donuts, penitentiaries, & pocket change
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| Cheyney |
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Raw - a natural condition; uncultivated, a person who is not trained or is without experience: dumb as a box of rocks.
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.June 1981 - I'd just arrived at the Greyhound terminal in Chester, Pennsylvania, after enduring a long ten hour bus ride from Hampton, Virginia. At the time of boarding that bus, I was five days removed from driving 2,700 miles across the country from Los Angeles.
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It all happened faster than a Las Vegas wedding. My mother had remarried, again, and decided to resettle my younger brothers and I, again, from Southern California to her hometown in Southeastern Virginia; to me, the move felt like the plot of The Beverly Hillbillies in reverse. There'd be no Dixieland for me, thanks. I'd come to Pennsylvania for two reasons; to get out of the South and to select, and enter, a college. ...And this is where the next episode begins.
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Continued...
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Back and forth...
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| West bound (1968) |
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My mother moved my younger brother and I from Media, Pennsylvania to Southern California in 1968 when I was four. My mother was fearless; she drove across the country alone while my brother and I took a flight. Media was a real life Mister Rogers neighborhood; a quiet, tree lined, Philadelphia suburb with trolleys and good schools where everybody had the same haircut. There were few hints in that type of environment for a kid my age to grasp the concept of race.
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Conversely, Southern California was dynamic; a populous, trendy, melting pot with beaches, warm weather, and a strong sports culture. Naturally, as I got older, I gained a better feel for my surroundings. From junior high school onward I was bused to schools on the other side of town where, I soon discovered, good ol' Mister Rogers no longer welcomed me to his neighborhood. I spent thirteen eventful years in the Los Angeles area growing up and finishing my K through 12 school years; then, the very next day after my high school graduation ceremony, my mother up and married a Virginian.
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The history of the American South is well documented; thus, my absolute no go verdict had been easy to arrive at. At one time, Richmond (VA) was the capital of the Southern Confederacy; that alone was enough for me to avoid the place. Throw in the assorted infamous footage of Civil Rights troubles and, for me, living in the Old Dominion was a non-starter. Both of my parents were born in the South and I'd visited their hometowns once or twice over the years; after those visits I understood why they left. I hadn't spent much time in the South myself but I'd built up an aversion to the place.
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Conversely, Southern California was dynamic; a populous, trendy, melting pot with beaches, warm weather, and a strong sports culture. Naturally, as I got older, I gained a better feel for my surroundings. From junior high school onward I was bused to schools on the other side of town where, I soon discovered, good ol' Mister Rogers no longer welcomed me to his neighborhood. I spent thirteen eventful years in the Los Angeles area growing up and finishing my K through 12 school years; then, the very next day after my high school graduation ceremony, my mother up and married a Virginian.
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The history of the American South is well documented; thus, my absolute no go verdict had been easy to arrive at. At one time, Richmond (VA) was the capital of the Southern Confederacy; that alone was enough for me to avoid the place. Throw in the assorted infamous footage of Civil Rights troubles and, for me, living in the Old Dominion was a non-starter. Both of my parents were born in the South and I'd visited their hometowns once or twice over the years; after those visits I understood why they left. I hadn't spent much time in the South myself but I'd built up an aversion to the place.
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| East bound (1981) |
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| Richmond Daily Dispatch (1865) |
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| .Post-Civil War cityscape - Richmond, VA (1865) |
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Victorious Union troops at the former Confederate White House - (1865) in Richmond (VA) at the conclusion of the Civil War.
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| A monument to losing Confederate General Robert E. Lee is unveiled in Richmond in 1890. |
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| A 15-year old girl endures a taunting mob - (1957) on her way to school in Charlotte, North Carolina. A family friend, Dr. Edwin Tompkins, accompanies her. The same dynamic would play out throughout the United States for many years to come. |
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My grandmother Estelle - (circa 1965) Newport News, Virginia
When I was very young I thought the black & white photographs in my mother's photo albums depicted ancient history. I actually believed the people, and the objects, in the photographs were colorless. Naturally, I came to the conclusion the entire state of Virginia was, literally, a "black and white" place |
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Another "ancient" photo of my mother in her teens (circa 1958) Newport News, Virginia
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June 1981 - Hampton, VA - Just before dawn, I boarded a Greyhound bus bound for Philadelphia. That's it; that was my number one priority. Get the hell out of the South as fast, and far away, as possible. As the bus rumbled past old Hampton square towards Interstate 64 the streets were deserted. Not one business was open, not even the liquor store. My mother had, unceremoniously, dropped me off at the Greyhound station and went home so I assumed she, like most everyone in the South, was already sleeping. For me, that was just more evidence that the South was uninhabitable.
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| Leaving Dixie (1981) |
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| Northern Virginia |
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At dawn I woke to the drone of the bus engine with a blur of Central Virginia landscape outside my window. By mid-morning, as the bus approached the Potomac River, the scenery evolved; the hue of the surroundings went from mid-summer green to a mix of concrete grey and rust. Statuesque structures appeared on the horizon and a towering monument loomed; Washington D.C. lie before me.
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Once we crossed over the 14th Street Bridge into Washington D.C. everything suddenly became lively. I'd flown across the country numerous times but had never traveled anywhere long distance on a bus. Surprisingly, I could observe everything up close in relative comfort; although, I couldn't really relax entirely. The guy sitting two rows behind me had been talking to himself since boarding in Richmond; he was barefoot and clutching a rubber duck hunting decoy against his chest. I sat sideways with my back to the window so I could keep my eye on him. The Greyhound traveling circus would make brief stops in Washington D.C., Baltimore, and Wilmington (Delaware), before continuing to Philadelphia.
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The sights...
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| Washington D.C. |
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| The old Greyhound Station - Washington D.C. |
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| Metro Northeastern commuters |
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| Delaware . . |
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Sun Oil Company - Marcus Hook, PA
My father worked here as an Accountant in the mid-60's
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Despite the long-running subplot, my mission was to select and enroll in a suitable college; I had more questions than answers but that was my predicament. Since my junior year in high school I'd limited my college applications to West Coast UC schools so I was behind the eight ball. Obviously, applying to schools in the eleventh hour is inadvisable but those were the cards I'd been dealt. I understood I was in a pinch so I hit the ground running.
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I kicked the tires of a handful of Philadelphia area schools but quickly discovered my options were few. Long story short, I enrolled at Cheyney State College just down the road from my father's neighborhood. Having settled on a school I was relieved; although, any four year institution with a football team would have sufficed. Those days, I made my decisions with a 17-year old's foresight. Like most knuckleheads, I knew everything, and nothing, and would retain most of my lessons the hard way. To me, what mattered most was I'd be splitting my time between the classroom and the gridiron as I always had.
