We Will Rise

by Steve Beaven

  The Radford family moved out of the neighborhood before John Ed and Wayne reached high school. The boys didn’t see each other as often but remained friends, and by the early ’70s they were two of the best high school players in the city. As seniors, John Ed and Wayne were a study in contrasts. Wayne, who played at Arlington High School, admired the slithery moves John Ed used to get to the basket at Arsenal Technical High School. And while Wayne was built like a fullback, John Ed looked like a stiff breeze would knock him off his feet. Major college coaches came after Wayne when he was a junior. The big schools didn’t seem interested in John Ed.

  In early March 1974, at the very start of the state high school tournament known as Hoosier Hysteria, Arsenal Tech played Arlington in the semifinal of the Indianapolis sectional. The loser of this game would pack up, go home, and call it a season. The winner would play the next night for the sectional championship. Fans crowded hip to hip into Hinkle Fieldhouse, the historic gym on the Butler University campus. Tech led 67–66 in the fourth quarter. But when Wayne poured in six points in a row, Arlington pulled away. John Ed played perhaps the greatest game of his high school career, with twenty-nine points. But Wayne was better. He scored thirty-eight and Arlington won 85–82.

  It was John Ed’s final high school game. After the buzzer sounded and reality sunk in, Wayne saw tears in John Ed’s eyes.

  While Wayne went to Indiana to play for Bob Knight, John Ed didn’t have the same high-profile options. But he had a fierce advocate in Larry Humes, the transcendent scorer from Arad McCutchan’s undefeated ’65 team. After his college career, Humes taught and coached at public schools in Indianapolis. He’d known John Ed since the youngster was in junior high and lobbied McCutchan to give his protégé a chance in Evansville. The old coach obliged. And now, three years later, John Ed embraced the opportunity to prove all those disinterested Division I coaches wrong.

  At 7:30 a.m. on October 15, Bobby Watson set aside the handshaking, backslapping persona beloved by boosters in favor of a demanding and disciplined approach to college basketball. It was the first day of practice at Carson Center, a simple cinder-block slab with aluminum bleachers, two side-by-side courts under fluorescent lights, and a cramped weight room in one corner. The Aces practiced seven days a week, for two and a half hours a day, even on the weekends. Watson directed each session with authoritarian precision and obsessive attention to detail. Arrive early, he told his players. No small talk or horseplay will be tolerated. Run from one drill to another. Leave the court only with permission of the coaching staff. He planned for every probability and possibility.

  In one drill, Watson blew the whistle, practice stopped, basketballs dropped to the floor, and players sprinted to the sidelines. They each took a seat on the aluminum bleachers, grabbed a towel from the student managers, downed a cup of water, and waited for the coaching staff beneath the harsh lights of the gym. When it worked, the time-out drill took fifteen seconds or less, leaving Watson with the undivided attention of his players for forty-five seconds, more than enough time to design a fast break off a missed free throw or a defensive scheme for the opponents’ last possession. Watson learned the necessity of this drill at Oral Roberts, when a player who hadn’t finished his water spilled it on an out-of-bounds play Watson had scribbled with nineteen seconds on the clock. That left him with little time to explain what he wanted, resulting in a botched play and a bad shot. He wouldn’t allow it to happen again.

  Watson’s obsession with preparation wasn’t limited to practice. In a series of neatly typed handouts, outlines scrawled on notebook paper, and letters to faculty and fans, Watson provided a lengthy blueprint for his basketball program. It included his philosophy on practices, games, academics, spirituality, and mental discipline. He quoted poetry and philosophers. He covered everything from the controlled-situation offense to proper restaurant behavior (“thank you—please”). He advised players to wear warm hats, so they wouldn’t catch colds, and ordered them to treat student managers with the same respect they showed to teammates.

  “There will be no profanity used on the floor or in the locker room,” Watson advised in one three-page treatise on his practice philosophy. “This is a must on your part since at times I will do enough for all of us.”

