When I was growing up in Anacoco, Louisiana, a small West Central Louisiana town in Vernon Parish, one athletic stood out as superior to all. His name was Jimmy Hawthorne, who in later life became the radio broadcast voice of the LSU Tigers from 1979 to 2016.
Our school in Anacoco was a small class B school, that included grades 1 through 12 when Jimmy and I went to school in the 1950’s and 1960’s. A typical class had roughly 30 to 32 students, so the entire high school student body was only around 120 to 128 students.
It was always difficult to field an entire basketball team, the only sport that most people and students in town attended. We had summer league baseball from Little League, Dixie League (middle school) and Pelican League (high school). Most every athletic that played basketball also played baseball. Because of our small student population we were not large enough to field a football team.
Jimmy was four years older than me, so we never played on the same team. Even if we did, I would be the one riding the bench or keeping the score book. Jimmy was not only my hero, but he was also the hero and idol of every young boy in school that wanted to play baseball or basketball. Jimmy was so good and so athletic he excelled in both sports.
When Jimmy played baseball, it always seemed like he would hit at least one home run per game. That may not have been the case, but he was certainly the Babe Ruth of Anacoco baseball. I will never forget how me and three or four of my friends would watch an entire game from outside the left field fence, hoping we would be lucky enough to retrieve a Jimmy Hawthorne home run.
On one occasion Jimmy hit a home run about 75 feet over and beyond the left field wall. I chased the ball down and when I picked it up it had a giant scorched brown whelp on the cover. It was at least 2 inches long and an inch wide. Me and my buddies readily concluded that Jimmy hit the ball so hard it burnt the leather cover of the ball. Who knows if that is what caused the large brown mark, but in our eyes we just knew it had to be the case. We told everyone in school about it the next day, and Jimmy’s legend grew even larger. I’m not sure if Jimmy ever heard that story or knew that ball. Our poor baseball program had no significant fiances, so we had to throw every ball we retrieved back into the field — to be used again in the game.
If Jimmy was an all-star on the baseball diamond, he was a superstar on the basketball court. Jimmy was so good he routinely scored 20 to 30 points a game. Although he was probably only 5 ft. 10 inches tall, he could jump like a jackrabbit and dunk the basketball in a New York second. His jump shots were pulled off in perfect form. Jimmy was no Pete Maravich, but his dribbling skills were awesome nonetheless. And if you were from Anacoco, he was the next best thing to Pete Maravich, who was actually three years younger than Jimmy.
My favorite Jimmy Hawthorne sports moment took place when I was in the eight grade and Jimmy was a senior in high school. He was playing in a basketball tournament held on our home court. It was the annual Anacoco High tournament. My recollection of this event, which took place 58 years ago, was that Jimmy was playing guard. He was bringing the ball down the court, seconds were ticking down as we neared the end of the game, and we were trailing the other team 64 to 62. I’m no longer sure, but I think we were playing Simpson or Pitkin, Louisiana. Jimmy gets fouled before he can take a shot. We were in a 1 and 1 foul shot situation, meaning Jimmy has to make the first shot in order to shoot a second shot. There was only 4 or 5 seconds on the clock. Jimmy goes to the line and everyone is on their feet, praying he makes the first shot. Jimmy shoots the ball — whoosh, nothing but net. The first shot is down. The Anacoco student body present at the game were either holding each other’s hands or biting their nails, praying that Jimmy will make the second shot, sending the game into overtime. Jimmy dribbles the ball slowly several times, then in one swift motion throws the ball as hard as he could at the backboard — about 18 inches above the rim. The ball comes flying back at Jimmy, who jumps up, catches it in mid-air and launches a jump shop, stripping the net, scoring two points instead of one, and we win the game 65 to 64. Note: In 1962 rules were not in place that required the ball hit the rim, as is required now. This play was not called by our coach, it was just Jimmy being Jimmy. He had such a high basketball and baseball IQ it was uncanny.
Now fast-forward three years. I’m a Junior in high school. We are playing tiny Evans, Louisiana in their annual tournament, held on their home court in Evans, a small town not far from DeRidder, Louisiana. It must have been a Saturday game, because both my mother and father were present, sitting right behind the Anacoco player’s bench. My girlfriend at the time, the principals daughter, was sitting in the stands, behind our bench and near my Mom and Dad. I was playing my favorite spot, keeping the bench warm for our first sting players. I knew my role, I only played in two scenarios. When we were 35 or more points up, and 35 or more points down. The game was late in the fourth quarter, my time to play was getting close, as we were over 30 points behind. Coach Coburn tells me to take off my warm-up’s. My father, who was always the loudest mouth in any stadium, said aloud, “Well it’s about damn time!” My face immediately lit up like a red light district. Bingo! We fall 35 points behind, Coach calls time out, lets the bench warmers take the court.
Most people I have known for years and didn’t know me during my high school days will find it hard to believe that I only weighed 115 pounds, was the smallest guy on the team at 5 ft. 8 in., and had a tiny 28-inch waist. That meant I only played one position, guard. After the buzzer signaled it was time to take the court, me and my fellow guard went down to the opposite end of the court to take the ball in. He passed the ball to me and I started dribbling the ball down the court. To this day I can still dribble the ball fairly well with both hands, but for whatever reasons, when it counted the most and I was in a live game, I was a basket of nerves and was butterfingers if I ever tried to dribble the ball with my left hand. So I had this cheesy fake dribble where I would move my left hand up and down, and dribble the ball underneath my left hand, but with my right hand — cross side the side from my right to my left, all the while dribbling with the right hand. Somehow, I had convinced myself that I was so good at this magic act no one could see I was only using one hand.
