The Journey of “Oakie” Barker
Paul Barker was a teacher and coach who taught his most valuable lessons off the court.
Words by Terrell Manasco | Images courtesy Phyllis Barker
He was not prone to fits of anger. Paul Barker read his Bible daily, was always willing to help others, and eschewed gossip. He was no hothead.
But one night, he lost his temper. It happened during a Walker High School girls’ basketball game. Paul, the coach, wore a yellow-gold sport coat and tie. His wife, Phyllis, doesn’t recall why he “got snortin’ mad,” but his reaction was shocking— and comical.
“He pulled that yellow coat off and threw it on the floor and stomped on it,” Phyllis says with a faint grin.
The outburst earned him a gentle, post-game reprimand. “I said, ‘Paul, I know you don’t use foul language but those people up in the stands don’t know that. You need to be more careful.’”
Paul later apologized, and the incident might have been forgotten— if the employee at the dry cleaners hadn’t noticed the shoe print on the coat. “I said, ‘He took it off at the ballgame and stomped on it,’” Phyllis laughs.
Born in 1950 in Oak Ridge, Tennessee (this geographical fate earned him the nickname “Oakie” early on), Paul David Barker was a sixth-grader when his family moved to Jasper and settled in the Macedonia community. He discovered basketball at Thach School and later played forward for Coach Herbert Greene at Walker High. “I was told Paul had a great jump shot,” Phyllis says.
In 1968, Paul arrived at Walker College, where he played basketball under the legendary coach, Glen Clem. Initially an engineering major, he decided he’d rather teach, changing his major to education with a concentration in mathematics and a minor in physical education.
Upon earning his bachelor’s in secondary education from St. Bernard College in Cullman, and a masters from UAB, Paul began teaching math at Jasper Junior High (now Maddox Intermediate School) in 1972. Five years later, he taught and also coached boys’ basketball at Walker High School. Back then, there was no girls’ basketball or softball program, and Paul made up his mind to remedy that. “He had great respect for (former Tennessee ladies’ basketball coach) Pat Summitt,” Phyllis says. “I think she was the inspiration for him wanting to have the girls’ program.”
If anyone assumed the girls had it easy, they soon learned otherwise. “He loved those girls, but he was hard on them,” Phyllis says. “He’d get hot during a game, but he was never mean to them.”
Many of his former players later went on to great success. Katie White Vick is now a local pediatric dentist. Wendy Lollar Morrison is a physical therapist. Tina Langley became assistant coach at Maryland and is now the women’s head coach at Rice University. This is a mere handful of players he impacted.
Paul and Phyllis met in 1980 through a mutual friend, dated for a year, and married in 1981. In 1985, they welcomed their only child, Erin. Paul, who possessed a dry wit, told friends the C-section delivery “was a breeze,” despite Phyllis doing all the heavy lifting. Behind his subtle humor, he was a loving, devoted father who reveled in every moment with his daughter. Erin was the apple of his eye. “He was a good daddy,” Phyllis says.
Paul’s love of the New York Yankees likely stems from the fact that his best friend in high school, Pete Gwin, was a nephew of Dora native and former Yankee pitcher Ivy Paul Andrews. He was also known for being a “die-hard, orange-blooded” Tennessee fan. Every summer, Paul and Phyllis would take Erin to Knoxville and shop in the bookstores on Cumberland Avenue. “Erin would get her stash of Tennessee sweatshirts and T-shirts for the next school year,” Phyllis says.
Years later, Erin was awarded a full scholarship to Auburn University. Before she left, Paul replaced the Tennessee tag on the front of her Chevy Blazer with an Auburn tag—which was changed back after she graduated in 2007. “We had to say, ‘War Eagle’ for four years,” Phyllis laughs. “He was so proud of her. One of his proudest moments was when she walked across the stage and got her diploma.”
An avid reader, Paul would spend hours reading his Bible or devouring books on history (“We went to Gettysburg one summer. I thought we were never going to get off the battlefield,” says Phyllis). He was also a talented woodworker and would disappear into his basement to build a fireplace mantle or kitchen pantry. His Tennessee clock hangs in the office at Northside Baptist Church, where he taught a Sunday school class for young adults. He also built a storage building behind their house. “He sat down with a piece of paper and drew that thing out,” Phyllis says. “He built the pieces in our basement, constructed it outside, then roofed it. We put up siding and a garage door.”
When the Northside Baptist custodian retired in March 2001, Paul filled in after school. He retired from teaching a few months later and took over as full-time custodian. “He would go out on the front lawn and cut the grass at the church,” Phyllis says. “He’d have his earphones on, listening to music or Bible studies.”
A methodical, organized person, Paul recorded receipts in the checkbook and budget book without fail. His budget always balanced to the penny. In 2012, Phyllis started noticing entries that were missing and other signs that something was amiss. “He quit looking at his Sunday school lessons,” Phyllis says. “He did a PowerPoint presentation every Sunday for class. The last one, I couldn't get him to finish. I knew something was wrong.”
Because Paul’s father had suffered from Parkinson’s Disease, it was believed Parkinson’s might be the cause of Paul’s behavior. Test results told another story—a frontal lobe glioblastoma.
Paul was scheduled to go on a mission trip on Monday, June 11. He called Phyllis the Friday before and told her about the diagnosis, still determined to go on the trip. Phyllis “freaked out.” “I told him, ‘You cannot go until you find out what is wrong,’” she says.
On Monday morning, Phyllis met with Paul’s doctor. “He said, ‘We suspect it's a glio,’” she recalls. When she questioned the mission trip, he was blunt. “He said, ‘It will be the last one he ever goes on.’”
Although Paul made the trip, he returned home “totally wiped out.” The next week, they saw a neurologist at St Vincent's Hospital. “He said, “It's large, frontal, and already crossed the midline,’” Phyllis says. “He gave him six weeks to two months.”
Paul underwent surgery and spent a few days in the hospital. In July, Pete Gwin came to see his old friend “Oakie” one last time. Friends from church brought meals. Phyllis explained what was happening, but it didn’t register. “Paul never knew what was wrong with him,” she says. “He just could not connect the dots. He never complained, he was never in pain.”
On October 1, hospice was called when Paul began having seizures. He seemed to know people but was sleeping more and more. On Tuesday afternoon, October 23rd, Paul took one final breath, then slipped away.
“Oakie” was gone.
“Paul was just a great guy, the kind of guy everybody likes,” Phyllis says. “He would do anything for anybody. He wouldn't talk about people behind their back. He always looked for the good in everybody.”
The best lessons, the ones that stay with us and guide us throughout life, are the ones that are lived. Paul Barker, a living testament to that idea, didn’t have to say a word. 78