Friday, April 19, 2024
FROM MY FRONT PORCH
Sam Houston is the publisher of the Hood County News. He is also an actor, author, playwright, performer and entertainment producer/promoter.
This past week my high school junior varsity basketball coach passed on. Clifton Earl Hopper was a physical education and biology teacher, as well as a cross country, baseball and basketball coach. My first experience with Coach was in the junior high, where he quickly laid down the law of how we 7th grade “men” were to behave while in the locker room and in his gym class.
We boys knew we needed to toe the mark when we were in Coach’s domain, and all admitted we were more than a little intimidated by him. Mind you, this was back in the days when coaches physically confronting a student was absolutely accepted. If you got caught flipping your shower towel at some classmate’s backside or quit during one of Coach’s famous “Indian runs,” getting licks could be forthcoming, even expected.
Basketball was my game, and I played on Coach’s JV team. My teammates and I had basketball fundamentals drilled into our brains until they ran out our ears. We performed drill after drill, all in pursuit of Coach’s goal of perfection.
He also made sure every member of our team was in better physical condition than any opponent we played. We ran, and ran, and then we would run to where we would start running! Even though some of my classmates loved basketball, they did not come out for the team because they believed Coach’s methods were too harsh.
They did not want to come to practice on New Year’s Day at 7 a.m., nor did they want to have constant demands for improvement shouted out to them every day at practice. Coach Hopper pushed his teams. Some might say he shoved!
Coach’s voice was like a thundercloud hanging over every player’s head, and it would rain down from above, again and again — until as a team, we got it right. His players had to have their hair cut suitably short or they did not get to dress for games. All team members including the team manager had to wear a coat and tie to school the day of a game and when traveling to another school. Coach said we were representing something bigger than just ourselves, and we had a duty to honor that representation by looking our best.
Coach made it clear our life had priorities. God should be first, family and school were tied for second, basketball was third, and everything else in life was a distant fourth! We were members of a team and it required we make sacrifices. Girls, cars, and “hanging out” were all normal teenage pastimes, but we had made a commitment to the other “men” on the team, and that commitment had to be honored every day by staying focused, working harder than your opponent, and never, ever quitting.
About 30 years after I graduated from high school, I was invited back to an alumni event, and players from many decades came together. There was a basketball game that night, and I sat in the bleachers next to Coach Hopper surrounded by my former teammates.
Many of us had not seen each other in years. As we watched the game, we told stories and joked about plays, games, practices and shared experiences of the past. As the game in front of us played out, Coach Hopper noticed one of the players on the court had failed to pass the ball to an open man, and he screamed out, “pass the ball … there he is!”
When I heard the tone and volume of the command Coach had uttered, I nearly jumped out of my skin. It had been a long, long time since I had heard that voice bark instructions, but memories came flowing back like water through an open floodgate, and it sent goosebumps down my spine.
I turned and looked at Coach and said, “I swear I could be dead and buried 30 days and if you walked over my grave and shouted, “pass the ball … there he is!” I would know the voice and react! Coach looked at me and smiled. I reached up and put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Thanks coach. For everything.”
I must admit, as I write this column, I have shed a tear or two. I am saddened by Coach’s passing, but the tears are for the joy of knowing this good man shaped me in ways I never understood as they were occurring.
Coach Hopper taught me the joy of seeking excellence, and the cost for winning must be paid in the currency of hard work. He showed me to always be my best version of myself. He helped and molded me in ways I will probably never understand or even know. I can never repay the debt I owe this good man.
Coach, I did not always like you. I didn’t always understand you. I sure did not always know why you did things the way you did them, but I wouldn’t be the same man without you. I am one of the thousands of canvasses your life work has been painted on, and I hope we have made you proud.
Thanks again and thanks to all the coaches who have shaped so many.
Thought for the day: The only place where success comes before work is in the dictionary!
Until next time…
sam@hcnews.com | 817-573-7066, ext. 260