Looking back, the only person in the gym that believed it looked like I was dribbling with both hands was me. Like I said, it was cheesy, and ridiculous. But on this particular day it paid off, sort of . . .
The guard from Evans ran towards him, hoping to strip the ball away. He went to slap the ball out of my right hand just as it crossed under my fake dribbling left hand, and ended up slapping me on my left wrist. The referee immediately called it a foul, and told the crowd we were in a 1 and 1 situation.
I approached the line, was preparing to dribble the ball a couple of times before my first shot, when suddenly, de ja vu, baby! I happened to recall the spectacular play made my Jimmy Hawthorne 3 years earlier. My first thought was, “If I can pull this off, it will really impress my parents and my girlfriend, and I can narrow the score, making it a 32-point game.” By now, you should have concluded I was a very naive, immature and hopeless romantic, because this is the stuff movies are made of, not the stuff that happens in Craig Whitley’s life. But luck of all luck, a miracle took place. I made the first shot!
Now I’m really pumped, but extremely nervous. I must have dribbled the ball 8 or 9 times before the second shot. I finally stopped dribbling, then sprung into action, throwing and overhead pitch (if you will) that was thrown too hard, and too high up on the backboard. The ball came back so fast, and so high that I wasn’t tall enough to jump up and retrieve it. In just two short seconds it had bounded and rolled to the opposite end of the court and bounded off the wall back on the court. Now I need to slow you down, describe in slow motion what took place in those brief 2 or 3 seconds.
I was so nervous I didn’t take enough time to think the whole thing out, and ended up stepping across the line before the ball left my hands. So as the ball was traveling towards the goal, I can still see in slow motion the ref blowing his whistle and yelling “STEPPPPPINNNNNGGGGG AACCCRROOSSSEEE THEEEEEE LINEEEEEEE!” As soon as I landed on the court from my failed jump to try and catch the ball, my head turned towards our bench, and I could see Coach Coburn, my girlfriend, Mom and Dad in what is the craziest fixed picture that has ever imprinted my brain.
My eyes caught Coach Coburn litterally in mid-air, as he leaped off the bench and 8 or 9 feet onto the court in a bullfrog jumping sort of motion, landing squarely on both feet, and breaking his jump as his butt hit the back of his thighs. He was screaming, “Whitley!!!!!! Get your tail over hereeeee!!!!” He followed that up by yelling, “Time Out! Time Out! Time Out!” – making the time out sign by constantly jamming his right fingertips into the palm of his left hand.
No sooner than I turned to run over to Coach, my Dad was yelling, “Take him out of the game! Take him out of the game! Take him out of the game.” I looked at my girlfriend and she was bent over, face in hands, totally embarrassed, because the entire crowd was laughing their ass off. Mom had a sheepish look on her face and was trying to say, “It’s okay son.” But it wasn’t okay, in those two split second I had become the laughing stock of the entire crowd.
As I approached Coach Coburn he yelled, “Whitley, what in the hell were you thinking, what in the hell were you doing?” To which I immediately turned on the BS stream. I said, “Coach, you remember in 1962, when we were trailing in the Anacoco tournament by 2 points with just seconds to go, and Jimmy Hawthorne pulled the same play off and converted what everyone was hoping to be a two-point play into a three-point play? Well, that was what I was trying to do!” I swear, every artery and vein in Coach Coburn’s neck and head were throbbing, as if they were going to burst. For a second he looked totally dumbfounded as the tried to erase what he saw and process my response. All of a suddenly he throws his hands up and away from his head, gets almost nose to nose with me, and yells out, “Whitley!!! You’re not Jimmy Hawthorne and you’ll never be Jimmy Hawthorne!!!!!!! Now get back on the bench!”
I didn’t realize it while he was screaming, but then entire crowd had gone from laughing their butts off to total silence so they could hear what Coach and I were saying. Even my teammates were listening intently. When Coach Coburn dressed me down and let me know I would never be Jimmy Hawthorne, the crowd broke out in unison, laughing their butts off once again at my expense.
The ride back home on the team bus that night was a hard pill to swallow. I couldn’t wait to get back home and away from the team. Everyone was teasing me, giving me a hard time. Did I have any long-lasting regrets of this incident. Heck no! Just the opposite. It provided me one of the funniest moments of my life. I’ve told this story over and over throughout the years. You have to learn to be able to laugh at yourself to be able to drive over some of the speed bumps and potholes you face in life. Every failure I’ve ever had ultimately taught me how to handle adversity better and led to even bigger successes.
My wife has always wanted me to call or write Jimmy Hawthorne and tell him this story. He was already away and in college when it took place. I’m pretty sure Jimmy would still remember me. The story might even bring a smile to his face. But a better call would be one to simply check on him to see how he’s doing, to let him know how proud I am of the great career he had in broadcasting, and how I still remember his times as a high school DJ at KLLA in Leesville, times we spent playing Rook with my Mom and Dad at our house, etc. Ahhh, those were the days.