Childrenand Champions

ByDayleTurner FromHonoluluMagazine, December1983

It was my junior year in high schoolandthefirstdayoffall basketballpractice.Istrutted intothegymthatdayandfelt relaxed and confident. After all,Ihadmadetheteamatmy school, Kamehameha, the previous year and felt certain that I would be a starter as a junior. I had just come from the locker room where I had changed into my issued practice uniform: a plain gray tank top, a pair of lightblue cotton shorts, a pair of white socksandajockstrap.Ijoined three other returnees, Blane Gaison, Keone Jardine, and Lester Seto, in a casual game of twoontwo, and the sound of our laughter echoed throughout the gym. Following our lead, other players started their own impromptu games of oneon one and twoontwo. It seemed that the team was startingwherewehadleftoff theyearbefore. As a matter of fact, the previous year season (1973 1974) had been a fiasco. We hadlostmorethanhalfofour games and finished at the bottom of the Interscholastic League of Honolulu (ILH). A problem that had hurt the team was the uncaring, nonchalant attitude of the senior players, the veterans. Duringpracticesessions,they

told jokes and ran through drills haphazardly and lazily, like a bunch of carefree children. We other players, the rookies, just up from the junior varsity, experienced that phenomenon known as peerpressure.Notwantingto be alienated from the group, most of us either willingly or reluctantly played along with theveterans. The head coach, Jeff Mast, triedhisbesttokeeptheteam undercontrol.Hewasaquiet, studious man who knew virtually every offense and defense ever created for the game of basketball. He knew allthestrategies:whentorun acertainplay,whentosetup acertaindefense,whentocall a timeout. Yet for all his basketball knowledge, Coach Mast was easygoing and found it difficult to discipline us. He especially had trouble with the veterans, who recognizedthattheycouldget awaywiththeirhorseplayand makethatseasonalongparty. In an effort to solve the problem, Mast had hired a tough, young assistant coach for the next seasona drill sergeanttokeepthetroopsin line. The new coach introduced himself at a prepractice meeting. His name was John Sabas, a 1965 graduate of Kamehameha. He had also graduated from Colorado State University and had playedbasketballthere.After living in California for seven years, he had returned to Hawaiitoteachandcoach.

Pic1:JunioryearvsIolani

Hismethodsweresimpleand basic:hardwork,conditioning andfundamentals.Putthese together and keep them together, he said, and you guys will be winners. I sat there listening intently to what he had to say. The idea sounded simple enough, but after a losing season of horseplay and fun, the task didntseemthateasy. The first practice was an ordeal. Mast explained the procedures for each drill and Sabas made sure we did the exercisesright.CoachJohn,as he preferred to be called, would stand defiantly at half court, his arms folded and a whistle clutched in his right hand. To signal the start of eachdrill,heliftedthewhistle to his lips and blew into it, emitting a loud, shrill blast. Hebarkedoutcommandsand instructions in his low, raspy voice, and whenever a player didnt run quickly enough, or jump high enough, or made some other mistake, Coach Johnlethimknowit.Hehada particular fondness for a drill

he called nutcrackers, a tortuous routine that was a progression of continuous sprints. The whole team, 15 ofus,lineduponthebaseline and faced Coach John. At the sound of his whistle, we sprinted to the near free throw line and back to the baseline, then back to half courtandback,thentothefar free throw line and back, and finally to the opposite base line and back, all nonstop. We ran 10 nutcrackers that day and every day in practice thereafter, with Coach John always looming over us, tryingtogetustomoveastep quicker. Push yourself, he would say. Dont you feel yourself getting stronger? Insteadofstrength,Ionlyfelt painmy feet throbbing and my thighs tight and aching. Bythefifthnutcracker,almost all of us were exhausted. A few players were bent over, their hands on their knees, gaspingforair. Of course, there were exceptions. Players like Gaison and Aaron Lorenzo hardly broke a sweat during practice. Wellconditioned, natural athletes, both were trim and muscular and, like gazelles, glided through each drillwitheaseandgrace.But most of us suffered through practice and constantly checked the clock on the gym wall, yearning for practice to end. Day after day, the attitude of the team began to change, everyone becoming more

serious

and

businesslike.

