Hoosier Hoops and Hijinks

by Brenda Stewart

  “What?” John asked.

  Wilson smiled grimly. “I’m from Anderson. I think it’s great.” Suellen was able to stop John before Wilson was really dead.

  Bobby Plump

  Tony Perona

  Everyone in Indiana knows Jimmy Chitwood is really Bobby Plump.

  Long before the main character in 1986’s “Hoosiers” made a last second shot to win the game for the fictitious small town of Hickory, real-life Hoosiers knew the story of Bobby Plump, who played for tiny Milan High School in 1954. Chitwood and the story of how Hickory overcame the much larger South Bend school was loosely based on Plump and Milan. Like Chitwood, Plump scored on a jump shot in the last 18 seconds of the game to win the state championship game over a much bigger school, Muncie Central.

  The Bobby Plump legend is an underdog story that gets retold every March when Hoosier Hysteria reaches it zenith with the high school basketball tournament. Though the single class tournament that made the “Milan Miracle” possible was abandoned in 1997, Plump’s last shot is still on everyone’s mind come March. In fact, a basketball themed restaurant in Broad Ripple named “Plump’s Last Shot” is a testimony to the enduring story. (The restaurant is owned by Plump’s son.)

  Bobby Plump was born in Pierceville and went to Milan High School. In addition to winning the state championship for Milan his senior year, Plump received the Trester Award (given for mental attitude). He was also named Indiana’s Mr. Basketball that year.

  Plump attended Butler University and was coached by the legendary Tony Hinkle. During his time at Butler he set several scoring records. He played on Butler’s first National Invitational Tournament (NIT) team in 1958. In 1981 he was selected for the Indiana Basketball Hall of Fame.

  THE MISSING MEDALLION

  M.B. Dabney

  Like most hospital rooms, George Madison’s had a sterile feel to it. It wasn’t that it was virtually germ free. It was more than that. Little about the room conveyed any personal warmth.

  His bed was inclined so Madison sat somewhat upright, with white cotton covers up to his chest. He had plastic tubes in his nostrils for oxygen, and sensors attached to his chest and right index finger.

  “You feeling okay, Dad? I can have Ryan go get you something,” Margie said as she tucked the covers snuggly around her father’s feet at the foot of the bed. Turning to face her husband near the door, she said, “Ryan, look on the top shelf of the closet and get Dad another blanket. I think his feet are cold.”

  “I’m fine, Pumpkin,” Madison said. His voice was hoarse, the volume low. The fact that Madison’s daughter didn’t hear him had nothing to do with the volume in which he spoke. So he weakly waved his arm to get Ryan’s attention. “No blanket.”

  Ryan understood.

  Margie continued to fuss. “I don’t understand why you wanted to be in this hospital. It’s a heart hospital. You need specialists in geriatric care.”

  Ryan returned to his wife’s side as the door slid open and an attractive middle-aged black woman entered. She had long, salt-and-pepper hair braided down her back, and a look of authority on her face.

  The woman silently acknowledged Margie and Ryan but barely took her eyes off of the patient. She walked to the end of the bed, picked up the medical chart and glanced at it.

  “Dr. Chandler,” she said, shaking hands with Margie and Ryan. They introduced themselves. The doctor looked down at the patient before returning her attention to Margie. “I understand he’s your father.”

  “Yes, and we are concerned about his care at this hospital.”

  “Indianapolis Heart Hospital will provide him the best of care, I promise you. I’ll personally see to it. I’m told he specifically requested this hospital,” she said before turning to the patient and slightly raising her voice. “How are you feeling today, Mr. Madison? Are you comfortable?”

  Madison rallied a bit, undoubtedly because of the extra attention. “I’m feeling pretty good for an old man.” A coughing fit gripped the man and the doctor checked his heart monitor. Ryan pulled his wife close but neither spoke.

  After his fit, Madison said, “The reporter?” And he coughed again.

  At the word ‘reporter,’ a stern expression marched across Margie’s face. But before she could speak, the doctor continued, “He’s right outside. I wanted to check on your strength before I agreed to let him interview you.”

