Basketball coach leaves three decades of memories
A group of about 200 people returned to their roots last Monday morning when they went home to say farewell to a friend. They came from all over the place, parts of New Jersey and then some, to return to a special place where they grew up, where they learned the difference between right and wrong.
St. Paul’s (Greenville) Church was filled with familiar faces, some of whom I hadn’t seen in 20 years or so, since back when I was an adolescent, back when St. Paul’s meant everything to me, when playing sports seemed as important as life and death.
In 1972, I was an 11-year-old sixth grader, just a few months removed from losing the most important person in my life. My Dad died on New Year’s Eve, 1971, dead and gone after less than a month’s battle with cancer. It was such a tumultuous time for a growing boy, losing his best friend, his Little League coach, his idol in a span of three weeks.
In November of 1972, in the months after Jack Hague’s passing, I did what I always did: tried out for one of the basketball teams at St. Paul’s CYO, which was one of the most competitive sports programs in Hudson County.
However, this time, I went to the tryouts for the first time without my father to watch me, to offer encouragement, to perhaps coddle up to the coach and give him a "Watch out for my son" prod that could secure me a spot on a roster.
Because getting cut from a St. Paul’s basketball team was the worst humiliation known to man. Or at least, to 11-year-olds. The peer pressure was intense. You would get vicious abuse from friends and other kids in the neighborhood for months if you were sent home without making a team. I got cut once, when I was eight or nine, and it was not fun. I made sure that the next year I was on a team.
That November was going to be a tough one, being at tryouts without Dad. It was first about to get worse, but it eventually turned out to be one of the best blessings I ever had.
During the tryouts, one of the organizers told me that I was too tall to play Little Guys with the kids my own age, with my friends. The organizer was basically telling me, "Thanks, but no thanks," and sending me home without a tryout. I was getting cut before I even attempted a shot. And I knew I could play with the other kids in my class. I was a decent player. I wasn’t the best, but I wasn’t the worst either.
And without my father there to put in a good word for me, I was history. Just another thing to depress me. I cried a lot then. I was more than likely in tears as I made my way to the door.
It was then that I first met Dick Branagan.
I knew who he was, from playing Little League. I knew he was one of the Little League coaches and he was the father of Jim "Murph" Branagan, one of the best players in the Greenville American Little League, where I played and where my father was my coach.
But I really didn’t know Murph’s dad then. I was about to know him very well – and begin a relationship that spanned almost 30 years.
As I walked dejectedly out of the gym at P.S. 30, thinking that I was cut for simply being too tall, being sent back out to the neighborhood to face ridicule and torment, Mr. Branagan, who was coaching the St. Paul’s Junior ABA Biddy team for kids taller and older, called out and said three little words that changed my life forever.
"I’ll take him," he said.
He took me, all right. Mr. Branagan took me onto his team and later on, took me into his heart. I got a spot on a team with kids a year older than me, a team that was packed with talented players, including his son. I knew, almost instantly, that we had the makings of a championship team, even with a scrub like me on it.
I was just happy to be on any team. Considering I was on a team with kids all older than me, I didn’t care if I even played. Just being on the team was all that mattered.
And as a bonus, I got Mr. Branagan, who, from the start, was one of the warmest and most caring people I knew. He explained basketball in detail, scolded when necessary, but cared more than anything else. He loved to talk and could talk for hours about his childhood and his family. I would love to listen. I think I loved driving in the car to games, listening to him reminisce and remember, more than playing the games themselves.
Of course, it was because I barely played. I gave new meaning to being a bench warmer. I was the proverbial cheerleader, encouraging the rest of the team and being the best practice player I could be.
Except for the Hudson County championship game against St. Mary’s of Jersey City, with the game being played in that tiny, sweltering gym.
For some reason – and I never knew why – Mr. Branagan called my name among the starters that day. He had to play 10 different kids in the first half. That was part of the league rules. But me? I guess he had faith in me. He was starting me over his own son and over the sons of his two best friends. It was too amazing for words.
In fact, I was stunned when he called my name. I didn’t even respond. Just cheered for the team as the starters went out on the floor.
"You are Hague, aren’t you?" Mr. Branagan said. I nodded.
"Well, that’s you, son. Get out there."
In the game’s first few minutes, a pass was thrown near my zone. I stuck out my hand and managed to swat the ball away, ahead of the play. I raced after it, got it on the dribble and unconsciously went right to the basket for the breakaway lay-up. Some St. Mary’s player tried to stop me from behind and fouled me, but I swished the lay-up somehow and went to the free throw line.
I remember hearing the crowd screaming and booing so loud and my knees wobbled as I stood at the line. I don’t think I have ever been more nervous. I bent my knees like Bill Bradley taught me in the book "Life on the Run," and shot the free throw. It went right through the tattered nets. We had a 3-0 lead that we never relinquished.
Incredibly, they were the only points I scored for the entire season.
I never forgot the faith that Mr. Branagan had in me that day. He somehow knew that I wouldn’t totally screw up. I don’t think anyone thought I would score the first points in a county championship game. My name appeared in the Jersey Journal for giving us the lead and my sixth grade teacher hung the article in the classroom.
I was fortunate to play two years for Mr. Branagan. I was more than fortunate to have considered him a friend for much longer than that. A trip to the local candy store to buy a newspaper turned into an hour with him. A lunch would take three hours. The stories were endless.
And his influence on me was so powerful that I became a basketball coach like him. I coached at St. Paul’s, like Dick Branagan did. I coached Biddy basketball, like he did. I loved being around kids, like he did.
A few years ago, when I was coaching the girls at St. Aloysius High, I gave Mr. Branagan a special award, just a token of appreciation for what he meant to me. It was a simple plaque. I called him and told him that I wanted him to come to the game that afternoon. Sure enough, he was there, never knowing he was getting a plaque from me. I was so proud to see my old coach see me coaching as well.
Dick Branagan’s health started to fail in recent years. He moved to Lakewood’s Leisure Village to relax, after many years of being a bricklayer. Eventually, his health gave out and he died last week at the age of 68.
He left a loving wife, five great children, a slew of grandchildren – and hundreds of other adopted children who had the same fortune that I had to get to play for him, to get to know him, to truly get to love him.
We all came back to an impromptu reunion last Monday, to exchange hugs, well wishes, smiles, to remember Dick Branagan. There is no doubt that I will never forget him.
Mr. B never said "goodbye," to anyone – in person, on the telephone, no matter what. It was always, "Too-de-loo." None of us said goodbye last Monday, because we’ll see him again.
To that, I say, "Hey, Coach, too-de-loo."
And thanks. You meant the world to me. And still do.