A Basketball Secret at Parkside High
I grew up in a family of all boys — 3 brothers. That meant a lot of sports and a lot of fighting. We played all the organized sports- hockey, basketball, baseball, and football. But we also played a lot of inside sports during the Canadian winter — wiffle ball, nerf basketball, indoor hockey, basement football. This led to a lot of noise and fights. We could fight over anything — goal or no goal, foul or no foul, catch or incomplete. We would also fight over what channel to watch, who got to sit in the barcalounger or anything else. I once remember a brawl over who got the largest cereal bowl.
This conflict was not popular with my parents. My Dad worked shifts, so if he was at work, we did not fear discipline from my Mom. She was a teacher and seemed unfamiliar that a ruler slap was not a major deterrent when the largest cereal bowl was at stake. But if my Dad was home, and especially if he was sleeping after working all night, then the fights had serious consequences. My Dad could give you a verbal berating like no other. Back then, corporal punishment was not jailworthy, so my Dad was a master of what we called the topspin forehand. He would clip you off the top of the head with an open hand, but spin the hand like a Bjorn Borg tennis forehand. It was an effective deterrent. My Dad also would dole out punishment with a grounding or extra chores and he always had some dubious home improvement project that could kill a young man’s free time. (See Garage story). The most feared punishment was the suspension from organized sports. My Dad would often threaten us that our recalcitrant behavior would result in us missing a game. This was the most feared by the Lock boys. We could take the extra chores, a verbal berating or a topspin forehand, but please don’t ever let us miss a game. In the end, while this “death penalty” was often threatened, it was never actually carried out. On game day, my Dad would always relent and let us play.
So with this background. Let me relay a story of when I was a teenager. When I was a sophomore in high school, I decided to play on three organized sports teams simultaneously- travel hockey, high school hockey and high school basketball. I attended Ancaster High and Vocational school. It was not exactly a top college preparatory — please note the “vocational school” in the moniker. It did not take a lot of work to rack up good grades, so why not play a ton of sports? Well, three simultaneous teams is quite a bit and the next year, my Dad laid down the law. I could only play on two teams, not three. My Dad thought high school hockey was crappy hockey, but my buddy Bobby Caruth had organized the travel hockey players to crossover and play high school as well. We had a “super team” that could challenge for a Provincial championship. So I went for two hockey teams and withdrew from basketball — at least for a time.
In the 70’s, parents did not keep track of their kids like we do now. If I did not have a hockey practice or game, I simply went to the gym after class and hung out waiting for my basketball buddies to finish practice. Since I was hanging out in the gym, Coach Wynne- the varsity basketball coach, thought I should participate in the drills and scrimmages because you always need extra guys in a shirts and skins game. I also attended the varsity basketball games and watched from the floor. So after a while, Coach Wynn said “if you are going to most of the practices and the games, you should just play.” He needed a backup point guard for when the starter needed a break or got in foul trouble. Early in the season, when the starter had some nagging injuries, he told me to bring my sneakers to the Friday night game and he would bring the uniform.
That’s how I decided to defy my Dad. I knew it had big risk, but in rebellious teenager terms, I justified it as a minor offense. It wasn’t like I was taking drugs or something. My buddies also became accomplices. They gave me cover stories for my post school absence at home. Bruce Burrows took my basketball gear home in his gym bag . His Mom washed my uniform. A kid named John Metcalf who was the scorer and media guy made sure my name didn’t show up in the box scores or the school newspaper.
I did this for most of the season in a low key fashion. No one takes notice of the backup point guard logging 10 minutes a game. I was a facilitator on the court. I could handle the ball well and run the offense , but I was a poor shooter from outside and only scored when I drove to the basket. All went fine until the playoffs. My play was increasing in quality and I was logging more minutes and points. My profile was rising and that was not good when you are trying to play in secret. It all went wrong, at Parkside High in the SOSSA Zone 1 championship. I didn’t start, but came off bench early to play as the two guard. The Parkside coach knew I was a poor shooter and should not be playing the two. He double teamed elsewhere and sloughed way off on defense against me. He dared me to shoot. So I shot. I made the first one. And the second. So I kept shooting and scoring. Coach Wynne saw what was happening and did not sub me out. Pretty soon I was the unlikely central player in the championship. We were underdogs in this game. But we kept it close and led late in the game, before losing at the buzzer on the most unlikely of plays that still makes me mad to this day. To make matters worse, there was a brawl on the court following the game and some fans incorrectly said I instigated it.I scored 22 and got in a post game fight.This was way too high profile for a guy trying to play secretly . My friend, Jim Graham and I, huddled after the game about how we were going to keep this all quiet. Unbelievably, we almost pulled it off. There was an investigation of the post game fight by both schools. I was exonerated and the other kid from Dundas was suspended from his school. No parents were called and it looked like I was going to be able to keep the big secret. The season was over because of the unfortunate loss and my Dad would never know.
But that’s when fate intervened. My buddy Bruce Burrows played hockey and basketball and his Dad and my Dad were friends. So, at a subsequent hockey game, Mr. Burrows inadvertently spilled the beans about my performance and the post game fight. He expressed some surprise that my Dad was not at the game. Afterall, my dad went to every game his boys ever played.
My Dad called me to his office that night and I knew something was up. I sensed that we might have found out about the basketball and maybe about the fight. I have never been more frightened as I entered the office area.
He says “So….Mr. Burrows tells me you played one hell of a basketball game on Friday night?” And then silence. I was scared, but went with silence as a response. “How long have you been playing?” I was dumb, but not dumb enough to lie to my Dad’s face. I told the whole story and cowardly blamed others. I threw Coach Wynne under the bus for asking me to play. I blamed Bobby Carruth and the high school hockey coach who insisted I play high school hockey.
My dad just shook his head in disgust over my lack of accountability. “That’s BULLSHIT, you chose to play, not other people.” I was silent, he was of course, correct.
“And what about this fight post game?” So he knew about that too. I admitted that there was a fight and I had been a central figure.
“Did you win the fight?”
“No Sir. I got sucker punched and then trampled by a bunch of people in a scrum. I did not get any good shots in.” There was no sense in deviating from the truth at this point, I was throwing myself on the mercy of the court.
There was another long silence. “Who sucker punched you?” I told him. He knew the kid. “That kid is a punk!” he responded.
Wait, is there light at the end of the tunnel? Can we possibly be sympathetic? Might he possibly understand?
He continued, “Never get sucker punched. If there is going to be a confrontation, don’t be afraid to throw the first punch.”
Wow. This was going better than I thought. Advice and not punishment. We stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he broke the silence.
“Well, I am sorry I wasn’t at the game to see you play so well.” And that was it. He left the room.
After defying him, after keeping this secret for months, there was no punishment, no penalty. There was just a statement of disappointment that I had deprived him of seeing his son do well and of sitting with the other fathers in a championship game to watch their boys come together as a team and give it their all.
My dad had been driving me to basketball games and practice since Mr. Daly had been coaching me in CYO basketball in the fifth grade. He made sure I was at every practice and game. And he was there at every game to watch.
As it turns out, that game forty years ago at Parkside High was the last competitive basketball game I ever played. Next year I played Junior hockey and you could not play two sports at that level.
My Dad would never see me on the court again.
On the fourth anniversary of his death, I am thinking about that winter long ago. I wish he had been at that game. Sorry, Dad.
