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

********************************

One of the local foursome tennis regulars couldn’t make it. A non-member filled in. My buddies, Larry Watson and Randy Campbell teamed together against the newcomer and partner. Larry is the poster child for knee replacement. And both done at the same time. Now he can run, but at the time of the match above, it was really sad. Anyway, at the conclusion of the match the newcomer shook hands with Randy and said “…nice match, Hugo.” Out of earshot, a puzzled Larry asked Randy, “…why did that guy call you HUGO?” Randy: “Every single lob over our heads you shout ‘YOU GO’. Figure it out!” On the first day of our tennis camp, at 7am breakfeast, I asked a disheveled 10 year old his name? HUH, he said. Again, “What is your name”? Again…huh? Coach: Son, WHAT IS YOUR NAME? More clearly this time: My name is Hunt. How many times do I have to tell you! My friend, “Country” Boykin recently took his new hearing aid out and put it in the golf cart. It bounced out and we ran over it. At a restaurant a month later I noticed him wearing it again. “Did you get a new hearing aid, or get that one fixed?” He said it was the same one. “I’m just wearing it for looks!”