For Joe, There Was A Gospel According To Bruce, Too

As I drove home from work this evening, I listened to Bruce Springsteen sing about good, hard-working, and hopeful people who are struggling to make their way through their daily lives.

It’s what Bruce does better than anyone. “Tramps like us, baby, we were born to run.”

I was thinking about my friend Joe Byrne, who passed away unexpectedly three weeks ago at his home in New Jersey. He was a fellow 1978 graduate of Franklin High School, a former teammate, a mathematical wizard, and by far the biggest Bruce Springsteen fan I have ever known.

“Glory Days,” the song says. “Yeah, they’ll pass you by…” But, as was evident in my conversations with Joe over the years, the memories remain forever.

He is survived by his daughter Amanda, grandson Carson, his sister Cathi, and brothers Tab and Jay, and hundreds of former Wildcats. It’s tragic and shocking to lose someone so young, because guys my age don’t think it is our time to leave this world just yet. But…

“Everything dies, baby, that’s a fact.”

I am saddened because I think Joe still had a purpose here on Earth, like all of us, but I am also comforted knowing he is in perfect peace, free from the terrible pain that understandably consumed him, for Joe endured more heartache in his 63 years on Earth than anyone I have ever known.

“Down along the river’s silent edge, I soar /

Searching for my beautiful reward.”

…

IT WAS MARCH 1985 and Joe’s wife Sherry was missing. Joe had talked to her in the late afternoon and plans were made to meet a couple who wanted to celebrate that they were pregnant, or so Sherry was told. The husband had known Joe since high school.

Three days later, Sherry’s body was found in a storage unit. Six months later, the husband was convicted of murdering her and sentenced to death. Eighteen years later, after one long appeal after another, Joe watched this man’s execution.

There’s no way the human heart was made to handle something like that.

“I’m waitin’, waitin’ on a sunny day/

Gonna’ chase the clouds away…”

As time moved on, the clouds remained, even when the sun played peek-a-boo with him. There were many spectacular days — while raising his children, laughing with friends, enjoying his family, listening to music, planning for the future, and doing the simplest things of day-to-day life. But the pain…it was always there.

“Everybody’s got a hungry heart.”

Sadly, the worst was yet to come. First, Jakey was paralyzed because of a neurological disorder, and couldn’t run and play like the other children, which didn’t seem fair to Joe, despite Jakey’s beautiful personality. Then, five years ago, Jakey was rushed to an emergency room and died because the medical staff did not do what medical standards required them to do.

"Troubled times had come...to my hometown."

With more grief than he had before, Joe had to again deal with lawyers and the intricacies of the legal system, which he did not like. “It sucks, Kirb,” he’d say, even though the case was successful. “Darkness on the Edge of Town.”

After all that, how does a person keep going?

…

JOE LOVED TWO great men whose help he said he could never repay. One was Father Tom, a priest at a church near his home. The other was Danny Griffith, our mutual friend and teammate who is the pastor at Horizon Pointe at Mission Lane Church in Franklin.

They spoke truth to Joe, in a loving way. We live in a broken world, surrounded by broken people. Out of love, God gives us free will to choose the life we lead, even though some choose evil. Hate does not destroy the object of our anger; instead, it destroys US. Jesus came into this world to give us a glimpse of heaven, even while amid our struggles. And if we humble ourselves to accept His leading, we can live with Him forever in heaven. No one is beyond His grace.

It was hard stuff to grasp, but Joe kept listening. He knew he didn’t always make things easy, but he kept trying. We all need hope.

As it turned out, Father Tom, Bruce, Griff, and God all had the same message for good, hard-working, and hopeful people like Joe. Life is a struggle. It will hit you hard. To recover, don’t look left, right, or down. Instead, keeping looking up.

“Meet me in a land of hopes and dreams…

“This train carries saints and sinners/ This train carries losers and winners/

This train carries whores and gamblers/This train carries lost souls.

“I said this train, dreams will not be thwarted/ This train, faith will be rewarded/

This train, hear the steel wheels singing/ This train, bells of freedom ringing.”

After a long, hard ride, Joe’s train arrived at the station, where the bells of freedom rang, the God of the universe wrapped him in shining light, and and his reunion with loved ones began.

Joe was all smiles, and still is, because he is in no more pain, and lives in perfect harmony with everyone around him. Forever.

Rest in peace, my friend.

Kevin Hollon, Jerry Collins, Mark Kennard, Joe Byrne, Kenny Haney, Dave 'Silk' Back, Dr. Rick Chamberlain and me, at JD Legends (2017).