  Watson’s players wore purple shorts with the acronyms “PME” stitched on the right side and “SFE” stitched on the left, reminders to adopt a Perfect Mental Attitude and to Strive For Excellence. He quoted French philosopher and Jesuit priest Pierre Teilhard de Chardin and closed each practice with a prayer. “There is not a truly successful man,” he wrote, “who has made it without Faith in God.”

  In another handout, he included an inspirational poem titled “Thinking,” which encouraged hard work and confidence:

  Life’s battles don’t always go

  To the stronger or faster man;

  But sooner or later, the man who wins

  Is the fellow who THINKS HE CAN!

  Almost as soon as classes started, Mike Duff came up against the most difficult opponent he’d ever faced: college math. He had been an average student in high school and found his first-semester algebra class especially difficult and frustrating. One assignment required him to complete two hundred problems in a single night, which took him three hours. It was soon decided, on his behalf, that this was not the best path to further his education.

  “The coaches made me drop math,” he wrote in a letter to Cherie Bougas, “because the teacher she gives too much homework and didn’t think basketball players can handle it.”

  As he juggled classes, homework, and practice, Mike had even less time to spend with Cherie. He made it back to Eldorado for a weekend when Cherie was on the homecoming court. Otherwise, Cherie did the driving on the weekends, occasionally skipping school with her mother’s permission and spending the night at her aunt’s house in Evansville. One weekend, Mike took her to a Kansas concert at Roberts Stadium and she got to know his teammates. But during the week nearly every minute of Mike’s day was spoken for: meals, class, practice, tutoring, homework.

  “The days over here are getting very long and very hard,” he wrote in another letter. “I haven’t had time to do anything but study and play ball. Practice is so hard I don’t feel like doing anything but sleep after I get back. Well, if you can get over here Friday, I’d sure like to see you. Remember to take care of that bod and your beautiful face and try to get over here as soon as possible. I love you and be good. Love always, Mike. PS: Will have to start writing more because the phone bills cost a lot of money.”

  Basketball wasn’t nearly as difficult for Mike as algebra. His play in the preseason intrasquad scrimmages confirmed all that UE fans had hoped. Wearing the same number 40 that he wore in high school, Mike was magnificent. On November 11, he led the white team over the purple team with thirty-six points and nineteen rebounds, dominating his teammates, proving that his size, strength, and soft touch were as impressive against college players as they were against high school boys. He scored thirty-one the following week. And in the third and final scrimmage, in front of 850 fans at Eldorado High School, he finished with twenty-two points and eighteen rebounds. The scrimmages were essentially glorified practices. But Mike’s first appearances in a University of Evansville uniform provided a tantalizing hint of his potential. It was obvious to everyone who saw him play that he was the best player on the roster.

  Everyone except for Mike. He didn’t come across as cool and confident, like a blue-chip recruit. He sounded more like an angst-ridden walk-on fighting for a spot at the end of the bench.

  “I’ve got a lot of work to do, particularly on defense,” he said. “I know that it’s not going to be anything like high school. I can’t expect it to be or I’ll be getting the ball jammed down my throat half of the time.”

  Kevin Kingston was not the only long shot who impressed Bobby Watson.

  Open tryouts for non-scholarship players began at Carson Center in October, not long after th
e start of practice. Bobby Watson put a half dozen or so boys through drills and scrimmages: five-on-five and four-on-four. He didn’t promise them anything. He was looking for a smart kid who played hard in practice and could help the Aces prepare for the next team on the schedule.

