More Than a Season

On May 18, 1992, Kevin Garner sat down at his computer to begin putting together the end-of-year booklet he created for each player. The first page was always a letter to the team. He wrestled with how to best capture the season—how to say goodbye to this team as he looked forward to the next.

Two months had passed since the end of a 25-2 season, a dream year for the Clark County Indians. The pain of coming up short of Columbia still lingered. But so did the joy. The pride. The love.  It’s easy to feel the impact of that season and the individuals that shaped it. The difficult part is putting into words what a team like that means to you.  But the school year was ending, and it was time to let the emotions out and onto paper.

Garner, then in just his second year as varsity boy’s head coach in Kahoka, let his fingers slowly move across the keys.

"It has been great having you this year on the team. We have been through a lot in such a short season. The lows of losing the Palmyra and District Tournament will never diminish the highs this season has accomplished; being 25-2 and ranked No. 1 in state, beating Keokuk, Fort Madison, Brookfield, and winning the Highland Tournament for the first time in school history. 

All of these memories will stay with me for a long time, and I hope they are as memorable for you...

Sincerely,

Coach Kevin D. Garner"

 

He didn’t know it then, but that letter would outlive the box scores. The stats would fade. The games would blur. But that message—and the meaning behind it—would become something timeless.

Coming into that 1991–92 season, there wasn’t much reason to believe it would be special. Seven players had graduated from the previous year’s district championship team. Just three players with real varsity experience remained—Kevin Ross, Bill Esterday, and Troy Hamner. There was talent waiting in the wings, but it was unproven. Juniors like Travis Ellison, Matt Dienst, and Ryan Walker were expected to contribute. Seniors Scott Nutter and Travis Eddleman were ready for their shot. But most of the basketball world expected the Indians to slide.

Garner didn’t. “As a coach, I was always optimistic,” he said. “There was anticipation, excitement—and, truth be told, a little angst.”

Garner believed the pieces were there. He believed in their fast pace, their perimeter shooting, and their bench depth. But belief only gets you so far. Something else had to happen.

And it did.

From the opening tip of the season, the Indians looked different. They thrashed Canton behind five threes from Hamner. They pulled away from Scotland County with a 19-7 run sparked by back-to-back threes. When Highland threatened, it was the bench—players like Brandon Worrell grabbing key rebounds and blocking shots—that sealed a comeback win. They overwhelmed Keokuk with pressure defense. They caught fire from deep, averaging nine threes a game. Suddenly, people were watching.

The team wasn’t just winning—the players were buying in.

With each victory, the fast starts kept coming, the three-pointers kept falling, and the scoring stayed balanced. If this were a film, now’s when you’d cue the montage of blowout wins.

As the streak continued, so did their rise in the Missouri Class 2A state poll — up to No. 2. They edged host Highland and claimed the Highland Tournament title, a first in the event’s two-decade history.

But pressure has a way of sneaking in. It can harden a team. Other times, it starts to splinter it. And for a moment, you could sense the tension creeping in.

Garner noticed it too. The week before back-to-back showdowns with Brookfield and Fort Madison, he sensed a lack of concentration. So he did something unusual.

“I blew the whistle and told all of them to grab their outside shoes and jackets. We loaded the bus, drove out to the track… then passed it and went to the bowling alley,” he said. “Our practice that day was a bowling tournament and pizza.”

Garner wasn’t overlooking either opponent—he just knew his team needed to relax.

It worked. 

The next night, more than a thousand fans squeezed into Edna L. Seyb Auditorium to watch Clark County take on No. 4 ranked Brookfield and their 6’8” junior star, Brian Kelley. What they saw was a classic. The Indians forced 20 turnovers and wore down the Bulldogs. 

Troy Hamner made a deal with his coach: win by ten or more, and practice would be a breeze. But for every point under ten? One dreaded wind sprint.

