I Finally Made the Team

The back-story is as follows. I had played guard on the basketball team, and quarterback and defensive back on the football team at Hexter Elementary School in Dallas. My neighborhood was no hotbed of athletic competition, certainly not in comparison with what was happening in other parts of the city. Too few of the boys—and none of the girls—there played sports like they meant it. If I claim to have been one of the better athletes at Hexter in the mid-1960s, I am damning myself with faint praise.

Two-time loser in football

I moved on to Hill Junior High just a mile away and played no sports in eighth grade, for reasons that I still do not understand. But the next year, I went out for football. The coaches did not know me and seemed to have made up their mind that I was not destined to be a contributor to the mighty Hill Highlanders team. (They wore green-and-red uniforms that made them resemble well-decorated Christmas trees.) I recall one incident in particular. I was put in front of Tommy King and Charles Arceneaux, two of the biggest and strongest players on the team, and told to split them. When the coach blew his whistle, Tommy and Charles unloaded, and sent me spinning head-over-heels backward. After two weeks of practice, I was among perhaps 20 guys cut from the team.

Let’s go forward one year. I was about to be a sophomore at Bryan Adams High School. Hill and Gaston were the two “feeder” junior high schools for BA, which was then one of the biggest schools in Texas. More than 3,000 students filled the classrooms in those baby-boom days. Well, I was determined to make the Cougars football team this time, by which I mean the sophomore or “B” team. (There was also a JV team for juniors who were not good enough to make the varsity.) I prepared on my own before donning helmet, cleats and pads. Again, far more boys wanted to play than there were spots available. Just like at Hill, we would have a couple of weeks to prove ourselves before cutting day. The coaches knew who had done what at Hill and Gaston, so the top players were in no danger. Many of them were obviously loose and confident.

Two moments stand out for me, the first of which seemed to portend badly. I was auditioning as a running back. The offense and defense were banging heads on that hot day in late summer 1968. We were engaged in a full-contact practice, and those who have played football know how loud it is on the field with collisions, grunts and groans. One of the assistant coaches, Larry Covin, must have decided it was time to see whether I was a man or a mouse. He called for me to run the ball over and over. Six times, seven times, I don’t remember. I took it and hit the line before getting blasted, never gaining a yard. Increasingly exhausted, I refused to quit or ask for a break. However, I did overhear Covin saying—in reference to me—to one of the defensive players, “Now, if that had been a good running back….” Yeah, thanks a lot, Coach!

Hopeless as the situation may have seemed, a few days later I took a handoff, ran around left end, broke a tackle and carried the rock all the way to the end zone. I know, I had not scored a real touchdown. It occurred during a scrimmage for the B team, on the practice field, with no fans, no cheerleaders, nobody watching but coaches and players. Not Friday night at a stadium against a team representing one of Dallas’ other high schools. That was my apogee on the BA football team because I was among a passel of guys cut the next day. I was, in fact, a two-time loser.

Hoops maybe?

Not long after school started, I heard an announcement over the loud speaker: A tryout for the B basketball team would be held in the boys’ gym on October 15. I realized that most of the spots were already taken by players—I mean student-athletes—who had proven themselves at Hill and Gaston, so no more than three aspirants on that day were to get invitations to join the team. Secondarily, they would be allowed out of the normal PE classes and put into the coveted 7th period athletics class. It was a big thing, believe me.

Who was in charge of the tryout? None other than Larry Covin, the tough-as-nails coach who had mercilessly run me into the line during football practice and implied to a defensive player that I was a half-ass running back. I will give Covin credit because he seemed to have an open mind that day. The tryout was quite simple; he just wanted to see who could dribble and shoot a basketball with some degree of skill. I would estimate that 10 of us were shooting at one goal and 10 at the other.

Now, I hope I have already made clear that I was not another Jim Brown on the gridiron or an Oscar Robertson in hoops. But something was right for me that day in the boys’ gym. Admittedly, what I did was without a player guarding me; it was just me, the ball and the basket. Out on the perimeter, maybe 15 feet away, I would take the ball, dribble it a couple of times, make a move and shoot. It went in with startling frequency. Not only that, but my form was superb. About 80% of the times I launched ball toward basket, it went in. Sometimes it was a swish, and sometimes I used the backboard. I realized that Covin had turned his attention exclusively to me, although I pretended not to notice. Furthermore, Mark Beesley, one of the guys who already had a spot on the team, was sitting on a nearby bench. He raved and expressed amazement at what he was seeing: “Pennington, I can’t believe this! You’re making every shot! You look like a pro!”

Even before Covin made his decision, I knew I was on the team. What the others were doing, on my end of the court or the other, was of no concern. I was utterly confident, in perfect rhythm, as I kept making those long-distance jumpers. Covin walked to the girls’ gym—much bigger and fancier than the boys’ gym, for some reason—and asked the varsity coach, Ralph Zietz, to come and take a look. Zietz, a stocky person with a manner some found intimidating, stood in the doorway of the gym and observed. Truthfully, he was watching only me. I continued raining in those long shots with a form that indicated I had played some basketball. He soon pulled me aside, introduced himself and asked me to take part in varsity practice. I had only hoped to make the B team, and here I was talking with the varsity coach and practicing with the juniors and seniors in the big gym. They were in the middle of a full-court scrimmage when Zietz sent me in. I committed no glaring mistakes and made a fast-break layup before he called off practice.

Our ride home

I was given a uniform, tangible proof that I had made the Bryan Adams basketball team. Hardly believing all that had happened, I took a shower and drank an ice-cold Dr Pepper in the locker room. It was pretty late, so Zietz offered to give me a ride home. He asked me several questions on the way. I thanked him and went on inside to tell my parents and brothers about what was then the greatest day of my life.