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