“We were up 8 with less than 30 seconds left and Travis Ellison was on the line,” Garner recalls. “Troy came over to me, pinched me, and said, ‘See, I told you! Ellison is going to hit both of these and we’re going to win by 10.’”  Ellison only hit one. The Indians won by 9.  

No sprints were ran the next practice.

Coaches want their players to embrace the opportunity, not be overwhelmed by it. They try to not be stagnant at any point during the season – constantly evolving their team and each individual so they keep improving. This is what allows you to peak at the right time. There is no greater test than to schedule back-to-back games against two highly coveted teams in their respective states.

So, the very next night, they crossed state lines to play Fort Madison (IA) and 6’9” future NBA player Ryan Bowen. Fourteen of Ft. Madison’s fifteen players were taller than six feet. But the height of Ft. Madison did not deter Clark County’s senior 6’2” center Kevin Ross, who scored ten points in the first quarter to put the Indians up by five. The Indians fell behind in the second half but never folded. Ryan Walker came off the bench and hit two big threes. They rallied in the fourth quarter to win 56-53. They were 14-0.

If they wanted to earn the state’s top ranking, they had to go through the giants to get there—and they did. That weekend became the turning point—a proving ground. Slaying a giant one night and toppling a titan the next, the Indians not only held their ground; they claimed it.

Within the week, the Indians would earn the No. 1 state ranking in Missouri Class 2A. “Did I think we’d start 15-0 and be ranked No. 1?” Garner said, “As we headed into the Highland Tournament, I knew this team had an opportunity to be very special.”

And special they were. A 15-0 start. Seven different leading scorers throughout the year. Many nights there were 4-5 players in double figures. Players sacrificing ego for the team. “They played so hard, shared the ball so well, and helped each other out. It was the key ingredient to their success.” Garner said.

With each win, the noise grew louder. Whispers of playing in the Hearnes Center began to crescendo. Garner recalled, “I thought we had a legitimate shot at winning a state championship when we were 19-1. I was sharing game film and talking with coaches from all over the state. The Eugene coach and I had become good friends as well as the coach down in Alton. He was ranked 4th and was 14-0. Both of these coaches had shared with me that we had a chance.”

But as every coach knows, even the most magical seasons aren’t guaranteed the storybook ending.

The final heartbreak came against Highland. Again.  This time, it was in the District Championship, their fourth clash of the season. Down eight in the fourth, they clawed back to within one. They had the final shot to tie. It bounced off the rim.

And the dream ended.

“Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good,” Garner said. “For a season like that to happen, everything has to go right. And we were so close.”

Still, seasons like that don’t just disappear when the scoreboard turns off. They stay with you. They teach you things.

Two years later, Garner would move on to Sullivan, where he’d take a team to the Final Four in 1997. He credited the 91–92 team for shaping that run. “They were mirror images,” he said. “One of the greatest lessons learned was to enjoy the season and help the players enjoy it too.”

Thirty years later, he still talks about them like they’re family.

“The coaching staff felt like every member of the team was one of their own.  We hurt when they hurt. We laughed when they laughed. And most of all, one of the greatest gifts is to see them now—succeeding in life, raising families.”

In 2018, Garner stood center court again. This time, handing out state medals to the Clark County girls' team in his role as Assistant Executive Director at the Missouri State High School Activities Association (MSHSAA). One of the players? The daughter of Kevin Ross, his center from 1991–92.

“Presenting the medals to those girls was one of the highlights of working at the MSHSAA office,” he said. “I absolutely thought about how close the 91–92 boys team came. I wish we had been able to accomplish that as a group.”

But the truth is, they did accomplish something. Something bigger than a trophy.

They carried the torch lit by the teams before them—teams that had already defined what it meant to wear Clark County across your chest. And in their own way, they added to that legacy. They inspired. They didn’t just chase greatness—they helped shape the standard. And because of them, the teams that followed didn’t have to start from scratch. They were building on something strong. Something real. Something nobody could tear down.

