RON MALY HAS BEEN WATCHING THE PARADE GO BY FOR A LONG TIME. THIS IS ONE OF HIS WEBSITES.

Friday, May 17, 2013

I Need To Do Better


By RON MALY

I promised myself a few years ago that I would look up some people from my past who needed being looked-up. 

Far too often I thought of men and women I knew in my childhood, or earlier in my adulthood, who remained in my past, not my present. 
Wilson


A few, obviously,  I wanted to remain in my past. 

However,  I wanted to be updated on a number of people

Like Bill Fitch, who grew up a block or so from me on 18th Avenue Southwest in the Young's Hill area of Cedar Rapids. 

Fitch is older than me, and he was always interested in sports. 

He was a good athlete at old Wilson High School in Cedar Rapids, and he went on to become an outstanding basketball coach in collegiate jobs that included the University of Minnesota, and NBA jobs that included the Cleveland Cavaliers and Boston Celtics. 

Fitch, an only child, was always thinking up new games that would test his competitiveness and the competitiveness of others. 

Like me. 

No wonder the guy wound up drawing up plays for the Celtics. 

I mean, the guy was always trying to out-smart people, on or off the playing field and court. 

Even the guy who drove the Thune's Pie Truck.

It was a panel truck that loaded and unloaded from the back. 

It made deliveries to the small corner grocery store that sat next to the home owned by Fitch's parents. 

Fitch found out when the Thune's delivery guy would be inside the store, and timed it so he could swipe a pie or two from the back of the truck. 

A lot of us liked to be around Fitch after he stole the pies. 
  
I always liked the berry pies. Especially raspberry.

But Fitch wasn't the only good athlete who grew up on Young's Hill.

Chuck Fulton and his younger brother Jack also knew how to play the game--or, rather, games.

Chuck and Jack were multi-sport athletes at Wilson.  Much better than me. 

They were older than me, and I liked hanging around them because they did the stuff I liked to do. 

Their dad was a good guy, and he had a good car. 

He'd take Chuck, Jack and their mother to countless games involving teams from Wilson, and they often took me along. 

We rarely had a car at my house.

 Chuck and Jack--especially Jack--would take me to various Wilson basketball games around Cedar Rapids. 

I guess I was their project.

The first game I remember was when the Ramblers were playing at Roosevelt, the high school on the northwest side of town. 

Wilson [now a middle school] is on the southwest side. 

I was awe-struck the minute I got inside the Roosevelt gym the night Wilson played there. 

I immediately liked the excitement of a high school basketball game, and made it a point to go to as many as I could--or as many as the Fulton brothers would take me to. 

To illustrate how naive I was when I went to that  first Wilson-Roosevelt game when I was 10 or so years of age, I noticed that some baskets counted two points and some counted one point.

 I had to ask the Fultons why.

 "Because there are both field goals and free throws in basketball games," Jack Fulton explained to me.  "Field goals count two points, free throws count one point."

The reason I bring all of this up is that Jack Fulton died earlier this week in Virginia.  He was 81. The funeral is tomorrow.

His brother Chuck died a few years ago in Cedar Rapids. 

Unfortunately, I didn't look either guy up before he died. 

Shame on me.

I didn't even know that they have a younger brother who lives in Cedar Rapids and a younger sister who lives in Des Moines.

 I did call Bill Fitch a couple of years ago, though. 

I found out he lives close to Houston, TX, and we had a nice conversation about the old days. 

I need to start doing more of that type of thing. 

I'm doing better. Still, I need improvement.

I heard the other day that another of my high school classmates died.  

I never talked to her since the last day I saw her at Wilson 60 years ago. 

Like I said, a shame.

Some of you can expect a call from me soon.

Time is running out.