It all began forty years ago just prior to the start of Lycoming College’s 1987 football season. I received a telephone call from Bill Byham, who had just been named Lycoming’s first full-time sports information director. Bill had been my high school basketball coach, and as the years passed, a mentor, radio broadcast partner, and lifelong friend.
There was a bit of panic in his voice as he asked if I could help him out at Lycoming’s first football game just a few days away. He knew I was keeping game football stats for South Williamsport High School. Recalling that conversation, he explained he didn’t realize that keeping the game stats was a part of the job, and he was overwhelmed with his new responsibilities.
Bill admitted he was never a great numbers guy. During our radio days, I always kept the stats and fed them to him as the game progressed. His plea was simple – he needed my help that Saturday and that would give him some time to settle into his new job. As ‘the rest of the story’ unfolded, ‘just that one game’ has turned into a most enjoyable forty-year association with Lycoming College, helping compile offensive statistics with a great press box seat on the fifty-yard line.
That first Lycoming game at Bill’s side was a lot different than how things are done today. Game statistics were compiled by hand on four 11” x 14” sheets of paper with individual columns for the various statistical categories. To provide the media and coaching staffs with first-half information, it took eight to ten minutes of the twenty-minute halftime break to provide ‘quicky stats’ which were added up and copied via a mimeograph copy machine complete with its distinct accompanying smell.
On June 2, 1929, New York Yankees first baseman Wally Pipp asked manager Miller Huggins to take him out of the lineup due to a headache. He was replaced by 21-year-old Lou Gehrig, who had three hits that day. Pipp never got his job back as Gehrig went on to play 1,308 consecutive games during his Hall of Fame career.
Through the grace of the various men serving as Lycoming’s SID since that September 19, 1987, Saturday’s Lycoming 7-0 win over Upsala, I’ve been on a Lou Gehrig-type run.
Throughout my many years of coaching, broadcasting, reporting, keeping stats, and watching athletic contests, I have concluded that parental and grandparental views of the games they are watching may differ a bit from the reality of what is taking place. For very understandable reasons, the love of offspring commands their attention. Games are often watched with one eye keenly focused on their competing family member, with the other eye casually seeing the other players in uniform.
For me, I’ve been there, done that.
One year, while keeping the scorebook for my son Doug’s South Williamsport High School basketball team, that theory was embarrassingly evident.
It was Doug’s senior year, and his team needed to win three of the final four games to reach the playoffs. I was seated midcourt at the scorer’s table during a physically contested game at Jersey Shore. Driving to the basket, Doug was called for a charge, which my eyes saw as a defensive block. Literally seconds later, at the other end of the court, the ref’s whistle blew, and he was nailed for a block call.
Biased fatherly instincts immediately got the best of me. I stood up at the scorer’s table shouting my frustration at the stripped-shirted duo. The referee, who I knew, came to the table with every right to throw me out of the gym. He calmly suggested I sit down and shut up, or he would do exactly that. I embarrassingly complied, with the home crowd offering their punitive suggestions.
Following the game, I went to the officials’ locker room to apologize. It was a moment I was not proud of but taught me a lesson I have long since remembered.
Fast forward to October 17. My grandson Tucker is a defensive back, playing for Juniata College. He has enjoyed a decent college career, including earning Landmark Conference honors last season. Now, as a senior, it would be the first time since Doug’s basketball game that I would have any official involvement in an athletic contest involving a relative.
From my press box seat next to current Lycoming SID Joe Gustina, it is my statistical responsibility to report the identity of the offensive player making the play to Joe, who then records it on his computer. Doing my job, but this time with the ‘one eye theory’ intact, a pass was headed in the direction defended by Tucker.
The pass fell incomplete; Tucker had done his job when Joe asked forcefully, “Who was the pass intended for?”
“Sorry, Joe, I didn’t see it,” was the only reply I could honestly give.
On that one play, I screwed up. From the look on Joe’s face, I think he understood why.
