Well, I need to tell this story and be done with it. You may not need to hear it or wish to use it. Doesn't matter. I need to get it down.
Winter of 1952 brought the schools of EUCOM [European Command] together for a basketball tournament. Don't know if this was the first or the last tournament. Basketball is a religion where we came from. This was serious, even for these new and struggling schools overseas. The line-up for the tournament was for a double elimination series. Winners of the first round would move into the class A playoffs and the losers of the first round would play for the class B. It was pretty simple and Nurnberg folks were pretty hopeful.
During the regular season Nurnberg, a middle sized school, had won against five of the schools in EUCOM and lost to five. The exact number of schools has slipped my mind over the years. There were several that were very large compared to us and though we had played well against them it was clear that our chances of winning the Class A were slim. However, if we lost the first game, and were forced to play out the tournament in the Class B round our chances of bringing home a trophy for the new school's new, but empty trophy case were better than good.
To heighten our anticipation, we learned that we had been drawn to play a team from England; a large American School on the Isle that was unknown on the continent. It seemed very likely that we would be beaten in the early round, drop to where we belonged and win the Class B championship. All was well. We were excited.
About two weeks before the tournament we learned that the team from England had dropped out! We had therefore been juggled around and were to play Bremerhaven in the first round. We had doubled the score against Bremerhaven twice in the season. We would beat them again. We would then have to play one of the larger schools and be eliminated. No trophy for the new building's new and empty trophy case.
The principal and the coach got their heads together and devised a scheme. They called the seniors on the team to the principal's office and explained that if we deliberately lost the first game, sending Bremerhaven to the Lions, we could win the class B tournament as hoped. All we had to do was lose the first game intentionally. Take a dive!
The ethics of this proposal was debated heatedly by the team members. Carl Peterson and Wally Jones, both centers on the team were hot against it. Play to win, they said. It was the only moral choice. Bring home the trophy next year, but at least maintain our character as fair players. Others said it was just a matter of tactics and planning. No great moral issue was at stake. Just the bad luck of the draw that England ducked out and left us to face this decision.
A great deal of pressure came surprisingly from the principal, John Stickney, a tall and athletic man with pride in his new school. The coach, Ray Hobbs, as a basketball coach, was a good boxing coach. (Every time someone threw him the ball when he didn't expect it, he would turn quickly and punch it away. Boxing had been his thing.) Take the dive, he advised; do the smart thing. Win the tournament. You deserve it.
By the time we arrived at the tournament the team had resolved to bring home the Class B championship. We were secretive about it. No one except the team and the coach and principal were in on the plan.
Now we were not experienced at losing a game deliberately. So the work of giving Bremerhaven the ball and the win was very quickly discovered by the fans and the reason behind it dropped like a lead nickel into the consciousness of everyone there, except Bremerhaven. We lost the game by a few points. The crowd became nasty. It was a dirty trick. To kids of the early fifties there were values about fair play, about trying always to win. There were sanctions against the tactics of playing this way. It was called dishonest and scheming.
Nurnberg fans were caught in the middle. Many decided to go across the floor and sit on the opposing team's side and cheer for our demise. Two cheer leaders elected not to wear their sweaters. The rest of the fans were furious as we entered the floor for our second game. More security was called for. M.P.'s were stationed around the gymnasium and escorted the Nurnberg team wherever we went.
As luck would have it, Peterson was off writing his Graduate Record exams for the first game and part of the second. He was going to Princeton next year. Wally Jones, our other center was sick with pneumonia and was on a newfangled drug called an 'anti-biotic'. He was given permission to play, but had missed two weeks of practice. Our reserves were pulling their weight admirably, but the heaviness of the crowds' hostility bore down on the team furiously.
We won our second round and ended up in the finals. We were to play Berlin for the championship of the Class B tourney. Berlin had lost their first, won their second and were known to be a team that had steadily grown and improved throughout the year. We had trounced them earlier in the season, but now they were stronger. Nevertheless we were confident, if a little gun shy, having so many people enraged by our tactics and shouting and screaming at us when we took the floor.
The auditorium was very hot. We had played our second round game in the late morning. The final came early in the evening before the Class A final. Both teams were tired to start with. Berlin was the Cinderella favorites. We were definitely the wolves.
The game is a rush and a roar in my memory. Mike Clower and I played guard. Bob Isett and Dulaney O'Roark played forward. Wally Jones and Carl Peterson were spelling each other off at center. Bob Jones, Don Losner, and others refreshed the running from time to time. It was a good team effort and a team working well together. The game stayed close. Every time Nurnberg got ahead the crowd was furious. When Berlin was ahead the cheers were thunderous. Nevertheless, the Eagles kept their poise and played their game sensibly.
Finally, Wally Jones was out, the antibiotic taking its toll. O'Roark developed cramps in his legs and had to be taken to the bench. Peterson, in spite of his adamant disagreement with our tactic was playing his heart out for the team. We were behind by three points when a time-out was called. There were about thirty seconds to go. The place was in a frenzy.
This is the place that I find myself over and over again. For more than forty years I have wakened, heart pounding, sweat pouring down my face, hearing the shouts and screams. Being pushed by fans and spit in my face, someone dubbed me 'hunchback' and all along the sideline where I was to put the ball in play the viciously moral spectators chanted 'hunchback, hunchback' to distract the play.
I can still see Clower waiting for the ball on my left. Bob Jones to my right. Peterson being smothered in defenders. Isett circling under the basket. All we needed was a basket and a foul. I got the ball to Mike. Everyone was on their feet. Mike to Isett, to Peterson and back. The shot went up and bounced off of the rim. Berlin had the rebound, smothered it until the buzzer sounded. The game was over. The righteous had prevailed. There was an emptiness in the trophy case back in Nurnberg that sighed.
The M.P.'s escorted us to the dressing room. I cried there. Just releasing the tension. Slowly, we dressed and put on our green Eagles' jackets and jeans. We gathered together, joking and laughing and slapping each other on the back. We went out together, heads up, to watch Heidelberg and Munich play their hearts out. We bore our loss together and with some shy pride.
The ride home on the train with our fans was a time of healing and forgiving and lots of fun and laughter. In a couple of weeks we were on the baseball diamond, winning half and losing half, being the middle sized school again and enjoying the sports program as though we were truly American athletes.
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