Far From Perfect -- Maybe It's Not Just Me

I caught a snapshot of perfection while walking my dog tonight, as the sky turned a brilliant shade of blue and the pond near our house was crystal clear like a mountain lake. I’m sure God stepped back from His canvas and said, “Yep, I did it again.”

The sight reminded of a night in February 1977 when, not for the first time and certainly not the last, I realized I was nowhere close to a snapshot of perfection. But, like many difficult experiences, there was a lesson in it for me.

Monroe was in town, and the Franklin gym was packed before halftime of the junior varsity game. Our coach, Marvin Sands, was forced to take Steve Dalton out because he was called for two quick fouls in a matter of minutes. Though I was supposed to get a breather for a little while longer, Coach turned to me.

“Get back in for Steve,” Coach told me. “And don’t go be making two quick fouls in a couple of minutes.”

Yes sir. I went back in, determined not to disappoint my coach. I was going to be perfect in every way — like Pistol Pete Maravich on offense and Dr. J on defense. Channel 7 would cut into its regular programming with a news bulletin: “An all-star is born. Film at 11.” I had it all planned out.

I didn’t make two quick fouls in a matter of minutes.

I made three.

This did not make Coach Sands happy. I’m not sure I remember exactly what happened next, but I could almost swear he sent the ball boy in to replace me. At that moment, I was anything but his all-star.

…

AN HOUR LATER, after we had won the game and Coach was more relaxed, I apologized for making three stupid fouls in a matter of minutes, right after he had told me not to do such a thing.

That’s when Coach Sands gave me the lesson that I have remembered my whole life.

“Jeff, don’t apologize for making three fouls,” he said. “You apologize when you don’t make ANY fouls, because no fouls means aren’t playing defense. You’re not being aggressive. If you’re playing hard and you’re doing all you can, you’re bound to make some mistakes.”

Well, wouldn’t you know that light bulbs went off when he said that.

I went home and told my dad, who was a trial lawyer, and he agreed. “I hear lawyers brag all the time how they win all their trials,” he said. “It makes me wonder, is that because you’re that good? Or are you just being overly cautious and overly selective in taking only sure-fire winners to trial?”

It got me thinking. Maybe it’s okay I’m not perfect. Maybe that’s just part of being human.

Surely not by coincidence, the message at church that Sunday morning was all about forgiveness — not just of other people, but of myself. In Matthew 11, Jesus said: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” In other words, God made me an imperfect person, which constantly invites me to walk with Him. That’s where I can find my strength.

Well, well. I didn’t see that coming.

In life and in basketball, the only way to play a perfect game is to sit on the sidelines. But if I am in the game, doing my best, trying to make things happen, making choices, I have to remember I will make a few fouls along the way. Excellence is a realistic goal, but perfection is impossible.

That’s so comforting to know. I still struggle to believe that applies to me, but it’s always comforting to hear. Maybe I’m not the only one who feels that way.

…

WE PLAYED AT WEST CARROLLTON after the win against Monroe. Coach put me in the starting lineup that night, and I appreciated his faith in me.

I walked over to him just before we took the floor. “So I should play defense the way I did the other night?” I said.

“No, I want you to play aggressively. Some of your play the other night was just plain sloppy.”

Ah. Got it. Another great lesson.

Frank Kennard, The Family Patriarch: "Mine Eyes Have Seen The Glory"

A highlight reel of Franklin H.S. athletics would feature a Kennard of one name or another for just about every year since 1975, and that means Frank Kennard — the family patriarch — saw more moments of glory in his lifetime than any of us could ever imagine.

Go back through the archives of big Wildcat games and fantastic Wildcat seasons, and you’ll find a Kennard everywhere, whether it’s making good passes on the girls’ basketball team, catching touchdown passes for the football team, or — most notably — scoring points for the boys’ basketball teams.

The first names changed as the years passed, but one thing reminded constant — Frank was always in the front row, or standing along the sidelines, guiding them and cheering them on.

And not only did he cheer for HIS family, but he do so for everyone else’s, too. In a town full of so many loyal, lifetime supporters, Frank will forever rank as one of its most devoted.

That’s why I hated to hear the news that came this past Monday afternoon. Frank Kennard, a man who had devoted his entire adult life to the people of Franklin, passed away as a result of congestive heart failure. He was 84.

…

RAISED IN KENTUCKY, he and his brothers came north after high school to find work with the Dayton Power & Light Company. After originally living in Chautauqua, Frank soon moved the family to 226 Park Avenue in Franklin, which happened to have a flat driveway that also just happened to be a perfect basketball court.

