A Shot Across a Million Screens

On Sunday nights in the ’80s and ‘90s, after the late local news signed off on NBC affiliates across the country, something magical happened. A charismatic George Michael would lean into the camera, flash that signature grin, and press a giant yellow button. Lights blinked, reels whirred, and The Sports Machine came to life.

For millions of fans without cable, The George Michael Sports Machine was more than a Sunday night tradition, it was a portal to the wider world of sports. Not just the professionals under bright stadium lights, but also the moments that might have otherwise been lost.

That was the beauty of The Sports Machine. It didn’t chase the mainstream. It found the remarkable in the ordinary — the people who made others shine, and the rare moments when they shined themselves.

A kid leaping at the fence, arm extended, robbing a home run.

A cowboy clinging to a raging bull at a dusty rodeo.

A player flinging an over-the-shoulder prayer in a small gym in northeast Missouri.

That’s what happened to Monroe City senior standout Drew Quinn in January 1993. On the road at neighboring Palmyra, Drew launched a buzzer-beater over his shoulder from nearly mid-court — the kind of play you couldn’t script if you tried. Somehow, the ball found the bottom of the net. And somehow, that clip found its way into the hands of The Sports Machine producers.

One Sunday night, there it was — a kid from a town of 2,750 lighting up 2.2 million TV screens across America.

Drew Quinn (top right).  Photo courtesy of Todd Yager

This was before viral videos. Before social media. Before highlights could be uploaded in real time or replayed a million times before morning. Back then, if you made The Sports Machine Plays of the Week, it meant something. It meant someone believed your moment was worth sharing.

Drew’s shot wasn’t just a great play. It was the kind of moment The Sports Machine was made for. A small-town spark that caught the nation’s eye. Proof that sometimes, even the quietest gyms can make the loudest noise.

The nation saw the shot. But those who knew Drew best—the ones who shared the court with him—knew he was so much more than that one moment. 

“We got closer following our senior season during the McDonald's/Herald-Whig Classic,” said Travis Ellison, who faced Drew a few times as a rival from Clark County.

“We stayed overnight in the dorms at Quincy University for the all-star game,” Travis said. “We got to talking, and the first thing he said to me was, ‘I can’t believe you didn’t make First Team All-State.’”

Drew himself had earned the honor, but he was thinking about how deserving others were too.

Travis laughed at the memory. “I told him, ‘Man, you dropped 44 points on us in the district title game.’ But Drew just shook his head and said, ‘Yeah, but I had zero recruits. You got recruited.’”

That moment sparked a friendship built on mutual respect.

“When I decided to go to Kirkwood Community College in Cedar Rapids (IA),” Travis said, “I told him, ‘If I talk to Coach Oglesby, maybe you can walk on.’ Drew said, ‘That’d be great.’”

Drew wanted his own moment to shine, not in anyone’s shadow, but through the work he’d put in.

Soon, Drew was there. “We got an apartment together and roomed together for a semester,” Travis said. “He worked on his game nonstop. Coach Oglesby once said he’d need a quicker release in college to handle taller, longer defenders. Drew took it as a challenge. That’s the kind of person he was.”

He pauses, then his voice softens. “He was in the gym every night working on it. Hours down at the gym, just trying to get better, trying to make Hey, you doing OK? Are you studying? the roster. He was a perfectionist. He was a fighter. Whatever he did, he did it 100%. All out. All in.”

Late at night, after long practices, the two would wind down by playing Tecmo Bowl. One night, the topic of The Sports Machine came up.

“I asked him, ‘Remember the George Michael thing?’” Travis said. “He laughed and said, ‘I was wondering when you’d bring that up.’ Then he said, ‘It was pure luck. I just threw it up over my shoulder.’”

Travis shakes his head. “If you go back and watch it, it was wild. Almost like a hook shot from midcourt. He kind of turned, chucked it one-handed, and the buzzer went off. The ball dropped through.”

Most would call it luck. But anyone who’d seen him work knew it wasn’t.

Because luck doesn’t stay after practice. 

Luck doesn’t chase perfection when no one’s watching. 

Luck doesn’t keep the lights on long after everyone’s gone home.

And luck sure doesn’t earn you a spot at Hannibal-LaGrange College, where Drew shined from 1996 to 1998, finishing his career on the national stage at the NAIA Division I national tournament.

Years later, the glow that once found him in a small-town gym would fade from the screen that shared it.

The Sports Machine aired its final episode on March 25, 2007. After thanking his co-host and crew, it’s been told that George Michael smiled and said, “Last one out, turn out the lights.”

Years earlier, in a quiet Monroe City gym, I like to imagine those same words echoing differently.

Practice over. Bleachers empty. One kid still out there, shooting. Dreaming of something bigger.

And maybe, from the doorway, a coach called, “Last one out, turn out the lights.”

