Pantsed

A Bench Warmer Memory from Bob Cairns

There’s little doubt that you’re the last man on a basketball team when . . .your team goes to the State Finals, and your coach takes your uniform away from you and gives them to a more talented player he’s bringing up from the Junior Varsity.

In 1960 Francis Scott Key High School, Uniontown, Maryland, and I went to the University of Maryland’s Cole Field House to play for the state Class B High School Championship.  There were a number of stops along the way until we got into that final game against Surrattsville, a team from Southern Maryland that gave us all we could handle and more.

Here’s how this tournament played out for me. The week before we headed to the Eastern Shore of Maryland, to play our way into that final game. A voice from the school’s speaker system had said, “Will Robin Cairns please report to coach Lambert’s office? Will Robin Cairns please report to coach Lambert’s office?”

This was not an announcement that I’d never heard before so about fifteen minutes later I amble in and said, “What’s up, coach?” 

Coach Lambert: “Beetle, (his pet name for me as I featured these rather thick black horn rimmed glasses and a body that came up about six inches short for my weight), it’s not what’s up. It’s what’s down. I need your uniform pants!” 

Me: “You need what?”

Coach Lambert: “I’m going to bring Joe Myers up from the JV, and I’m a uniform short.”

Now clearly the last man on the team I never played, but the idea of getting pantsed at the end of the season like this and not going to the state finals basketball tournament was more than your average or even below average sub could handle.

Me: “I’m not going to the tournament after sitting there all season and. . .”

Coach Lambert: “No, no. You’re going. We have plenty of warm-ups; we just don’t have enough uniforms. So, you’ll just have to wear gym shorts and T shirt under your warm-ups!”

Now we not only had one hell of a high school basketball team, we had kick-ass warm-ups. We were the Francis Scott Key Eagles (our school was several miles from the birth place of Francis Scott Key), and there were two satin versions--white with red and blue piping with Eagles emblazoned on our sailor collars and blue with red and white piping---great looking duds to come flying through a paper FSK hoop to the sound of a crowd erupting.

Me: “I’ll get to wear the warm-ups and warm-up with the team and sit on the bench. . .”

Coach Lambert: “It will be like any other game. You’ll warm up but won’t play!”

I thought that a bit harsh, but considering the choices, which there were none, not a bad deal. Of course, if we should blow some team out, there’d be zero pressure because Coach wasn’t going to run the  little fat guy out there in his snow white (underwear-like) T and gym shorts. This could all end up in Cole Field House at the University of Maryland, for God’s sake!

And so, it went with us, having beaten North Carroll for the county championship we then, one-by-one, knocked off teams on the Eastern Shore, very good teams like North Hartford that featured two guys who could really play—they called them Big Al and Little Al and I sat there sweating out my gym shorts watching as Coach Lambert threw a triangle and two on them (three guys played zone with Bobby Story playing Big Al man-to-man and Ronnie Hollinsworth on Little Al).

So eventually we found ourselves at the University of Maryland’s Cole Field House playing Surrattsville for the state championship. Now, there are a couple of things that you have to know about me and my basketball “prowess.”  I spent my childhood at a place called the Brethren Service Center shooting hoops on an outdoor court that had night lighting.  Unfortunately, because I was pretty much on my own, there was a hitch in my game. I shot off the wrong foot (right being right-handed), making my “jumper” an odd looking push shot that sort of came at the opposition (which there rarely was as I played alone most nights) out of right field.

But that said, if left alone I could shoot! And I was one of the most dangerous H-O-R-S-E players in the town of New Windsor, Maryland. From the foul line I was just lights out, which I once mentioned to Coach Lambert in passing, just an aside at practice. I made the point to him that other than Herbie Weller and maybe Hollinsworth, I was the best foul shooter on the team.

Coach Lambert: “Yes, Beetle, but who would foul you?”

So, with the above data in mind I was, shall we say, comfortable in my gym pants.

Now, I had a great friend named Jack Baile. Jack was three years older than me, and when he was in high school, he was All-Everything and one of the best players in the county. 

Jack went on to Western Maryland College where he was All-South in soccer, a heck of a baseball player, and a really good role player on the college’s basketball team.  It seems that a group from the Western Maryland basketball team traveled to the University of Maryland to watch the state high school finals.

Jack, who was like a big brother to me, knew that I’d been pantsed by Coach Lambert. He also knew that I could shoot the lights out during warm-ups. So as the guys from Western Maryland made their way down to the University of Maryland, Jack told Ritchie Klitzberg (an honorable mention---All New York City high school player who could really, really play) that there’s this Jewish kid (I’m not Jewish) who plays for Francis Scott Key High School who’s the team’s zone breaker. “When Surrattsville goes zone, look for this chubby little Jewish kid to come in and just bury them,” he told Klitzberg.

If anyone is still reading, and you happen to have ever been to Maryland’s Cole Field House (a show place then, state-of-the-art, it was only about six years’ new then) you will know that you entered at the top of building with all the colorful seats and the court below---quite a spectacular view for teams that had been playing in (many cases) matchbox venues. 

So, enter the Western Maryland college players and according to Jack, there’s Francis Scott Key, sailor collars flying, going through our warm up routine. I’m sure I was doing my wrong footed layups, and when we broke for the shoot-around, Jack nudged Klitzberg and said, “Klitz, check out the chubby little Jew!”  Now, says Jack, I’m easing around the court hitting everything in sight, just dropping Kleenexes through the net. Swish, swish, swish.

“Sort of an odd-ball form, but you’re right, the kid can shoot,” Klizberg allowed.

Okay, it’s a barnburner with Surrattsville just wearing us out with this really aggressive man-to-man. And then it happens. Late in the game they just suddenly go zone.  We miss a shot, and then another and Klitzberg looks at Jack and says, “Where’s the Jew? They’ve gone zone; where’s that chubby little zone breaker?”

Jack shrugged, knowing I’m pants less. In the end we lost the state championship game by four points, and on the ride back to Western Maryland College, Klitzberg, who was a very funny guy, said, “Well it looks like Scott Key came up about a Jew short!”

Years later I asked Jack if he ever told Klitz about me and my lack of pants, and that if you put anyone within five feet of me who could play defense that I couldn’t hit my ass with a flashlight.

Jack thought not!