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I kicked the tires of a handful of Philadelphia area schools but quickly discovered my options were few. Long story short, I enrolled at Cheyney State College just down the road from my father's neighborhood. Having settled on a school I was relieved; although, any four year institution with a football team would have sufficed. Those days, I made my decisions with a 17-year old's foresight. Like most knuckleheads, I knew everything, and nothing, and would retain most of my lessons the hard way. To me, what mattered most was I'd be splitting my time between the classroom and the gridiron as I always had.
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| Hampton vs Howard (1915) The gridiron was my happy place |
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For me, the world beyond the college gate was an unknown entity and my numerous adventures in it would greatly affect me. Thanks, in no small part, to getting my first car during freshman year winter break my unofficial campus for the next few years would include much of the metropolitan Northeast and extend southward beyond the Mason-Dixon Line.
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| The big campus |
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Regarding the navigation of human relations, I was a naïve 17-year old and had just finished high school; aside from dealing with my high school coaches and teachers I was raw. Thus far, my personal development had been forged between the gridiron and the
classroom with very little else; I was equally fearless and ignorant. What I lacked was more than what any one academic institution would be able to provide and my, much needed, lessons would commence before even setting foot on a college campus.
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Unwelcome...
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After a lukewarm greeting at the bus terminal "stepmother 1.0," AKA "the queen," ordered me to put my bags in her trunk. She exuded the warmth of a scarecrow. I understood; I was on her turf again. As I sat in her passenger seat, still dazed from the ten hour bus ride, she informed me of her household rules: "No visitors and don't use the washing machine." I knew not to ask questions. Then came the haymaker; I was told, if I didn't get a job within two days I had to go back to Virginia.
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Upon arriving at my father's residence I noted the lush green lawn; it had been two years since my last visit. It was mid-afternoon so my father was away at work. The scene typified modern suburbia with a split rail fence and a leaf filled swimming pool. There was a doghouse a bit forward of the backyard tree-line and there was a German Shepherd sitting in front of it facing the woods. The dog didn't seem to notice, or care, one of his owners had just arrived.
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The other four-legged tenant was a frowning cat. I don't remember what the breed was; just that he seemed oddly unsociable and always had a mean expression. Apparently, the cat was using my father's house as a forwarding address because it would routinely disappear for days at a time. I noted, the demeanor of the resident animals was in contrast to the setting. Something was amiss.
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In an attempt to establish better relations between "the queen" and myself I proposed I could do my own laundry and was, summarily, rebuffed. She made it clear I was less than welcome no matter how unobtrusive I strove to be. It seemed, nothing short of my disappearance from her household would please her. I remember being told to put my dirty clothes into a chute that led to a laundry room in the basement. The following day, all of my clothes, both dark and light, were returned to me in a new shade of pink.
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The mission...
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The queen's edict for me to find a job within a couple days weighed heavily on me; I took this quite seriously and felt she'd like nothing better than the sight of me standing at the bus terminal with all my belongings and a one way ticket out of town.
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"If you don't get a job in two days you have to return to Virginia"
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| My image of me, without a job, returning to Virginia in defeat |
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Day one, I was given access to a ten speed for job hunting and a list of rigorous outdoor chores to do; my father's home was on a large wooded lot so there was always something to be done. Most of the chores were seasonal; things like picking up tree branches, scooping leaves out of the pool, and cleaning roof gutters. I remember it seemed they'd saved years' worth of leaf related work just for me because it obviously hadn't been done in a while. I actually enjoyed working in the yard, especially, driving the lawn mower; as always, operating anything motorized with wheels made me happy. Since finding employment was a priority, I got up early each day and finished everything before sunrise. My father lived in a subdivision hidden in the woods of Glen Mills about one hour west of Philadelphia. Glen Mills was mostly undeveloped farm and dairy country those days. I'd soon discover why young folks often leave rural areas for bigger cities.
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In my hunt for employment I cycled for many miles in every direction over hilly, rural, terrain with few prospects; it didn't help matters that I was unfamiliar with the area. Even gas stations were scarce in Glen Mills those days. After wandering in every direction within ten miles of my father's neighborhood without luck I was given, one way, rides by car further out; my father did the honors, dropping me off with a bicycle near commercially developed areas in the mornings on his way to work.
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I was young so I had little experience looking for a job beyond the level of a concession stand worker; my strategy was to show up, present myself, and just react to the situation. I knew not to rely on filling out job applications. My method for selecting my targets was more nuanced. I'd start out by analyzing a building and its surroundings; if I could imagine myself working in a particular environment I'd go inside and introduce myself. I didn't know if there were any specific skills required, or if there was a competitive aspect, and I can't imagine what I had to say about myself since I'd only held two part-time jobs.
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In my hunt for employment I cycled for many miles in every direction over hilly, rural, terrain with few prospects; it didn't help matters that I was unfamiliar with the area. Even gas stations were scarce in Glen Mills those days. After wandering in every direction within ten miles of my father's neighborhood without luck I was given, one way, rides by car further out; my father did the honors, dropping me off with a bicycle near commercially developed areas in the mornings on his way to work.
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I was young so I had little experience looking for a job beyond the level of a concession stand worker; my strategy was to show up, present myself, and just react to the situation. I knew not to rely on filling out job applications. My method for selecting my targets was more nuanced. I'd start out by analyzing a building and its surroundings; if I could imagine myself working in a particular environment I'd go inside and introduce myself. I didn't know if there were any specific skills required, or if there was a competitive aspect, and I can't imagine what I had to say about myself since I'd only held two part-time jobs.
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I recall cycling east on Route 1, in the direction of Philadelphia, one day looking for work. As I was riding along, I saw a unique looking building that my father, he knowledgeable of all things significant to mankind, had pointed out to me many years ago on the opposite side of the highway; it was the Franklin Mint. The mint's architecture was distinct from the surrounding buildings in every way. As I stood on the side of the road I tried to envision how I might fit in; I imagined the mint was staffed with a dozen or so portly, bespectacled, men, each of whom, resembling Benjamin Franklin. As a 17-year old black kid, I felt the printing of currency and minting of coins were sacred processes; however, upon realizing I bore no resemblance to Benjamin Franklin I turned around and went home.
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| The Franklin Mint |
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| My image of the workers in the mint . . . .. . 
