future is in great hands. Like any other situation, when average is the prevailing norm, "outstanding" sticks out and screams! 

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The synchronization of traffic lights in Dover has raised eyebrows and recently lit up the Times-Reporter's "30 Seconds." I suppose what is desired by the complainers is a straight run from one end of town to another without interruption, almost like Dragway 42! From where we live, however, the synchronization has been a godsend; on most days, I can go from Dover's north end all the way through the city's nearly twelve lights and only stop two or three times as contrasted with the nearly seven times or so I was accustomed to stopping prior to the new lights. I suppose we next need to talk to people about coming out of those annoying side streets with the trip lights--they're interrupting my acceleration patterns! Additionally, I have read a few complaints from people disgusted with the lights on Walnut Street; unfortunately, my friends, those lights have not even been addressed yet. Again, if we are going to complain, I hope we at least are arguing facts, not what we think we know.

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I will conclude my notes today by again inviting readers to offer their input by offering intelligent perspective and discussion . . . I hope I have provided something to think about!

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Previous blogs can be found at the michaelagunther.blogspot.com site.
I may be contacted via e-mail at mag.gunther@gmail.com or guntherm@roadrunner.com

Stay in Your Lane

Growing up, I was a twerpy kid who ran my mouth too much.

 

I paid a price for that behavior, of course. In my Catholic elementary school days, it was not unusual for me to receive a checkmark in the behavior column; in middle school, I received enough paddle marks on my backside to humble me; in high school, I played (please interpret that term in whatever fashion you desire) football on a freshmen team that was pretty good, creating a feeling that my teammates and I were bad asses. However, it didn't take long for me to learn that freshman cockiness was merely a mask. All it took was Tom Kochman, a junior, slamming me into the lockers outside Mr. Riley's room, clearly teaching me that my twerpiness needed to come to a screeching halt. Although my mouth occasionally resurfaced, a valuable lesson was learned: stay in my lane.

 

As LaVar Ball, self-proclaimed expert in raising athletic boys and an insistent self-promoter, has been quoted, "staying in your lane" is the criticism we should expect if we speak out on a topic that exceeds our knowledge. While my respect for Ball is nonexistent, his comment struck a nerve in my adult life: play to my strengths and disguise my weaknesses. I have admitted in several blogs that I am an avid reader, exposing my thinking to various writers and perspectives. Additionally, I try to watch several informative news programs ranging from CNN to Fox to MSNBC. My point is that I choose to remain as independent as possible, not aligning myself with any political party or particular school of thought. I try to absorb as much information as possible before I solidify an opinion. While I realize that approach may be perceived as "straddling the fence," it is actually anything but. This, my friends, is where the "staying in my lane" comment comes into play . . . please allow me to explain.

 

*I do not like Donald Trump. Certainly, I am not an expert in politics, so my perspective is based on what I know. His "divide, conquer, bully, the devil is in the details" approach runs contrary to the world I live. As our President, he deserves the respect and integrity that goes with it--that I get. Believe me, I have tried to like him, but "my lane" is understanding language, rhetoric, and people. His constant "shooting himself in the foot" indicates to me that he is "way out of his lane," yet I persist in hoping he will correct himself and become a 70-year-old man who will learn and respect the dignity that accompanies his office. Without his maturity, my fears are that the necessary changes our country so badly needs will not happen under his leadership.

 

*One of the greatest weaknesses we possess is the opportunity to offer opinions when we really know little, if anything, about something. Cases in point revolve around the Dover City Schools and their ongoing tussle with the Dairy Queen location, which sits in the heart of the schools' construction plan; I read one online comment by an individual who stated, "Why does Dover want to build a new high school in New Phila?" For whatever bizarre reason, the individual believed that Dover's new high school would be built at the New Phila Dairy Queen location, approximately three blocks from the Quakers' high school. Safe to say that the individual had absolutely no knowledge about the actual situation. Along the same lines, the recent raise approved for Dover's school employees has absolutely nothing to do with the Dairy Queen dilemma--two completely different funding mechanisms. However, many do not understand that, through either choice or simple lack of knowledge. Just because we might think we know something certainly does not ensure that we do know something . . . "staying in our lane" might prevent embarrassing situations.

