The year was 1984. I was sitting in the TGI Fridays on Nicholasville Road in Lexington with Luther Kirklin, his son Sean and my Dad, Dr. Jerry Bryson…we all called him Pop. The four of us had just finished a Friday night two-game session of the Kentucky Men’s High School Basketball State Tournament…the Sweet 16 at the Taj Mahal of basketball, Rupp Arena!
I always loved when we took this trip, but especially when with the Kirklins. You see, Mr. Kirklin liked to go out and eat before the night session AND AFTER. Sometimes twice, to the same place! I’d get to order those delectable, smothered potato skins twice in the same night!
When your very first Sweet 16 trip with your Dad ends with Laurel County’s Paul Andrews’ game winning…more than half court..”Shot Heard ‘Round the World,” you go back to said tournament. We did. For over 30 straight years. It was a bonding experience for my Dad and I. An annual, glorious pilgrimage. Me, Dad, my brother, Friends, Basketball, Rupp Arena, school skipped and Friday’s Potato Skins. Perfection. I’d have rather been in Rupp Arena those four days each March than anywhere else in the world.
That night at Friday’s I noticed a tall, blond headed guy who also walked in to eat at Friday’s. In and of itself that was not noteworthy, but what happened next caught me off guard and morphed into one of the greatest blessings in my life. Mr. Kirklin and Pop got up from our table and went to talk with the tall, blond guy. I could not hear the conversation, but I was intrigued. When back at our table I asked Dad, “Who is that?” He simply replied, “I hope Harlan’s next high school basketball coach.” Mr. Kirklin, a standout athlete in his day, was originally from Evarts…as was the big blond haired guy…Luther grinned and nodded in affirmation of that idea. I instantly perked up, being an eighth grader who loved basketball and wondering if that guy would be my coach my next four years of high school. I didn’t put it all together until later, but my dad happened to be serving as the chairman of our school board, and unbeknownst to me, helping look for a coach.
Coach Hicks came into Harlan going a hundred miles an hour. He had a team to get to know and build into and a game to teach. Basketball took on a whole new dimension for all of us players immediately, and it was awesome.
He was young, passionate, fun, hilarious and told the best stories. He also taught school in the coolest pants. I had never seen them before. They weren’t jeans or sweatpants but they also weren’t slacks or suit pants. They were somewhere in-between. I’m sure they were Duck Heads or some other soft khaki pants, but I immediately wanted some. “Billy Hicks’ pants” shot to the top of my Christmas Wish List. My mom asked me what “Billy Hicks’ pants” were and I said “I don’t know…just look at them.”
Billy’s wife Betsy was right by his side. As has been said many times before, all the girls had a crush on Billy and all the boys a crush on Betsy. They were a dynamic duo.
They opened their home and their very lives to us. Billy Hicks’ chili deserves to be on the menu at all of Kentucky’s finest restaurant establishments. He may have fine tuned his recipe and culinary skills in the future Corbin days or Scott County days but the first large pot of Harlan Billy Chili I stared at in his kitchen had red sauce, browned meat and vegetables…all un-cut. Whole carrots. Whole potatoes. Whole peppers. Whole tomato’s, Whole everything. I leaned over and asked Fred Fluker how to eat it…he didn’t know either.
Being in coach Hicks’ home, his car, on his fishing adventures with him all became normal to us. It’s written of the Apostle Paul in the Bible “He shared with them not just the gospel but his very life, because they had become dear to him.” Coach Hicks somehow balanced being a ruthless, brilliant, no nonsense tactician as a coach…all while making us all feel “we were very dear to him”. Because we were. I don’t know every player who played for Coach Hicks, but I know every player who ever played for coach Hicks. Here’s what I know…he taught them basketball at the highest level while making every one of them feel like they were dear to him.
The fishing stories could fill multiple books. I’ll tell you one. Coach lived a few houses down the hill from me and we met at his house EARLY one Saturday to go fishing at the Clinch River. Coach had heard “the Stripers were running”. I had no idea what it meant for the “Stripers to be running,” (and I just triple checked to make sure I used only one “p” there and not two) and I had no idea who else was going on the trip, but here came Bo Blanton. He, Coach and I piled in coach Hicks’ old, beat up, YELLOW Delta 88. The roof upholstery was hanging down on all three of us. You’d have to back hand it to lift it to see each other and talk.