The team also gave a coach the season of his life—a season that never stopped meaning something.

More than thirty years after the final buzzer of the 1991–92 season, Kevin Garner paused to reflect on the team that shaped a chapter of his life. He once again searched for the right words, hoping to capture what that season still meant. He then began to type a final letter to his 1991–92 team. This is what he shared:

“Dear Troy Hamner, Scott Hunziker, Bill Esterday, Travis Ellison, Matt Dienst, Greg Weaver, John Wheeler, Justin Brunk, Travis Eddleman, Scott Nutter, Ryan Walker, Kevin McVeigh, Kevin Ross, Brandon Worrell, Tony O’Brien, David Parker, Jason Acklie, Chris James, Jarrod Field, Terry Sturm, Chauncey Wilson, and Eric Young,

THANK YOU!

Thank you for allowing me to be a small part of your life. Thank you for sharing a game that I enjoy and love. Thanks for teaching me how to navigate life through the lessons learned in a game’s disappointments and rewards. Thank you for showing me what it means to be a part of something bigger than myself. Thank you for helping me understand what it means to be part of a family.

This is a chapter in my life that I will NEVER forget. Each of you — regardless of your role on the team — truly touched my life through a game that was played during the 1991–92 school year. If I could turn back time and replay that season, there are very few things I would want to change. There are a couple of outcomes I would work hard to make happen.

Etched in my mind forever are your faces, your tears, your smiles, the team dinners, the winning shots, the celebrations, the huge wins, the marking of the Tomahawk after each victory — but most of all, the friendships.

Thank you for being some of the greatest young men a person could have the opportunity to coach.

Love you all,

Coach Kevin Garner”

As the years have passed, Kevin Garner has coached other teams, handed out championship medals, and walked countless sidelines. But no matter how far life has taken him, a piece of his heart always drifts back to the small gym in Kahoka. To the team that reminded him why he fell in love with coaching in the first place—the team that showed him how a season can carry both joy and heartbreak in equal measure, and how both are worth holding onto.

In a career full of games and seasons and teams, this one never really left him. It still shows up from time to time, in unexpected ways. Their voices still echo in quiet moments, their faces show up in old photographs and unexpected memories—including a few that feel especially sacred now. And when it does, he’s reminded that the best seasons aren’t always defined by where they end, but by who you walk through them with.

“All of these memories will stay with me for a long time,” Garner once wrote, “and I hope they are as memorable for you…”

Eastbay Delivered the Perfect Fit

There was a time—not long ago, but long enough to miss—when one of the most sacred deliveries a teenage athlete could receive wasn’t a scholarship offer or a letter from a coach. It was a glossy, stapled magazine that came in the mail. Not the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue—though that got plenty of attention too—but the one that really got your heart racing.

Eastbay.

To the uninitiated, it might’ve looked like any other catalog. But for those of us who lived and breathed high school sports in the ’90s and early 2000s, Eastbay wasn’t just a magazine. It was a lifeline. A teammate on paper. A loyal friend. It was Christmas morning twelve times a year.

Growing up with a size 13 foot meant choices at the mall were limited. Correction—nonexistent. Especially for twin brothers. Sporting goods stores might stock up to size 12 if you were lucky, but anything beyond that? Forget it. There was nothing worse than finding one pair left and having only one of us walk out with shoes—and a weeklong argument to follow. Eastbay was the solution. My cleats, my basketball sneakers, my track spikes—if they came from anywhere, they came from that catalog. And thankfully, they came in pairs.

And oh, the anticipation. The way you’d run to the mailbox, fingers crossed. The way you’d flip each page like you were decoding a treasure map. Fila Grant Hill 2. Jordan 12s. Penny Air Foamposite One. Adidas Superstars. Some kids read Sports Illustrated for the cover stories. We read Eastbay for the team shoes in six different colorways and the reversible mesh jerseys.