But Drew Quinn didn’t answer. He just kept shooting. The sound of the ball echoing back like his reply.

Because for Drew, turning out the lights was never the end of the night.

It was the proof he’d stayed long enough to shine.

Carrying the Game Through Time

“Which three books would you take to help rebuild civilization?”

That’s the haunting question left behind in the 1960 film The Time Machine, after the inventor, H. George Wells mysteriously vanishes into the future. His loyal friend, David Filby, returns to the lab to find the time machine gone, along with three missing books from the inventor’s library.

The camera lingers. The question lands.

“Which three would you have taken?”

It’s a brilliant question, because it’s not really about books. What do we carry forward when the world resets? It’s about what truly matters. Culture, values, and legacy. The essentials worth persevering, when all else is gone.

So let’s put a twist on this concept. Let’s say the time machine was real. But instead of saving civilization, your mission was to save something smaller…

You are to rebuild basketball culture.

No stats. No records. No history of what the sport is (or was). Just a blank slate. Basketball culture itself would be starting from a fresh hardwood floor or patch of dirt somewhere in the far distant future.

Instead of taking three books, the time traveler takes three NBA Entertainment VHS tapes. The NBA Entertainment vault holds more than fifty-five videos over a twenty year period, but only three can survive to teach the next generation what this game once was, and what it could be again.

What do you bring to teach the future how to build the game again?

For a generation raised on rewind buttons and magnetic tape, the NBA Entertainment collection was our history book. Each tape didn’t just show the game, it taught it. These weren’t just highlight reels. They were stories frozen in time. And if you’re picking just three to carry the spirit of basketball forward, the choice matters. Pick wisely.

Here’s what I’d bring.

NBA Jam Session (1993)

If you’re going to teach the future what basketball felt like, you start here. NBA Jam Session was pure hip-hop from Naughty by Nature, Kris Kross, and Bell Biv DeVoe rattling under the highlights. It was Shawn Kemp cocking back a tomahawk, Larry Johnson spinning into a rim-shaking two-hander, Dominique Wilkins unfurling a windmill. It was Magic whipping a no-look pass, Isiah threading the needle, Stockton lobbing it up for Malone and Shaq bringing down the entire stanchion. This was the NBA as a mixtape, a language of style and sound. Those names may not echo in a new civilization, but if the game ever had to begin again, NBA Jam Session would. Because it wasn’t just about the game being played, it was about the rhythm, the creativity and the feeling it gave us.

Come Fly With Me (1988)

Michael Jordan wasn’t just a player, he took the game to new heights that inspired a future generation of players. Come Fly With Me documented the rise of a cultural icon who redefined gravity. Future civilizations will need this tape to understand what it means to dream big and hang in the air just a little longer than anyone else. Because if you’re trying to rebuild basketball from the ground up, you’ll need something or someone to inspire to.

Dazzling Dunks and Basketball Bloopers (1988)

Because no culture is complete without joy.

Hosted by Marv Albert and Frank Layden, this wasn’t just a blooper reel, it was a reminder. That for every dunk, there’s a missed layup. That for every game-winner, there’s a slip on the floor. The game isn’t just glory, it’s grace in the face of failure. 

You can almost see it. 

Those three tapes spinning again in some distant future, each one shaping the game’s rebirth in its own way.

One teaching how to rise. One showing how to move with soul. And one reminding us how to laugh, how to miss, and how to try again.

The time traveler didn’t go back to fix the past. He went forward.  Not just to teach the game but to make sure they remembered how it felt.

Because those three tapes weren’t just about basketball. They were about what it means to be human.

And in watching them, they wouldn’t just relearn how to play. They’d remember why it was ever worth playing at all.

So now the question is yours:

Which three tapes would you take?

The Walk Down Lucky Street

Ups and downs are expected in life, especially in sports. The hills will give you a workout, just try not to get too sore.

That’s what they don’t tell you when you fall in love with a game, that it will break your heart sometimes. That it will test you in the quietest ways. And that it might, if you’re lucky, teach you something even greater than how to win.

For us, it started on Lucky Street. A road that winds through Fayette, Missouri. But for my brother Jaryt and me, it became something more. It was the first place we learned what it really meant to lose.

We were just kids then, fresh out of junior high, undefeated and full of belief. Coach Kevin Garner took us to our first team camp, Jeff Sherman’s Runnin’ Eagle Basketball Camp, at Central Methodist College (now Central Methodist University). We walked in with pride. We walked out with perspective.

The camp director had placed our freshman team in an older Junior Varsity division, against players bigger, stronger, and seasoned. In our first game against New Bloomfield, we scraped out a win. In the second, we crumbled against Eugene. We turned the ball over again and again. Each mistake meant push-ups. Coach was relentless, but not cruel. He was teaching us something, and we knew it.

We didn’t just get beat, we beat ourselves. The scoreboard wasn’t the problem. Our effort was.