  David Furr had been a high-scoring forward as a junior at Harrison High School, in Evansville. But when his mother remarried, he moved with her and his little brother Byron to Olney to live with her new husband. David was a redhead, doe-eyed, 6'2", lean and sinewy, with a good outside shot. He was fearless in the lane, driving to the basket, getting knocked to the floor, and popping back up to shoot free throws. When Olney played Eldorado in January 1977, Mike Duff scored forty points. But David had twenty-nine, and Tim Knox, his stepbrother, hit two free throws with seconds left to seal a 74–73 victory. David led the Tigers in scoring that year. But unlike Mike, he didn’t have to duck recruiters each day at practice. A small college near Olney had shown some interest. But David wanted desperately to play for the Purple Aces. His family had a long history at UE. Elisabeth Knox, his mom, had once taught nursing there; her parents and her brother had been students at the college. David didn’t want to go anywhere else. He didn’t have a scholarship but it didn’t matter. He felt confident he could make the UE team as a walk-on and worked hard on his game during the summer. One day, not long before David left for Evansville, Tim Knox watched as he lifted off toward the basket during a pickup game and slammed the ball through the net. Tim was impressed. He’d never seen David dunk before.

  Once classes started, David threw himself into campus life. He pledged the Sigma Phi Epsilon fraternity and reconnected with old friends from high school. But he never let his social life interfere with schoolwork. David had been a member of the National Honor Society. He was a perfectionist, focused and organized. Each morning he made a list of things to do. And each night he checked back to tally his accomplishments. Larry Knox, his stepfather, thought David would be an excellent businessman.

  At Carson Center, David impressed the coaches immediately, with his shot, his hustle, and his intelligence. He was the only player who made the cut and soon joined his new teammates at practice. David had been on campus for more than a month. But it wasn’t until that first day at Carson Center with the team—his team—that he had truly arrived. He’d eat with the team, study with the team, and travel to every road game. In his own quiet way, David was elated, calling home to share the news.

  But the celebration of his accomplishment ended abruptly in practice soon after tryouts when David stepped on a teammate’s foot and wrenched his ankle. Practice stopped and David was helped off the court. The prognosis was grim: This was no simple sprain. It wasn’t broken but it was almost as bad. David was fitted with a walking cast, and suddenly left to wonder about the future of his college basketball career.

  Watson felt bad for the kid. David had worked so hard, and making the team meant so much to him. So he asked David to keep statistics on the bench during home games and told him he could try out again once his ankle healed. Of course, it wouldn’t be the same. When his teammates pulled on their immaculate white home jerseys in the locker room, David would be wearing a tie and a jacket. He didn’t appear in the team photo, taken in the empty parking lot at Roberts Stadium. And instead of traveling with the team, he’d stay home and listen to the games on the radio or watch them on TV. But he couldn’t just quit. He’d proved himself against Division I players. No way could he turn his back on that. So, David swallowed his disappointment and accepted Watson’s offer.

  Bobby and Deidra Watson and their three daughters moved into a brand-new two-story brick house in Warrick County, a fast-growing suburb east of Evansville, where developers had begun building homes on large lots that until recently had been farmland.

  The Watsons were the first residents on Bunker Hill Court, a street so new that when they moved in, their house didn’t have an address and they couldn’t take mail delivery. As Bobby zipped from one meeting to the next, Deidra tried to make a home for their family. But it wasn’t easy. The neighborhood was empty, and it was difficult for Deidra to make new friends. She was quiet and soft-spoken, born in southeastern Indiana, not far from the old Moores Hill campus. She had met Bobby on a blind date after a Xavier basketball game, and they married on December 14, 1973. When they moved to Evansville four years later, the community showered them with attention. Twins Leigh and Chandra were two and Angela was twelve. Like Jackie, Caroline, and John-John, Watson’s photogenic young family only heightened the city’s awestruck reception for its new basketball coach. Bobby’s prominence was a given. But Deidra and the girls got a taste of small-town celebrity, too. They were featured prominently in the UE basketball media guide, and their pictures appeared in the newspapers. A short profile in the Sunday Courier & Press was typically effusive:

  “If there’s a pretty family contest somewhere, the Watsons ought to enter it. Blonde Angela is a charmer, with poise and maturity beyond her years. The twins are dark-haired like their mother, adorable perpetual motion machines. To a stranger, Chandra and Leigh look identical, but Deidra says one has two extra freckles on her nose.”

