Coach Ed

     If you grew up in Northeast Lincoln, Nebraska during the 1960's and 70's - and were male - you more than likely had one goal in life:  To grow up real tall and end up somehow playing basketball at Lincoln Northeast High School for the legendary Ed Johnson.  
     Oh, there were tons of rumors that filtered down to the elementary school level - most notably that one had to get a crew cut in order to make his squad (which was never substantiated, save for a blurry picture of LNE baller legend Terry Novak sporting same in

the newspaper)  but that never deterred anyone.  We all spent hours out on our oil-stained driveways - after our parents' moved automobiles out the way - mimicking the skills of our local high school heroes.  The starting five of the local high school received our imaginary passes, faked out the likes of the Links, Knights, eventually the hated Spartans, and Omaha's Central High Eagles with quick moves, and never failed to hit the winning shot.  Why?  Because that's what they did.  
     The five players with ghost-like qualities were Tom Novak (Terry's older brother), Danny Cook (a dark-haired fireplug of a player), Greg Wright (who actually lived just down the street from me, and was kind of like living next to Bob Devaney but only on a much smaller scale, celebrity-wise), Maury Damkroger (who ended up playing football for the U of N and got a couple years with the NFL's Patriots, and....and....in a nod to passing years and faded memory I've forgotten the fifth player.  John Strain, maybe?  Not sure.  I think it was Strain now that I think about it a little.
     Of course very few of us ever had enough athletic ability to play for Ed; certainly none of my close friends ever did.  The most we did was sit high in Pershing Auditorium with our homemade scorecards and mark off made free throws and rebounds from players wearing the black and white such as Tom Westover and Bruce Maske.  They were larger than life god-like figures to kids like us who were around ten years old.  And they seemed impossibly old and mature, those boys who were all of seventeen probably.  Seventeen.  But that's how they seemed.  
     And Coach Ed.  He would roam the sideline in front of the Rocket bench, trademark rolled

up program in his hand and would generally try to intimidate every living thing within a square mile or so with his intense facial expressions.  Those expressions ranged from relatively intense to downright nuclear whenever one of his players would take a bad shot or deviate any smidgen from the Rocket Way.  Then he would slide step down the line, wave his program at the next one in - substituting for the on-court offender - and then move slightly as the new substitute would jump off the bench, tear open his snapped-shut white top and head to the scorer's table to check in.  
     The closest I ever got to playing for Coach Johnson was a tryout for the sophomore team when he came in to watch us.  I know my reaction was - and I think I can speak for the other kids there - was:  Oh.  My.  Goodness.  It's.  Him.  That's Coach Johnson.  Right.  Over.  There.
     This was the person we had all loved/feared all those years and he was watching us take our first steps towards possibly having the distinct honor of shedding sweat for him and for the "Glory Of Our Team."  I don't remember much of that "tryout" except that I retrieved a tipped pass from going out of bounds.  Otherwise I don't think I touched the ball, and certainly didn't score.  Not that it mattered much.  I didn't even make my junior high 9th grade team, so the chance of doing that at a higher level with three times the competition to beat out wasn't likely.  I was the last person cut off the sophomore squad by the aforementioned legendary Tom Novak who, on a spring day two years in the future would also cut me off the reserve baseball team.  I have no doubt both deletions were deserved - the former more than the latter, probably - but it earned Tom a place on my "list" for years to come.  
     Years have passed and I've not played basketball anywhere - let alone a memory-filled

driveway - for years and years and Coach Ed has long since passed away.  But his memory for me has remained pristine, having never got on my "list."  He still roams the sideline in my mind, his program spun into an impossibly tight cylinder, his gaze still eliciting fear and respect from all who failed to seek basement refuge from its radar-like sweep.  If St. Peter has a starting five, they're probably running "lines" right now and executing to perfection that drill where the man with the ball heads to the basket, pivots, and hands off to the trailing man for an easy off-the-backboard layup.  I saw that 1,000 times growing up and remember it still.
     Coach Ed wouldn't have it any other way.