Dr. C.H. “Honeybear” Hamlin was still teaching at 92 years old. A pacifist, he gave everyone who could get in his class an “A” regardless. He’d done the same thing starting with World War II, keeping as many in school and out of the mili tary as he could. In 1962 he was saying, “We got no business messing with those “Veeneese”. I can proudly state one of the tennis classes I taught closed out before Hamlin’s “American Social Thought.” (All he taught, the same material in every class). When they announced my class beat Dr. Hamlin, the first person to every top him, I took the Registrar’s mike and thanked the student body, to a round of applause.
People fought to get into his classes. Once, when admits to classes were printed on I.B.M. cards, someone stole the admittance cards from the administration building. They were selling like hotcakes at 35 dollars a pop before the Entrepre- neurs where caught.
People would bring Dr. Hamlin butter beans, okra, sweet potatoes or whatever was growing. He’d first claim kin to them, “What’s your name? From where? Or Yes I knew your sister!”, then he’d pat their hand and say your grade is already “in the vault”. Once I saw a student being led across campus by three blue tick bird dogs. His name was “Blackhawk” (very dark hair) and I asked “Hawk, where you going? He said “I’m gonna show Dr. Hamlin my dogs.”
Atlantic Christian built a nice student center toward the end of Dr. Hamlin’s career. The school had a policy which stated no building could be named after someone still living. The students were told to take down their homemade sign proclaiming the C.H. Hamlin Student Center. They refused. The school removed the sign. The students erected another. The school took it down again. This continued until the school relented, and a nice sign bears witness to love for Dr. Hamlin.

Another Elk’s Clubber, this one from Wilson, was Robert Griffin. He had a ton of money but wore bib overalls everywhere. He also was a client of aforementioned Al Rehm, jr. Robert went to Las Vegas often. When Al was there, Robert would come to Al’s room and drink. Al said he’d drink Vodka until he’d pass out in Al’s room. And he snored like a McCullough chain saw.
Al decided to head this nightmare off, telling a looped, but standing Robert, I’m walking you down to your room tonight Robert. Out in the hall Al asked, “What’s your room number, Robert? “ “I have no earthly idea,” says Robert. “Reach into my pocket, the key’s there.”
Al said he took the key and lo and behold it was to the next room.
Al opened the door the exact same time Robert unhitched his brass overall buttons. The bib overalls fell all the way down to his ankles. From behind Robert, Al could see two things: (1) Robert had no underwear on and (2) The couple in the bed was extremely shocked.
Al gasped, “What are you doing in here?” The man replied, “No, what are you two lovers doing in here?”
Robert solved the problem. “Oh hell Al, I’ve been kicked out of two or three rooms this week. Reach in my bibs and find another key.”
“Find your own damn key Robert!”
There’s only so much you should have to do for a client.

Al played high school basketball. A reserve, when told by the coach to spend the last ten minutes shooting from your favorite spot, he took a few balls over to the bench. Made 2 out of 11.

Al said his eyelids were attached to his ass. “If I sit down I go to sleep.” He told me once “Parham, shut up and let us talk some, we’re drunk too!”