Frank’s children — Rhonda, Mark, Todd, and Wade — learned to play hard and be competitive on that home court. Mark once told me that before he could ever think about being a good player for Franklin or for the surrounding area, his first hope was to be the best player in his household. The Kennards were tough.

Frank started the youth basketball league at the Laura Farrell Elementary School, which was right across the street from the house. He was also a coach with the Franklin Pee Wee Football program. Then, as the children grew older, he moved to the sidelines to be a fan.

I first met Frank in the early 80s when I was a young sportswriter working my way through college. Because Franklin was part of my paper’s coverage area, I was always writing about something the Kennard children had done. Frank was always polite and respectful, and I never heard him make a single complaint about anything I wrote.

There is a common element to good kids, you know?

They have good parents.

…

I TOOK THIS PHOTOGRAPH of Frank back in the fall of 2013, when his grandson Luke was quarterback at Franklin and, what’s more, already showing signs he would be the best basketball player in school history.

I took it because this was typical Frank, right there, down front, dressed in Franklin Wildcat gear, watching a Kennard make headlines.

I thought to myself, “How cool is it that he gets to do this AGAIN.” It’s not that I think athletic achievement is the ultimate goal in life, but I do think our local sports programs are the life blood of our communities. Nothing can rally a town like a big game.

So I made a note to one day do a story about Frank, which would basically be a collection of stories about all he has seen during his days since coming north from Kentucky. He would talk about the good things he had seen several decades ago in his children, their coaches, and their fellow players, and what he gets to see yet again, 30 years later. I intended to use this photo along with it.

I regret I never got around to writing that story. I love my job, but it needs my full attention to do it well. If I had written it, though, I’m sure it would have been a glorious story about all that is good about Franklin.

I am comforted by what I heard the other day from my friend Danny Griffith, who is a pastor at Horizon Pointe Church. He was a starter on Franklin’s 17-1 basketball team when Mark was an impressionable freshman and Todd was a sixth-grader, and therefore has always been a great friend of the Kennard family.

Griff said he met with Frank last week at hospice, and they talked about what Frank would soon see. There was no fear, no worries, and no uncertainty. The man who had seen a lifetime of glorious moments was actually looking forward to what he would see next — more glory. The ultimate, heavenly glory. The glory that comes from a belief in God.

I find such comfort in that. Frank passed away in the same way he lived, in love.

You’re a good man, Frank. Rest in peace.

 

It's Yesterday Once More

 I sometimes forget that Friday is trash day, but I still remember my first at-bat in the Franklin season opener my senior year against Valley View, when the Spartan pitcher let a curve ball hang a little too long, allowing me to hit a liner to left centerfield for a triple.

For that moment, I was on top of the world, like a king. Only a minute later, just thirty seconds after Coach Doug Long told me to watch for the pitcher’s pickoff move, I was in the dugout, picked off, deader than a duck, looking for a place to hide.

“That won’t happen again,” I told Coach later.

“Oh, I know it won’t, ‘cause I may not play you the rest of the season,” he responded. At that moment, I couldn’t tell if he was kidding.

A few nights ago I walked into the laundry room and then couldn’t remember why I went there, but I remember taking a lead off third base in a game in Bourbon County, Ky. a few weeks after the Valley View game (I was lucky Coach kept me in the starting lineup).

“You’re the go-ahead run, got it?” Coach told me. “You hot-dog it here and I’m going to make you walk home.”

“Yes, sir,” I responded, paying close attention to the pitcher. At that moment, I had no doubt Coach was serious.

Just then Jamie Wines crushed a three-run home run that probably landed somewhere in Tennessee. We celebrated as if we had just won the World Series. And I was ready to vote for Jamie for President. What a moment.

And then just last night, my wife Kim reminded me once again to get furnace filters, which I was supposed to do last week, but as I drove through Lebanon an hour earlier I clearly remembered the afternoon Pete Jones — one of the Warriors’ best players — hit a ball deep to left centerfield in a huge league game late in the season.

As our left fielder, it was my ball to get, and centerfielder Kevin Hollon shouted at me over and over again, “Plenty of room, Kirb! Plenty of room!”

My crash into the left field wall was like a violent collision with Mean Joe Greene, but I made the catch. “I thought you said I had plenty of room,” I said to Kevin, who was grinning ear to ear.

“Aw heck no,” he said. “If I’d have told you the truth, you never would have made the catch.”

Yeah, he had that right.

…

THERE IS A SCENE IN John Grisham’s book, “Bleachers,” where a bunch of former high school football players return to their hometown to celebrate the life of their coach, who has only a few days to live.