1981
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I continued my increasingly desperate hunt for work. I was highly motivated because I loathed the feeling that I was, in some way, at the mercy of someone else; which, ironically, is the very reason I'd gone through so much trouble to get out of the South. I'd experienced being stifled by my surroundings before and, naively, thought moving to, what I thought was, a more "enlightened" part of the country was the solution; silly me. Those days, I couldn't comprehend the complexity of American society, or life in general, and was making, relatively, important decisions based on limited knowledge; but, I digress.
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One morning, my father gave me a ride to a stretch of highway just outside of the nearby borough of West Chester. If I remember correctly, it was my fourth day in Pennsylvania so the stakes were high. The entire morning I'd noticed my father seemed to be pep talking me as if preparing me for some sort of mission; he had an arsenal of old timey tales he'd use to try to motivate me, or anyone else who cared to listen.
I continued my increasingly desperate hunt for work. I was highly motivated because I loathed the feeling that I was, in some way, at the mercy of someone else; which, ironically, is the very reason I'd gone through so much trouble to get out of the South. I'd experienced being stifled by my surroundings before and, naively, thought moving to, what I thought was, a more "enlightened" part of the country was the solution; silly me. Those days, I couldn't comprehend the complexity of American society, or life in general, and was making, relatively, important decisions based on limited knowledge; but, I digress.
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One morning, my father gave me a ride to a stretch of highway just outside of the nearby borough of West Chester. If I remember correctly, it was my fourth day in Pennsylvania so the stakes were high. The entire morning I'd noticed my father seemed to be pep talking me as if preparing me for some sort of mission; he had an arsenal of old timey tales he'd use to try to motivate me, or anyone else who cared to listen.
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"When I was your age I had to walk ten miles in snow in blizzard conditions to get to school, and most of the distance was uphill"
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Since I was trapped in the car with him I just looked out the window, surreptitiously, memorizing assorted landmarks along the route. Every so often I'd glance backwards in an attempt to recognize assorted landmarks from a homeward perspective. Suddenly, my father pulled onto the shoulder of the highway and ordered me out the car. The morning traffic roared past as I went around to the trunk and removed the ten speed. Right after I closed the trunk my father sped off kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel; and he hadn't said a word, no advice, nothing. It would be the first of many pre-meditated sink or swim situations my father would put me in, and, as usual, I'd found my predicament both maddening and humorous.
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My father always had a peculiar sense of humor so I suspected he'd spun his wheels and left me in the dust on purpose; I imagined him, watching me in his rear view mirror, laughing to himself as I got smaller in the distance. From that day onward I was never really able to gauge my father's intentions; knowing him, that's exactly how he wanted it.
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There I was, standing on the shoulder of the highway in an unfamiliar place with a bicycle. I surveyed the surroundings and the pickings seemed slim. Not far from where I stood was a donut shop. So, what was my very first job in Pennsylvania during the summer of 1981? Donut Maker at Dunkin Donuts in West Chester. I don't recall if I actually met the queen's deadline for getting a job but it bought me some time. As second in command in the household my father celebrated by purchasing a new dress for himself.
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| "Fend for yourself, son" . |
My father always had a peculiar sense of humor so I suspected he'd spun his wheels and left me in the dust on purpose; I imagined him, watching me in his rear view mirror, laughing to himself as I got smaller in the distance. From that day onward I was never really able to gauge my father's intentions; knowing him, that's exactly how he wanted it.
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There I was, standing on the shoulder of the highway in an unfamiliar place with a bicycle. I surveyed the surroundings and the pickings seemed slim. Not far from where I stood was a donut shop. So, what was my very first job in Pennsylvania during the summer of 1981? Donut Maker at Dunkin Donuts in West Chester. I don't recall if I actually met the queen's deadline for getting a job but it bought me some time. As second in command in the household my father celebrated by purchasing a new dress for himself.
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Dunkin Donuts
West Chester, PA
West Chester, PA
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| My daily donut production projections factored in eating one out of every twelve produced .
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A captive audience...
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| The Delaware County Prison |
Having satisfied the queen's get a job or hit the road ultimatum I was relieved; although, there'd be more hurdles to come. For now, I faced a grueling bicycle ride homeward through the hills of Delaware County in midsummer heat. I didn't even know the way home so I'd have to rely on instinct. Unbeknownst to me, I'd have to pass in front of a women’s prison on Cheyney Road. I knew about the men's prison because the security lights illuminated the area at night but didn't know there was a women's prison; although, if I would have known it wouldn't have made a difference that day. My fate had already been sealed by the gods of irony and random chaos. I'd survived thirteen years of dodging world class traffic and random gunfire in Los Angeles, and yet, I was about to become a victim on a rural road in the middle of Pennsylvania cow country. Apparently, the women inmates had nothing better to do than gaze out their cell windows all day and count the occasional car; unless, a young man on a bicycle were to happen along.
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I remember riding the bicycle home from West Chester the day I got hired at the donut shop. As I was riding along, I noticed I was approaching the prison complex so I was relieved I was heading in the right direction. Just as I passed in front of a nondescript, two story, building on my right, a raspy voice bellowed "Look!! A man!!" Immediately, a dozen disparate voices began yelling anatomically male specific vulgarities from the upper windows of the building. I was alone on the road so I had to be the target; although, for a moment I got confused because the inmates screaming seemed feminine but some of their voices were husky and mannish.
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Embarrassed from being verbally stripped on a public highway, I panicked and my feet came off the pedals causing me to crunch my man parts on the bike frame which caused the inmates to howl with laughter; their profanity was creative, precise, and whizzed past like small arms fire. After I finally escaped it dawned on me what had just happened; I'd inadvertently ridden through a "passersby kill zone" for men.
Embarrassed from being verbally stripped on a public highway, I panicked and my feet came off the pedals causing me to crunch my man parts on the bike frame which caused the inmates to howl with laughter; their profanity was creative, precise, and whizzed past like small arms fire. After I finally escaped it dawned on me what had just happened; I'd inadvertently ridden through a "passersby kill zone" for men.
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Hostile territory
The Delaware County prison complexCheyney Road is in the background on the right |
With no alternate route for me to go home it became a daily game of cat and mouse between me and the women. Each day, as I approached the prison my heart rate would quicken and the inmate's catcalling maintained a freshness as if they'd been rehearsing. It was me against a jail full of women; at stake, eight seconds of titillation and shame.
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"Look, there he is!!"
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........."Hey boy!!! Come here and let me @%##!!!
