During my high school basketball playing days in southern Illinois in the late 1960s one particular shooting opportunity was known as a one-and-one bonus. Or just the bonus. It was a foul shooting chance that came after an opposing team accumulated a given number of fouls in a half. The call added an extra layer of strategy to the game, especially in closely fought contests toward the end. The situation could also lead to long remembered, iconic moments as well as life-changing ones. Larry Bird tells of the latter in his autobiography Drive, how a one-and-one shooting situation during his sophomore Indiana high school year in a sectional tournament game became the defining moment in his life.
Near the end of the game, we are down by only one point when I get a rebound and someone fouls me. I go to the free throw line, and I try to pretend it’s 6 A.M. in the gym back home and these are just two of the five hundred free throws that I shoot every morning. Swish! Both shots are good, and we win the game by one point. Pandemonium! The next day’s headlines read: Bird Steals the Show. That day my life was made. . .. I decided that day to dedicate myself to being the best basketball player I could possibly be.
Not all of us who played high school basketball in that era had the same life-changing experiences as Larry would with the one-and-one bonus. In fact, it was a recurring nightmare for some of us high schoolers to think about being in such a shooting situation. Even worse to have endured it.
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Bluford, my small-town high school, was playing a game in southern Illinois late in the 1967-1968 season, my junior year. I was a starter on the varsity squad, on some occasions, the leading scorer. My forte, however, was defense and rebounding. A win for us in the night in question would be revenge for an unexpected loss earlier that year, a game we were leading up to the final seconds.
We were behind by nine points with eight minutes to go when our team started a comeback. With two minutes and with us a point down I was fouled, sending me to the line for the notorious one-and-one.
Their coach called a time out to “ice” me, to give me a little time to think about the pressure, to make me choke. The thing is you shouldn’t be thinking. Coach pounded this into our heads at every practice. “A foul shot is about correct shooting form and repetition. You practice until you can make a foul shot with your eyes closed.” Then again, Coach told me more than once, “Mills, you think too much!”
The ref motioned the players to take the floor again. Everyone on the team gave me a gentle pat on the back as we left the huddle but offered no remarks, probably afraid they would jinks me.
I found myself standing at the foul line, the ref handing me the ball that almost slipped through my sweaty fingers. Then he stood back and lifted his arms, signaling for the one and one attempt.
Several people in the crowded gym, including my mom and my dad, my little sister and brother, were standing. I could imagine my dad having his fingers crossed. The opposing side shouted like banshees, causing the air to vibrate.
I took three sound dribbles, bent at the knees and then rose up, transferring power from my legs to my arms, stroked the ball off my fingertips in a silent, rotating arch. The next day the opposing team’s local newspaper spoke of their squad’s one point victory, and of the failure of my team’s “usually reliable scorer, 6-4 forward Mills.”
At least the article gave me an extra inch in height.
That evening after the game, as our family began settling down for the night, my little sister ducked her head in my room for a second and said in a sweet, quiet voice, “I’ll be praying that you start making your free throws again, Randy.”
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Larry Bird would also offer another one-on-one free throw story, not the one about the life-changing success, but of another situation, an iconic tale of failure and consequence.
It is a story that deserves some closer examination.
Fast forward from 1969 and southern Illinois. The time is March of 1974, and the event is the final game of the Washington Regional, in Indiana high school state basketball tournament play. I am in my first year of teaching at Loogootee High School, standing at the edge of the gym floor of Hatchet House, the cavernous Washington High School gymnasium. I’m too nervous to sit up in the crowded seating areas. I need room to work off my nervousness as I watch the game.
I move from foot to foot in front of one of the four runways on the gym floor that lead back to the gym’s entrances, to dressing rooms, and to concession stands, watching the two teams warm up out on the floor.
Larry Bird’s Springs Valley High School Blackhawks were 21-3 going into the tourney. The other three teams included Loogootee, a 21-2 squad that had already beaten Valley in a close contest that year and clobbered Bedford in a regular season game. Jasper was decent at 17-6 but was a team Valley had easily dropped earlier. Bedford came to play with a modest 12-11 record, having won a very weak sectional. One thing made them dangerous: they had nothing to lose.
Bedford and Loogootee would play the first game of the morning session. They were the teams I watched warm up from my spot on the gym floor. The Valley-Jasper game would begin immediately after that contest.
Betting and gossip suggested Larry’s team would pound big school Jasper again and then take revenge for the stinging defeat Loogootee had earlier dished out. Valley was on a roll, and fans, devastated by the early defeat in sectional play the year before, could easily imagine the Blackhawks continuing deep into state tourney play. And everyone looked forward to being dazzled by the play of Larry Bird.
Indiana high school basketball is often a world of surprises. Loogootee lost in an upset in the day’s first game against Bedford, a team the Lions had easily beat during that season. Meanwhile, Valley barely got past Jasper in a game that went down to the last basket.