One professor had decided P.E. majors on full scholarship ought to play two sports. This was because he was having trouble filling the track squad he coached. With the implication being that he might influence grades if we didn’t agree, I began to wonder.
He approached me, sized me up and decided I’d make a fine middle distance runner on his team. Uh, oh!
I convinced him that basketball season had left me “burned out” and given two weeks rest, I’d come out for track.
Two weeks to the day I reported in black converse low tops, to track practice at Fleming Stadium, home of the Wilson TOBS (Tobacans). Today was the scene of a blue-white track meet. This later was the scene for the “rain-out” mudslide featuring Kevin Costner in Bull Durham. But today it was fireball Parham in the
440 yd. 880 yd., and leg on the blue team relay.
I was exhausted the first twenty yards of the first event. And so, in the last
one (the mile relay) when called on to run the last lap, I watched from half way around, as the other team crossed the line. The race was over and so was I. I began to “walk it in”. As I walked into the final turn of the track, the manager, clipboard in hand, ran at me yelling, “don’t quit, don’t ever quit”. I replied, “Who the fuck are you? Winston Churchill?” All the while I was wondering how the hell to get out of this trap.
While I’d long been proud of my dad’s tennis win in Madison, I’d played very little myself. Robbins had only one court; an abandoned asphalt topped private court belonging to a dentist, Dr. Alexander. We convinced him to let us repair the court, and my senior summer we played a little. The only other courts were in Southern Pines, and if we went down there to sneak on, the “redneck detector” buzzed and we were evicted. No River Rats.
There were six black topped courts in Wilson in 1961. The first people I saw play while wandering around this court at the Recreation Center were Bobby Dunn and Walt Brown. I was amazed at how hard they could hit a tennis ball. I enrolled in a “P.E.” tennis class held on the brand new five court “green” surfaced (by Van Sumner) college facility. Ed Cloyd was my P.E. department chairman and he and my P.E. teacher were about to establish the first summer tennis camp in North Car- olina. (Page 109) Virginia Skillman was an adjunct teacher Mr. Cloyd knew, and I was lucky to stumble into her class. Mrs. Skillman, soon to become a friend and colleague, was a godsend. Stately, constantly smiling, she had authored a tennis instruction book in the Wadsworth series on P.E. books, under her maiden name, Virginia Dumas. Virginia’s husband, Frank, worked for Dupont and their family members were all a part of the summer camps to come. Later Virginia played Frank in the Singles Championship at Kinston, NC. Virginia let Frank win.
Bobby Dunn, having graduated as a fine math major the previous May, had returned to get a second degree. He had decided to teach and coach, a choice Ed Cloyd and staff convinced hundreds to make. Bobby was also the assistant basket- ball coach, while still living in the dorm. He was sworn to silence.
About the time I’d cussed out the track manager, the man just hired to coach the men’s tennis (no women’s team) became ill to the point he resigned. One after- noon Bobby came to the dorm and stated; “now I’m the tennis coach, too”. Here was my chance. I asked Bobby what you had to do to qualify for the team and he
said, “be warm and breathing”. The next day I’d borrowed a wooden P.E. racket from one-eyed 81-year-old Hugh Faley Bowen, Mr. Cloyd’s P.E. equipment room manager. I hit for the green courts by the creek, not knowing what it would yield me.
The team was so weak; in five practices I was #4. Please don’t take that to mean I was tennis-talented. But this was a weak team. And I loved it, even losing to skinny, redheaded lefthanders, who were about as athletic as cheese.

One night we played Pembroke State at their place. In 1960 this “Indian school” in Lumberton, NC featured some tough fans. McComas had had a run in with an older player on their team. It seems the guy was really mad at McComas for not recruiting him. At any rate the game was tight and this guy was trash talk- ing McComas. With the score tied at the buzzer, the same guy tried to drive the
middle. There was a big block-charge call that went strangely to Atlantic Christian, the visitors.
Right under the basket, and in front of McComas, this irate veteran yelled in protest at the referee’s call. Along with his protest came his teeth, or more accurately his upper plate. As the teeth bounded and skidded toward McComas, Jack handed them to the player, smiling broadly.

Between the booze and the town, college life was getting interesting. My second year we (SQ and I) considered applying to the Delta Sigma Phi fraternity. It was Animal House before “Animal House”. One guy left late at night to drive moonshine. There was a poker room in the basement. And it provided a place to party. Couple of drawbacks: Money, basketball rules, near death hazing, and the “Fireman of the week” outings. The latter scared us into waiting a year. It was so brutal the school was about to ban it. The “’fireman of the week” award was requiring the pledge with the biggest pecker to wear the “Fireman of the week” sign publicly for one week on campus. Then it descended (to make a pun) to the next pledge. If you were a traditional spring time pledge, you did not want to wear that thing in May!
So John and I waited.

