The church is empty tonight, except for one young man sitting in the back pew. The boy, of high school age, carries his basketball shoes with him. He is quiet, not daring to break the silence, but continues to carry on a conversation that we cannot hear.
Jimmy Howell never prayed for a win. He never asked his Lord to deliver him victory, to declare him champion. This was not his way. He did not see this as fair to the Creator to ask for such gifts—that was selfish. God’s will is his own, Jimmy knew. He asked his Lord only for the safety of himself and every player on the court, and prayed that God would help him, through the Holy Spirit, to play the game of basketball that night to the best of his ability.
Jimmy finishes his prayer with, “Amen,” and rises from the pew. He walks silently out the doors of the church, and takes the walk he is so accustomed to, the walk he makes before every game, from the steps of the chapel he so loved to the hardwood he so cherished.
The opponent, Farmland was good; to Jimmy, Centerville was better. He is the heart and soul of this 1950 blue and white Bulldog team, an athletic guard that will put up 20 points tonight, almost half of the team’s total score. Throughout the game, Jimmy showed his basketball prowess, but the final seconds are where players become heroes.
The Bulldogs trail 44-39 with 1:06 left in the game. A jump ball is called on Centerville’s end of the court. Back in those days, a jump ball was not awarded to a team by means of a possession arrow, but a tip-off would ensue at the free-throw line of the side of the court where the call was made.
Jimmy can jump. Centerville knows it; Farmland knows it.
What would happen next, however, is not known by anyone in the gymnasium. Jimmy faces his Farmland opponent, crouched like a spring.
The ball is released from the referee’s hand, moving straight up into the air.
Jimmy’s feet leave the ground, his white sneakers rising off the stained wood. His hand meets the friendly feel of leather, and with a snap of his wrist, he tips the ball backwards.
The ball moves from Jimmy’s fingertips towards the rim.
Two points—Centerville. Jimmy Howell had just tipped the ball into the basket; the score is 44-41 Farmland.
After a quick defensive stand by the Bulldogs, Howell’s teammate manages to score another field goal with 30 seconds remaining in the game.
One last chance; Centerville applies intense pressure to the Farmland offense, trying to force yet another turnover, hope fleeting as every precious second on the scoreboard melts away.
The defensive stand is successful; the ball is knocked loose.
Jimmy picks it up; off to the races.
10 seconds.
Jimmy rams through, one defender, two defenders, three defenders; he pulls up, releasing the ball.
It’s good! Centerville goes ahead 45-44 of Farmland with six seconds remaining.
The final seconds tick away, and the Bulldogs emerge victorious with a conference win, their leader, Jimmy Howell, a hero.
Ask Jimmy about his status after the game, and you will hear a very different story of what happened on the court.
“It was through God I was able to make those shots,” says Jimmy. After all the effort and sweat poured into the game by the guard, the humble nature of this young man could still recognize what that there were things bigger than him working in the gym tonight, and only through the Holy Spirit was he able to achieve the seemingly impossible.
“It was through God,” says Jimmy.
Jimmy Howell, known as Jim in his adult years, is my grandfather. He sits next to me on the couch tonight, his white hair falling above his wide rimmed glasses. He is not in the same shape as his playing days, but his heart is still as warm as it was the nights he spent in that church before his basketball games.
Jim was born in Centerville, Ind., where he has lived his entire life. He recalls a time when, if you needed a cup of sugar, you just went next door and asked, children played in the street, and neighbors would come out to their porches and visit every evening after their family dinners.
“We were poor,” says Jim, “but we didn’t know it; everybody was.”
The small town was full of gossip, so Jim attributes that to keeping him out of trouble because he knew his mother would find out.
Jim’s father died at the age of 52, when Jim was only 14. The loss of his father had a major impact on his life, and his mother took over as head of the household.
Jim’s mother instilled values in her son, values he would carry with him his entire life.
Every day, when Jimmy Howell would walk by the boy’s house in Centerville, he would wave.
He was waving to the familiar face in the window, where the boy sat, smiling and waving to people as they walked by. And when Jimmy would walk back home, children playing in the street, that smiling face would still be sitting in the window, ready to wave to anyone who would accept the greeting.
The boy was both mentally and physically handicapped. His body was frail, and contorted, his small frame confined to a wheelchair. He was virtually helpless, requiring the constant care of his mother, the boy’s only guardian; his mother loved him dearly, and strived to care for her crippled son as best as she could, all while working to support the family of two.
Jimmy was a basketball star in his town, a hero of the hardwood. The handicapped boy could enjoy few things in life with his condition, but Centerville’s basketball team was his pride, what gave him joy. His mother would be sure to wheel her son into all the games, courtside to watch his Bulldogs, to cheer for the one thing in his life he could cherish outside of his mother’s love. The boy was a motivation to the team, a reason to play their best.
Jimmy was the boy’s favorite player, his talents with the leather ball dazzling to the young man. Jimmy recognized his place in the boy’s heart, and accepted his role.
Before every game, Jimmy would walk over to the boy’s place by the court, the only player to do so. The boy’s eyes would light up at the sight of his hero approaching, his grin widening from ear to ear.
“You’re my basketball player,” the boy would always say to Jimmy.
With a warm smile and a hand on the boy’s shoulder, Jimmy would answer, “You’re my buddy.”
Moments like these defined the warmth that Jim has in his heart, a truly altruistic person in a society were such beings are few and far between.
Besides his love for basketball, which would eventually lead him to play for the great Tony Hinkle at Butler University, Jim showed a place in his heart for animals—for horses, especially.
“Animals have an affection for you if you treat them right,” says Jim. His love horses would eventually lead him to the love of his life.