  “He’s too sick to talk to anyone,” Margie said, looking back and forth from her beloved father to the doctor.

  “I share your concern, Mrs. McDonald,” Dr. Chandler said. “But I am monitoring his condition and your father …”

  From his bed, Madison interrupted them in a stronger voice than he had displayed in some time.

  “I’m not dead yet and I can make my own decisions. I want the reporter. There are some things that need clearing up. After more than 40 years, it’s time. Let him in.”

  Surprised, the three didn’t move as the depth of the old man’s desire hit home. Then, Dr. Chandler walked to the door and allowed the reporter in.

  “Chris Atwood, senior sports writer for the Indianapolis Star,” he said as he walked in and shook hands with everyone. Atwood looked at Madison, the winningest high school basketball coach in Indiana history. “It’s so nice to see you again, Coach,” he said, ignoring the man’s devastated physical condition.

  In his heyday, Madison looked more like a burly lumberjack— broad, thick and strong. He conveyed respect, authority and control from the sidelines. But now, in his late 80s and sick in a hospital bed, he looked thin, old and frail—a shadow of his former self.

  “You’re lying,” Madison said with humor, and once again coughed but it subsided quickly. Looking at the others, he said, “Atwood here is the biggest SOB there is. But he’s always given me a fair shake. Margie, get him a chair. You guys can find something to sit on or you can go somewhere for coffee. You don’t need to be here.”

  Margie pulled a chair closer to the bed. Dr. Chandler said, “The nurses’ll be in with your meds, and I’ll stop by later to check up on you before I head home tonight. But if you need me, they’ll beep me.”

  Atwood pulled a notebook, pen, and a small digital recorder from his jacket pocket. “Mind if I record?” he asked, placing the device on the bed beside Madison’s right arm.

  “Go ahead. I want you to get it right,” the elderly man said.

  “Coach Madison, your nearly 50 years of coaching boy’s high school basketball is legendary. You’re a Hall of Famer, with more than 600 wins and four state championships. Then all those trophies and awards, all stolen from your home last month. That must have been hard.”

  “Most of it was just stuff. Good riddance,” the old man said.

  Atwood appeared surprised. “You don’t want it back?”

  “Well, the police recovered some of it. Most of it really,” Ryan chimed from beside the window.

  “But they are keeping it for evidence,” Margie said. “No telling when he’ll get it back.”

  “They didn’t recover the thing I treasured most. A gold medallion. One from Northridge’s championship in the late 60s,” Madison interrupted. “We weren’t supposed to win that game. One player didn’t get to keep his medallion.”

  “Sam Wilson, you mean? The backup shooting guard who disappeared?” Atwood said.

  “Gave it to me that night for safe-keeping but didn’t return to school after that to claim it. I’d kept the medallion all these years. Now it’s missing, part of the stolen loot,” Madison said.

  He paused. It was as if he were gathering the courage or the strength to continue. “Might have to give it back to the state after you print what I’m about to tell you.”

  He now had all their attention. Atwood leaned closer. “What is it, coach?”

  “We should have forfeited the game. It was a boy’s game. And Sam Wilson was a girl.”

  “Okay, guys. Hit the showers,” Coach Madison said, dismissing the boys who had tried out for th
e basketball team. As all the boys but one headed toward the doors at the far end of the gym, Madison looked to his assistant coach, Randy Cox. “Who’s that kid, the one with the big hair?”

  “Not sure, coach. Let me see,” Cox said, looking down at the clipboard with their names.

  “Hey you, son. Yeah, you,” Madison said, waving his massive arms. “Come on over here.”

  The light-skinned kid could only have weighed 115 pounds soaking wet, and that was thin for a boy 5-foot-9. The heaviest thing on him was his Afro, which was so large it was a miracle his small head was strong enough to support it. The hair was supposed to demonstrate pride in his heritage, and a flair for current fashion.

  Many whites, like Madison, were mystified by the Black Power movement. It scared many, but Madison wasn’t one of them.