 

*Over the years, I have learned to respect and admire those who are CEOs, presidents of companies, owners of small businesses, and other leaders within our communities. Although I certainly do not always agree with decisions that are made, I have learned that their expertise far exceeds mine. My background is education, not business. I am reminded of my time as a high school teacher and coach; I never aspired to be a principal or a superintendent simply because I knew the higher up the proverbial ladder, the less control I actually had over my teaching and the more people I had to answer to when the "screws got tightened." Being married to a hospital administrator, I have learned to appreciate the many perspectives that must be weighed. As for advice, I do not offer it unless I am asked . . . staying in my lane is the safest route for my happiness.

 

From my seat, the staying in my lane analogy carries much weight. While I certainly do not begrudge individuals for having opinions, my sincere hope is that their perspectives are based on actual knowledge, experience, or expertise--not simply what they think or what their buddies think. As a parent, we teach our kids so many lessons, many of which we are not even aware. Perhaps one of the most valuable life lessons we can display is being less judgmental and more insightful in our appraisals of others . . . staying in our lanes, my friends.

 

You see, even this twerpy kid can mature into someone who realizes that merely running his mouth accomplished nothing but bringing negative attention to himself . . . life teaches us so many humbling lessons!

 

Headed Out to the Ol' Gym, Part III

In the late 1960s, I started hearing from the older guys about this crazy kid from Midvale who was a helluva basketball player, a kid who regularly wore ankle weights and wrist weights. Having no idea whether it was true or not, I was struck that this devotion was somewhat weird for a kid. In time, I watched that kid emerge into an outstanding player, one of the best Tuscarawas County ever produced. The kid had a simple name, Gene Ford, that made him sound like he was an older man having the name "Gene"--didn't know many kids my age by that name. Little did I realize that Gene would become an important figure in my life--from a distance--as I began my ascension into high school basketball. As the 1970s unfolded, my life underwent a significant change . . . and so did basketball in the Tuscarawas valley.

 

As I went through the dreaded junior high years, trying to fit in and be somebody, I realized that being involved in sports was a key ticket to popularity. Despite the gradual awareness that my athletic abilities were certainly nothing more than average, I found a niche. Although I played football and ran track, basketball was what I loved. Our junior high teams at the long-gone-from-now Indian Valley South were not overly successful, but that soon changed. Somewhere between my eighth grade and sophomore years, our basketball lives became special. Much to our eventual delight, three outstanding players moved to our district, changing the fortunes of our Rebels. Unfortunately for many, two of those who made it work for us came from our rival school, Indian Valley North, while the third had attended there in junior high. Even to this day, I can only imagine the resentment that those North people felt because our success could just as easily have been theirs. Those three--Chuck McComb, Van Henry, and Bob Huggins--became the cornerstones for the '70s dynasty known as the IVS Rebels. Coupled with those three came the maestro himself, Bob's father, Charlie Huggins, the man who changed basketball in our area and, from my seat, throughout the state.

 

At the risk of sounding arrogant, overbearing, and offensive to many, my intent is not to brag about our success--that would benefit only a few of my readers and would definitely sour those who do not want to relive that time period. Suffice to say that our IVS teams were the dominant force in our county and throughout the Class A state tournaments during the '70s. While our teams were blessed with great players, our teams produced, at one point rolling through 51 straight wins before losing in the 1973 state championship game. Additionally, the Rebs won another state championship in 1976, led by another Huggins boy, Harry, as well as several key players. My first point is quite simple: Basketball was the sport of the valley in the 1970s. I had mentioned in Part II of this series that Strasburg's 1967 state championship opened many eyes about the quality of play in our area. Without that state championship, we small town boys might not have "caught the fever" that we could experience the same feeling.

 

I mentioned earlier about Gene Ford being an icon in my eyes; well, let me just add a few names to the list of great players who carried the torch from the late 60s' to the '70s: of course, Bob Huggins, Ed Leggett, Dave Smith, Scott VanFossen, Richie Babcock, Bill Andreas, Greg Zimmerman--all of them had one commonality: they were great offensive players, big scorers. And that, my friends, is where Charlie Huggins entered the picture.

 

As the '70s unfolded, our area's basketball identity began to change from one where offensive emphasis was replaced with defensive emphasis, Huggins's forte. During that era, the focus shifted from somewhat free-wheeling offensive shows into defensive slugfests. Scoring began to decline as the game began to shift to ball and tempo control, both with the idea of limiting the other team's possessions. While many would argue the merits of that approach, when Huggins's teams began winning so consistently, other coaches began to openly resent that approach, but the realization that to beat him would require significant changes on their part became real. . . and that is when the valley's basketball began to really change.