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Over time, I developed tactics to lessen my chances of taking "incoming" during my subsequent flybys. Every afternoon, as I approached the prison I'd crouch to lower my profile; then I'd set the ten speed's gears for maximum acceleration. Upon hearing the lookout's yell, I'd accelerate to warp speed; a typical encounter was over in seconds. I continued to speed past the women's prison the entire year, even after I got a car.
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A low altitude flight through hostile territory |
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Over time, I developed tactics to lessen my chances of taking "incoming" during my subsequent flybys. Every afternoon, as I approached the prison I'd crouch to lower my profile; then I'd set the ten speed's gears for maximum acceleration. Upon hearing the lookout's yell, I'd accelerate to warp speed; a typical encounter was over in seconds. I continued to speed past the women's prison the entire year, even after I got a car.
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A day in the women's prison...
.......1:00 pm
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"Do you see him?"
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...................................."Not yet"..
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..........2:20 pm
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"It's already 2:20, he should be along any minute"..
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............."What are you gonna yell today?"........
."I dunno. I'm thinking about it now"................
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| The site of the old women's prison It's no longer there but the parking lot remains in the foreground just to the right of the intersection; I passed in front of it going from right to left. The men's prison is still there in the background. |
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Hustling for pocket change...
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My other part-time job that summer was digging graves and cutting grass at a cemetery in nearby Concordville. I got the job through my training partners, the Irving brothers. The Irvings were a local football clan known for excelling on the gridiron. There were three Irving brothers; "M" was my age and, like myself, was preparing for his freshman year at West Chester State. M's older siblings, "J" and "L," played on Wideners' 1981 Division III National Champion runners up team. In addition to the cemetery, their father owned a variety of local businesses and he shuffled us around to shore up whatever his little empire needed; I even helped paint a bar he owned.
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Tailback (#29) M. Irving
West Chester (PA) University (1981 - 84)
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I recall working at a funeral one day for Mr. Irving as the person responsible for lowering the casket. At the time, I'd never been to a funeral so I was nervous. My task was fairly straightforward; all I had to do was turn a lever at the appropriate time to lower the casket. Right on cue, towards the end of the service, I lowered the casket with the deceased's family solemnly looking on. As the casket entered the tomb somehow it got stuck. Mr. Irving gave me a silent signal to stop lowering the casket as the deceased's family stood by unaware with their heads bowed.
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At the conclusion of the funeral Mr. Irving told his son, M, and I to climb down into the grave and adjust the casket so the tomb's lid could be shut. As M and I climbed down onto the casket the lid suddenly popped open at which time M and I flew from the grave.
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| My other job |
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In August of 1981 I quit my summer jobs to start football camp at Cheyney. My college life had officially begun; although, by the time classes started my pockets were in a state of chronic emptiness. My first semester, I was classified as a commuter student so I didn't get a meal ticket and I wasn't allowed in the cafeteria. That meant I was on campus from in the morning, when my father dropped me off, until the evening after football practice having only eaten lunch. Those days, I had breakfast at home and I can't remember what I did for lunch. Luckily, my friends helped out by smuggling food out of the cafeteria for me.
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Because of my stepmother's decree for me "not to affect anything in her house" I wasn't permitted to go home, even if she was there; unless, my father was at home. My father's home was five miles from campus but I had to wait at the college gate for him to retrieve me on his way home; he typically arrived around 7 o'clock. This situation was untenable. Later, after acquiring a car during winter break, I moved into a dormitory.
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Because of my stepmother's decree for me "not to affect anything in her house" I wasn't permitted to go home, even if she was there; unless, my father was at home. My father's home was five miles from campus but I had to wait at the college gate for him to retrieve me on his way home; he typically arrived around 7 o'clock. This situation was untenable. Later, after acquiring a car during winter break, I moved into a dormitory.
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The Franconia incident...
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The Franconia incident...
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Spring 1982 - During my college days I often road tripped with just enough cash for
gas and food; if an emergency were to occur (and they often did) I was up the creek. I
remember one particular episode when a college teammate and I were returning to Philadelphia after a
Spring break road trip to Hampton (VA). It was a seven and a half hour drive and happened to be my very last trip passing through Northern Virginia and Washington DC; I'd yet to discover the shorter route via Highway 13 through the Eastern Shore.
My co-pilot was L.C., who, like myself, was a freshman on Cheyney's football team. L.C. and I had been cruising along on Interstate-95 North a couple of hours and had just entered Alexandria (VA) when my car started to lose power. At the time, I’d only owned the car a couple of months so my automotive know how was somewhat limited. Immediately, I cut across three lanes to the closest exit. As we started down the exit ramp the engine cut off.
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| Present day Franconia Texaco Station Located just off of Interstate 95 in Alexandria, VA. |
As I repeatedly attempted to start the car L.C., a 6’3” 230 pound former All-Public League Defensive End from West Philadelphia, began sobbing openly. Tears streamed down his face as he lamented about how he never should have left Philadelphia and the prospect of being stranded in Northern Virginia. Initially, was stunned; then I became angry. I'd witnessed L.C. demolish ball carriers in devastating fashion on the gridiron; and yet, there he was, not even two minutes off the trail going all to pieces. Eventually, I managed to get my stricken car to a nearby Texaco station.
Thirty minutes later my car is in the first bay of the Texaco station garage with it's hood open; a mechanic enters the lobby and informs me my Chevelle needs a new fuel pump and the damage is fifty bucks. The news is a punch to the gut; between L.C. and I we had just enough cash for
gas and a couple of hamburgers to get us through the trip. Having
identified the problem I did what came natural; I called my parents collect
from a payphone. The preferred order was to call my mother first because she was, always, more sympathetic, especially, if there was an aspect of eminent danger. It's important to note, when dealing with mothers explanations don't require as many details; fathers, on the other hand, should only be dealt with as a last resort.
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My mother lived in Hampton, Virginia, and my father lived in Glen Mills, Pennsylvania, and both places were equally distant from Alexandria. Not to worry though; surely, one of them would work their parental magic and the repair bill would, magically, vanish. This was, undoubtedly, a perfect solution; and to top it off, I wouldn't even have to pay for the phone call.
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Lady luck wasn’t smiling at me that day because neither of my parents answered the phone. After an hour the new fuel pump was installed and I still wasn't able to contact my mother or my father. Entitlement anger is a funny thing; after numerous unsuccessful collect call attempts I cursed the operator and L.C. started crying again. I fumed imagining, somehow, both of my parents knew about my predicament but just weren't answering the phone. I visualized my father, relaxing at the kitchen table and enjoying a hoagie sandwich while ignoring the phone ringing on the wall.