  The kid glanced over to the coaches when they called and an expression akin to fear showed on his smooth, clean-shaven face. But he sauntered over.

  “Yes, coach,” he said hesitantly. He barely looked up at Madison when he replied.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Uh, Sam Wilson, sir,” he said with a polite Southern lilt to his voice.

  “I haven’t seen you before. You new to the school? Where you from?”

  “I just moved here from down South. A small town in Mississippi,” Sam said.

  “You like it here?”

  The boy’s face lit up at once and he seemed suddenly energized, bouncing slightly on his feet. “Yes, sir. And I’d love to make your varsity team and play for you. You’re a great coach and I could learn so much.”

  “That so?” Cox said.

  “Yeah, and Northridge is a college preparatory school now. The work is harder than at my old school.”

  “What all are you taking?” Madison asked.

  Sam gave a list of his classes.

  “What’s your favorite?” It was Madison again.

  “Biology 2A.”

  “Doctor Richards, huh? Great teacher. Probably the best biology teacher in Indiana,” Madison commented before switching subjects. “You ever play organized ball before? At your old school? Maybe at the Y?”

  “Some. But mostly backyard stuff,” Sam said.

  “He’s an excellent outside shooter, wouldn’t you say, Coach?” Cox said.

  “I’m small,” Sam said, looking between the coaches. “Can’t get that close to the hoop because everybody’s bigger than me. So I have to shoot outside.”

  “You handle the ball pretty good, too,” Madison said as he started walking across the court to the cart where the boys had stacked all the basketballs. Taking a ball and bouncing it to Sam, he said, “How’s your free-throw shooting? Take some shots.”

  Sam stood at the foul line, dribbled the ball a few times and looked up at the basket, studying it as closely as the coach studied him. He lifted off with his toes and the ball rolled off his fingertips. It hit the backboard and dropped through the hoop.

  The coaches bounced ball after ball to Sam with increasing speed as he jumped and took shot after shot. Most went in. Finally, they stopped.

  “Randy, get the balls,” coach said to his assistant. To Sam, he said, “You think you can make a free throw without hitting the backboard? Only net.”

  “I think so.”

  “Try it,” the coach said, bouncing Sam a ball again. Sam took one quick shot after another, hitting six of seven, with three being all net.

  Beads of perspiration dotted Sam’s forehead and half-moons stained the underarms of his dark blue t-shirt. Madison walked over.

  “Good job, son. You’ve got potential. Now hit the showers.”

  Sam backed away, nearly panicked. “Uh, my ride’s gone, I think, and it’s almost time for my bus. I live on the other side of town,” he said. “Uh, I don’t think I have time to shower.”

  And with that, Sam ran off, leaving the two coaches scratching their heads.

  Tryouts lasted three days. On the following Monday afternoon, Sam left an ornithology field trip with Dr. Richards’ biology class and hurried down the narrow first floor hallway leading to the coach’s office. Madison had promised to post the varsity team roster before the end of the day.

  A group of boys, with varying expressions on their faces ranging from elation to disappointment, stood outside the office talking excitedly. On the wall next to the door was the list. Sam’s name was on it. He was a backup point guard on the nine-member squad.

  Practice started that day and within two weeks, they faced their first opponent.

  As a backup, Sam played little but showed great leadership when he did. His long shots were on target. He was quick on fast breaks, consistently scoring two-pointers on lay-ups. He called some plays and his two, late-game assists to forward Donnie Cox, the assistant coach’s son, helped lift the team to a 73-72 win over Cathedral.

  But perhaps most impressive of all was the game against No. 1 powerhouse George Washington.

  Playing for the injured Arthur Jones, Sam scored 16 second-half points during Northridge’s 24-3 run in the team’s 82-77 loss. Sam sank to the floor in despair after the final buzzer, his head in his hands. His body shook from the disappointment at the team’s first loss of the season.

  After shaking hands with the winning coach, Madison walked over to Sam and helped him to his feet. He put his arm around the boy’s slumping shoulders as they walked off. They barely noticed the fans spilling onto the basketball court.