Jimmy was in Marion, Ohio, to sell a horse for his boss. Two other horsemen were with him; he was a junior in high school, the youngest of the crew.
Far from his hometown of Centerville, Ind., Jimmy stopped at bus station with the group for lunch.
In the bus station, a young lady waited on the men’s table. Her brother ran the restaurant, and she worked for him as a waitress on Sunday afternoons.
Jimmy became a firm believer of love at first sight that day. His friends urged him to speak to the girl, to get her number.
“Ah, I don’t know,” said Jimmy. With the prodding of his company, that night he returned to the bus station.
“Could you tell me the telephone number of the waitress that was here earlier today?”
“I can’t tell you her number, but I can tell you where she lives,” said another waitress.
Jimmy took the bite and headed out towards the address; much to his dismay, he found he had been incorrectly informed. The house he ended up at, fortunately, was owned by a farmer that lived not far from the girl, and he was able to supplement Jimmy with her correct address.
Disheartened, however, Jimmy returned to his work crew.
“If we don’t sell the horse tomorrow, I’ll try again,” he ensured the group after their interrogation.
The horse did not sell in the next town, and the next day Jim headed back towards Marion. He pulled up to a small farmhouse, and walked up the steps. After a knock on the door, a woman answered, and he asked to see the girl.
“Marjorie Ann, there’s a boy here to see you,” said the girl’s mother sternly.
Ask Marge about the meeting today, and she will swear, “I just knew it was him. I don’t know how, but somehow I just knew.”
“Marjorie Ann, would you take a ride with me to see our horse?” asked Jimmy.
Marge was taken aback. Who was this guy?
She spoke with her mother about the situation in private, and, Marge still does not know why, to this day, her mother allowed her to go with the boy.
Jimmy took Marge to see the horse, Snow Chief, a beautiful white palomino and returned her home. This was their first date.
The next day, it was all Marge could do to think about this boy, who had just shown up on her doorstep after seeing her in the diner, who was brave enough to ask the young lady out on a date without ever meeting her.
That night, there was a knock on the door.
Marge could not believe it. Could it be?
She answered the door. It was Jimmy.
“Marjorie Ann, would you like to go for a ride?”
This time, Marge’s parents were not so accepting to the idea. Her mother and father discussed back and forth, contemplating on allowing her daughter to go on yet another date with this out of town horseman, someone whom they knew nothing about.
“I never would disobey my parents. Never,” says Marge when asked about the night today. “But something in me said I needed to go. So I marched into the room where my parents were talking, and said ‘That’s it! I’m going.’ Then I got my coat and marched right out the door with Jimmy.
The rest is a love that went down in history, Jim and Marge marrying as soon as Jim graduated from high school.
Later in life, the couple moved back to Centerville, and, after working his way through the ranks, Jim became principal of his alma mater.
He took the values he had carried with him throughout his life into his job as high school principal.
“I always believed that in order to gain trust, you must give trust,” says Jim. One of the first orders of business he conducted at his new position was to take all the locks off the lockers in the school.
“I always said, ‘This is not a prison; it’s a high school. We are a family, we live together for 7 1/2 hours; we don’t talk about one another, steal from one another, we don’t lie to one another.’”
Jim made it a point to always be there for the special needs kids in his high school. There were some students who had seizures and would pass out in the halls or in the classrooms; Jim made sure he was always the first one to be there when they awoke. He believed that they needed to wake to a face they could recognize, a face they could find comfort in. He was sure always there for his students.
There was a special education student in the school whose parents Jim had made arrangements with for her to be able to pursue a community education. Once in a while the young girl would get out of hand, and Jim put the responsibility on his shoulders to handle the girl’s unique situation. When the girl would get out of hand in class, she was to be sent to see her principal.
“Now, Jill, come over and get on my knee,” Jim would say in his father-like voice. He would give her three swats, and she would get up crying.
She would rise with tears in her eyes, and hold Jim’s arm.
“I love you, Mr. Howell,” the girl would say.
Jim would look the girl straight in the eye, his warm face full of sincerity.
“I love you, too, Jill. Now off to class.”
Jill would always be fine for a few months after this.
Jim values his own family, just as he did his school family. He raised two boys, one being my father, with Marge in Centerville.
When I asked about my dad, he says with a smile, “Well, Brad was a squirt sometimes.”
Pulling into their driveway, Jim and Marge look into the backseat. They’re older son, Mark, unbuckled his seatbelt and, with a yank of the silver door handle, shot out of the car and into the darkness towards their farm house.
Brad, the younger of the two brothers by two years, remained still, eyelids closed, head resting against the door, his curly black hair pressed against the glass.
“Well, I guess carry him up to bed,” whispers Marge.
The couple got out of their car, and gingerly shut their doors. Jim opened the back seat of the car, catching his younger son, careful not to awaken the small boy.
Marge headed into the house, followed by her husband and his sleeping angel. As quietly as possible, Jim takes the boy upstairs.
Careful as can be, Jim changed Brad into his pajamas, slowly and silently, as to not wake his sleeping son. He carefully carried the boy to his bed, his strong arms holding his little son tightly. He pulled back the covers, and laid his son down, placing his curls softly on the pillow.
He kisses the boy’s head and turns towards the door.
“Thanks, Dad,” says a little voice with a laugh.
Jim Howell is a man of values; spend enough time around him, and this becomes very evident. He has lived a life to be proud of, one I can look up to, a life I can be proud to say is in my genes.
“You can do anything you want to do,” he says to me as we sit here on the couch. “You have to start with your school, you have to start with some intelligence, you have to start with you family, and you have to start with a belief. And there always has to be divine guidance.”