 

The 1970s brought about other significant changes; for perhaps the first time, attendance at a summer basketball fundamentals camp became almost mandatory. Huggins'' Eastern Ohio Basketball Camp was the location of choice; featuring renowned coaches from throughout this part of the country, kids flocked to the camp to do whatever was asked. The fever had begun. In addition to the five-and-a-half day camps that ran throughout the summer (looking back, I only wanted to survive from Sunday night to Friday evening!), we played on those courts every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday evening throughout the summer in a three-man league with players coming from all over the area. Additionally, we were treated to even greater games when the valley's best would come to play against each other: games featuring the Huggins boys, John Studer, Zimmerman, Ford, Smith, Babcock, Henry, McComb, Joel Cochran, and so many others would only serve to make our area a basketball centerpiece . . . ah, those were enjoyable days, ones that prepared us for such great winter games.

 

In time, all area coaches understood that to beat IVS would require an adoption of what Huggins did. Soon, coaches were conducting their own camps, taking kids to other camps that began appearing, and making their kids play in the summer. I suppose it could be argued that the era of specialization began during that time because many kids focused on just basketball often at the expense of playing football. Not only did basketball camps and organized leagues begin to appear in our area, but throughout the state, the same began to happen. Camps flourished (and still do); parents wanted their kids involved in successful programs so parental push continued to exert itself. The bottom line is that basketball became our area's identity, contributing to such a memorable time in our history.

 

Earlier, I mentioned Gene Ford; to me, he recognized that an undersized player could make himself into a star by dedicating himself to being the best. He made believers out of so many. Bob Huggins was as skilled and talented a leader and player as anyone who had ever graced our courts. I could go on, but, as I have mentioned throughout this series, our valley's basketball history is made up of so much talent and success, one I know people my age appreciate yet one that I hope this generation could celebrate as well.

 

To accentuate that success, I must mention that the Ohio Basketball Hall of Fame has included the following Tuscarawas valley players/coaches/officials from the '70s into its prestigious classes:

       *Joe Pangrazio Sr. (official)

       *Bob Huggins

       *Indian Valley South High School Teams of 1972 and 1973 (to be inducted on May 20, 2017)

 

The '70s were special years, highlighted by statewide success, colorful characters, and outstanding players . . . not sure this area has seen anything to rival it in the years before or since! 

   The foregoing is Part III of a few-part series chronicling basketball in our Tuscarawas valley. . . here's hoping a few readers may be intrigued by this mini-series! (For those who may not have read either Part I or II, those entries can be found at three locations: michaelagunther.blogspot.com OR The Times-Reporter web page under "Opinion" and then "Blogs" OR my Facebook page.)

Headed out to the Ol' Gym, Part II

Fierce rivalries, small gyms, jeering crowds, offensive focus--the late 1960s provided them all in the basketball world. However, many like to think those were years of innocence, certainly causing me a chuckle.  In truth, the orneriness of our valley's teenagers was off-the-charts; in fact, today's youth would probably be incarcerated if they tried doing so much of what passed as pranks during that time. Fast cars, drag races, and "harmless" vandalism ruled; of course, many today might deny their involvement in such activities, but it happened . . . trust me on that. In the Gnadenhutten community I was raised, I clearly remember so many of our "finest" athletes hanging out at Gibby's grocery store, one known for selling smokes to whoever walked through the door. I witnessed many drag races headed past our house that sat on a straight stretch headed out of town; additionally, I remember the numerous Halloween "tricks" that were pulled and the ever-present stories of the infamous "River Gang" that trolled the Tuscarawas River at the Gnadenhutten bridge.  As for any drinking, certainly not those boys! I single out my home town, but it must be stressed that this happened throughout the valley; pick a town like Tuscarawas, Midvale, Port Washington, Strasburg. . . it was the sign of the times. Despite all that shenanigans, what each community possessed was one simple unifier: Basketball. Football was in the valley; however, not all schools could afford that sport, but all of them could afford a gym and uniforms, thus stirring intense competition between these small burgs where winning fostered the coveted bragging rights that created heroes.

