The time comes to every young man when he’s played his last game. The passing of years clouds the mind as to the exact moment or circumstances when it happens, but sometimes you can recall that moment with amazing clarity. Youth doesn’t always have to be but a fleeting memory or a collection of boring events. My time also came.
United was my motley crew of misfits. We were not the big boys or even AAU (Amateur Athletic Union), but a corporate sponsored sports team made up of ordinary working class guys who loved basketball. Many of them were black and from the blade-runner environs of Kansas City’s east side. United was a long shot consisting of several rejects who dared to try to join Building Service, the unbeaten all-black basketball champs. Perhaps it wasn’t a matter of race when I tried to join them because many blacks in the same department were also turned away.
There were several teams because the corporation was one of Kansas City’s largest – enough to warrant an organized status and a schedule of eight games per season. United, however, was infested with those who did not want to win or even practice including its leader. After losing the first four games and tired of losing, I complained to its Hispanic captain and in a curt moment he countered, “If you think you can do better, it’s yours!” That’s when things began to change. The Hispanics quit and the Hippies quit. That left me as captain and a couple of blacks who were serious about taking on the arrogant never-beaten champions. As word got out, several players whom Building Service had rejected joined United including Smitty, a particularly unusual character. With his ten inch Fro, Smitty was seven feet tall, but there was another characteristic about him that struck fear into his opponents besides his brutal rebounding and scoring talents. Smitty was crazy. When those eyes started popping out and the wild screaming and cussing issued forth, you knew something wasn’t right.
St. James Community Center at 40th and Troost had seen better days. Like so much of Kansas City’s East Side, it was terribly dilapidated. On the Saturday of game day, snow had collected on the north sidelines of the basketball court inside the building. The new United had posted three straight victories going into the final game of the season with the Building Service team relaxed and confident.
United had a balanced offense and ferocious defense with Smitty leading the way, but things were about to get violent. When I stuffed a Building Service player going for an easy layup, it actually slammed him prone to the floor. He quickly righted himself and yelled, “I’m going to knock you out!” That wasn’t all. Smitty fought to the wire against Building Service with fists and elbows swinging until a fortuitous intervention occurred. Jack, the corporate sports director, blew his whistle to call an immediate time-out to warn us that if a fight broke out, there would not only be an end to the game, but the whole basketball program as well. The timely break only wetted our collective determination and we would not be denied. The new United, with its only white member, defeated the champs and ended the second half of the season unbeaten.
United was my swan song. Smitty disappeared into time until a few years before my retirement when I told this story to someone at work who well acquainted with those of our age group in the hood. He was incredulous about the game until I mentioned Smitty’s full name. “I know someone with that name.” he said skeptically. “I’ll just ask him.” It turns out that Smitty was alive and well after 35 years. After hearing my name, Smitty told the guy at work, “I remember that dude.” and verified my story. Some swan songs involve some unusual swans.
