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FRONTENAC —
A few weeks into the 1959 season, I acquired my first pair of Converse “Chuck Taylor” All-Star basketball shoes. I had long desired them, not only because they were worn by everyone from the members of my beloved Boston Celtics to the players on our high school basketball team, but also because I figured they’d give me something I’d always lacked as a Sacred Heart player ... speed.
Speed was a quality Father Phil White, Sacred Heart pastor, already possessed. He said the fastest Masses, gave the fastest sermons, heard the fastest confessions and was the fastest driver in the parish.
By using considerable forethought and planning, I secured for myself and three friends (also known as “bad companions”) a ride to Coffeyville in his brand new Oldsmobile for the Sunday afternoon basketball games with Holy Name grade school ... the first in my new Chuck Taylors. Speed on speed!
Here’s the scheme. I knew that arriving in Coffeyville by game time was a push if we left after 10 o’clock Mass. Fr. White was scheduled for the 10 o’clock Mass so I magnanimously volunteered for acolyte duty — then manipulated the schedule to get my three friends on as well.
Fr. White sailed through high Mass in record time (32 minutes) owing in small part to his perfunctory sermon and large part to his long-practiced ability to spout his part of the Latin Mass with little regard to our responses.
So at 10:45 we were goofing around in the freezing rectory garage when he hustled around the corner and said with a knowing smile, “Ready to go boys?”
He popped the trunk and we tossed in our canvas gym bags. I called, “I got Shotgun!,” and excitedly climbed into the front seat while my friends climbed in the back ... our breaths held in unison. It was the first ride for all of us in the new Olds.
Our luminous, green limousine backed a quarter moon arc into the lazy, Sunday sunlight, hesitated briefly and lurched forward toward the drive. But, rather than take off onto McKay street, Fr. White braked at the corner of the garage and honked, signaling to Alice Pearce, his housekeeper, who came sauntering around the church.
“Oh no,” my brain screamed. “I’m in the front and I’ll have to ride between Fr. White and old Alice!” As she slid into the seat and flashed a crooked smile, I heard a slight snicker and spied Ben rib-chuckling Gary in the corner of the backseat.
A few weeks into the 1959 season, I acquired my first pair of Converse “Chuck Taylor” All-Star basketball shoes. I had long desired them, not only because they were worn by everyone from the members of my beloved Boston Celtics to the players on our high school basketball team, but also because I figured they’d give me something I’d always lacked as a Sacred Heart player ... speed.
Speed was a quality Father Phil White, Sacred Heart pastor, already possessed. He said the fastest Masses, gave the fastest sermons, heard the fastest confessions and was the fastest driver in the parish.
By using considerable forethought and planning, I secured for myself and three friends (also known as “bad companions”) a ride to Coffeyville in his brand new Oldsmobile for the Sunday afternoon basketball games with Holy Name grade school ... the first in my new Chuck Taylors. Speed on speed!
Here’s the scheme. I knew that arriving in Coffeyville by game time was a push if we left after 10 o’clock Mass. Fr. White was scheduled for the 10 o’clock Mass so I magnanimously volunteered for acolyte duty — then manipulated the schedule to get my three friends on as well.
Fr. White sailed through high Mass in record time (32 minutes) owing in small part to his perfunctory sermon and large part to his long-practiced ability to spout his part of the Latin Mass with little regard to our responses.
So at 10:45 we were goofing around in the freezing rectory garage when he hustled around the corner and said with a knowing smile, “Ready to go boys?”
He popped the trunk and we tossed in our canvas gym bags. I called, “I got Shotgun!,” and excitedly climbed into the front seat while my friends climbed in the back ... our breaths held in unison. It was the first ride for all of us in the new Olds.
Our luminous, green limousine backed a quarter moon arc into the lazy, Sunday sunlight, hesitated briefly and lurched forward toward the drive. But, rather than take off onto McKay street, Fr. White braked at the corner of the garage and honked, signaling to Alice Pearce, his housekeeper, who came sauntering around the church.
“Oh no,” my brain screamed. “I’m in the front and I’ll have to ride between Fr. White and old Alice!” As she slid into the seat and flashed a crooked smile, I heard a slight snicker and spied Ben rib-chuckling Gary in the corner of the backseat.
Now, not only was Fr. White known for his love of driving fast, he was also known for his unique cornering style. At an intersection, he’d slow to a reasonable turning speed, begin the turn in a smooth roll, but then, maybe one third of the way into it, goose the gas and send the occupants careening sideways in a centrifugal swing that ended in a lump of bodies. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” we’d giggle under out breath (legal Catholic cussing).
On the first turn, I white knuckled the vinyl seat and jockeyed the center hump. But to no avail, I leaned into Alice — caught her scent, felt her breath on my ear and glimpsed her sweet, crooked smile.
Once we got on the straightaway, I watched gleefully the Oldsmobile’s horizontal thermometer of a speedometer as it moved left to right across the glass, changing from blue to green to yellow to a bright red glow as the Olds hit eighty miles an hour.
Our game (Pee Wees) was the usual screaming, fouling, double-dribbling, crash-and-tumble affair — occasionally interrupted by something vaguely resembling basketball. Heck, the game had so many stops and starts, I never had a real chance to test my new basketball shoes. Afterward, I halfheartedly watched the varsity game while snacking on pop and popcorn and visiting in the stands.
Following a very quick tour of the Dalton Museum, (the museum guide asked us to leave) we headed home — the late afternoon sun warming the four of us crammed into the Oldsmobile’s backseat, speedometer glowing cozily in the dashboard below the St. Christopher medal.
Back in Pittsburg, we waited for the rest of the Sacred Heart basketball entourage inside Bartelli’s Restaurant, then devoured cheeseburgers and fries in plastic baskets lined with grease-stained, paper, drank Pepsis, chattered about our favorite characters on The Rifleman, Seahunt and The Three Stooges TV shows and dreamed about becoming pro basketball players like Bob Cousy and Wilt Chamberlain.
Later, back at Sacred Heart, Father White fast cornered the Olds right into the drive and then back left into the old, red block garage (again bunching us into a happy tangle) then parked, exited and popped the trunk without a word.
I plucked my bag from the pile in the trunk, said goodbye to Father and my friends, and headed for home. A cold wind was blowing out of the west and the January sky shone a pale orange-pink over the old backstop rusting on the playground.
At the corner of Cherokee and Lanyon, I sat down on the culvert, dug into my bag, and traded my leather street shoes for my canvas Chuck Taylors.
Then I continued up the sidewalk, first in a slow gait (blue), then at brisk walk (green), then in a trot (yellow), and finally in an all out run (red) to the corner of Pirnot’s hedge where I slowed, fast cornered, and raced headlong across Coillot’s yard toward home.
J.T. Knoll is a writer, speaker and prevention and wellness coordinator at Pittsburg State University. He also operates Knoll Training & Consulting in Pittsburg. He can be reached at 231-0499 or jtknoll@swbell.net