Pic2:KSVarsity1974

There was little or no horseplay in practice, partly becausewehadnotimeforit. Mast planned each practice with precision. For instance, at exactly 3:30, we started with stretching and warm ups, then at exactly 3:40 we startedacertaindrilllikelay ups, then at 3:50 we ran another drill, perhaps dribbling, and so on. Each drillwastimedtotheminute, with Coach John always keepingacarefulwatchonthe team, his dark hawklike eyes constantly surveying our activity. Any player who jokedaroundorwentthrough a drill lazily was punished by Sabas with extra nutcrackers afterpractice. Coach John came down hard on anyone who didnt give an allouteffortinpractice.Bad habits are acquired through laziness, hed say. One player, Keone Jardine, was a particular problem. A gifted athlete and fine basketball player in the GaisonLorenzo mold, Jardine, however, was also a free spirit, a rebel, and heseemedtodespisetherigid atmosphere of practice and specifically the hardline

nature of Sabas. During one practice scrimmage, Keone continually played lackadaisicaldefenseandwas beaten by his man for easy layups, a sin in the Book of Sabas. Throughout the afternoon, the pressure built each time Jardine got beaten on defense. With each sin Sabas got angrier. His faced cringed, then reddened, until finally he exploded. Sabas approachedJardineandstood almost facetoface with him. If you dont want to play defense,Keone,hesaid,you might as well go to the showers right now. Jardine stood motionless, defiant, staring.Then,withoutsaying a word, Jardine turned and walked out of the gym, never toreturn.Afterthatincident, nobody challenged Coach Johnagainthatyear. We started the season well and won our first five games. The cool, tactical mind of Coach Mast and the fervor of Coach John were a solid combination. During games, Mast sat calmly on the bench calculating each situation in his notebook. Sabas, on the other hand, was a whirlwind of motion, pleading and yelling at us to play tough defense,torebound,tohustle after loose balls. Three juniors, Blane Gaison, Mike Villa and myself, along with two seniors, Harry Lake and Pat Rosa, were the starters. Gaison, Lake, Rosa, and I had been on the varsity the previous year, but had gotten limited game experience, and Villa was up from the junior varsity.Wewereayoungand

inexperienced team but we got by because we were well drilledandwellconditioned. AgoalthatCoachMasthadset for the team was to make the statetournament,aseemingly lofty ambition for a team that had finished in the cellar the previous season and had five untested starters. But we continuedtoworkhardevery day in practice with the intimidating presence of Sabasalwaysthere.Wecame close to our goal, but missed qualifying for a state tournament berth when we were defeated by Iolani in a playoff game. Of course, we were all disappointed after theloss,butwealsohadevery right to be pleased with that season.Aftertheplayoffloss, however, Coach John was visibly upset, his face a mixture of disgust and disappointment. Silently, he stared at the team, shook his head and walked away from the bench alone. Watching him stride away, I thought that he would never return, but when I came out for the first day of practice the following season, my senior year,hewasthere. The team approached the start of that season (1975 1976) with high expectations. The Advertiser and Star Bulletin had rated Kamehameha the top team in the ILH, with Gaison and I listed among the top players towatch.Nevertheless,Coach John worked the team harder than ever as if he were possessed by a demon of perfection. He ranted and

shouted at every minute mistake we committed. We were drilled and drilled some more, and there were always the dreaded nutcrackers at the end of practice. After the firsttwoweeksofworkouts,I felt drained from the daily ritualofpain. I was a senior now, a returning starter, and was lookeduptoasateamleader. Assuch,Sabaslikedtouseme as an example for the rest of theteam.Inpracticeoneday,

Pic3:TurnervsPunahou,junioryear

Coach John seemed to single meoutmorethananyoneelse

foronemistakeafteranother. AtfirstIreceivedhiscriticism with an open mind and listened intently while he explained my errors. But after a while, his comments got vicious. He called me a wimp, a bum, and a lazy so andso. Big bad Dayle Turner,hejeered,lookslike youve been reading your press clippings too much. WhileIappreciatedallthathe had done for the team, I lost some of my respect for him thatday. Each day in practice, the torment from Sabas continued. I started to despisehimand,toputiteven morebluntly,Ihatedhisguts. No matter how hard I tried, how fast I ran, how high I jumped, or how well I played defense, he always demanded more. One week before the start of the season, Sabas mademestayafterpracticeto run extra nutcrackers for not blocking out my man in a rebounding drill. After each one,Ilaughedandsmiledasif I enjoyed the extra running. ButinrealityIwasangryand upset.Icouldntwaittostart theseasonsoIcouldtakeout my frustrations on opposing teams. Istartedatcenteragain,along with Gaison and Mike Villa at guards,andLesSetoandPaul Malama at forwards. The teams goal was to win our league and ultimately the state championship. Not blessed with great size, we had to rely on quickness and teamwork on offense and defense. We lost only two