Circling items with a pen was practically a ritual. You didn’t just browse—you planned. You dreamed. You strategized your next season around those pages. And when someone at school mentioned not being able to find a certain shoe? It was like you showed up from thin air, flipping open your fresh issue—coming to the rescue like some kind of gear-slinging superhero.

Honestly, half my wardrobe came from Eastbay. Jackets, college team shorts, And1 shirts, tear away pants—it had everything. I didn’t walk into a sporting goods store for years—because I didn’t need to. Eastbay had it all. To me, it was Amazon before Amazon. I ordered with a phone call and a catalog number and my grandma’s credit card. Two weeks later, a box showed up on the porch like magic. No better feeling than ripping it open. I swear a glow formed inside each box when you lifted the lid.

For a generation of athletes, it’s hard to remember a time without Eastbay—it felt like it had always been part of the game. It’s wild to think that something so essential to our sports lives started from something so small back in the early ’80s.

                                      

In 1980, Richard Gering and Art Juedes took $7,000 worth of running shoes and started doing shoe clinics out of Wausau, Wisconsin. By 1983, they had a catalog. By 1989, they were handling team sales. And in 1990, Eastbay stamped its own logo on jackets, socks, and shorts, becoming not just a distributor, but a brand.

Their empire grew until it nearly filled a city block in Wausau. That was the first time I ever heard of Wausau, Wisconsin—Eastbay taught me geography right alongside gear. By 1995, Eastbay had gone public. Two years later, it was acquired by Woolworth and eventually became part of the Foot Locker family.

At its peak, Eastbay wasn’t just selling gear. It was shaping identity. You could tell what sport someone played just by the items circled in their issue. A quarterback wanted the Nike Shark cleats. A hooper circled the Nike Air Maestros. A sprinter drew stars around the spikes. It was how you told the world who you were before you stepped on the field. You held your identity in your hands.

But by the 2010s, the digital world had taken over. The same e-commerce boom that made online shopping easier than ever eventually made print catalogs feel outdated—even the mighty Eastbay. Screens replaced pages. Clicks replaced circles. The ritual started to fade.

And time, as it always does, moved on.

In 2022, Foot Locker announced Eastbay’s distribution center would close. The website went dark on January 13, 2023. Over 200 people in Wausau lost their jobs. The magazine that once sat on bedroom floors next to algebra books and practice jerseys or stuffed in book bags between homework and scouting reports—faded into the archives of memory.

Yet ask this 46-year-old former athlete what Eastbay meant to him, and I’ll smile. Maybe even tear up. It wasn’t just about gear. It was about belief—that somewhere in Wisconsin, someone cared enough to stock size 13s for a couple big-footed kids with big dreams.

Eastbay may be gone now, absorbed into the digital ether and corporate rebrands. But it lives on in the muscle memory of a generation who flipped its pages like scripture.

We didn’t just shop Eastbay—we dreamed through it. We circled possibilities. We built ourselves in those margins.

And now, looking back, there’s a sadness that creeps in. Not because kids today don’t get gear—they do, probably faster than we ever did. But it’s different. My kids will never know what it was like to run to the mailbox, to circle their dreams in ink, to flip through pages that felt like they were made just for them. The magic hasn’t disappeared—but the ritual has. And something about that feels like a loss.

It’s funny how the big endings in life never announce themselves. They sneak past quietly—just another day, another delivery, another tournament.

There is a nostalgic quote: At some point in your childhood, you and your friends went outside to play together for the last time—and nobody knew it.

I get it now.

Just like at some point, you opened an Eastbay, circled some gear for an upcoming game, and didn’t realize you’d never do it again.

For us, that moment came quietly—no ceremony, no warning. Just my brother and I getting ready for the annual Kiwanis alumni basketball tournament. We needed new shorts. Not just any shorts—this year it was Duke team shorts. Blue and white. No need to travel to Keokuk (IA) or Quincy (IL) to find a pair. We placed the order without a second thought. Just another Eastbay run.