  “You played well tonight, Sam. I couldn’t have asked for more.”

  “But we lost.”

  “It would have been far worse without you.”

  “Small consolation,” Sam said, heading off as he fought back tears.

  Madison felt a tug on his plaid jacket and looked down to see his seven-year-old daughter, Marjorie. He picked her up.

  “I’m sorry you lost, daddy,” Margie said.

  “That’s alright, Pumpkin. We’ll get ‘em next time.”

  “Daddy, why does that player always wear a blue t-shirt under his jersey and the other players don’t?”

  Madison looked at Sam’s retreating form then back to his daughter. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I hadn’t noticed before. Maybe I’ll ask him on the bus back to school.”

  But, he didn’t. Forgot.

  He did, however, follow Sam’s grades, as he did with all his players. Sam had a 3.7 grade point average, with his highest scores coming in biology.

  The same could not be said for Art Jones, who returned from his sprained ankle injury but who failed two classes that fall. He was dropped from the team at the beginning of the second semester.

  That left the squad with eight players. Enough, but just barely.

  “You’re going to get more playing time, Sam,” Madison said after one practice in January. “I like the way you’re improving as a player.”

  “Thanks, Coach. I promise not to let you down.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Madison said. “When am I going to meet your parents, son?”

  “My mom’s divorced. My dad, uh, well, he’s not here. And my mom works a lot to support me,” Sam said, sounding somewhat embarrassed by the admission.

  “Well, it would be good to see her in the stands down the stretch. It’s important for parents to support their kids. Cheer them on,” Madison said. “You need a ride home?”

  “No, I’ll make it okay,” Sam said and left the gym.

  Ranked seventh in the state, Northridge dominated throughout the season but narrowly escaped with close victories against Chatard, Howe and Connersville when the state tournament started. A hard-fought victory against Washington got them to the state finals. They were headed for a match-up with Gary Roosevelt, the two-time defending state champions. Roosevelt hadn’t lost a game in a season-and-a-half and the smart money was on them to easily handle Northridge.

  In the team’s final practice, Madison was putting his players through some drills when Jesse Perkins, a player who loved hogging the ball, knocked Sam
to the floor. Sam’s legs were spread apart and the coach noticed something. A bright red spot in the crotch of Sam’s white practice shorts. None of the others seemed to notice.

  Madison walked over and pulled Sam to the side.

  “Are you feeling okay, son. You hurt yourself?”

  “No, Coach. Why do you ask?”

  “I thought I saw blood on your pants.”

  Sam looked down, horrified, and ran off without saying a word. Madison found him in a closed stall in the restroom.

  “You alright, son?”

  “I’m fine. Go away,” Sam protested.

  “But if you are hurt, we need to get you to the nurse to be checked out.”

  “I said I’m fine. I don’t need any help, so go away.”

  “Sam,” Madison started but the boy’s angry voice interrupted him.

  “I said go away.”

  Hands on his hips outside the stall, Madison stood for 20 seconds, then turned and headed for the door.

  “Come to my office as soon as you come out. I mean it. In my office.”

  Fully dressed 10 minutes later, Sam entered the coach’s office and dropped with a thud into a metal chair across from Madison’s desk.

  Madison interlocked his fingers and rested his chin on his hands. “Sam, I need you this weekend. And I need you healthy. But if there is something wrong, we need to have it checked out. We can help you. I promise.”

  Head down, Sam examined his feet as he spoke. “I don’t need any help. It happens all the time.”

  “What? You injured? You haven’t mentioned anything to me or Coach Cox.”

  “No injury. It happens all the time. Once a month,” he finally said, looking up. His eyes locked with Madison’s. “It’s my period. Girls have periods.”

  Madison’s hands dropped to the desk and his jaw went slack. He fell back into his chair and looked at Sam as if for the first time.

  The smooth face, voice with a slightly higher pitch, narrow, round shoulders, never showering, the t-shirt his daughter mentioned weeks earlier. It all added up. It was amazing he had never thought of it before.