One night, they sit in the bleachers at their high school field and, while eating pizza and drinking beer, they listen to the radio broadcast of their state championship game from 15 years earlier.

Before the announcer calls what happens on a particular play, the players say what is about to happen. Despite all the years that have passed, they remember.

When Kim read the book, she said to me, “There’s no way guys can remember stuff like that from so long ago.” And I was like, “Um, that’s what athletes do. They remember.”

I may not remember all pitch-counts or game situations, but I remember so many details of the days (from the 70s) when I wore a uniform and had the privilege of playing for the Franklin Wildcats. I remember stuff that happened on bus rides, breaks between innings, before practices, in huddles, and after the games -- everything.

That’s a tribute to being part of a great team, but it’s also an indication of how much the memories and friendships from high school always stay with us.

If you ask someone where they were between the ages of 30 and 33, they have to think about it before answering. But ask them where they were between 15 and 18, they don’t have to give it a second thought

The memories come rushing in.

…

AT AGE 60, I don’t want to speculate too much on where I am on life’s trip around the bases, but I suspect I’m somewhere near third base. Only the Good Lord knows for sure when I will head for home.

In truth, these are the good old days, even with graying hair and crowe’s feet around the eyes.

But all it takes is a song on the radio or a phone call from a friend and I’m right back to age 17 and reliving some moment from the past, loving every minute of it.

It happened again the other night when I talked to my friend Joe Byrne, when for some reason I was reminded that I left my Wildcat baseball team jacket at Talawanda in our next to last game of the season. I told Joe the penalty for leaving a jacket was 10 laps around the field. But because our season ended right up near the end of the school year, I never ran the laps.

With all the great memories I have from so many years ago, I owe a debt of gratitude to everyone involved.

You know what that means? I have to pay the penalty for leaving my jacket. And do you know what the interest on 10 laps over 43 years is?

About 328 miles.

Dang, I gotta’ get going.

My Best Shot

Back (L-R) Jerry Collins, Rick Chamberlain, Kenny Haney, Dennis Ferguson, me;
Front (L-R) Tom Benjamin, Jeff Gorsuch, Todd Kinder

I had 245 yards to the middle of the green on the par-5 final hole, from a lie that was a little on the upslope, with a slight wind coming from the right. Though my team had gone 1-up two holes earlier, which gave us comfort, our opponents came charging back and now our 4-man scramble grudge match was all square. 

As the tension filled the air, you’d have thought we were playing for $1 million. But it was for much, much more than that. We play for bragging rights.

This is the year most of us turned 60, but for the moment it was like we were 15 again, in the gym, playing to 21 and having to win by 2. We have been lifelong friends, through thick and thin, guys who will come running if ever there is a need for a helping hand, but make no mistake that when there is a game going and some serious competition is on the line — we want nothing more than to stomp one another.

The trash talk is unbearable. Losing is terrible. We all hate it more than anything. 

So I knew I had to reach back for everything I’ve got to reach this green in two. Up ahead, our opponents had a much easier second shot, which brought a 3 into the picture for them. For us to have any chance at all of winning, or at least tying, I had to come through in the clutch.

I pulled out my 3-wood. And I put the best swing on a golf ball I could muster.

Oh, wait a second, you think this is a golf story?
…

AS THIS TITANIC struggle played out, the sun was setting. This has always been my favorite time of every day, much better than the sunrise because, let’s face it, who wants to be up at such an hour?

The day’s work is done, and the promise of tomorrow lies ahead. When Kim and I are near an ocean, we make sure we have dinner as the sun slides over the skyline. The same is true when my dog Kobe drags me through the neighborhood on our evening walk. And then there are always these special times on a golf course.

I think the sunset is a reminder that for all of life’s difficulties, with crazy events and busy schedules and difficult people, the world is also a beautiful place. Without having to do a single thing, or pay any kind of price, we get this front row seat from anywhere in the world to watch God show off by painting a masterpiece.

So it’s not a coincidence that many of my favorite moments I’ve captured in a photograph — like the one above — all have a setting sun somewhere in the distance.

We need a moment of peace every day.

Because peace brings hope.

And we can never have too much hope.

So do you think this is just a story about sunsets? Nah, I couldn’t leave you hanging.
…

WHEN THE BALL LEFT my club, I knew I had hit it well. I stayed in perfect balance and knew instantly I had hit the ball in the center of the club head. “Oh boy,” I thought.

Oftentimes, when a ball flies squarely into the middle of a setting sun, you are blinded, and have no idea where it is going. But for some reason, I saw this shot easily, like it was in slow motion, hanging forever in the sky.

