A Coach in a Small Town

We were standing all alone one quiet morning, as the washed Alabama sun shined through the front doors of Glen Clem Gymnasium and onto the parquet floor. It was unusually quiet, for there were no whistles, no drills, no sweat falling to the floor like raindrops. Harold Short, the long-time groundskeeper at Walker College in Jasper, Alabama looked over at me, a bony young athlete with a monkish innocence. (Note: If you didn’t know Short, you missed a good one. Dry sense of humor, famous for one-liners).Portrait after portrait of Walker Rebel basketball teams robed the walls, as Short’s eyes glazed over them, one by one, through his thick bifocals. The pictures moved episodically like small windows of Americana: black-and-white photographs with white men in polyester uniforms and Converse Cons sneakers, on to vivid color photographs of white and black men with shinier jerseys and more expensive Converses. But there was a common theme that ran through each of them.Short, perpetually suntanned in his dark blue jumpsuit, pushed back with his middle finger his eyeglasses to the bridge of his nose and quipped, “You know there’s a jacka** in every one of these pictures.”He was referring to none other than Coach Glen R. Clem, iconic coach of the Walker Rebel basketball team for 36 years. And I could not help but let out a smile.Glen Clem came to Walker College as the physical education director and head men’s basketball coach in July, 1959. Thirty-seven years later, he did not leave on his own accord. What the Lord took with him, the day he decided to take Clem home at only 59 years of age, was one of the greatest Southern characters I have ever known. What Clem meant to Walker College and what he meant to the community of Jasper could never be measured with any tool or apparatus. And doubtless would it be possible to bottle up what he meant to me.When I think about Walker Rebel basketball, I think about the mid-to-late 1980s. I remember the silky smooth jump shot of Paris Bryant, who—driving from the left side of the key, skirting past defenders faster than a freight train passing a hobo, hitting the brakes and stopping on a dime, muscles tightening in the thighs, bulging—levitated off the ground and kissed that beautiful backwards-spinning ball off the glass, swooshing the net with effervescent ease.I remember how the fans screamed and hollered like banshees, voices raging like fire at the referees, the opposing players, the enemy. I remember the swelling bleachers and how hot the gym felt, all staked with people. I remember the blue-and-white checkered chairs, the American flag tacked onto the wall, the hospital green tile on the walls. I remember how the cheerleaders pranced onto the court in their pretty, Chevron-themed togs, and how their male counterparts thumped on the megaphone and got the crowd a-rockin’ with their deep, bass chants. I remember noticing that old wooden white sign, high and proud above the fans and emblazoned with the saying “The Home of Champions.” I remember how cramped the concession stand was at halftime as I searched through my pockets for a couple of crumpled dollars for an ice cold Coke, a bag of generously-salted popcorn, and a Snickers bar. I remember how, more times than not, I left the gym with the feeling of exhilaration, of victory. That sense of energy is gone now.That energy came from Glen R. Clem.Today, the voice of Clem is silenced. His Nike sneakers will never again squeak across those highly-swabbed floors at Rebel gymnasium. He will never, in his myriad wind suits and kingpin voice, instruct, demonstrate, joke, and teach. The program that Clem built with his bare hands is no longer, and the gym that for a short while housed all this madness is empty. Several years ago, the school disbanded all athletic programs, including basketball.Most things in life are fleeting.But today there is happiness in my voice, because his legacy is carried like freshly-lit torches through all the players who had the honor to play for him, the fans that had the honor to cheer for him, and the wife that had the honor to live for him. His basketball program was yoked with friends he golfed with, churched with, had coffee with. I think if he were still alive, I’d be one of those folks.Even though it’s been almost twenty years since he’s been gone, I think about him often. The way he looked was even iconic: olive-skinned and standing 6’5” and weighing over 240 pounds. A florid mat of raven hair waved across his head, and his thick jaws reverberated when he spoke, treating every syllable with utmost respect. Words rolled off his tongue as if every utterance was of grandiose importance. His hands were used majestically, fingers contorting into odd, unforgettable shapes. He wore plaid sport jackets and square-toed shoes and people called him Big Daddy. His most distinctive features were indisputably his large, bug eyes that could swell until there was much white