A friend remembered
He was the star basketball player, but he was humble about it. He dated the head cheerleader, though at the time he preferred the company of friends.
I’m talking about Gene Painley of Uniontown, who died recently. Gene was a friend and a touchstone of my youth. Later, seeing him as an adult, we fell naturally into the roles we carved out for each other during our years in high school: we acted like dolts, complete idiots.
It was a role that came, well, naturally for me. Gene I’m not so sure about. Underneath, I had the feeling he was a little sad, a little bereft. I think he hurt inside.
But that was later. At North Union High School in the mid-60s, he was a superstar. He was probably the best pure shooter I ever knew. Gene was not more than 5-10, maybe 5-9. He had thick shoulders and legs as stout as tree trunks. He was deceptively quick. He had a sixth sense of how to get open for a shot. And, boy, could he bang ’em home.
He possessed a physical intelligence that was, to the unpossessed like myself, uncanny. A football as well as a basketball player, he was a superb athlete.
I can see him now in the gym, during a game, at the old high school. He lifts one from the corner; the ball rolls gently around the rim before falling through. Score one for the good guys.
And for the good guy. Gene was a good-natured, sweet-tempered guy. As far as I could tell, he didn’t have a mean bone in his body.
He made people happy.
I remember a night probably in early 1964. We had played, I think, at Beth-Center. Afterward, after boarding the bus and before pulling out for the ride home, Coach Taylor stood in the aisle in front of the players and cheerleaders. He was beaming. He was absolutely radiant. He said, “We’re on our way now” — he meant to being a winning team and for him, I suppose, a winning basketball program.
Gene, as was often the case, was the star of the game. He was the one who was largely responsible for putting the happy on Coach Taylor’s face.
When we played Brownsville, at their ear-splitting, smallish gymnasium, there was always a fight, or the threat of one. Maybe we were just relieved to get back on the bus after another scrappy contest, but the air was festive. It became even more so after it was discovered a pair of briefs — men’s underwear — had been discarded on the bus seat Gene was sharing with his girlfriend.
Goodness only knows how the underwear got there. It was a bit unsavory, to say the least.
Pretty soon everyone on the bus except Gene and his cheerleader-girlfriend began to shout, in unison, “Gene lost his underwear, Gene lost his underwear!”
Talk about high school humor: juvenile, for sure; but it was funny, at the moment. The thing is, Gene didn’t get mad. Though undoubtedly embarrassed, he went along with the ribbing.
I was proud to be Gene’s friend, though I was sometimes puzzled by his choices. I remember one afternoon following the last bell of the day. Gene and I were just about out the door when his girlfriend appeared practically begging him to stick around until cheerleading practice was over.
She was standing on the landing of a stairwell. We were on the floor below, looking up. I would have died for her, she looked gorgeous, in shorts and blouse, but Gene told her no, he and I were going.
I thought to myself, “Gene, are you crazy? You’re giving that up to come with me?”
Both Gene and the girlfriend are gone now.
I didn’t see Gene much after high school. A year apart, we didn’t attend the same high school reunions. We’d occasionally bump into each other. As I said, the chemistry remained the same. One of the last times was at Meloni’s restaurant. I was picking up a food order.
“Hey, Geneee.”
He acted puzzled. “What’s your name?”
“Eh.”
“Dick!”
“Yea, that’s right. Is it Gene?”
“I think.”
See, dumb and dumber.
Richard Robbins lives in Uniontown and is the author of two books — Grand Salute: Stories of the World War II Generation and Our People. He can be reached at dick.l.robbins@gmail.com.