.My mother lived in Hampton, Virginia, and my father lived in Glen Mills, Pennsylvania, and both places were equally distant from Alexandria. Not to worry though; surely, one of them would work their parental magic and the repair bill would, magically, vanish. This was, undoubtedly, a perfect solution; and to top it off, I wouldn't even have to pay for the phone call.
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Lady luck wasn’t smiling at me that day because neither of my parents answered the phone. After an hour the new fuel pump was installed and I still wasn't able to contact my mother or my father. Entitlement anger is a funny thing; after numerous unsuccessful collect call attempts I cursed the operator and L.C. started crying again. I fumed imagining, somehow, both of my parents knew about my predicament but just weren't answering the phone. I visualized my father, relaxing at the kitchen table and enjoying a hoagie sandwich while ignoring the phone ringing on the wall.
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Sometimes, the best way to help
someone is to do nothing
.someone is to do nothing
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For hours, I anxiously shuffled back and forth between the service station lobby and the payphone outside while L.C. sat on the curb, tearfully, contemplating a homeless existence in Northern Virginia. It had begun to get dark and the service station staff was cleaning the shop which indicated closing time was near. That's when I came up with a plan; I'd offer my new boom box (radio cassette player) I’d just received as a present to the service station manager in lieu of cash.
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In what would prove to be one of the more ad-libbed, and desperate, sales presentations ever witnessed, I unboxed and demonstrated the features of my boom box for the Manager and his staff. Three middle aged white guys stood by patiently as a 18-year old black kid delivered a spiel on the benefits of having a boom box in the garage; the deal was by no means a slam dunk. Apparently, recognizing an opportunity to rid himself of small fish, the Manager agreed to accept my boom box and L.C. and I were on the road again.
.For hours, I anxiously shuffled back and forth between the service station lobby and the payphone outside while L.C. sat on the curb, tearfully, contemplating a homeless existence in Northern Virginia. It had begun to get dark and the service station staff was cleaning the shop which indicated closing time was near. That's when I came up with a plan; I'd offer my new boom box (radio cassette player) I’d just received as a present to the service station manager in lieu of cash.
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"Low mileage and still in the box"
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In what would prove to be one of the more ad-libbed, and desperate, sales presentations ever witnessed, I unboxed and demonstrated the features of my boom box for the Manager and his staff. Three middle aged white guys stood by patiently as a 18-year old black kid delivered a spiel on the benefits of having a boom box in the garage; the deal was by no means a slam dunk. Apparently, recognizing an opportunity to rid himself of small fish, the Manager agreed to accept my boom box and L.C. and I were on the road again.
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The wanderers...
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Ferdinand Magellan (1480 - 1521)
Discovered a shortcut from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean
bypassing the tip of South America
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Yours truly (1964 - still rolling)
Discovered a shortcut from Philadelphia (PA) to Hampton (VA)
bypassing the congested Metropolitan Washington D.C. area
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Another benefit of my, recently acquired, car was that I was able to make some decent pocket money with it. Since I was one of the few athletes who remained on campus on weekends who owned a car a few of the more enterprising fellows in the athletic dorm recruited me as a bootlegger. My hustle was to drive my associates, out of state, to nearby Delaware so they could purchase large quantities of beer and transport it back to campus. We wolves weren’t going to let any old blue laws stand between us and a good time. The Dorm Director even helped us unload the beer from my trunk; that was my first lesson in the power of the kickback.
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| Philadelphia's Franklin Field where I played in my first college football game |
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(1970) Chevy Chevelle
My first car; initially used as a shuttle and beer runner
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Cheyney State College - Established 1837
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My other transportation hustle was providing shuttle service for my teammates to nearby cities on the weekends. For fare I accepted cash, gas, and food. I don't remember there being any efficient mass transit that served the school. Being I had no reference for normal car usage I operated it as if it were a time machine; I put gas in it, dialed up a destination, and just went. I must have put twenty thousand miles on that car during the spring semester alone.
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By the time basketball season rolled around my shuttle service had become the preferred mode of travel to watch either of the school's nationally ranked basketball teams play away games; my clients would reserve seats weeks in advance. I was offering top flight service so it was always a package deal including my own food and expenses. I must have driven the corridor between Washington D.C. and New York City a dozen times my freshman year.
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The Pep boys
Manny, Moe, & Jack were a beacon of hope for automotive do it yourselfers
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Because of my chronic low cash flow I often did my own car maintenance; at first it was hit and miss but over time I was able to handle most basic repairs. My Chevelle had a small block Chevy V8 so everything was straightforward. My only real limitations were lack of tools and my own inexperience. Consequently, I often worked on my car in Pep Boy's parking lots; whenever I got stumped, or needed a special tool, I'd just walk over to the Pep Boy's garage and consult with the mechanics. My freshman year, I ended up replacing many automotive components myself; things like starters, alternators, and water pumps. Later, after transferring to Hampton Institute, I started doing my own engine swaps.
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The wolves...
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My freshman year, I played football at Cheyney State for Coach Andy Hinson; at the time, it was his third year at the school. Right away, I noticed his strength of character; it was my sixth year in football and I'd just begun to realize the game was full of characters. Coach Hinson was alternately gruff and humorous and, at times, seemed to yell whatever popped into his head. He always carried an electric bullhorn; if you missed a block or dropped a pass he'd put you on blast. "Boy, you ain't block nobody!!" at max volume from up to sixty yards away.
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Cheyney Stadium
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A pack of Wolves (Circa 1982)
Standing from left: Chilly B., ***** ? , T. Ricketts, ***** ?
Kneeling: (#3) R. Fulton, (#22) ***** ?
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As a freshman, I was immersed in football; for me, the game was religion, the field the pulpit, and the coach the preacher. The first time I met Coach Hinson was the summer of 1981 when I came to campus to introduce myself. I walked into his office and there were a handful of coaches sitting around. When I inquired where I could find the Head Coach the room went quiet. As I stood there, awaiting a response, everyone eyeballed me suspiciously; Coach Hinson was on the opposite side of the room reclining behind a desk.
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At the conclusion of the meeting, as I exited the building, I noticed a blue Eldorado parked front and center in the parking lot; there were other cars out there but the big Eldorado occupied three parking spaces. I remember thinking, the positioning of such a car could only mean one thing; whoever owned it was the boss.
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At the conclusion of the meeting, as I exited the building, I noticed a blue Eldorado parked front and center in the parking lot; there were other cars out there but the big Eldorado occupied three parking spaces. I remember thinking, the positioning of such a car could only mean one thing; whoever owned it was the boss.
