This article first appeared in the March 1996 Electric Consumer Magazine. It has since been republished in various newspapers and at least one book, but only once was it reprinted with permission.
©1996 JSam Communications All rights reserved.
A few athletes are blessed in their careers with a moment like no other; the grand-slam that wins the series; the touchdown over the big rival school; or the kiss from the girl-of-my-dreams cheerleader after hitting the free-throw that wins the state championship. Of course, those are the moments of success. Sometimes those moments come and go in a rush of, well, lack of success. In either case, the moment often lasts forever—like it or not.
In the case of Hickory High's famed guard, Shooter (from the movie Hoosiers), it was the latter case. His big shot at the buzzer teased the inside of the rim then spun out. For Shooter, the next chapter of his life was to become a hometown drunk.
In the case of Portland (IN) High School's famed forward, John Coldren, it was also the latter case. His big shot in the big game, actually ALL of them, never even saw the inside of the rim. None went in. For John, the next chapter of his life was to become a hometown lawyer. (There's another line here but it would be too easy!)
It was the Portland Sectional championship of 1962. John was the big man on campus, about six foot four, and awaiting him at the Regional level was a much awaited match-up between John and another of the state's top players of that year. The sports pages were already speculating about who would have the better game in the Regionals because, after all, Portland was playing (chuckle) Pennville for the championship and that little cross-county school had little chance.
You guessed it. For whatever reason Portland High wasn't clicking that night and Pennville was. It did go into overtime, but big John couldn't buy a basket, or free-throw, in the OT either. Portland lost by 1 point; arguably the one John never got.
Whoever said time heals all wounds never had a game like that in a sectional championship in Indiana!
But John's a classy guy. He picked himself up, had a LifeSaver, and headed off to college and law school. Time was healing his wounds when he returned to Portland to practice his trade. He also decided to take up baseball umpiring on the side. And that's where our story really begins...
Seventh inning stretch. John's sweeping the plate clean when he first hears the voice. No, this isn't the "If you build it..." thing. This is clearly coming from the stands and is clearly directed at John...
"NOT ONE POINT! NOT ONE @#$% POINT!"
John repositions himself discreetly to see who is yelling. Nothing. Nobody. It doesn't even seem as though anyone else has heard it. He gets back behind the plate and yells "Play Ball" and as if an echo in a canyon comes the reprise...
"NOT ONE POINT! NOT ONE @#$% POINT!"
He never saw the guy. The game ended and everybody went home, with John just a little curious. Okay, maybe even a little peeved.
Fast forward two or three years. John's walking downtown Portland. A car slows down in the same direction as the passenger-side window drops and a voice from the shadowed driver's-side shouts out...
"NOT ONE POINT! NOT ONE @#$% POINT!"
Gathering his senses John rushes to the curb to get a better look. The old sedan still has acceleration and pulls a clean getaway. He doesn't remember ever having seen that car around town before, and doesn't remember seeing it again to this day.
Space restrictions prevent telling about each episode of these chance (?) meetings with this fan from hell. They occurred pretty much on schedule every two or three years, and all of them were pretty much the same; the shouted one-liner, the clean getaway, and a remarkable lack of witnesses who could help identify this wound salter. But a couple more incidents do stand out with distinction.
John's career had gone well in his hometown. He served as Chamber president and was even elected State Representative (he easily carried the Pennville precinct). One of his favorite political activities was going to watch the Indiana Pacers, and at least once, in the mid 80s, he was able to score court-side seats. During the pregame warm-ups John is minding his own business when Tom McMillen—an even-bigger-than-Coldren forward for the Washington Bullets—walks up, offers his handshake and says, "Hey, aren't you John Coldren?" Impressed that his exploits in the Statehouse would be known to someone like McMillen (who had already announced his intentions to run for congress), John jumps up, grabs the hand and acknowledges that he certainly is. McMillen looks straight into John's eyes and says
"NOT ONE POINT! NOT ONE @#$% POINT!"
He turns and dribbles in for a layup with John still standing about three feet out on the floor with his hand out and mouth open.
Just a few years ago John was walking through the lobby of the bank building where his office is located when someone brakes the respectful silence of the financial institution with
"NOT ONE POINT! NOT ONE @#$% POINT!"
John spins around and this time he sees him. Positive ID. The old guy in the line at the teller's cage. John has had enough. Walking up to the guy John is preparing his righteous indignation give-it-up-and-get-a-life lambasting when the old codger of slight build interrupts him before he begins. "I bet you have had enough of this, haven't you." He seems sincere and John is a bit taken back and is beginning to think his twenty-year tongue-lashing might be over. The aging gentleman continues. "Yeah, I've been pretty rough on you over the years; guess it's time to quit..." Then, in what seems to be one perfectly executed play, he leaves his spot in line, pivots around John toward the door and escapes untouched while cackling, "...when I'm dead and boxed!"
But this time there were witnesses. One of them even thought they knew where the guy used to work, but they weren't sure. None knew his name. And all of a sudden John wasn't even sure he wanted to know anymore. After thirty-some years the mythology of it all has almost become worth the humiliation and embarrassment.
Excuse me, I should have capitalized ALMOST. However, John's appreciation for basketball, fans, and humor have actually allowed this whole thing to contribute to the healing process, which he claims is just about complete after more than three decades.
This story probably won't help put the memory of that cold February night in 1962 to rest for John. No, he'll probably find a whole new generation of hecklers from the Indiana Senate where he is counsel to the pro tem, to the Jay County REMC where he is corporate counsel, to the dozen or so civic and charitable organizations he works with in his hometown. But, that's just the price of a good Hoosier Hysteria story. At least they haven't made a movie about this one with Dennis Hopper in the lead. Yet!
By the way, it's been about several years now since that last encounter in the bank. Unless the guy is dead and boxed...