  At home, a mini basketball hoop stood next to the fireplace in the family room. Leigh and Chandra liked to climb up on the hearth and slam the ball through the basket. The writer from the Sunday Courier & Press predicted a career change for Bobby.

  “Watson is a young man. He may yet live to coach a coed team.”

  Deidra and the girls modeled in a fashion show fund-raiser for the UE Theatre Society. They joined a well-heeled group of luminaries that included mayor Russell Lloyd, UE president Wallace Graves and his wife, Arad and Virginia McCutchan, the sheriff, a bank president, and Marcia Yockey, a kooky TV news personality with a gray ponytail, who was known as the “weather gal.” Bobby, of course, was the master of ceremonies.

  Deidra and the girls also appeared on the first episode of the Bobby Watson Show. The premiere opened with a shot of Bobby pulling up to the house on Bunker Hill Court. Inside, he took off his brown suede jacket, greeted Deidra with a peck on the lips, and joined the twins on the floor playing with Legos.

  The cohost of the Bobby Watson Show was Mike Blake, the affable young sports director for WFIE, Evansville’s NBC affiliate. Blake and Watson had much in common: Both in their thirties, they had young families at home and prominent positions in their adopted hometown. More important, they had both staked their careers on the success of the University of Evansville basketball team.

  Blake was a perfect fit for the Evansville market. He delivered scores and stats each night with a chipper sincerity that never wavered, on the air or on the sidelines. He didn’t do cynicism, sarcasm, or bombast. His ever-present humility seemed ripe for caricature. But it was genuine. Blake was a devout Catholic prone to muttering “Oh lordy” when he got frustrated. He spoke at fifty to sixty community events every year and hosted the local portion of the annual Jerry Lewis telethon for muscular dystrophy. He called people “pal.” Blake grew up in northwest Indiana, went to college in Iowa, and served in Vietnam, where he played records and read the news for the Armed Forces Radio network. He landed a job at WFIE in 1970, married an Evansville native, and started a family. At thirty-three, Blake had established himself as a trusted and popular presence in the local media landscape. But he had big-market ambitions. In early 1977, a Miami station offered him a weekend sports anchor job and hosting duties for a weekly Miami Dolphins show. The Dolphins had won two Super Bowls and their quarterback, Bob Griese, was a superstar in Evansville. Blake was ready to move his family to Florida.

  That same year, however, WFIE reached a deal to broadcast Aces games and the Bobby Watson Show. Blake had always wanted to do play-by-play. And now that the Aces were competing in Division I, against top-ranked teams like DePaul and Indiana State, UE basketball was a more attractive beat with a higher profile. No one would ever confuse Evansville with South Beach. But Blake’s annual salary in Miami would be
only $1,000 more and he’d begun to put down roots in southern Indiana. Evansville had embraced him. In Florida, he’d be starting all over again. So he turned down the Miami station for the best job of his short career: Mike Blake was the television voice of the University of Evansville Purple Aces.

  In the premiere of the coach’s show, following the visit with Deidra and the girls, Watson and Blake stood on the court in an empty Roberts Stadium to talk about the first game, on November 30, against Western Kentucky.

  “Bobby, of course, we hope that when you play here next Wednesday night, that this place is packed,” Blake said. “It’s important that the Aces of ’77–’78, and from here on out, get the fans, right?”

  “The city has to back us, Mike, if we’re going to be the Division I team that they want to see,” Watson said. “The great players in the country will come here and play only if these seats are full and if the people are really interested in our program. I can’t sell an empty stadium to anybody.”

  The sincere gravity of this exchange reflected the city’s commitment to the Aces. Watson had offered Evansville a stake in his basketball program, and Evansville had eagerly accepted.