Taking an old bus through March madness time machine

My dad loved basketball with a passion. In 1947, with a young wife, an infant daughter, in a job at a department store he didn't like, still recovering from multiple surgeries to repair wounds endured at Saipan, my dad volunteered to coach his former high school team. He was so committed as a young coach that he felt compelled to buy a bus for the team to travel ... a bus he could not afford, one with bad tires and suspect brakes. The bus lasted about as long as my dad's coaching career. Along with the need to get a real job, he was a tad too excitable on the bench. His young wife worried he'd die of a heart attack in the gym before reaching age 23. So, his coaching career ended pretty fast. His wife planned more for the long run, a future that would include seven more kids. A few years later Dad discovered a job he liked and forged a career in groceries, eventually owning his own store ... the one we had a hard time getting away from for vacations.

As for the trip to Coos Bay in 1970, I don’t remember a lot, other than a dune buggy ride and being in a gym that seemed huge, bleachers on all four sides huge. The only game action I remember is my brother getting in late in a blowout 87-69 championship-game victory, him hitting a free throw — and then cracking up. He and everyone I knew around me seemed to be having too much fun with this sport.

Three years later, another family member — well, my sister’s boyfriend who was already like a family member and soon after graduation would become full-fledged — was a starting guard for the Buffs, Willie Fuentes. They took second place in the Greater Oregon League, earning a spot in the 16-team field at the new tournament site: Mac Court, on the campus of U of O. It also meant another family vacation with my dad. Trips to Oklahoma and to basketball state tournaments weren’t the only time we left Madras for more than a day, but I can’t recall too many others.

That team was a tournament Cinderella, just 14-8 coming in, no chance ... but they made it to the championship game against Scappoose. There, they battled the much taller Scappoose Indians and came up just short, 56-52. My future brother-in-law made second all-tourney.

For a sports freak who just turned 10, those days in Eugene were gold. These state tournaments were a little taste of what heaven must be like, I figured, or at least the place where we’d all hang out before being invited in.

Just four years later, another Madras team was back at Marshfield High School winning the school’s first-ever girls basketball state title. Another eventual family member, Fran Moses, was one of the star players on that team.

Three years after that, in 1980, I was high school-aged and got a shot of my own to play at Mac Court in the state tourney. In my mediocre high school basketball career, the White Buffs were essentially made up of players all within one inch or so of each other, and all of us about six-foot. We had some decent shooters, rode three-year starter Ron Wilson’s back, but mostly we were interchangeable role players. I was one of those.

But coach Joe Blincoe would give me some run every game. He could always depend on me to bring a lot of energy, make a few more good passes than bad turnovers, and clank a few shots. On the Mac Court floor — where I’d watched on TV my beloved Ducks, Ron Lee and the Kamikaze Kids play so many classic games — I had even more energy than usual. I vaguely remember causing some positive havoc for our team, making some steals, and getting a little more floor time than I expected. But I also recall having so much energy that I was like 0 for 7 from the field in the three games (don’t check that, it might be worse).

I figured I’d make it back to the tourney as a senior, in 1981. We had Coach Blincoe’s best record his five seasons, but in league we lost to Burns at home in overtime, on the road there by three, and at Grant Union in the last game of the year by one. Grant Union had split with Burns so they took second, got the state berth, and we stayed home.

Now, 43 years later, my key memory of the three games playing at the state tournament came off the court. When I came out of the dressing room after the one game we won, my dad was there, greeted me and shook my hand. Now, he’d shaken his finger at me often (always for good reason), but shaken my hand? That had never happened before.

Thinking about it now 43 years later, it makes me think I could jog to Oklahoma if I take off now, makes me wish I could have taken just one ride in my dad's old team bus, him 22 years old, behind the wheel and coach. If nothing else, it sure makes me wish I could have given him one more vacation to one more state tournament.