Afterwards, we walked a mile from the recreation center on campus to Fayette High School for our next game. Silent. Humbled. Down Lucky Street. It felt like anything but.

Our walk down Lucky Street

Outside the gym, Coach pulled us together in the cafeteria. His voice rose at times. And then it would drop. And that somehow hit harder. There was disappointment in those words.

“You didn’t just get beat. You beat yourselves. That team didn’t out-talent you. They didn’t out-scheme you. But they did outwork you. And effort? That’s 100% in your control. And when things got tough, some of you shut down instead of stepping up.”

He looked around from player-to-player. Locking eyes with each of us.

“You can have all the potential in the world, but if your effort is inconsistent and your mindset isn’t right, we’re just going to keep beating ourselves, and that’s the worst kind of loss. Because I’ve seen what you’re capable of. I’ve seen you execute. I’ve seen you compete. But this morning, we didn’t play to our standard. We played down. We played soft. And that’s not who we are.”

He paused. Let it hurt.

Then he challenged us.

One game left today. Christian Brothers College (CBC) Junior Varsity. A team with a name that carried weight across the state. He looked at us and said, “You need to walk into that gym and play your best basketball. Not because of who they are, but because of who you are. And who you’re becoming.”

We were ready. Or we thought we were.

Then, early in the game, Matt Johnson stepped up and took a charge in transition. It was textbook. But the referee saw it differently. A whistle. A foul. And then a second one. This time on Coach Garner, who had erupted in defense of Matt. Too many words, too much passion. He was tossed from the game. But it didn’t stop there.

“Coach,” a staff member said. “Not only are you gone. You can take your team with you.”

Our heads sank.

But then Coach did something none of us expected.

He didn’t storm off. He didn’t argue his way out the door. He gathered us back in the same cafeteria, sat us down, and looked each of us in the eyes once again.

“If I ever feel like you’re in the right, I’ll stand by you. Every time.”

We looked back at him, and we knew. He meant it.

He believed Matt had sacrificed for the team by taking that charge. And even if the ref got it wrong, Coach wanted us to know his reaction wasn’t about the whistle. It was about us. About standing up for your guys when it counts.

He’d go to battle for us, not just when it’s easy, but especially when it’s not.

Because that’s what loyalty looks like.

It wasn’t about the charge. It was about trust. About belief. About having your back when no one else does.

It was about always being there for us. 

We don’t remember the final scores of that camp. We remember that. Those words.

The game isn’t just about wins and losses. It’s about learning. And growth. It’s about cold days that eventually warm. About the valleys you pass through and the roads that teach you where your light lives.

Two years later, Coach Garner would leave Clark County. Within a few years, he’d take Sullivan to the state tournament. I watched proudly from the Hearnes Center stands, remembering that group of boys walking down Lucky Street. Talented but untested, still learning what it meant to rise to a standard instead of settling for comfort. And I knew the team he now led had been taught those same lessons about effort, accountability, loyalty and being there for each other when it mattered.

Years later, Jaryt would get into coaching as well. And Coach Garner? He eventually stepped away from the sidelines entirely. But he didn’t leave the game. He became an Assistant Executive Director at the Missouri State High School Activities Association (MSHSAA), overseeing basketball across the state, with responsibilities like interpreting rules, working with student transfers, school compliance, supporting teams, and having the honor of handing out medals at the Basketball State Tournament.

In 2021, Garner announced his retirement after a stellar career in education and administration. 

That same year, Jaryt’s Boonville Lady Pirates made a historic run, earning the school’s first-ever girls basketball state championship.

But something about that moment didn’t sit quite right.

Tradition holds that a school’s representative on the MSHSAA Board of Directors presents the trophy and medals for their region. That’s how it’s typically done.

But loyalty doesn’t always follow tradition.

Because it was never just about a missed charge call. It was about trust. About belief. About having your back. About showing up, even when it’s not required.

And then… there he was. Coach Garner.

He made the trip to Springfield, Missouri. Not out of obligation, but out of loyalty. Not for a ceremony, but to keep a promise. Garner wasn’t scheduled to take part in the weekend’s award recognitions.  But the Class 4 trophy presentation, the one Boonville would be part of, was different. That one, Garner made sure he didn’t miss. That one, he needed to be there for.

Presiding over the official presentation, with medals in hand and pride in his eyes, Garner placed the medallion around Jaryt’s neck.

Garner placing championship medal around Jaryt's neck

Because decades earlier, in a quiet cafeteria outside a high school gym, he looked a group of wide-eyed boys in the eyes and said, “I’ll always be there for you.”

Some streets are just roads. But Lucky Street? That was the beginning of everything.

A lesson in humility. A vow of loyalty. A reminder that the game will bring both ups and downs, and the best coaches, the ones who leave a mark, will also show up for you.

Especially when it matters most.

That’s the kind of road worth walking.