I’ve never been much of an athlete. Oh, I tried but I just didn’t have the talent. Now, I’ve always enjoyed sports, both watching and playing, but I have only average eye-hand coordination due to a right eye that has never seen anything more than blurred images since a case of measles short-circuited the optic process in my infancy. To be honest, though, that’s more an excuse than a reason; there are plenty of one-eyed ballplayers.

But in the life of every wannabe jock there is one game or one play, that stands out. It is that moment when the heathen gods of sport smile on the also rans and inform them that: “The sun don’t shine on the same dogs arse everyday!” But, the wannabe must take care; sometimes it’s just a little joke they’re playing with us.

That moment for me was in 1968. That was, as they say, “back in the day.” I was twenty-two years old and spent my weeknights playing basketball at the YMCA in East Liverpool, Ohio, which presumably was better than laying in some gin mill swilling Iron City Beer. Also, the reader should know that it was long before the song by the same name was recorded by The Village People.

I pretty much lived down at the “Y.” Monday through Saturday, except Wednesday, which was volleyball night and the older gentlemen arduously worked out, trying desperately to delay the onset of old age.

At 7:00 pm, right on the button, teams were picked. Now I wasn’t the last chosen and sometimes I’d be first, depending on the talent available. The game was played to six buckets (gotta’ win by two) and if your team won you owned the court and faced the next group of five challengers. The games tended to be on the violent side. There were no refs so you had to call your own fouls. The underlying theme being no blood, no foul. That is, unless you were knocked down or smashed into the wall -- the court was a little small. Then, of course, the players might give you some leeway and not refer to you as a “chicken, crybaby, or momma’s boy.”

My old pal, mentor, and oft teammate was Milt Martin, of beautiful Wellsville, Ohio. Milt was a member of their 1963 team that won an outrageous number of games. At 6’4” he could jump, run, and pass with a decided panache. His forte, when he was feeling good, was the two handed dunk, which never failed to draw the appropriate approbations from his fellow players. His downfall, however, was his eyesight; the poor guy just couldn’t see that well.

But Milt had a kind heart. He took me under his wing, showed me some moves, and worked with me, trying desperately to teach me to dunk. Quickly, I was able to dunk a volleyball (you gotta start somewhere) but I could never get my short, white, stubby fingers to palm a basketball. Exasperated, Milt would grasp the ball with his long, graceful, black fingers, pick it up, show it to me, and say, ”Do it like this,” then proceed to sky upward and slam the ball through the rim. God bless him, I can still see Milt dunking the ball.

It was the fall of that year that the gods of sport had their jape. A fateful night in October. I served as captain when the night’s games began and judiciously selected my teammates. We lost the first game and waited patiently for our turn to come up. When it did we played with intensity and managed to hold the court. It was while we had the court that a group of new fellows showed up. It turns out they were “mill hunks” (employees at the local steel mill) looking for a game, and among their crew was a rather large fellow who stood out.

“Who’s that?” someone asked.

“That’s Bevo, man!” came the reply.

At 6’9” Bevo Francis, indeed, stood out. He was an affable fellow, just looking for a game and a little exercise and not disposed to let anyone know that he held the record for the most points scored in a college basketball game (113) as well as the single-season points per game average (46.5).

******

As a kid, Bevo loved the game. He transferred to Wellsville High School in the early fifties and averaged 32 points per game his senior year, under his coach, Newt Oliver. The following year Coach Oliver was offered the head coaching position at his alma mater, tiny Rio (pronounced Rye-O) Grande College in southern Ohio. The stipulation was that Oliver had to bring Bevo along with him, which he did.

His first year at Rio Grande, Bevo’s team went 39-0 and he scored 116 points against Ashland College of Kentucky. Unfortunately, the lords of the NCAA declared that Rio Grande’s schedule contained too many junior college teams and Bevo’s scoring record was summarily stricken from the record books. But Coach Oliver was a determined man and the following year he replaced the junior college teams with basketball powers: Miami, North Carolina State, Villanova, Providence, and Nebraska!

That year Bevo went on a scoring tear and on February 2, 1954, against Hillsdale College of Michigan, without benefit of the 3-point play or the 1-and-1 foul shot, he scored 113 points.  Also, Bevo averaged 46.5 points per game his second season and scored 50 points or more in fourteen games over his two-year career at Rio Grande, all of which are NCAA records.