Coach was pumped. He had a trunk full of “Yokum Creek Minners”…(I know technically it’s “Minnow”, I’ve just never heard them called that.) …two of his guys, and a day to fish. However excited you’ve seen him on a basketball court, triple that and that’s him fishing. I was at both of his winning State Championship games…barely comes close to him fishing…in a river, lake, ocean, stream, pond…doesn’t matter.
Coach neglected to tell Bo and I that we, or at least he, would be wading the river. Bo and I tapped out and opted to fish from the bank. He disappeared up the river FISHING TWO POLES at the SAME TIME, one in each hand. Last thing I remember him saying from the middle of the river “Boys, you can’t kill a Yokum Creek Minner.” We didn’t see him for eight hours. I kid you not. Eight. Hours. Those Yokum Creek Minners may not have died, but Bo and I almost did.
We were STARVING by the time coach Hicks came back. Fishing Billy is the opposite of Chili Billy. He would never think about giving up fishing minutes to feed you…eating can wait until after. I ate six, yes six, 7/11 hot dogs that evening, in somewhere near the Clinch River, Virginia…or Tennessee? I have no idea.
On the court, coach Hicks was nothing short of basketball brilliant with the work ethic of a Green Beret. As he’s stated before, a basketball philosophy he created himself. And wrote down.
He scripted every minute of every practice (what time, what drill, for how long) and posted it outside the locker room. It was always grueling while also fun. So fun. Almost always part individual drills, part team drills, ending in scrimmages. He didn’t believe much in suicides or sprints. He wanted us getting into and staying in shape by PLAYING. Every player had a ball in his hand most of the practice.
He was full court, man to man defense and “let’s run!” offense. Only way he rolled. He famously claimed before he’d rather LOSE a game 90-70 then WIN one 43-40.
He was UK Pitino before UK Pitino. He named his offenses after colleges he’d been to or played against (Elon, Wofford) or after last year’s leading scorer. My junior year we ran “Rodrick.” Though nobody called Rodrick “Meatball” Robinson, Rodrick. He was Meatball. Always has been.
Coach created his own systems and performance grades for each game. I could never remember all the metrics. A turnover was a minus four or something like that. I did remember taking a charge got you the highest points…a plus 9. I may have led the state in attempted charge taking…is that a thing? He was always ahead of his time. Analytics before analytics were cool.
Things became epic AFTER practice. He’d challenge our best players one-on-one, half-court, each basket a point, first to 10 wins. I saw him take down Meatball, June, Vic, Jeff Miller, Fred Fluker…everybody. In my three years with him, he was undefeated. Oh, also, forgot to mention, he was also the only referee. Amazing the calls he’d get for himself. The rest of us would be roaring laughing and talking serious smack.
Little Ashley was also a mainstay at our practices. We’d learned she was coming at a team camp in Kingsport. We were all in the pool between games. Betsy was up on the diving board and all of a sudden Billy yells “Betsy get off that diving board. A pregnant woman should not be on a diving board!” We all froze, then cheered. Coach had accidentally let the cat out of the bag.
Once here, Ashley would be crawling, then walking, then roller skating, then rolling balls onto the court…during our practices. Billy would just laugh and occasionally get frustrated. Coach adored Ashley. I’d love to tell you about the couple of times she’d disrupted practice and coach Hicks’ solution was to put her inside the ball rack/cage…but I’ll keep that to myself. Ashley didn’t seem to mind.
Game time coach Hicks was a site to behold. He was a hurricane on that sideline and in that locker room. Always with a tie. He was notorious for talking to us in a way no one could quite understand what he was saying. Huddles were the worst. There was so much he was wanting to tell us / yell at us. It was some mix of a slight stutter, while talking 142 miles per hour, coupled with his passion, and with a big dose of “Dad-Burn Boys” and always with his hands slapping each other. More than a clap. The “Dad” would come with his hands apart and the “Burn it boys” when they slapped together.
One night we were in an intense battle at home with Williamsburg. I can’t remember for the life of me who it was (I even scoured the Williamsburg trophy case a few weeks ago at my son’s middle school game looking for him) but they had one dude who was killing us. We’ll call him Frank.
Frank had about 40 at the end of regulation and we huddled up before the overtime started. Coach was heated. He was looking to light a fire under us…or at least somebody. That somebody became Tony McKinley. Coach Hicks wanted Tony to shut down Big Frank.
That huddle was some version of this (again, always hard to really understand what coach was saying in the heat of battle)….”Tony McKinley. This is your moment. Don’t even worry about offense. Just shut down Frank. I don’t want him to score Can you stop “dad-burned” big Frank “dad-burn-it”?