By the end of the morning session, I was worn out from my pacing back and forth in front of the runway and bummed out by Loogootee’s loss. But there were a few hours of rest waiting. Many fans drove home between the sessions. Others were lucky, staying at a nearby friend’s house, or in a quiet café. The two surviving teams rested in cheap hotel rooms.
After Loogootee lost, I moved my allegiance to Larry Bird’s team since Loogootee had beaten them earlier in the season, and, because Larry was so thrilling to watch. It now looked as if Valley would easily win over Bedford and move on to the Evansville semi-state level of play, two games away from state final play. The only worry among Valley fans: The Valley team’s entire mentality, their drive, had been directed by thoughts of beating Loogootee, of getting sweet revenge. With that gone, there was the chance of a letdown.
The beginning of the game was see-sawing, nerve-wracking, almost beyond watching. Bedford was up 14-10 after the first quarter and I had not taken a single sip of Coke from the paper cup that entire time that I gripped it in my right hand.
Bird hit only one out of five field attempts, two of the misses close around the basket. This was not the Larry Bird I had watched that year at the Valley game with Loogootee. Luckily, Beezer Carnes and Brad Bledsoe took up the Valley scoring slack.
The second period was all Larry. He got nine points, three hard earned scores under the basket and three foul shots, leading the Blackhawks to a five-point lead at half time.
This was more like it. When the first half horn sounded and the electricity of the crowd died down a bit, I finally drained my Coke and got in line for the restroom.
The third quarter was more of the same. Valley controlled the rhythm; set the tempo of the game and Bedford was missing key shots. Beezer Carnes led the scoring charge that period, hitting for seven points in what was becoming a low score contest. Valley was up by six at the end of three quarters.
With five and a half minutes left in the regional final game, the Blackhawks were ahead of Bedford by eight points. I was standing still now, more relaxed, my hands clasped behind my back, watching and waiting for Larry to explode into a scoring spree that had yet to come. At this juncture, one sports reporter remembered hearing “fans from French Lick and West Beden making plans for the trip to Evansville” for the semi-state.
At 5:18 on the clock, Bedford’s Kelley Masterson, a quick little magician of a player, hit from 15 feet out. Then Bedford got the ball back from Valley and rugged 6-6 Jim Pentzer made a shot over Larry from six feet from the basket.
I started pacing.
John Carnes came back with a basket on a rebound, keeping Vallet ahead by six. John would collect six points in the fourth quarter. Bedford made another basket, then Beezer Carnes was fouled and given the dicey one-and-one bonus. Now I was really nervous, knowing what that pressure was like. Carnes hit the first and the Valley crowd went wild. He missed the second. Valley was still up by five with 2:38 left and the gym shaking with noise, filled with energy.
Then, things fell apart. I could see, I could feel the rhythm change, although I was probably in denial, as were a few thousand other fans. If it had been a horror movie I was watching, I would have covered my eyes.
First, Kent Hutchinson hit from 15 feet out for Bedford; then Masterson scored from the top of the key to put their team within a point of Valley with 1:32 left.
Things got worse.
If there is a purgatory, there’s got to be a one-and-one bonus there. Ten seconds later Beezer went to the line with another one-and-one. Beezer missed and Bedford grabbed the rebound. Then Larry Bird, of all people, fouled Jim Pentzer with 1:01 on the clock.
Pentzer cashed in on both foul shots and Bedford finally went ahead by a single point. The noise level made my head ring.
Valley still had almost a minute to go up by one, or at least draw a foul, but with 35 seconds left Pentzer intercepted a Blackhawk pass. Bedford would score two more free throws, as Valley desperately fouled. Seconds later time ran out.
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One sportswriter called it “the greatest come-from-behind game in that regional’s history.” It was a bitter moment for Springs Valley and for Larry, one that was hard for Valley folks to accept or understand. It is still talked about today, but quietly and not for long, like a long-ago sudden death in a family that’s forever too sad to talk about. Coach Gary Holland initially had his own theory about the loss after the game; his team was “leg weary” from the difficult encounter with Jasper while Bedford easily dispatched Loogootee in the earlier game, giving them more time to rest. Later, in 1989, Bird laid the blame squarely on one player and on one event in his autobiography, Drive.
It was another one-and-one story.
Beezer Carnes was an old friend of mine and he was on the team. Whenever the rest of us would get up early and be in the gym at six o’clock to shoot free throws, Beezer would habitually sleep right through. . .. I can remember Coach Holland saying, “Beezer, one of these days you are going to cost us a big game by missing some free throws.” Sure enough, we get into the finals of the regionals against Bedford. We’re up six points under two minutes to go in the game and they need the ball, so they start fouling Beezer, who actually wasn’t that bad at the line, averaging about seventy percent. So, Beezer goes to the free throw line for a one-and-one. Miss. They come down and score. We get it in bounds and Beezer gets the ball because he’s our point guard. They foul him again and, sure enough, he misses again. Thay come down and score.