Walls were tight against most courts, many even having stages as backdrops (Gnadenhutten, for example). To have an uncontested layup was rare because it certainly was a sign of manhood to blast someone into a wall, taking the foul and the resultant pushing that often followed. A few courts, of course, sat in a pit-like environment being so small that the 10-second over-and-back line was simply the foul line in the backcourt (Midvale and Tuscarawas, for example). Floor colors varied, but the constants were that the floor size was limited and the red 3-foot step back line ran along both the endlines and the sidelines--for recall, this line prevented the defender of an out-of-bounds passer to not get closer than 3 feet, allowing the inbounder to at least have a little room to throw in the ball because his feet were either right against a wall or against the bleachers. As one would guess, close proximity to other players and to fans led to exciting action and frequent tumbles into the stands. Through it all, however, shone community pride.

Each community had its stars, those that the townspeople would talk about religiously because those stars' success determined their success. Strasburg had so many but, in particular, the beloved John Studer; Garaway had its Danny Andreas; Tuscarawas had its Dave Paisley; Midvale had its Dean DeMattio; Newcomerstown had its John Hurst; Dennison St. Mary's had its Tom Crosswhite; and Gnadenhutten had its Dan Jinks. Scoring was the name of the game during that time with defense being a bit of an afterthought in contrast to changes that would later impact the scoring. It was not unusual for individuals to average in the mid-to-high-20s. In fact, during that time the two highest individual scoring games in our valley's history featured Hurst scoring 58 vs. Dover St. Joe's and Jinks topping it with 59, a record that still stands today. (Point of emphasis: Gnadenhutten defeated Tuscarawas 116-115 in that game!)

I remember with pride watching many of those games; as a kid, having sports heroes was standard, and when those basketball players were so visible and close on our gym floors, it became almost like a  worship session: it was our town against yours . . . and none of us were good losers. In the fans' eyes, referees were the bad guys, challenged with keeping the gym's tensions under control. Rare was the time when fans and parents would agree with any call that went against their favorites. We must remember that these small burgs were comprised of tough people, most of whom performed hard, physical labor on a daily basis. Their entertainment was high school sports simply because the world of televised sports was quite foreign to us at that time. Our allegiance was to our schools' teams!

The picture is clear, isn't it? Community pride was at stake--it was time to win. Fights were not dominant, but they certainly happened. I clearly remember Strasburg's Bob Welling punching a Gnadenhutten player following a rough exchange for a loose ball. Surprisingly, it was an occasional part of the game. Play was physical, largely due to ten bodies competing on small floors. The game was about scoring, although the total points in a game really was not significantly different than what we see today (with a few notable exceptions as mentioned in a previous paragraph). But each team had a clear scoring leader, and that individual got most of the shots. Our hero, Jinks, had the green light to shoot whenever he could; I kid him today about being the only player in school history to never have an assist. Although that is not true, his job was to score--not to defend and not to pass . . . just put the ball through the hoop. That was the flavor of the game then; as indicated earlier, each team had a scorer and as that scorer went, so did the team.

In 1967, the valley was blessed with the state championship won by the Strasburg Tigers, a significant feat in the A/AA school classification that existed then. For one of the rare times, it allowed our valley's competitiveness to be shown on a statewide stage. Yes, other teams had previously excelled (Midvale, for example), but this championship was a turning point in our basketball history. Strasburg put us on the map! As a kid, I remember so clearly being able to watch their regional championship and then listening to their state tournament games . . . what a time it was and what a motivator it became.

The late '60s provided yet another spark in my love of the game, creating excitement, rivalries, and rich competition. Basketball and its importance in the valley have gone through numerous changes since then, many of which were caused by consolidations, but those consolidations led to a dominant era in our history: basketball in the '70s! 

The foregoing is Part II of a few-part series chronicling basketball in our Tuscarawas valley. Part III's focus will be on the 1970s . . .here's hoping a few readers may be intrigued by this mini-series! (For those who may not have read Part I, that entry can be found at three locations: michaelagunther.blogspot.com OR The Times-Reporter web page under "Opinion" and then "Blogs." OR my Facebook page.)

 

Headed out to the Ol' Gym

This place we call home is a treasure, packed with a storied history that oftentimes fades into the dark as time rambles before our eyes. For those like me who have been raised in this valley and chose to return, occasional reminders jolt us into remembering images, situations, and people we have forgotten. In the past six months or so, I have experienced that of which I speak. Spurred by the reading of two historical compilations, Dover's Memorial Hall Hardwood 'Carnival'  (Dr. Matthew Gladman) and Whistle Stop Stories (Al Amicone), I have caught myself reminiscing about our valley's past . . . and, oh, the memories that have surfaced. Perhaps a few readers will enjoy going down that road with me as I highlight certain remembrances focusing on gyms, schools, players, and coaches.