                                       

Only later did it hit us: that was it. That was the last time we’d ever place an Eastbay order. The last time we’d flip through the pages, fill in the order number, and wait for the delivery to arrive. We weren’t just gearing up for one more game—we were closing the book without knowing it.

So no, Eastbay didn’t fold. It just retired—like a great coach who knew it was time after decades of showing up for athletes who needed it most. Eastbay may not deliver anymore. But it already gave us everything we needed.

And if you ever find one of those old issues buried in a box—creased, scribbled on, pages worn thin—don’t throw it out.

It’s not junk mail. That’s a time machine. 

That's a generation’s playbook.

One Shining Moment, One What-If

I love One Shining Moment. Every year, I sit through the men’s national championship game, even if I don’t care who wins, just to get to that three-minute montage. It never misses. The buzzer-beaters, the backdoor cuts, the heartbreak and the hugs. It’s basketball’s greatest sizzle reel. 

But every year, as I watch the footage, I’m not thinking about this year’s heroes. I think about 1995. And Toby Bailey. His reverse dunk. My favorite.

If you watched that year’s national championship game, you remember it—how could you not? Early in the second half, with the game still very much in the balance, Bailey received a full court outlet after a Razorback miss. He took three steps into the lane, curled the ball behind his head like a slingshot, and threw down a poetic reverse dunk that felt more like punctuation than points. That slam wasn’t just a statement. It was a signature—one that would help define UCLA’s run to banner No. 11. UCLA 89, Arkansas 78.

That dunk made it into the One Shining Moment montage. Of course it did. It was perfect. And yet, if I had my wish… it never would’ve happened.

Because if Missouri had beaten UCLA in the second round—if Tyus Edney doesn’t go 94 feet in 4.8 seconds—there’s no Toby Bailey dunk. I’m a Mizzou fan. Born and raised. So yeah, I wanted that win. I still do. That one stings. But over time, I've come to see that our heartbreak might've helped open the door to something bigger. 

It’s how 4.8 seconds changed everything.

Let’s rewind.

March 19, 1995. Missouri vs. UCLA. Round of 32. The Tigers are up by one with just seconds left. Edney takes the inbounds, blazes up the court, slices through the defenders, and kisses the ball off the glass as the horn sounds. UCLA survives. Missouri goes home. The dunk is still alive.

But what if Edney trips? What if Jason Sutherland takes a charge? What if Derek Grimm blocks the shot? Missouri wins. UCLA’s season ends. And then what?

Well, here’s the hidden gem: Ed O’Bannon doesn’t get to be the Most Valuable Player of the 1995 Final Four. Maybe a young Spencer Curtis doesn’t then role-play O’Bannon in EA Sports’ NCAA Basketball 09: March Madness Xbox 360 video game. No exposure. No agreement to be the lead plaintiff after seeing his likeness from the 1995 championship team being used. No class-action antitrust lawsuit by athletes against the NCAA arguing that athletes should be compensated for the use of their name, image, and likeness.

No dunk. No lawsuit? 

It’s not as far-fetched as it sounds, right?

O’Bannon has said that it wasn’t until years after that tournament, when he saw himself on the cover of a video game he never authorized, that he began to question the system. That image—him in his UCLA glory—might never have existed if Missouri had held on. The lawsuit that bore his name changed college sports forever, paving the way for NIL deals and a new era of athlete empowerment. And yet, its roots trace back to a weekend in March and a single, electric run by a team that could’ve been knocked out before the Sweet 16.

That’s the madness of March. Everything turns on a single moment. 

So as the confetti falls and the credits roll after the montage, I always come back to that dunk. Toby Bailey’s reverse was unforgettable. It was electric. It was an exclamation point on a championship. One that gave us a perfect highlight. But sometimes I wonder what the college basketball world would look like if it never happened.