Though I am capable of so many awful golf shots, the kind that would make you think I have never played before and should never play again, this was not one of them. It started just to the right of the green and came hooking back, like something in a hokey movie.

It came to rest 15 feet left of the pin. That meant would have our chance for an eagle, and put some serious pressure on our opponents.

It was a moment I will long remember, certainly in February when it is five below. I was with a great group of guys, miles away from work pressures and house payments and the coronavirus, having a total blast just underneath a setting sun.

It was magnificent. What a shot.

And then it all came crashing down.

Moments later, after Todd Kinder had hit a drive that traveled what seemed like 50 miles of Texas highway, Dave Baker hit a second shot to within 10 feet and then Ricky Chamberlain made the putt. Somewhere in all of that, I’m sure Tom Benjamin — the coach, the master, and the legend — orchestrated the effort.

So we got beat. I had Mark Kennard, Dave Chicarelli, and Jerry Collins on my team. We were crushed, heartbroken, and humiliated. Come to think of it, it may have been one of the worst moments of my life. 

Actually, I don’t know why I brought it up.

Just forget I said anything, okay?

I should have just written this story about the stupid sunsets.

Whatever.

Back (L-R) Jerry Collins, Dave Baker, me, Mark Kennard, Rick Chamberlain, Dave Chicarelli
Front (L-R) Tom Benjamin, Todd Kinder

 

Another Laugh With Steve

I love the driving range at Heatherwoode G.C. because it plays popular music, which just adds to the relaxation of hitting balls after a long day in the courtroom. 

I'm telling you, listening to the Eagles' "Learn To Be Still" as the sun sets over the tenth fairway is like a church service. 

 As I pounded one huge drive after another tonight (fishermen aren't the only sportsmen who lie), I reflected on a FB challenge I received today from Steve Rottert of Springboro, seeking recognition of athletes who have inspired us through the years. His post today featured a former Chicago Bear, Walter Payton. And while I can quickly list former Reds or Bengals and a dozen ways I am inspired by Peyton Manning, I started thinking of guys of a more local flavor, players from my hometowns of Franklin and Springboro who I either played with or grew up watching, whose influence I will never forget. 

So I thought about Jim Hough, Rod Dillon, Donny Wilburn, Mitch Leisz, Kevin Butt, Kevin Hollon, Danny Griffith, and 50 other guys whose talent I could never match, but still made me better. And as these guys came to mind, I swung to the rhythm of the music. Lastly, as I made my best swing of the night, Steve Dalton (pictured) came to mind. 

... 

WHEN MY FAMILY MOVED from Springboro to Franklin when I was in the eighth grade, we moved to a house just down the street from Steve. He was already a talented golfer, and I was just a beginner, but we were two guys without a driver's license who lived only a block away from the Franklin Golf Course, so we played...All. The. Time. 

 Though I eventually got better, with rounds often in the high 70s, Steve was part of the upper echelon of local players who often shot in the low 70s or better -- guys like Mike McGee, Rob McGee, Tal Selby, Andy Horn, Randy Conn, and Kent Stevens. 

By hanging with Steve, I was invited into a whole different group of guys I probably would have never gotten to hang with. Steve finished second in the Ohio Golf Association junior tournament when he was 15. He qualified for the prestigious Junior World in San Diego tournament two years in a row. And I remember a blistering opening round at Weatherwax in the Middletown City Tournament when survival was everyone's only goal, and Steve shot 67. One day, in a tournament at NCR Country Club, he killed his opening drive on the first hole in front of a large gallery. A bystander chuckled, "Damn, anything in the air that long ought to serve dinner."

 

I tried hard to get as good as Steve, but never could. But he set a standard I tried to reach. Through all the years and the countless rounds of golf, he was also one of my best friends. My Franklin H.S. graduating class of 1978 gave me a whole host of friends who have remained my friends for a lifetime -- Joe Byrne, Todd Kinder, Jerry Collins, Dave Baker, Kenny Haney, Dave 'Silk' Back, Danny Griffith, Ricky Chamberlain and many others. We have done life together. 

During spring break in 1979, a bunch of us went to Daytona Beach. I would tell you everything that happened that week, but those records are sealed. One afternoon Steve jumped up on the high dive and decided to serenade the entire hotel with his version of "Dust In The Wind," a popular song at the time by the group Kansas. Not only was he way off key, but Steve thoroughly butchered the words. It was awful. And yet it was also fantastic. We all laughed about it for years. 

Fittingly, in 2015, when we gathered to pay tribute to Steve at his memorial, Griff closed the service with that very song, since it held meaning for the moment in more ways than one. 