In truth, the roots of this blog entry began ten years ago when my good friend Bob VonKaenel and I decided to list all the schools and mascots representing Ohio's Eastern District. After much discussion, mind searching, phone calls, and questions, we compiled our list of schools still existing today as well as schools from yesteryear that were swallowed up via consolidation. Together, ninety-seven schools were identified with mascots ranging from the Flying Tigers to the Spartans to the Mounties to the Ductolites! Scrolling through that list, one can easily trace the youth of so many of our older generation, of which--I guess--I am now a quasi-official member!

Come back with me to the beginning. My neighborhood had four houses, three of which had basketball hoops with dirt courts, wooden backboards, and ratty old nets. Depending on what day it was determined on whose court we would play; regardless, the games were great, the "shooting around" was a challenge with all kinds of experimental shots, and practically every time we played, the Tuscarawas County tournament would be held among us with each of the three kids (and later adding a fourth) assuming the roles of a county school. Of course, because I attended Dennison St. Mary's my first five years, my peers, who were Gnadenhutten Indians, never allowed me to enter as the Blue Waves because we were a Catholic school! Translated, we had to be a public school, so every game represented a small county school. We knew the players' names from most of the schools, so we made it as official as we could. Heated contests always ensued in our 1-1 battles, and, of course, the age-old excuse of "you fouled me" always surfaced. Did not matter--we had the time of our lives!

Dennison St. Mary's was an important spur for me. As a child, my dad would take me to various games at St. Mary's "new" gym, which I thought was gigantic at that time. It sounds strange, I know, but I still remember watching those teams come out of that locker room flashing those white warm-up jackets and pants with each player's name bouncing on the jacket's back. Like in a trance, I would watch the entire warm-up period, mesmerized by the sound of the net when a ball would be swished and the repetitive bouncing of many basketballs. When the warm-ups came off, the Blue Waves sported the coolest uniforms I have ever seen to this day. The light blue (or whites dependent on whether it was a home or away game) capped off by stars and the high socks made each player so special. Even today, I get goose pimples when I remember watching heroes like Joey Pangrazio, John Carter, Tom Crosswhite, Danny Angelozzi, Ralph Douglass, Chris Tolloty, and so many others who wore those uniforms. As stated, my appetite was wetted by the Blue Waves.

Soon, I was able to begin playing in our biddy-basketball league held on Sunday afternoons. However, before I ever played an organized game, I received the news that I had to have a jock strap; for what reason, I had no clue. Hell, I was only in second grade, so those details were not part of my thinking. Once my parents had purchased a jock strap--a gigantic one, I should add for a seven year old--I felt I was big time. Obviously, excited I was as I got to dress in the St. Mary's locker room . . . still remember it! My coach was a good man I had occasionally seen in church, Bill Dillon, who was and has remained fiercely loyal to the Catholic school athletic programs. Of course, because Mr. Dillon was my coach, he was put on my personal pedestal. Little did he know, but he captured my enthusiasm and interest because he was kind and simplistic with me. Never did he yell, but he certainly encouraged . . . I have never forgotten that, and in my mind I certainly contrast his approach with those of several I have seen working with elementary kids today. Even though I was already hooked on the game, Mr. Dillon made basketball so much fun for me. With my dyed blue t-shirt and my oversized white gym shorts, I was so proud to be on that floor . . . a feeling that, truthfully, still lingers today every time I enter a gym.

As the St. Mary's years moved on, I found myself just waiting to actually be part of that basketball program. Wearing those warm-ups and uniforms, playing before a packed house in what I later realized was actually an extremely small gym, and getting to represent my school and my church provided my motivation. In time, however, problems emerged. The omnipresent hulk of a man, Fr. Gilbert--the church's pastor, the school's principal and athletic director as well as the bus coordinator--made a decision that no busses would run to Gnadenhutten, thus thrusting the traveling to school on my parents, who simply could not economically justify providing that transportation. I clearly remember one Sunday morning after mass when my dad and Fr. Gilbert had a shouting match regarding that dilemma. When we got in the car, my dad simply stated, "You're (my sister and I)  going to Gnaden next year." (Nothing like a shouting match with the priest coming out of church!) Thus, my St. Mary's dream ended, but a new one began as I got to see the Indians play, led by Dan Jinks!

 My plans are to expand this into a few-part series, eventually ending with observations about high school basketball as it is played today. Here's hoping a few readers may be intrigued by this mini-series!