The Season That Changed Everything

The story I promised on AC's Subscriber Only Stream

In 1985, I walked into Wilson Magnet High School as a short, slow, late‑blooming sophomore with more determination than athletic talent. I’d been cut from basketball three straight years, and there was no reason to believe year four would be any different. But my friends — all better athletes than I was — pushed me to try again. I loved the sport, even if it didn’t seem to love me back.

I wasn’t built for basketball. Puberty hadn’t arrived yet, and I moved like I was running through mud. Baseball was my refuge — hours of backyard wiffle ball with my brother had sharpened my eye and my swing — but basketball? Basketball was a long shot.

Still, I showed up.

The Unexpected Yes

On the first day of tryouts, I gave everything I had. Everyone was better. When the coach called me over afterward, I braced for the familiar sting of being cut. Instead, he told me I’d made it past the first round. I was stunned. I’d watched players far better than me walk out with their heads down.

Day after day, he kept saying, “See you tomorrow.”

By Friday, six of us were called into his office one at a time. Three were cut. When my turn came, I expected the same fate. Instead, he offered me a spot — with a caveat: I wouldn’t play unless we were winning or losing by 20.

I said yes before he finished the sentence.

Only later did I learn the truth. The previous season, he’d taken the most talented players, but many were troublemakers. This year, he needed good kids — and he needed roster space for three starters returning midseason. I wasn’t chosen for my skill. I was chosen because I wouldn’t cause problems.

It didn’t matter. I was on the team.

Becoming a Basketball Player

We had talent, but missing three starters hurt. I practiced hard every day, then went home, finished homework, and spent hours in the backyard working on my game. When winter hit, I shoveled the snow off my court nightly. Slowly, I became a basketball player.

Then came the game that should’ve been legendary.

Chaos in Charlotte

Charlotte High School — two‑time defending state champions — rolled into our tiny gym with two all‑state stars. Our injured starter returned just in time, and the opening minutes were a blur of fast‑break dunks. By the first whistle, we led 14–10, all 24 points coming above the rim. I’ve never seen anything like it since.

Our point guard, David, played the game of his life, holding Chris Tuck — who later led the nation in scoring at the University of Buffalo — to two points through three quarters.

But the night unraveled.

Charlotte fans broke down the gym doors and flooded in. Our players were grabbed during inbound passes. The police were outnumbered. The referees were terrified. Our 22‑point lead evaporated under chaos.

With seconds left, a man in a rabbit‑skin coat stepped onto the court with a knife, threatening our free‑throw shooter. After a missed shot and a desperate dunk over players and the knife‑wielding fan, the refs stopped the game — and awarded Charlotte the win.

I was attacked trying to reach the locker room until two football‑player friends dragged me into the Athletic Director’s office and guarded the door. One teammate wasn’t as lucky.

Charlotte’s program was suspended after their next game. The rest of the city played in empty gyms for the remainder of the season.

The Chant

By the time the postseason arrived, we had our full roster — and we were dangerous. We tore through Section V, winning so convincingly that even I, the 20‑20 guy, saw real minutes.

When fans were finally allowed back, something surreal happened. Late in blowout wins, a chant rose from the stands:

“We want Jim! We want Jim!”

The first time I heard it, in the Section V semifinal, I thought I was imagining things. The coach eventually put me in, and the crowd erupted. My teammates tried to get me the ball so I could score. I’ve never felt anything like that before or since.

We went on to win Western New York, again by 20+ every game. We were a team in every sense — starters, bench, and the three of us who rarely played but led the cheers.

The Final Game

In the Public High School Championship, we faced a tough Long Island team with one superstar who got us in foul trouble. We fought back from eight down to cut it to two, but it drained everything we had. With five minutes left, the chant started again. I stood, waved, and signaled them to stop. This game wasn’t about me.

With about 80 seconds left, down eight, the coach walked to the end of the bench.

“Boys,” he said, “you’re as big a part of this team as anyone out there. You deserve this.”

We checked in together.

When the buzzer sounded, the season — and the magic — ended. I cried. The crowd roared. Fans from both sides cheered our effort. A friend hugged me and told me how proud she was.

We lined up and applauded the other team as they received their trophies. Their coach later told the newspaper how impressed he was with our sportsmanship.

We came back the next year and finished the job.

The Legacy

I wasn’t the star. I wasn’t even a starter. But that season taught me something I’ve carried my whole life: effort matters, character matters, and sometimes the biggest moments come when you least expect them.

In 1985, I became a basketball player — and part of a story I’ll never forget.