across their frontiers.Most of my pleasant memories of the sport of basketball draw upon my days as a young boy at “Glen Clem’s Basketball Camp.” I was a camper, and because of this great honor, I witnessed firsthand the utter hilarity of this matchless Southern character. Basketball was his stage and platform, a venue to perform his divine athletic comedy. He breathed life to the game of basketball by utilizing colorful terminology— for instance, forbidding the wearing of “costume jewelry” while we were in camp, and swearing that if we got out of line we’d be subjected to the lashings of his “black snake whip.” He often singled out the career campers such as 12-year-old Kellen, whom Clem claimed had been a camper for 14 straight years. He suggested that several pupils who did not keep their elbows tucked in while shooting had flown straight out of the roof of the gym, like birds. At lunch, we searched through the pockets of our sand-knit shorts to produce two quarters for a soda, dubbed by Clem as the “coldest drinks in town.” And he used downtime in camp to furnish for our amusement a Vaudevillian display: trick shots, eyes-closed shots, sitting-at-midcourt shots, hook-shots from thirty feet—all splitting the net.Sitting Indian-style on those hardwood floors of that poky gymnasium at Glen Clem’s Basketball Camp, the smell of the worn-out rubber basketball that sat in my lap, sweat trickling down my temple and onto my jaw, calloused basketball hands, aching legs, blistered feet— if I could have chosen a moment to leave this earth, that very well might have been it.I remember my rickety knees and clammy hands the many times I participated in the camp’s infamous “Free Throw Contest.” How the campers gathered round in a semicircle, beneath the dim lights. How tense the air was in that gym each time a shot was lofted toward the rim, and how I felt the tug of boyhood verve exploding through my body. If you got knocked out, Clem would send you straight to “Heartbreak Hotel” and sing you to the sideline. Everyone got a T-shirt, but not everyone got a trophy. I’m proud to say that I won a few.Still, Clem took the time to share with us mortals the little lessons of life, takeaways if you will, that cling to me to this day. I call into question anything that gave me fonder memories of that idyllic time than those moments with Coach Clem, and I swore that if I ever got the chance to coach, I would facsimile him. I finally did.For two years, I sat in that same office that Glen Clem anchored for 37 years. There was a window to my office above the court, and I remember many days at practice when I would look up at that window and swear I saw the massive, lord-like shadow of Clem looking down on us. In many ways, I still live in that shadow.I am one of a handful of people who can truly testify to how difficult it would be to match what Glen Clem did for Walker College, for Jasper, for Walker County. For a brief moment in time, this larger-than-life figure came down from hometown of Ardmore, Alabama and gave us something to cheer about. The Walker College Rebels were our team, and we were proud of them.After Clem died in the fall of 1996, a tribute book was put together to honor him. Listen as people tell his story:“I miss his unannounced visits at the office and at home. He would always ‘charge in’ looking for a good lawyer. I was always too busy and would refer to him legal aid or tell Carolyn to call the police to arrest a trespasser. His visits to my house resulted in my children growing up to love him as he always took time with them and made them feel ten feet tall.” - Charlie Stephens, lawyer and judge“Glen Clem built this place [Rebel gym] just as surely as if he had been the architect who drew the plans…just as surely as if he had mixed the mortar and laid the bricks in place. More importantly, however, he built something that will last longer than bricks and mortar…he built character.” – Charlie Watts, Walker College public address announcer“Coach, it seemed everyone knew you, the public Clem. You were competitive, witty, funny, and yes, bossy. I also knew another side. You had a softer side. I saw it when you talked about Sadie, Angela, and Glen, Jr. I saw it the day you called to say you had just buried old Sport. You sure loved that dog. I know you said it was because he was always happy to see you drive up. Maybe so, but I think it was because Sport was one of a kind, just like you Coach.” – Rhonda RutledgeYes, a coach in Small Town, America can be one of the most influential and iconic figures the town has ever seen, or will ever see. When these people leave us, a part of the community leaves with them. I do believe that the little town of Jasper, Alabama has never been the same since Glen R. Clem went to be with his Lord. But then again, neither have I.You know, in all my years of knowing Coach Glen R. Clem, I never knew what the “R” stood for. But I think I finally figured it out.Rebel. 78