The life memories of Clyde Whitaker, longtime Stockbridge coach
Husband, father, grandfather, amateur writer and photographer, coach
by Clyde Whitaker
Hello everyone. Wow, where do you start and what do you include when writing about your life story as a lifelong area resident?
Well, for me life started at the Rowe Memorial Hospital on Center Street in Stockbridge. The hospital closed many years ago and is now a private residence.
My parents, James and Delberta (Jackson) Whitaker, went through a blizzard on March 8 to get me to the hospital. I was born weighing 10 pounds and 10 ounces, my poor mother! I am the oldest of four kids, which include sisters Juanita and Jennifer and my brother Jerry.
I attended Smith Elementary thru the third grade and Katz Elementary through sixth grade. Middle school and high school were spent in Stockbridge.
One of a thousand stories that stick out in my mind involves my good buddy Harry Krummrey. You see, my father was the farm manager at Krummrey Farms and I worked there in the summers through school. The Krummreys—Carl, Don and Bob—were the principal owners of the farm.
Harry and I were always up to something. Driving our trucks back to the storage building at the end of the day, we decided to race! Well, we took off and the muck cloud that followed was visible to Carl and my father up at the storage building. Pulling to a stop at the storage building, I saw Carl and my father walking toward us.
Carl had a slight limp as he approached us, which was his nature, and my father was taking long strides, seeming to be in a hurry. As Harry and I stood there, Carl turned to my father and said, “I say Jim, I don’t want those boys racing these trucks in the field.” We never raced again.
My sweet mother went by the name of Dell. She was a very caring mom and a great cook. She also was a stay-at-home mom until I was in high school. She wanted more to do so she was a custodian at Stockbridge Schools for over 20 years.
Growing up, the carnival was something we always looked forward to every summer. It was always set up on the American Legion grounds with lots of rides, lots of games. One game was called “Bust the Plate.” Walking up to the game with my girlfriend Yvonne Cosgray, I asked the attendant “what does it take to win a prize?” He told me “just chip or bust a plate, win a prize.” I couldn’t believe it! Eight large 12-inch plates were standing up in a wooden rack, with three-quarters of each plate exposed, stretched along the back of the game.
There was about a foot gap between the plates, which were about 30 feet away from me, with a tin backstop dented from many previous attempts from other customers.
I couldn’t believe my good luck! Winding up like a professional pitcher, I let a fastball go and it missed into one of the gaps, leaving a resounding BAM!! when the ball hit the tin backstop.
Well, I proceeded to smash and destroy the plates, with the attendant putting more plates in the rack. A crowd gathered, coming to see what the racket was. I don’t know how many stuffed animals Yvonne had in her arms, but it was way too many to hold!
The attendant finally told me “you’re done,” with a scowl on his face. Yvonne and I took the animals back to my car, so that we could get on some of the rides. That was my favorite game!
Another memory involves my coaching tenure at Stockbridge Schools. I started coaching in 1984, coaching the 7th grade boys basketball team. Bob Myers was my assistant coach, and a very good coach he was.
We had two 6-footers who were great players: C.G. Lantis and Mike Woolcock. Brian White was a good shooter and good player. We won the league championship my first year. I have continued to coach up to the present time, 38 years so far, and I have loved every minute of it.
I’m just paying it forward because coach Ron Driscoll, coach Larry White and coach Phil Hora took the time to get the best out of me, making me a better player and a better person.
One year I was coaching the freshmen boys basketball team and a player by the name of Doug Jones tried out. Doug had a paralysis in his left arm and left leg, so that he skipped along instead of running. At the tryout, Doug could not shoot or dribble the ball, but he skipped around. One of the boys trying out said, “you’re not keeping him, are you?”
I said why not?, he was doing his best. I did keep Doug on the team. He never scored in a game, until his chance came in a game at home. A technical foul had been called on the other team. I had Doug shoot the technical foul. He did an underhanded shot with both hands and that ball went up and came down, swishing through the basket!
Doug raised his arms in total jubilation and all of us witnessing the shot cried. This is why coaches coach. For others.
I hope to share more memories with you in the months ahead in my column “Clyde’s Corner.” Until then, peace and happiness to you all.
Clyde Whitaker was born at Rowe Memorial Hospital on Center
Street in Stockbridge. (Photos provided by Clyde Whitaker)
A train goes through Stockbridge back in the day.
Clyde Whitaker and Harry Krummrey once raced trucks like this one
on the farm.
We always looked forward to the summer carnival on the American Legion grounds.
