In Tribute: George Wigton (1929–2022)
Over the 9 months prior to George Wigton’s passing on March 1, 2022, Dan Doyle engaged in weekly phone calls with his beloved Bates College Basketball Coach. The calls were made from Dan’s place of incarceration, the ACI in Cranston, Rhode Island.
As each call produced new facts about Coach Wigton’s remarkable life, Dan decided to craft a lengthy tribute to his former Coach for posting on “The Basketball Bugle.”
On this Father’s Day weekend, what follows are the first three chapters of the piece. In due course, the completed piece and a portrait of Coach Wigton will be posted on “The Basketball Bugle.”
Chapter 1
If a certain man of creative renown, his particular form of ingenuity that of the hued sort, had been driving down West Lorain Street in Oberlin Ohio on a frigid winter day in 1936, he might well have taken note of two lanky lads he guessed to be in their early teens bounding down the steps of a grey Tudor, well protected by a towering elm, mailbox marked 219. A basketball would have likely been tucked under the arm of the slightly taller boy.
The moment the two hit a cleanly shoveled sidewalk the visitor thought reflective of Midwest propriety, the duo would have likely begun a skillful one bounce dribble exchange of the dimpled Wilson rubber roundball, the slightly taller lad employing his left hand, the younger one his right…back and forth…back and forth.
With a practiced eye for opportunity, the college town caller might well have raised both eyebrows, smiled and muttered, “Hmm…Interesting.”
And then, but a moment later, a much younger lad, perhaps six or seven, would have surely come flying out the front door, winter coat buttoned, mittens and scarf in place, brown woolen toque askew, bellowing… “Hey you guys…wait for me!”
Yet another smile would have creased the drivers face followed by a second mild mumble… “Ahh…the tag along kid…perfect…I must pull over and…”
For you see, way back in ’36, just as the milkman went nowhere without extra slabs of butter, or the fuller brush man without his order forms, this craftsman of color went nowhere without his sketch pad and shaded pencils.
For as he well knew…well you never know when…!
A moment later, his rented Buick Roadmaster at curbside and the three youngsters in clear sight, he would have reached for the tools of his calling, all neatly resting atop the passenger seat, all at the ready.
Then in a soft mutter to himself, “I’ll do a quick first tag along kid sketch.”
And a few moments later… “A decent start…I’ll polish it back at the hotel.”
At this point, a question to himself… “Where pray tell are those boys going to play basketball? Why there are no gymnasiums in sight and…good gracious…it’s now snowing!”
Well, he was about to find out!!
Chapter 2
Shifting the Roadmaster into low, the visitor would have edged up the street and moments later pulled down the passenger side window.
“Good morning young men. You know I live but 40 miles from where basketball was invented.”
The tallest brother might well have asked. “Where was it invented sir?”
“In Springfield, Massachusetts by a man named James Naismith. And by the way, for the first time ever, the game you will play today will be part of this summer’s 1936 Olympic Games in Berlin Germany…and the basketball competition will be played outside! But lads, given that it’s snowing, may I ask where you will be playing this morning?”
Stepping forward intrepidly, with right index finger pointing north, the tag along kid would have said “Right up there sir…in Mr. Strong’s barn.”
“In a barn?!”, the visitor would have exclaimed.
“That’s right”, the little boy would have replied. “Want to see?”
“Well by Jingo I surely would”, the visionary eyeing yet another opportunity.
***
A few minutes later this traveler would have joined the brothers three amid the hallmarks of most barns…husky scents, haystacks, pitchfork, and a gaggle of chickens. The contrast of course was a Spalding netted hoop ten feet above ground and fastened to a wooden wall.
“Lads, I’m sure Dr. Naismith would savor this sight. Now, before you start to play may I ask your names?”
“I’m William Wigton”, from the tallest boy.
“I’m Ted Wigton”, from the middle one,
“And I’m George Wigton…oh…and my middle name is Lindbergh”
“Ahh…I’ll bet a penny after my friend Lucky.”
“That’s right sir…but do you know Lucky Lindbergh?”
“That I do young man”, at which point he would have reached for his keys.
“Lads, I have but 30 minutes before I must head over to the college. Would you mind if I fetch some accessories from the car so that I may draw a sketch of this grand scene?”
“Will I be in it?”, the youngest would have asked.
“You surely will.”
“Sounds great! You know sir, I’ve never been in…”
“Pipe down George.”
“You didn’t say please William.”
Chapter 3
From his catbird seat, a wooden barrel, the artist would have gotten started by carefully observing the three boys shooting at the basket.
“Hmm…the youngest…looks like he’ll be quite an athlete”, he would have mused.
Twenty minutes later he would have shown the sketch to the three subjects.
“Wow!”, the middle brother would have exclaimed, “You sure are good!!”
“Well thank you, Ted. And tell you what…upon my return home I’ll send along a print of the original. 219 West Lorain if I recall.”
“That’s right…and that would be great”, the tag along kid would have exclaimed. “Oh, and by the way sir, what will you be doing at the college?”
“Well George, I’ll be delivering a speech to faculty members and other educators from the community.”
“What’s it about?”
“The topic is the creative process, and I’ll be talking about the process of creating works of art. And by Jingo, I believe I’ll cite this morning’s grand experience as an example.”
“Sir!”, William would have called out, “our father, Charles Eurotus Wigton…well he’s the Oberlin School Superintendent…and he’ll be at your speech today!”
“Good grand…I’m delighted to hear this. And rest assured I’ll tell your father about this morning’s…well, I’ll call our gathering ‘the barnball exhibition.’”
“But sir!”, from the tag along kid, “you haven’t told us your name.”
“Ahh yes…the name is Rockwell lads, Norman Rockwell. Oh, and one more question…just out of curiosity, were you three boys all born here in this fine town?”
The tag along kid would have promptly responded, “I was, Mr. Rockwell. But William and Ted, why they were born in China!”
Full disclosure!
The Rockwell visit? Pure fiction. But the rest? All true, including Mr. Strong’s barn court where George Lindbergh Wigton learned to play a game he would grow to cherish.
As for China, most assuredly true, not to mention so remarkable that it nearly transcends the borders of fiction. And it all started in ’67, that would be 1867, when two intrepid newlyweds boarded a Pacific Mail Steamship in San Francisco bound for Foochow, China.