... 

I LAUGHED ABOUT IT AGAIN tonight, as I wrapped up my session on the driving range, hoping I will one day develop a swing as good as Steve and shoot the numbers he once did. I picked up my golf bag and headed for the car, just as another song came over the speakers. 

I don't believe in coincidences. I believe there are moments God and his angels tell me, in a language I understand, that there is more than just our life here on Earth, and everything is going to be okay. 

So when I tell you what song came on, I don't think it was by random chance. "Dust In The Wind."

Thanks, Steve. You made me laugh once again.

Having A Ball At Hickory

Franklin basketball coach Brian Bales said that when he first arrived six hours before tip-off, the theme music from the movie filled the gymnasium, and he could feel the goosebumps immediately. Before the game even started, you could see just about everyone coming down down near the floor to get the perfect picture.

Then, just before halftime, when I looked around to see so many people enjoying themselves, I thought, “This must be the way a little girl feels when she meets Cinderella at the Magic Castle.”

This was more than just another Wildcat basketball game that I witnessed tonight. It was instead a moment that will long be frozen in history, the night that small town Franklin met the mythical small town of Hickory, Indiana, (located in the real town of Knightsville, Indiana) the setting from the legendary 1986 movie, “Hoosiers.”

It was a great night regardless of the final score (69-44 ‘Cats, by the way).

The souvenir shop sold T shirts, sweat shirts and posters, all bearing the Hickory name. The display cases featured the day Larry Bird, Magic Johnson, and LeBron James all came to the Hickory gym, and banners everywhere paid homage to the players who were cast in the movie. And just in case you had never seen the movie, a TV in the front lobby played it over and over and over again.

Coach Bales addressed the team just before tip-off: "Now is the
 time to do what we came here to do."

When I walked through the front door to the gym, I knew this was where Gene Hackman burst through in one of the opening scenes of the movie and immediately started kicking some serious butt. Oh, the power...

In the 99-year-old locker room down below, which still features random pipes going every which ways and shower stalls that would make an new Army recruit raise an eyebrow, Coach Bales went through the customary scouting report just moments before the Wildcats took the floor.

And then he had to get really serious for a moment. “I know we’ve had fun,” he said. “But now’s the time to do what we came here to do.”

…

THE IDEA FOR THIS GAME originated this past summer, when Coach Bales heard that the Hickory gym is borrowed all the time for area teams to come in and enjoy its ambiance. He made a phone call, and a man named Bob — a volunteer worker who grew up in Miamisburg — was more than happy to help Coach Bales get the game scheduled.

After a first quarter that was close, the 'Cats
quickly pulled away.

As a 1995 Franklin graduate, Coach Bales has memories of “Hoosiers” from his childhood. But while this scheduled event was a thrill for him, his staff and the team’s parents, it wasn’t an immediate hit for any of the guys on the team, who weren’t even born when the movie became such a hit.

So, a week ago last Thursday, the team got together to watch the movie and to see what they were in for -- the history, the atmosphere, and the lesson that there is always a David for every Goliath.

I always chuckle when I hear Dennis Hopper call a play late in one of the games. “We’re going to run the picket fence,” he says. “Now don’t get caught watchin’ the paint dry.” I have no idea what that means.

But that’s small town rural Indiana for you, circa 1954.

…

LIKE HICKORY, FRANKLIN IS a small town that is full of families that are second, third, and fourth generations. The names are familiar. Attending a Wildcat game is like going to a town reunion, where everybody knows everyone else.

I like that feeling. That must be why a movie like “Hoosiers” resonates with me, and why it was so special to witness a game in the Hickory gym like the one there tonight.

I suppose it will put a new spin on “Cinderella,” too, if one day I have a granddaughter who will want to watch it. That smile, that opportunity, that magical moment?

Yeah, I get it now.

My daughter Chloe and her boyfriend, Cole Blevins. 

Braden Woods Is A Wildcat Forever

His place in Wildcat history was solidified two weeks ago when he was named an All-Ohio Division III first team quarterback, the most significant in a long list of post-season all-star achievements, but Franklin H.S. senior Braden Woods does not turn every subject and conversation into something that is all about him. 

No, no, quite the opposite. Braden, who is as smart and articulate as he is athletically gifted, is quick to shift any discussion into a tribute to the important people who have impacted him through the years — his family, coaches, teammates, teachers, his faith community, and the people of Franklin.

He feels blessed. He will be a Wildcat forever.