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Years later, I'd learn, the Camden (N.J.) native, Hinson had been an All-American linebacker (1952), two time captain, and one of the winningest football coaches ever at Bethune-Cookman (1976-1978). The following spring, during a Spring break visit to Virginia, I stopped by, Hampton Institute Football Coach, Ed Wyche’s office to talk about transferring to Hampton. When I mentioned to him that I’d played at Cheyney, he straightened up in his chair and said “Oh, you’re one of Hinson’s boys."
The tools...
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...with all due respect.
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My experience at Cheyney went well beyond the classroom and the gridiron; I was exposed to a campus full of young
adults from all over the country, each with a bit of influence. I played most of one season there and remained at the school through the second semester before transferring.
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I don't recall the assistant coaches' names but could probably remember their faces; after having so many coaches through the years one tends to get names and faces mixed up. You never forget the teammates though.
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I don't recall the assistant coaches' names but could probably remember their faces; after having so many coaches through the years one tends to get names and faces mixed up. You never forget the teammates though.
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The Characters...
there's always that one guy
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Most of the guys on Cheyney's football team were from the Northeast; places like Pennsylvania, Delaware, New York, Connecticut, and New Jersey. Hinson also had a small contingent of Floridians on the roster; I was the lone Californian. The late Andre "Pahokee" Waters (CB), a sophomore from Florida, who went on to have a long career with the Philadelphia Eagles, was also on that team.
Most of the guys on Cheyney's football team were from the Northeast; places like Pennsylvania, Delaware, New York, Connecticut, and New Jersey. Hinson also had a small contingent of Floridians on the roster; I was the lone Californian. The late Andre "Pahokee" Waters (CB), a sophomore from Florida, who went on to have a long career with the Philadelphia Eagles, was also on that team.
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As always, the characters on the football team were numerous; there was a five foot, 340 pound, nose guard called “Gut” who could fill both “A" gaps at the same time, P. Barry, the super senior quarterback from Brooklyn’s Boy’s High School, who had to be pushing thirty, and a running back known as “Will Kill.” Nobody actually knew where Will Kill came from; he seemed much older than the rest of us and had the temperament of a war veteran. He just showed up one day at a team meeting, stood up unexpectedly as one of the upperclassmen was talking, and informed us all “If any one of you mother f___kas f___ks with me I will kill you.” …Thus the nickname.
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I had a couple nicknames: “Charlie White” because of my running style and my being the only Californian, and “Michael J” because of my hair. Apparently, only the West Coast and southwestern brothers were sporting Jeri curls and long hair those days. Most of the East Coast guys had close cropped cuts and slept with stockings on their heads; sometimes, they'd put hair pomenade on at night so they could have wavy hair the next day. On the football field, some of the team comedians would poke fun at my hair by tugging it in the huddle and moon-walking whenever a play called for me to get the ball.
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"Billy Jean left, on two"
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"Billy Jean left, on two"
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One afternoon, my father stopped by football practice unannounced to watch. Nobody knew who he was as he stood quietly on the sideline; he was wearing a dark suit and tie and, for some reason, seemed to make everyone nervous. Perhaps, the players feared he was an undercover cop and the coaches thought he was an IRS agent. I remember laughing to myself when one of the guys edged over to me and asked "who's the dude in the suit?”
One afternoon, my father stopped by football practice unannounced to watch. Nobody knew who he was as he stood quietly on the sideline; he was wearing a dark suit and tie and, for some reason, seemed to make everyone nervous. Perhaps, the players feared he was an undercover cop and the coaches thought he was an IRS agent. I remember laughing to myself when one of the guys edged over to me and asked "who's the dude in the suit?”
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| "The dude in the suit" (Mid-1970's) . |
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At practice I got a share of the reps at tailback and somehow emerged as one of Hinson’s favorites; he seemed to get a kick out of me being a little guy that ran hard. After only a month I earned the starting tailback spot in a pre-season scrimmage against the University of Pennsylvania.
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Cheyney had numerous running backs; although, after transferring to Hampton I found out it was normal to have a dozen or so tailbacks on a college roster. Some of the other running backs were: W. Tolbert, "Drip" (Atlantic City N.J.), D. Braxton (Paulsboro N.J.), a tall guy from Philly's Northeast H.S., a brother from Delaware, "Will Kill," M. Stovall, and a hard running freshman from Brooklyn who'd always spin out of tackles. Tolbert, Stovall, and Drip were upperclassmen, and everyone, aside from the unpredictable "Will Kill," was a contender.
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Cheyney had numerous running backs; although, after transferring to Hampton I found out it was normal to have a dozen or so tailbacks on a college roster. Some of the other running backs were: W. Tolbert, "Drip" (Atlantic City N.J.), D. Braxton (Paulsboro N.J.), a tall guy from Philly's Northeast H.S., a brother from Delaware, "Will Kill," M. Stovall, and a hard running freshman from Brooklyn who'd always spin out of tackles. Tolbert, Stovall, and Drip were upperclassmen, and everyone, aside from the unpredictable "Will Kill," was a contender.
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I was a typical freshman. I remember getting mad during a scrimmage because I didn't get any carries. I played but the coordinator didn't call any running plays while I was in the game and the rotating backs thing was new to me. I felt betrayed so I disappeared for a few days until one of the older players tracked me down and hauled me into the coach's office. Looking back, if I would have had another year's worth of experience I probably would have done things differently.
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It had never occurred to me, the coordinator might have had a game plan or was looking out for my well-being; I'd just recently recovered from a concussion I sustained while attempting to run over a defender at practice. I popped up after the collision, jogged to the huddle, and everything turned pink. After practice I couldn't remember my locker combination so they had to cut the lock off. I was fast and exciting but I only weighed a buck sixty after a big lunch. My only real weakness was I had a 17-year old's patience. Alas, they say hindsight is twenty twenty. Anyway, after losing faith in the organization I had my eye on the door so I decided to try another school.
It had never occurred to me, the coordinator might have had a game plan or was looking out for my well-being; I'd just recently recovered from a concussion I sustained while attempting to run over a defender at practice. I popped up after the collision, jogged to the huddle, and everything turned pink. After practice I couldn't remember my locker combination so they had to cut the lock off. I was fast and exciting but I only weighed a buck sixty after a big lunch. My only real weakness was I had a 17-year old's patience. Alas, they say hindsight is twenty twenty. Anyway, after losing faith in the organization I had my eye on the door so I decided to try another school.