At the end of his second year the Philadelphia Warriors drafted Bevo but they couldn’t come to terms. Back in those days the stars might make $10,000 a year, a figure Bevo could easily match working in the local steel mills.¹ It was unfortunate for Bevo that he didn’t play a few years in the NBA, because years later Celtic and Laker center, Mel Counts, heading up the NBA players pension committee, was able to get a hefty pension for the “old time” players. It was, Mel says: “The best thing I ever did in my career!”²

So Bevo played a few years with the Boston Whirlwinds, the team that traveled with the Harlem Globetrotters and lost every night to sold-out auditoriums across the country. After that, he came home, which is where his heart always was, took a job in the steel mill, and raised his family. The shy and retiring Bevo Francis never missed the notoriety, fame, or adulation.

*****

As Bevo’s team took a few minutes to warm up, my teammates decided that I would guard Bevo. At 6’2” I was the tallest and the logic was irrefutable. The game was started, and the ball taken out. Oh, what dreams I had, I would “hold” Bevo down, maybe to just a bucket or two. We would beat Bevo’s team, something darn few others had been able to do, and my name would be etched forever in the annals of “Y” lore!

Bevo scored the first time he touched the ball, a very nice jumper from the foul line that drew nothing but net. But, somehow, we scored as well and at the end of six buckets the game was tied. There was a hush in the YMCA gymnasium as the other players looked on from the sideline. The air was pregnant with promise: it was anyone’s game! We had the ball out and brought it down with alacrity. A shot from deep in the corner -- but not too deep because the running track, above, came out over the court -- and we were up by one! Hold them here, score one more, and victory was ours!

Bevo took me deep in the post but they couldn’t get the ball to him and he moved to the top of the key. The ball came toward him and somehow, almost miraculously, I tipped it forward, beat the other players to it, and started to sprint for the basket and victory!

Running the length of the court -- it was a short court -- I had visions of Milt Martin saying: “Do it like this!” And, I knew if ever there was the time for my first, official, game dunk, this was it! Oh, these pasty white legs pounded the floor like the pistons of a Detroit diesel. At the foul line -- I’m sure it was the foul line -- I started my jump to immortality and raised the ball in my left hand above my head. The adrenalin was surging, I had the power, I was going to dunk the winning basket!

But somewhere in Valhalla the heathen gods of sport were having a good laugh: “No, I don’t think so!”

The ball started to slip in my grasp. Quickly, I moved my right hand to stabilize the brown orb. A two handed dunk; even greater fame would be mine! But, the ball continued out of control and when I came down -- and I swear I was looking down at the basket - -the ball caromed off the back of the iron rim and bounced, merrily, to center court. A teammate of Bevo’s picked it up and dropped a nice fifteen footer in to tie the score. A few minutes later Bevo crashed the lane to score the winning bucket. I fouled him, of course, but I don’t think he even noticed.

My team left the court sullenly. Deigning neither to speak to me nor to look my way!

A simple lay-up and we win.

But, no! I had to do a Willie Somerset (a 5’8” Duquesne University player who dunked), I had to emulate Connie Hawkins! I had to be the one who destroyed the vicious racial myth that:

“White men can’t jump!”

Cabin Creek, West Virginia has the immortal Jerry West, New York City has the sublime Kareem Abdul Jabbar, and Bridgeport, Ohio has the incomparable John Havlicek. But, southern Columbiana County, Ohio has Bevo Francis and he holds those records: not Michael, not Kobe, not Shaq!

It’s been fifty years since Bevo ran the court at Rio Grande. He was challenged with every defense imaginable; double teamed, triple teamed, it didn’t matter he still dominated. He changed the game and there are those who still remember the impact he had on the sport.

Perhaps Bevo’s biggest fan is Vermont writer/philosopher, John McClaughry. John remembers Bevo Francis very well.  A college friend traveled to Rio Grande to watch Bevo play and reported back that: “This guy is 6’9,” runs the fast break, sweeps the boards, hooks with either hand, and has a deadly turn around jumper. He is the ultimate basketball machine.”

After seeing Bevo play and becoming a fan for life, John McClaughry simply says: “He coulda been the best!”  

Notes:

1.  “Bevo and tiny Rio Grande,” newspaper article by Hal Bock, East Liverpool Review, Nov. 10, 2003. I utilized this well written article as a source for Bevo’s chronology, dates, and NCAA records given on pgs. 4 and 5.

2.  Interview with Celtic and Laker center, Mel Counts. Conducted by the author.

Bob Cheeks has written for The American Enterprise, Human Events, Southern Partisan, and The Pittsburgh Tribune Review.

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