I’d taken the team to Hilton Head Island. And we’d “splurged” on housing. It was a big rental place rather than the usual economy motel. We had a match the next day at 2:00 p.m.
College coaches often recruit some aberrant bastard who has no business in higher education. Young coaches listen: Recruit good people, and you’ll live and coach longer. And win your share!
Nineteen eighty-four was my eye-opener. Sure I was ticked at college tennis and it’s sellout to internationals. The tennis Gods got me. The two guys I brought in weren’t bad guys, but they had a different agenda.
This night, or morning, the agenda had been a lot of beer drinking. I laid awake, and stewed.
At dawn I heard them sneak in. I gave them enough time and went in barking and cutting the lights back on.
“What the hell,” in Swedish.
“Get your asses up.”
“We don’t play until two!”
“Get your asses up, or you’ll never have to get up for me again. Meet me in
the living room in ten minutes.”
I got the other three up, Gowda, Krister Eriksson (Swede) and New Zealander,
John Malpass. They were three really fine kids, but puzzled at the moment. “Coach, what are we doing?” captain Krister asked.
“Chariots of Fire”, I said. We’d seen the movie as a team earlier.
I took them to the beach. There was a bike at the beach house.
I rode along beside them for two miles, three rules: (1) If you finish last, you lose your meal money. (2) If you quit, you lose your meal money.
(3) If you puke, you lose your meal money.
Running dead last, Johan Samuelsson puked, and took one more for the team, quitting. They played the match at about half speed. I figured Senior Thomas Linne was the worst and took him to task. It got heated. Linne could have kicked me, but I was really angry.
In 1997 I visited the Swedes in their native land. On a bench in Stockholm, Thomas and I rehashed the scene.
Boiling mad I had told Thomas to take a quarter I held out a nearby phone booth (remember those?).
“What for?” says big Thomas.
“Call the damned bus station and find out what time a bus goes to the Raleigh- Durham Airport. You are on the next plane over. I’m through with you.”
Realizing I’m pissed Thomas gets as angry as his coach. We’re near blows. Thomas in Stockholm, reminded me of that earlier day in South Carolina. “Coach, you held the quarter at arm’s length. You told him that if you hit me
as you were about to, you’d be fired. And it would really hurt your family. You brought Captain Krister over as a “witness”. “When I drop the coin Thomas, it’s every man for himself.”
We were within a hair’s breath when somehow Krister stopped us.
I had tried hard to motivate Thomas to get his degree. He was a month away. So I compromised.
Thomas was made coach of the other two I couldn’t understand or tolerate. They were to ride in the back of the van and never speak to me. I’d coach the other
three, and we’d communicate through Captain Krister, who although he was Swed- ish was more “like us”.
It worked well. We were actually playing as a team, competing to see whose theory worked best. They played hard to prove me wrong.
We were within inches of winning the second national title when Thomas ap- proached me quite startled. “What’s wrong?” I asked. In 1984 they’d begun to let people coach on the court. Teammates could be “designated coaches”. Thomas was of course coaching “his player”, Stefan Vanemo. Vanemo, extremely talented, was also as mean as anyone I’ve coached, or coached against.
I saw Stefan win set number one, and wasn’t sure what he was doing as he put his racket in his bag. He’d played very poorly in set two, and his anger showed. Thomas’ problem, I thought.
Thomas said, “You’ve got to talk to “Teddy”, Vanemo’s nick name. He’s mad and says he’s not playing anymore damn tennis. Quitting for good he says.” Hurry down there coach, we need that point to win.
“Thomas”, I said, “he’s on your team. I don’t give the tiniest shit if you guys don’t win.” I walked away.
When Thomas told “Teddy” what I’d said, Vanemo unleashed what seemed to be a magic racket from the bag. Hardly lost a third set point.
Not every athletic contest is the Super Bowl or the Final Four. Great games occur everywhere. There were some great contests, team efforts, and fine people in NAIA tennis. I’m grateful I saw twenty-eight tournaments.

It’s never easy to win that tournament. Nineteen eighty-four was no exception. Early rounds are played in six different sites, all over metropolitan Kansas City. I elected to stay with our #4 player, a true Indian gentleman, Jagadish Gowda. Our number 3 player was accompanied by no less than our college president, Dr. James Hemby. Linne was 6’5”, 200 lbs., long hair, and looked like Alice Cooper.
We knew things were tight. No one could lose early if we were to have a chance. So, when Jag got down 6-1, 5-1 (30-15). I was ready for one of those “sinking moments” in coaching. Add to that, Jim Hemby rode up in quite a panic for a college president. Thomas, he says, had pulled hamstring up near his butt. And having won the first set, is losing fast. The trainer in charge says he can play only if we put a football styled hip-girdle on him before the impending third set.
With limited time and big city traffic to fight, I was perplexed. But I got “paid the big bucks” to make smart moves.
Actually it was pure luck. Luck that Virginia Hassenflu walked up at that very moment. Mrs. Hassenflu was one of the honorary coaches, and her husband, Art was a fine businessman and tennis fan. No nicer couple. However, Mrs. Hassenflu forgive me, Virginia, had an “ass you could throw a sheet over and show home movies”. If there was one person who’d know girdle details, I’d found her. Virginia, “girdle angel”, said she knew just the thing. We agreed to meet at Thomas’ site, the Kansas City Country Club, at that time Tom Watson’s home club.
I left a “buried” Jagadish on the run. I beat Virginia by minutes, enough to find Thomas and the trainer, the second set just having been lost by our injured Swede.
I told the trainer and Thomas of our plan as Mrs. Hassenflu waddled toward us, paper bag in hand. I grabbed the bag and Thomas and headed to the dressing room.
Thomas dropped his trousers and stood on a bench. But then he said, “I’m not going to wear that thing.”
The women’s girdle I’d unfolded was pink, garter attachments dangling, and had three pink orchids on it. By God you are too, Thomas as I yanked it over his shoes. I had to tape him too, and did it so fast I’m not sure what we “bound”.
If God cares, we were blessed. Thomas won the third set and the match. It took a while for things to “loosen up”, plus he had to push up the garter belts into his shorts periodically, but it was helluva coaching move.
As Dr. Hemby and I giggled, we took Thomas for the proverbial McDonald’s burger. We were near Gowda’s courts and I slid in the parking lot to pick him up. Lo and behold there he was playing match #2. Later I called him “Houdini” for getting out of that trap. Gowda said he found out his opponent couldn’t hit an overhead. Lob City! Gowda is still mystical.