“Growing up, I was like, ‘I want to get out of here and go south,’” Braden says. “But the more I think about it, it’s awfully hard to leave Franklin. There is a strong tradition in this town. If I have a son someday, I can’t see wanting him to play anywhere else than here. Wherever I end up (in college), I’d want to come back and let my son experience what my parents let me experience here.”

So Braden, who was a captain on this year’s 9-1 Wildcat team that won the league and went to the playoffs, is forever thankful.

He was able to fulfill a dream that was instilled in him many years ago.

…

“EVER SINCE I WAS LITTLE, you can ask my dad, I was constantly throwing a football,” Braden says. “I fell in love with the game at an early age.” And, fortunately, Braden had the benefit of always being around football.

While Braden’s mother, Tammy, is a fifth grade teacher at Hunter Elementary (“Mrs. Mom,” he called her when she was Braden’s teacher), his father, Steve, is one of Franklin’s longtime football coaches. Steve has most recently been the quarterbacks coach for the varsity, and Braden was able to go work with his dad.

“Two-a-days gave me some of my favorite memories because I got to be around the guys all day long,” Braden remembers. “It was awesome. I got to see my dad coach guys like Tyler Wulff, Kevin Stewart, and Luke Kennard, and to be on the same field that I would have pee wee practice on later that night, that was cool. I kind of felt like I was one of the guys.”

Once the season started and the varsity had pre-game meals, Braden ate with them. When the games were away and the team rode the bus, Braden sat up front with his dad. “I felt like I was on the team,” he says.

“I remember when we played Wapakoneta in the playoffs (in 2011, when Braden was in fourth grade). I was the ball boy. And I remember looking up into the stands and seeing literally that there were no open seats. It started soaking in, watching Kevin Stewart and seeing how poised he was under pressure — all the attention was on the quarterback. And it made me fall in love with the position even more.”

…

BRADEN PLAYED QUARTERBACK all the way up the program, except for eighth grade when a shoulder injury temporary sent him temporarily to wide receiver. Ryan Russell was his quarterback that year, and though Ryan did an excellent job, Braden missed his old position. “I was used to calling plays and getting the ball on every play,” he says. “It was hard.”

By his freshman year, Braden was back behind center. He was JV quarterback when the Wildcat varsity went 10-0 in 2016, which meant he was at least on the sidelines under the Friday Night Lights. "Everything was a blast," he says.

Then, in the third game of the 2017 season at Piqua, Braden was thrust into the varsity starting lineup when another Braden — Braden White — tore an ACL. Braden (Woods) started the rest of the way as Franklin went 8-2 and advanced to the playoffs. 

After a 6-4 junior season, Braden and his teammates heard rumblings that the 2019 Wildcats might struggle, likely finishing 5-5. “We knew we had more in store for us than that,” Braden says. “We had a ton of leaders on our team, so we kind of had a chip on our shoulder to prove those people wrong.”

And they did just that. They scored big wins against Madison and Edgewood to start the season. Though they lost to Xenia in Week Three, it is worth noting that Xenia went on to make the playoffs for the first time in school history. And the Wildcats turned a negative into a positive.

“Sometimes a loss can bring a team together, and think that’s what happened after the Xenia game,” Braden says. The ‘Cats won their last seven in a row.

They needed big efforts against Bellbrook and Valley View in order to do that. And though the pundits predicted Franklin would come up short, “We still had that chip on our shoulder,” Braden says. “We knew we had to come out and take care of business.”

For the season, Braden completed nearly 60 percent of his passes, throwing 16 touchdowns and only 2 interceptions. Ryan Russell, Dylan Dirks, and Bret Dalton each caught 5 touchdown passes. Braden was named the SWBL Southwestern Division offensive player of the year.

… 

WILDCAT HEAD COACH BRAD Childers says Braden is going to be difficult to replace, for a lot of reasons. “He’s got a warrior mentality. He was a leader of this team; they voted him as a captain,” Coach says. “His work ethic, during the off season and during the season, is second to none.”

“He’s faithful. He’s never going to embarrass your program. He comes from a football family. And his football IQ is extremely high. And this list goes on and on and on…”

Braden has visited some Ivy League schools, plus some others. He plans to major in mechanical engineering. “As the son of two teachers, I know education is important,” Braden says. “I just want to go somewhere where I can get a good education and still play competitive football.” So he will continue his search until he finds the school that gives him both.

After that, only time will tell.

But one thing is certain. Braden believes he will eventually end up back in Franklin.

There is a phrase in Franklin, “Once A Wildcat, Always A Wildcat.”

For Braden, that rings true. Forever.

...

...