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| Those days I wore the magic Ponys . . .. |
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| The old site of Cheyney's practice field Like the football program it is no longer there |
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Choices, Choices...
lucky to have em'
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lucky to have em'
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Cheyney's historic Carnegie Library
Dedicated in 1909 and I never set foot in the place
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My methodology in choosing a college started out differently than it ended up. Initially, I was prepared to go to school on the West Coast until learning at the last minute, my mother was planning to move to her hometown in Southeastern Virginia. Consequently, my parents decided they didn't want their 17-year old son living on the West Coast alone. Fair enough.
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My family and I packed our belongings into a rented moving truck and set out on the long, three day, journey to the East Coast. My mother and her new husband, aka "new dad 3.0," drove the moving truck and I drove the family van. My passengers were my two younger brothers, the family cat, and a fish.
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Three days, and 2,700 miles, later we crossed our journey's symbolic finish line; the James River Bridge. Immediately, I was uneasy in the Southern environment; it seemed to me, we'd left Los Angeles in 1981 and arrived in Virginia sometime in the early 1960's. I remembered experiencing a childhood trip to Virginia from Philadelphia when I had the very same feeling. Apparently, my brother's pet fish was upset about leaving the West Coast too; during the journey eastward it committed suicide in Las Vegas by jumping out of its fish tank.
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Three days, and 2,700 miles, later we crossed our journey's symbolic finish line; the James River Bridge. Immediately, I was uneasy in the Southern environment; it seemed to me, we'd left Los Angeles in 1981 and arrived in Virginia sometime in the early 1960's. I remembered experiencing a childhood trip to Virginia from Philadelphia when I had the very same feeling. Apparently, my brother's pet fish was upset about leaving the West Coast too; during the journey eastward it committed suicide in Las Vegas by jumping out of its fish tank.
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| The finish line James River Bridge - Newport News, VA |
We'd hardly unpacked before I boarded a Greyhound bus bound for Philadelphia. My stay in Virginia was a brief five days. All due diligence regarding local exploration on my behalf was neglected. Though uncertain of my future I never even considered staying in Virginia. Having grown up in the multicultural melting pot I imagined the West Coast to be, I wanted nothing to do with the South; I'd held this opinion since the age of four.
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| I had a strange concept of life in the South I'm not sure where I developed these images |
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Need support? ...Talk to "the family"
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"So, you wanna go to college?"
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In my mind, attending college was a given just as high school seemed to be. As far as I knew, I was destined for the "thirteenth grade" and beyond and my heavenward trajectory was as preordained as an East Coast sunrise. Since my junior year in high school I'd taken the requisite steps to gain acceptance into California "UC" schools but, by the time I stepped off the bus in Philadelphia, I was shooting from the hip. Not to worry though; I figured, an eleventh hour acceptance into a, yet to be determined, institution of higher learning was simply a matter of me showing up and making it happen through force of will.
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I was young and inexperienced and probably could have used some seasoned advice; that's what often happens in the absence of shared generational wisdom. Without it, everyone starts from zero; which, is understandable if you look at my family's history. Apparently, I come from a very long line of "the hard way" learners. As for football, I was determined to play wherever I went. Nothing could keep me from entering the school of hard knocks.
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I was young and inexperienced and probably could have used some seasoned advice; that's what often happens in the absence of shared generational wisdom. Without it, everyone starts from zero; which, is understandable if you look at my family's history. Apparently, I come from a very long line of "the hard way" learners. As for football, I was determined to play wherever I went. Nothing could keep me from entering the school of hard knocks.
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As the drama of the summer of 1981 continued to unfold I conducted a whirlwind campaign of collecting inane college data and stalking (football) coaches. Lack of time, missed deadlines, and my unfamiliarity with various institutional requirements quickly emerged as additional hurdles. Though sufficiently motivated, I was naïve about how society worked and had little idea what I was up against; I was so far behind I had to "catch up" before I possessed the typical amount of misinformation to purge; it would be years before I realized there could be a difference between one's perception and reality.
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My parents stood by nervously as I tried on colleges as if they were new shoes in a department store without so much as glancing at a price tag. In a pitiful twist, I wouldn't realize HBCU's existed until showing up for Cheyney's freshman orientation. My ignorance was understandable though. Thus far, I'd been raised and educated in a cultural bubble so I had a woefully inaccurate view of reality; although, out of necessity, I'd begun to see the light. Henceforth, for me, in my particular situation, institutions of higher learning would all be considered equal; as long as their campuses had tree lined courtyards and buildings made from faux stone masonry.
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They all looked the same...
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Cheyney
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Temple
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| Swarthmore |
Ultimately, Cheyney and I were drawn together by fate. Like a young bimbo and a wealthy old geezer, we needed each other; the school in need of a financial infusion, and myself in need of everything. Initially, I was ignorant of the numerous costs associated with a college education. This was because of a tendency I had for giving little thought to things that I had little or no experience with; although, if I had known what I was getting into I probably wouldn't have set sail in the first place. There are times it's better to be stupid.
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My parents came up in a different era and endured things I never had to face; I know very little of their college years and, thankfully, they knew nothing of mine. They told their fair share of old timey hard luck tales but they rarely spoke of their college years. Perhaps, previous generations are less inclined to speak on such things. I'd go on to discover my mother and father were both honor students and they only made everything look easy having cobbled together a patchwork of scholarships and local support.
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My parents came up in a different era and endured things I never had to face; I know very little of their college years and, thankfully, they knew nothing of mine. They told their fair share of old timey hard luck tales but they rarely spoke of their college years. Perhaps, previous generations are less inclined to speak on such things. I'd go on to discover my mother and father were both honor students and they only made everything look easy having cobbled together a patchwork of scholarships and local support.
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Going into my freshman year it was a combination of my parent's sporadic generosity (a bus ticket and free room and board) and school grants that put me in the collegiate starting blocks; I even took out one of those low interest loans the good folks in financial aid were throwing around.
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"Just sign right here Mr. Billups"
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My parents were conspicuously mum about helping me any further than the college entrance so I had to read the tea leaves. What I experienced heading into my first semester made it crystal clear; the filet mignon that had been direct parental support throughout my k through 12 years was about to become bologna.
Going into my freshman year it was a combination of my parent's sporadic generosity (a bus ticket and free room and board) and school grants that put me in the collegiate starting blocks; I even took out one of those low interest loans the good folks in financial aid were throwing around.
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"Just sign right here Mr. Billups"
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My parents were conspicuously mum about helping me any further than the college entrance so I had to read the tea leaves. What I experienced heading into my first semester made it crystal clear; the filet mignon that had been direct parental support throughout my k through 12 years was about to become bologna.
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Go south young man...