If Tyus Edney doesn’t go coast-to-coast, maybe Missouri moves on. Maybe we make a run. Maybe we write a different kind of history.

But here’s the silver lining: that loss—gutting as it was at the time—helped spark something bigger. Without that UCLA run, maybe Ed O’Bannon never gets his platform. Maybe the system never gets challenged. Maybe players never get what they’re owed.

So no, we didn’t win that night. But maybe Missouri, in losing, helped college athletes across the country finally start winning, though they wouldn’t realize it for another 20 years.

One shining moment. One twist of fate. One what-if that changed the game.

It's Gotta Be Da Shorts

There’s a place in Bloomington that still smells faintly of leather and rubber soles, where the wall paneling hasn’t changed since the Reagan era, and where Michael Jordan once walked through the door. 

Read’s Sporting Goods isn’t the flashiest store. The fitting rooms are tucked down a dark wood-paneled hallway, flanked by batting helmets and first-base mitts. But if you look up—just before you duck into the fitting rooms—you’ll see it.

 

An original Nike “1988 NBA MVP Slam Dunk Champion” poster. Jordan frozen mid-flight—legs scissored, eyes locked on the rim, the ball drawn back like thunder in his palm. A moment suspended in air, like history holding its breath. It’s not a reprint. Not a knockoff. It’s the real thing. Creased at the corners. Slightly curled from decades of hot summers and midwestern humidity. Still glorious.

I was there on a Saturday afternoon with my daughter. She was trying on cleats. I was marveling at the poster, when one of the guys working the floor caught me staring.

 “You know he came here, right?” he said.

 

I turned.

 

“Jordan. After his rookie season. September ’85. Drove up in a Corvette. Parked right out front.”

 

He said it the way you talk about something sacred. Like a miracle. And in a way, it was.

 

Jordan had come to town for a charity game at Horton Fieldhouse, just up the road on the Illinois State University campus. The game was billed as “Full Court with Michael Jordan.” The opponents? A local team called the Twin City All-Stars. Jordan played for the WBNQ Cheapshots—named after the radio station that co-sponsored the event. Tickets were five bucks. Three if you were a student. The proceeds went to build a new arena and support the local Special Olympics.

But before any of that, he needed gear.

 

So he stopped at Read’s.

 

Jordan had lost his shorts the day before in Peoria. So he walked in, picked up a pair of gray ones—the kind coaches wore back then, high-cut and snug by today’s standards—and grabbed a set of Air Jordan wristbands. The originals. The ones with the wings logo, from before “Jumpman” was even a thing. He stuck around for a bit, chatted with the locals, threw a football around, signed a few autographs for the staff, and flashed that million-dollar smile. Then, as smooth as his jumper, he charged it all to WBNQ.

 

Then he left. Just like that.

 

That night, he scored 71 points.

 

Seventy-one. In a benefit game.

It’s the kind of story that lives in the grain of a place. Not in a museum. Not in a documentary. But in a wall poster above a fitting room and in the memory of a clerk who still tells the story like it happened this morning.

 When I told my daughter the story later in the car, she asked why he scored so many points in a game that didn’t even matter.

 

“It mattered to him,” I said.

 

And it did. You could see it in the photos—MJ screaming after a dunk, wearing that WBNQ jersey like it was Game 7. The crowd that night gave him more than applause; they gave him purpose. And he gave them a glimpse of what greatness looks like.

The best part? It was all for something bigger. That night raised money for a local cause—helping kids, helping families, helping the kind of town that shows up when it matters. 

Greatness came through that night, and it left more than just memories.

 

Now, all these years later, the poster still hangs above the entrance to the fitting rooms like a shrine. It’s not from that day—but close enough. A quiet reminder that once, for one perfect afternoon, a future icon walked into a small-town sporting goods store, bought a pair of short gym shorts, and lit up the court just down the road.

 

Sometimes greatness doesn’t need an arena.

 

Sometimes, it walks through the front door—and never really leaves.