(All photos are by Charles Woods of Woods Photography, Braden's grandfather. At top, Braden (9) leads the team onto the field. At middle right, (L-R) Bri, Braden, Brittni, Steve, and Tammy Woods. At middle left, Braden is at work at Madison in the first game of the season. At bottom, Braden is with Matt Centers back and Cooper Daniels in the grade school days when they were ball boys for the Franklin football team).

'Silk' Was One Of A Kind

In his 59 years on Earth, he was so universally known and loved that — like Oprah or Elvis or LeBron — he did not need a full name in order to be recognized. Whether it was at work or on the golf course or in social circles in and around Springboro and Franklin, my friend “Silk” was the kind of guy who simply got along with everyone.

“I don’t know of anyone who didn’t like him,” our friend Danny Griffith (“Griff”), who is the pastor at Horizon Pointe Church in Springboro, said at his emotional memorial service this morning. “He left this Earth on May 5, but his spirit and his life made a difference, and it will live on in the hearts of all those who hold memories of him.”

Silk passed away last Sunday when he suffered a massive heart attack while playing golf at the Yankee Trace Golf Club. He is survived by his wife Holly and three stepchildren, Lindsay (Jon) Miller, Kristen, and Trey, and his older sister, Joyce. 

Steve Griffith, Kirb, Silk...and Danny Griffith's legs.

It is still such a shock. To say the least, it has been an extremely sad week for Holly and the children and all of those who knew Silk.

I was among the countless people who packed Anderson Funeral Home last night and this morning to pay tribute to Silk. It was interesting to see all the people he impacted in the many different facets on his life, in addition to his family — first at Franklin High School (Class of ’78), then at the Pepsi plant in Hamilton (where he worked for 35 years), and then most recently as an excellent golfer at Yankee Trace.

Time and time again I heard the same things:

“He was such a good guy.”

“I’m really going to miss him.”

Griff told the story of how Silk got his nickname. In November 1975, when we were sophomores playing basketball at Franklin, we had a preseason scrimmage at home. Early in the game, Silk found himself open for some jump shots. And all of them connected — seven in all, giving him 14 points in the first quarter alone.

Griff’s older brother Mike, who was watching, likened Silk’s performance to Keith “Silk” Wilkes, who had recently played for national champion UCLA before moving on to the NBA Los Angeles Lakers. And so all afternoon, the talk was about Silk, Silk, Silk. And the nickname stuck.

Many who knew Silk for years never knew his real full name, David R. Back, but then again, they didn’t need to. 

His nickname was among many things that made Silk one of a kind.
…

IN THE LAST 45 YEARS, I have done a thousand things with Silk — attend class, go to concerts, play golf, go on vacation, play basketball, go to parties, play baseball, share a townhouse, play football, have a drink, and be his best man a few years before he became mine.

Kirb, Janine, and Silk...in 1987

While I always found him to be equal parts intelligent and goofy (what are friends for?), he was above all else an encourager, someone who always encouraged me to keep moving in the right direction even when I was being equal parts smart and stupid.

“Man, you’ve worked hard to get where you are,” he’d say. “I admire that.”

“Kim is such a sweetheart,” he’d also say. “I’m glad you two found one another.”

Silk and I had a circle of friends dating back to high school who have remained close ever since. I’m biased, without a doubt, but I think our class was one of the finest to ever pass through Franklin High School. Silk and I often talked about how difficult it would be to go through life without them.

We have all been there for one another. Like the rest of them, I have always known throughout the years that one thing was true despite whatever challenge I faced or circumstance I had to overcome — Silk had my back.

I’ll always love him for that.
…

THE IMAGE OF SILK THAT WILL stay with me forever is what you see in the top picture, which was taken by my sister Julie probably in 1979 or 1980. My family lived on Elaine Avenue in Franklin and Silk was a frequent visitor. Like all of our friends, he did not need an invitation to come over.

The photograph embodies what Silk was to so many people — open, engaging, and friendly. It says, quite simply, “It’s so glad to see you.”

Last Sunday morning, St. Peter was given an intake sheet to be on the lookout for “BACK, DAVID R.” But the name did not ring a bell with St. Peter.

But a few hours later, he recognized the guy who showed up at the Pearly Gates with his arms open wide, much like in the photo.

“Silk!” St. Peter shouted. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

Like I said, one of kind. So loved and known by so many.

See you, Silk. Until we meet again…
…

(at bottom left, Silk and me in 1988; at bottom center, Silk with his lovely wife Holly; and at bottom right, Silk as a tri-captain for our 1978 Franklin baseball team along with Jamie Wines and Kenny Haney).