“Coach”, Tony responded, “I’d prefer not to”.
Only time I saw coach speechless in a huddle. Somehow, we slowed down Big Frank and won in overtime.
One spring day towards the end of my junior year coach pulled me into his office, (under the stands in the gym…so small it barely fit both of us in it) and told me he had taken the Corbin job. He told me he was sorry he wouldn’t be there for my last year. Not crying my eyes out in that moment may be the greatest accomplishment of my life. I at least waited until I got outside.
My senior year, February of 1987, we played our traditional end of the regular season game with Corbin. My last home game. My last regular season game. My first time to play against coach Hicks.
New coach Kevin Ball let us three seniors play most of the game. I was never really good…maybe good sometimes…average at best. But that night, I played my heart out. I wanted to beat coach Hicks, but at the same time wanted to make him proud. A weird tension to hold. I finished with career highs scoring (maybe 16 points…probably 12 or 14, but let’s round up to 16) and career high rebounds — 10. And we won!! Coach Ball called a timeout in the final seconds and let us seniors leave the game to the cheers of the home crowd.
For the first time all night, I mustered up the courage to look at Coach Hicks. I tried some kind of mean mug, or side eye, like “yeah…you shouldn’t have left”… or “ya miss me now?”…but that disappeared as we met eyes. He grinned real big and turned away from his bench and gave me a fist pump. You’ll never make me believe Coach was OK with a loss, but he sure was proud of me. An older man can deposit some things into a younger man’s soul…he simply can’t get anywhere else. Deposit made.
At the state turnament that same year, with of course “Dad-burned” Clay County and “Dad-burned” Bobby Keith representing the 13th region…again…like death and taxes…Coach Hicks found me in the stands. He said, “John, can you touch the rim?” I said a resounding “Yes”…not a lie. I had at least twice.
Coach said “well Dad burn, I told those Corbin boys after the game they just got embarrassed by a guy getting 10 rebounds who couldn’t touch the rim.”
Couple of miscellaneous items:
Please ask someone from Harlan about the exploits of Billy and his brother Herschel on a softball field. (A life rule….never pitch or play third base when right handed hitter Herschel Hicks is on a softball field…that is, if you want to keep your head attached to your shoulders).
As fate would have it, a close buddy of mine from College, Tim “P Nutt” Glenn assisted Billy forever and now stands on his shoulders as head coach at Scott County. Nutt is a Scott County legend in his own right. You could do worse than sitting around a fire pit, buying Nutt an Ale 8 and ask him to tell Billy stories. Better pack a breakfast, lunch, dinner, snack and note from Momma. You’ll be there awhile.
God help the private schools who ever played Coach Hicks’ teams. A little birdie told me one of his favorite motivational moves was to walk the team out to look at the stands before the game. Then he’d huddle up his team and say “Boys, see all those parents from that other school up there…they pay a lot of money so that their boys don’t have to go to school with kids like you !” If you ever wondered why Scott County players came out of the locker room like screaming demons…now you know.
Coach Hicks is not from Harlan, or Evarts. He’s from Ages. Between Harlan and Evarts on KY 38. That two lane road splits the community of Ages. Coach was so proud of “Ages Bottom.” He’d tell us about the childhood feuds with the boys from “Ages Top” and how they always had the high ground and you always want the high ground in a fight. (I believe he told us that in a time-out huddle!) I still don’t know how to get the “high ground” in a basketball game !!!
I saw his brother Ken a few years ago and asked him how Billy was doing. Ken says “We’ll he’s not cutting his grass! I went up to see him in Scott County (unannounced of course) and Billy never did come home. His yard was a mess. I went into his garage and got his mower and went ahead and cut the grass and then came on back to Harlan. He’ll never know who cut his grass!”
Ken grinned and told me “Don’t you tell him either!”
“I won’t,” I responded. I didn’t.
Lord willing I’ll be in Scott County on Sunday to mourn coach Hicks and celebrate his life. Like hundreds of men, his life indelibly marked on mine.
Do I want to go and say good-bye? In the words of Tony, “Dad burn it coach, I’d prefer not to!”
I’d prefer 20 more years of you being you. Twenty more years of lessons and stories and fishing the Elkhorn with you.
But I’ll go grateful to God that God saw fit to create Billy Hicks and loan him to us for 71 years.
By God’s Amazing Grace I know Sunday won’t ultimately be as much a “good bye” as a “see you later.” Thank you, Jesus.
Coach Hicks, I love you. We all love you. Thank you for loving us well.
“Well done good and faithful servant.”