games in the regular season thatyeartotheeventualILH champs from Maryknoll. But as league runnersup, we had gained a berth in the state tournament. We entered the tournament as the fourthseeded team, behind Maryknoll, the Oahu Interscholastic Association (OIA) champions, Kalaheo, and thirdseeded Pearl City, the OIA runnerup. Our first gamewasagainstfifthseeded Leilehua, the #3 team from the OIA. In preparation for the tourney, we had been through an especially tough week of practice, and both coaches had us working with hustle and intensity. Against Leilehua, we played our best game of the season. Gaison, the calm, stoic floor leader, ran the offense. Villa, the hustlingspeedyguard,ledthe fastbreak.Malama,Seto,and I rebounded and muscled inside for many easy baskets. In a game that was supposed to have been won by just a basket or two, we beat Leilehua by an astounding 40 points that night and advanced to the semifinals. After the game, Coach John was pleased but not satisfied. Were two games away, gentlemen, he said, two gamesaway. The next night we were matched against the OIA champions Kalaheo. Coached bytherenownedMervLopes, they were disciplined and seemingly invincible. Undefeated in their league and having crushed nearly every opponent, Kalaheo was

undoubtedlyfavoredtodefeat us. But Coach Mast had concocted a special plan for them: wed employ a full court pressure defense to prevent Kalaheo from setting up any type of patterned offense and to get them into more of a running, fastbreak game that was suited to our team. The plan worked. We pressuredKalaheoalloverthe floor, trapping, stealing, pressing and scrambling with purpose and direction. We wonthegamebythreepoints, amajorupset.MikeVillawas theheroofthegamewhenhe stole a pass off the press and scored a layup with five seconds left. I had contributed well, scoring 11 points and grabbing 10 rebounds. After the game, I sat on the bench, exhausted, when the thought suddenly hit me: Kamehameha was in thestatefinals. The next evening the team walked together slowly through the hordes of people that waited to get into Blaisdell Arena for the championship game. I felt slightlytenseatthethoughtof playing in front of a capacity crowd of 7,000 and also before a statewide television audience. I sensed the same nervousness from my teammates, many of whom werewideeyedandfidgetyas we walked across the nearly full arena toward the locker room. When we entered the locker room, the team spread out, some guys casually stretching out on the floor,

while others sat around talking in quiet, hushed voices. All activity stopped when Mast and Sabas entered the room.Therewasamomentof silence, a feeling of electricity in the air. Coach John broke the tense atmosphere and spoke: Men, I know that we havent had the best relationship in the world, but I just want to say that Im proud of the way you guys have hung in when things werent so great. Just remember all those practices that you busted your butts and reached down and put outthatlittleextrasomething. Because,gang,thatlittleextra something is what makes champions. We heard the side of John Sabas that night that we had never heard beforenot the hard and cold character that we had known every day in practice, but an honestandcaringman.Ihave found out through the years that Coach John is one of the warmest and friendliest human beings I have ever known,andthathisactionsas coach were only a means of drawing out that little extra something from each of us. I had many thoughts about leavingtheteaminmysenior year. It would have been so easytowalkawaylikeJardine had the year before, but Im gladIstayed. We won the state championship that night, beatingMaryknoll4639.We wereinspiredbyamanwhom we had all at one time despised but had wrenched

outacertainintangiblefactor in all of us that brought on success. I played the best basketball game of my life that night. I scored only 11 points but grabbed 20 rebounds and, along with Lester Seto, held Maryknolls star 67 center, Ken Fletcher, toninepoints.Whenthefinal hornsounded,Irushedoffthe court, my jersey soaked with sweat. I spotted Coach John and moved toward him. Among all the jubilation, the applause and cheers, the backslapping, the blare of trumpets from the school band, the mothers and girlfriends with juiceand leis, thebrightflickeringofcamera flashbulbs, Coach John and I warmlyembracedinagesture of joy and respect. With a wide grin across his face he spoke, We did it, Dayle, he said. Wedidit,coach,Iechoed.