Larry goes on to explain this happened one more time, allowing Bedford to take the lead and win the game. (In fact, Beezer messed up on two one-on-ones, and not three in the fourth quarter.) “Our chance of going to the semi-state was gone,” Larry added. “We go into the locker room and Beezer isn’t saying anything, but he’s about ready to cry.”
Larry’s narrative becomes the primary story about how this iconic game played out, a story often repeated. A look at sportswriters’ reports in real time, at the Valley score book for the game, at the Valley game shot chart, and at the final overall statistics chart for the Valley season suggests the story is more complicated.
Perhaps the shot charts for each quarter are the most intriguing artifacts. Larry brought a thirty point a game scoring average into the contest against Bedford. In Valley’s morning regional game against Jasper, Larry banded in 25 points, although the tight defense of big Mike Luegers inside, and Jeff Bawel outside, probably wore Larry down.
Bird was held to fifteen points in the Bedford battle, shooting, according to the shot charts, 6-19 (31.5%) from the field. Beezer made 5-12 from the field (41.6%) and was the team’s second leading scorer, just two points behind Larry. More significantly, Larry did not score at all in the game-changing last quarter, going 0-4 from the field and missing three key shots underneath. Remember too, Larry also fouled Pentzer who then scored what was basically the winning two free throws on a one-and-one. I have not been able to identify the Valley player who made the bad pass.
Some say Larry was off in the Bedford game because of the draining earlier game against Jasper in the morning session, but so probably was Beezer, who, by the way, hit four out of five free throws in the last quarter against Jasper, the pivotal quarter of a 60-58 victory while Larry was three for five that quarter.
Interestingly, Bedford had their own narrative about why the game turned into an improbable victory for their team, and it had nothing to do with Beezer Carnes and everything to do with Larry Bird. A 1988 article in the Bedford paper headlined Pentzer Remembered for Shooting Down Bird. The piece noted, “In one frozen in time high school game Bird’s team did not win, Pentzer’s did. Largely because Pentzer neutralized Bird, limiting the Valley star to 15 points (half his average) while scoring 15 points himself, Bedford prevailed 58-55. Southern Indiana’s hoop-loving populace never let Pentzer forget it.”
The article was correct about the low scoring number, easily Larry poorest production that season. Again, the shot charts are interesting, showing all but two of his shooting attempts taken close in— around the basket, in the paint, or ten feet or less out. His poor shooting could have easily been the results of Pentzer’s defensive work.
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The rejuvenation of the Bedford squad, their sudden overwhelming aggressiveness and confidence at the last minute or so of the game, and the collapse of the Springs Valley team was like a small wave coming towards the shore that turned into a tsunami. There was perhaps a second of a “how can this be happening,” the tiniest sliver of silence followed by screaming, shouting, leaping pandemonium among the Bedford players and fans and the silence and shock of disbelief on the frozen faces of the Springs Valley folks.
No one was more upset than Larry Bird.
I was still standing at the edge of the gym floor, in front of the runway where the Valley players would go through to get to their locker room. A single thick, red twisted rope was strung up just behind me, held up at waist level between movable posts, the kind of thing you might see at a movie theater to hold back a crowd before the next movie started.
Larry came right toward me and the rope barrier. I thought I was going to say, “good game, or tough luck Larry” but his look of total anger and disgust warned me off. When he got to the rope he grabbed it with both hands, lifted it up and threw it back over his head, stomping away like an angry, defeated titan.
And what of Beezer’s missed one-and-ones? I think the multiple angles I have presented here strongly suggest that Beezer’s missed shots did not specifically lose Springs Valley the game. And yet today, few would even care. All that happened over fifty years ago. High schools no longer use the one-and-one bonus. The game has changed in other ways as well, making that epic battle there in the Washington gymnasium in 1974 a baby-boomer story, already forgotten by many as my generation slowly but surely slips away.
But I have not forgotten that contest, those damn, nerve-racking one-and-one shots, young Beezer near tears in the quiet dressing room, his head hanging down in shame after the unexpected loss. If I could, I would take my sister and myself back to that game in a time machine, have her standing beside me, saying a prayer for Beezer as he took the ball in his sweaty hands from the ref in front of 7,000 wild fans hysterical with excitement. Watch as Beezer pounded out a few measured dribbles before he launched the ball into a high, hopeful, beautiful arch, its plunge either breaking or thrilling the hearts of that screaming, yelling, gone mad crowd. And I would tell him too that in the distant future, old guys gathering around to talk about that forgotten era will bestowal an abundant amount of grace upon those of us who missed that first shot.
You can check the story of my high school playing days in southern Illinois in the late 1960s by ordering my book from Amazon- “An Almost Perfect Season: A Father and Son and a Golden Age of Small-Town High School Basketball.” My book on Larry’s high school basketball years can also be order on Amazon- “As if by Magic: The Story of Larry Bird’s Indiana High School Basketball Days.”