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Hampton Institute
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A mere four months into my freshman year the winds of circumstance shifted. It became apparent my stay at Cheyney would only last one year; a mix of family dynamics, athletic ambition, and instinct were the deciding factors. The evolving situation put me back on a southward course towards Hampton Institute.
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Both of my parents attended Hampton Institute in the late 1950's early 1960's. To add to the irony my mother taught mathematics at Cheyney when I was very young; presently, she was teaching mathematics at Hampton. Though I knew it was for the best, I was reluctant to leave Cheyney because my world had expanded so much. I was set to return to Virginia, a place I'd previously deemed uninhabitable; yet another lesson gained from off the syllabus.
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The Freshman tour...
where the rubber meets the road
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where the rubber meets the road
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| Philadelphia |
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After my first and only football season at Cheyney the college experience just continued to roll on. Though my days at the school were numbered, I had a lame duck semester to complete. The life changer for me was getting my first car, a used 1970 Chevelle, during winter break while visiting Virginia. Those were the days reliable used cars could be purchased for as little as five hundred bucks or so. Henceforth, I became the road warrior logging many miles on the turnpikes and thoroughfares of the northeastern corridor. I probably spent more time on the road than I did in the classroom my second semester.
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I'd just turned seventeen and was raised mostly on the West Coast so everything about the northeast was foreign to me. During the holidays I'd chauffeur my friends and teammates back to their hometowns where I'd sample the local fare. We'd cram into my car and road trip at the drop of a hat; places like New York City, Washington D.C., and as far north as Connecticut. We even made the long seven and a half hour journey south to Virginia. The trips weren't always practical or planned; we were young, gas was cheap, and ATMs were everywhere.
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I'd just turned seventeen and was raised mostly on the West Coast so everything about the northeast was foreign to me. During the holidays I'd chauffeur my friends and teammates back to their hometowns where I'd sample the local fare. We'd cram into my car and road trip at the drop of a hat; places like New York City, Washington D.C., and as far north as Connecticut. We even made the long seven and a half hour journey south to Virginia. The trips weren't always practical or planned; we were young, gas was cheap, and ATMs were everywhere.
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| Philly cheese steaks and hoagies |
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| South Street, Philadelphia |
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| The Standard Theater on South Street in Philadelphia (1915 - 1930) At it's peak it served as a showcase for local performers and musicians. It was demolished in 1957 |
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Cheyney...
The little school that could hoop
Cheyney Basketball
During the 1981 - 82 basketball season both Cheyney teams
were ranked among the top programs in the country.
The Cheyney men competed in NCAA Division II
were ranked among the top programs in the country.
The Cheyney men competed in NCAA Division II
and the Lady Wolves in NCAA Division I.
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| The Lady Wolves & Coach Vivian Stringer (1982) Against the odds they made it to the 1982 NCAA Final where they came up short against the Louisiana Tech Lady Techsters. Two years later (1984) the Lady Wolves would reach the NCAA final four again under Coach Winthrop McGriff before falling to Tennessee. |
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Cheyney's campus is in a somewhat rural area so on weekends many students evacuated the campus to nearby cities. There wasn't much to do on campus so the athletic few who remained behind often spent their spare time holding down one of the precious few basketball courts in the gym. Both the men's and women's basketball teams were national powers at the time and the women's team in particular would mix it up with anyone, including football players.
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One would have to step up one's game when going against the Lady Wolves; I can vouch for that based on experience. One evening, after dinner, some of my football teammates and I went against some of the Lady Wolves in the smaller of the two gyms. I remember getting an offensive rebound down low in the paint. With my back to the basket I faked as if going for a jumper off the glass. The young lady guarding me went up and double slapped the backboard as if to pin my shot; then she hovered in the air next to the rim, baiting me to shoot. I knew better so I pretended to be unfazed and passed the ball; her knee skimmed my ear as she returned to earth.
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| ' .. < Click here for Sports Illustrated article > . . |
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Cheyney's men's (NCAA Division II) and women's (NCAA Division
I) basketball teams were ranked number one and two respectively in their divisions at one point during the 1982 season; those days, I was unaware the men's team had won the 1978 NCAA Division II National Championship. My freshman year (1981-1982) the Cheyney men were top ranked nationally with Coach John Chaney at the helm, at least until they ran into that buzz saw UDC team featuring Earl Jones and Michael Britt (I was there and it wasn't pretty). Coach Chaney, like football's Andy Hinson, is a distinguished Bethune-Cookman alumnus and, as a player, led his team to the 1953 SIAC Conference basketball title; as a coach, he’s probably better known
for what he accomplished after Cheyney, at Temple University.
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| The Cheyney State Wolves vs UDC Firebirds (1982) |
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The Lady Wolves were coached by Mrs. Vivian Stringer. Mrs. Stringer went on to accomplish just about everything humanly possible coaching women’s basketball. After leading the Lady Wolves to
the 1982 NCAA Division I final (a loss to Louisiana Tech) she went on to
coach the University of Iowa (1983-1995), and Rutgers University (1995-2022). Mrs. Stringer is the only college basketball coach in history to take three different teams to the NCAA final four (Cheyney 1982, Iowa 1993, and Rutgers 2000 & 2007).
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There's much to be gained from watching acclaimed
coaches go about their business; it’s often the seemingly little things that distinguish them. Mr. Chaney was my tennis teacher and Mrs. Stringer taught my freshman swimming class. I recall noting, Mr. Chaney's highly animated demeanor while coaching basketball seemed to be exactly the same in the classroom. Consequently, nobody ever talked in his class or asked questions; everyone was scared.
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| John Chaney . . |
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| Vivian Stringer . .. .< Click here for more about both Cheyney coaches > |
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Basketball games were a big event on campus those days. We’d pack into our tiny gym and watch as the Lady Wolves (V. Walker, R. Guilford, Y. Laney, S. Giddens, and D. Walker) made traditional Division I basketball powers look silly. Cheyney was a difficult venue to play in basketball because we, the partisan Cheyney crowd, sat right on top of the visiting teams; there always seemed to be an us versus the world vibe at that little school.
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There were plenty of firsts for me my freshman year; among them, getting pulled over by the Philadelphia police with their weapons drawn while chauffeuring my teammates to their homes for the weekend, sliding off the road into a ditch in my car while returning to campus from Philadelphia during a snowstorm, being broke and wishing for a pizza delivery after moving into a dormitory. It was also at Cheyney where I was first exposed to the college student’s elixir of happiness, beer; the rest is history. One year with wolves was enough for me so I went south.
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...one year among Wolves.
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