THE MAYOR
February 3, 2015
Ralph died Sunday. We called him “Mayor”lovingly and he was the mayor of Wilson, N.C. for three terms. I have never had my picture in
the obit column before, but I am standing behind the smiling Mayor El Ramey. I am smiling too but you can’t tell it. Smiling because I had just overheard Ralph talking to the old lady dispensing the free, nutty-butty style giant ice cream cones: ” M’am– I have a friend over there who has a HARD TIME getting around. Would you mind giving me two so I can take her one?” Her who? I knew he was about to eat both. And he did.
He loved life. Never went into restaurant that the opening conversation with the waitress didn’t go like this: Ralph: “Well hello. What is YOUR name? Waitress: “Jill”. Ralph: “May I call you Jill?” Waitress: “Sure.” Ralph: “Well, when may I call you?”
Our gang has it’s 49th annual POKER WEEKEND starting Friday at Emerald Isle. At our first game after Ralph was elected Mayor he showed up with a large bag of change. I asked him where got all that change? “Parking meters” he said.
Mayor stories are flying all over eastern North Carolina. A ton will float around Emerald Isle this weekend. And for a long time,
“I love you now and evershall, but there’s no one left to tell. The world has gone dark before my eyes.”
NETTIE MOORE, Bob Dylan

Willis Hackney, was one of the school’s biggest money givers. With permission here is the story as told in Dr. McLean’s history of the college.
“Mildred Ross remained best known for her interest in students and for her inability to drive an automobile safely. Clark mentioned Ross’s driving problems, suggesting that she hold her speed below sixty, and adding, “The only way Mildred knows when she is getting near town is that she is hitting more people.” One of the more humorous college legends involved Ross and Willis Hackney, who shared Ross’s love of Bulldog athletics. Ross was driving in Wilson’s downtown area near midmorning one day when, straying well across her side of the public street, she rammed Hackney’s automobile, smashing a fender. Getting out of their cars, the drivers approached each other as a small crowd began to gather on the sidewalk. Hackney immediately assumed a defensive position, extending his arms with hands in front, palms open and fingers spread. In a loud, serious voice, he blurted, “Mildred it’s my fault, all my fault. I knew you were coming to town this morning. I should have known better than to be down here.”

Once Barton agreed to renovate the gym properly (see enclosures) I agreed to fulfill a pledge to them, that I would help them raise money for the project.   I have been gone from Wilson for 35 years. It soon dawned on me that the people who supported us (Atlantic Christian) back in the day, weren’t around any more. But I haven’t lost that much memory, or been unconcerned about old friends, or been that far away. And I’ve learned the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Looking for support “several years back” these are some I’d call: Buddy Bedgood, George Flowers, Zeke Cozart, T. Forbes, Milton Adams, Doug Hackney, Lee Gliarmis, Ralph El Ramey, Robert Lee Dunn,Sr., Herbert lashley, Jimmy Dempsey,

Turner Bunn, Vince Lowe, Russell Thompson, Mosely Hussey, Johnson

Moore,sr., Gordon Sauls, Tyson and Peggy Jennette, Jim Hemby, Matthew

Boykin, Bobby Sharpe, Bobby Kirkland, Ned Ligon, Harry Helmer, Dave Oettinger, Pete Grine, Bob Pope, Huitt Mattox. Herb Jeffries,

And there are more I remember
And more I could mention
Than words I could write in a song
But I feel them watching
And I see them laughing
And I hear them singing along

Lyle Lovett—Family Reserve

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