Tramel: Christmas stories to warm the heart
A Christmas story, circa 1980s: Oklahoma was home, but Indiana was the annual Christmas vacation. Each year, the family made the 16-hour trip in an Econoline van to Anderson, Indiana, to an aunt’s house, where the whole family assembled for several days.
The trip often included snow and icy roads, and once they arrived in Anderson, there were cousins everywhere, lots of food, eventually presents, the latter after an interminable wait while the Christmas story was read from the Gospel of Luke and everyone in the house had to proclaim what they were most thankful for.
Quite the adventure for the boy from Oklahoma.
“It was just awesome,” he said.
But one year, the calendar fell funny, and the family didn’t make the return trip home to Oklahoma until New Year’s Day.
Forty years ago, multiple televised games were scarce. New Year’s Day was a holy day for a young football fan. And our boy’s dad knew it.
The father was a gridiron fan himself, and he knew what being cooped up in a car on Jan. 1 would mean to his 10-year-old football fanatic.
So the dad produced the best gift possible. A six-inch, black-and-white television, powered by the cigarette lighter.
Laugh if you will, but that was cutting-edge technology for the day, the equal of iPhones ad iPads and whatever Star Trek communicator you might have in your hand today.
Before the trip to Indiana, the boy researched all the network affiliates between Oklahoma City and Anderson — Indianapolis; Effingham, Illinois; St. Louis; Rolla, Missouri; Joplin, Missouri; Tulsa.
On the trip to Indiana, our man tested the television to make sure the stations came in. And on the holy day, the trip home was complete with football, on a tiny screen, with shaky reception. Best football viewing ever.
The boy is all grown now and spends many a New Year’s Day making broadcasts, not watching them. A devotion to football and a dad’s devotion to his son paid off for Toby Rowland.
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A Christmas story 1915: Bonnie liked the man she chose. He seemed gentle. Seemed genuine. Seemed kind.
Born in Norway, he and his mother and his siblings joined his father in Chicago, where his dad had found work with the World’s Fair of 1893.
The family settled in Chicago, and our man found athletics and academics and soon enough a job. His father died when the son was in college, and the son feared having to quit school and support his mom. But his siblings urged him to stay the course.
Then he married, and he was busy. A scholar. A ballplayer. Eventually a coach. A businessman. And it was 1915. Not exactly the age of enlightenment when it comes to male domestication.
But five days before Christmas, Bonnie gave birth to their first child. Football season was over. There was a break. And Bonnie’s husband took to fatherhood immediately, helping with the baby and around the house. Of course, he had free time.
Then when the football calendar returned, he didn’t deter. He stayed committed to child-rearing and household chores. Stayed committed to his family, complete with annual summer adventures as he went all over the country.
And he stayed that way for 16 years, until a fateful plane crash took the life of Knute Rockne.
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A Christmas story, 1960s: The basketball coach took his team to University Heights Baptist Church for a special Christmas service. The squad was playing in an out-of-state tournament and would be celebrating the holiday away from home.
The church had saved the first two rows of the sanctuary for the visiting players and coaches — or maybe church members regularly steered clear of the front — and the pastor welcomed the squad.
The minister saluted the esteemed coach, calling him a “long-time Presbyterian.”
The coach was known for his demanding and no-nonsense personality. But on this day, he was in a good mood.
The coach smiled and whispered to the player sitting next to him, “Boy, I’ve been a Methodist most of my life.”
The coach indeed was a Methodist, but he could go to a Baptist church and be called a Presbyterian and smile. He let some things go, though doing that on the hardwood never came easy for Henry Iba.
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A Christmas story, 1965: His first Christmas present didn’t come until he was 16 and living up north.
Born in poverty in Silver City, Mississippi, his father died before he was born. His mom raised a bunch of kids by scrubbing floors. His first pair of shoes came at age seven. He started working odd jobs at six, barefoot, but there wasn’t much demand.
Somehow, his mom scraped together a turkey dinner each Christmas, but then the family would go hungry for a month, making up for it.
Some of the boy’s older siblings had fled north to find work in Chicago. He eventually joined them, living in the ghetto, but it still was a better life than in Silver City.
His athletic ability took him to Detroit at age 16, to play basketball at Pershing High School. A family took him in. The Bells guided him, loved him, expected respect and gave him a sweater for Christmas.
His talent took him places. Including to court. Our man sued the NBA to allow him to leave college early, paving the way for players of future generations to reach the league before age 22. A rule that was named for Spencer Haywood.
Merry Christmas.
Berry Tramel: Berry can be reached at 405-760-8080 or at btramel@oklahoman.com. He can be heard Monday through Friday from 4:40-5:20 p.m. on The Sports Animal radio network, including FM-98.1. Support his work and that of other Oklahoman journalists by purchasing a digital subscription today.
This article originally appeared on Oklahoman: Berry Tramel's Christmas stories to warm the heart for 2022
