A Dream Without Works is Dead

   My father and I had just returned home from watching Merrill, my older brother by 18 months, play a junior varsity basketball game at Granger High School in the fall of 1964. At the time, I was a ninth-grader at a beautiful new junior high school named Westlake, which is located in Granger, which is now incorporated as West Valley City.

Westlake Jr. High in 2015, the year of its 50th anniversary. I
was among the first graduating class from the new school.

   My ninth-grade school year was a pretty heady time for me. I was a member of the Westlake Junior High School basketball team. I had “fought my way” onto the team after many years of imaginary basketball games alone, one-on-one with Merrill, and with neighborhood friends and others who might venture by our “basketball emporium” in the driveway of our home in Granger.
   Dad had put up a basketball hoop with a wood backboard on the front of the garage. Almost year-round the neighbors and Mom knew where we were because of the thud, thud, thud of a bouncing basketball on the concrete, the clang of the ball hitting the metal hoop or someone’s body slamming up against the garage door. To this day I can’t understand how that garage door withstood all the punishment and still opened and closed just fine. But more often we’d open the garage door and move the car out so we could make layups and then in one motion duck into the garage so we wouldn’t hit our heads on the wall above the opened garage door.
   Dribbling the ball on the uneven, cracked and crumbling driveway was actually part of our “skills training” – if we could dribble on that mess without looking down at the ball, we could easily dribble the ball on the fine wood gym floors at school or at church. In fact, because Merrill and I had memorized every crack and every crumbling spot on the drive-way, we took advantage of the visiting players, who had to keep a close eye on the ball for fear of losing their dribble. But when they were looking at the ball, we were making a quick move at a steal. 
   If I wasn’t doing chores like taking out the garbage, washing the dishes, cleaning the house, weeding Mom’s roses in the front yard, weeding the garden out behind the garage and “bomb shelter,” or working at the old apartments just off the railroad tracks at 600 West and 600 North in Salt Lake, then I would be out on the drive-way practicing. Hour after hour and day after day I would practice layups and jump shots – finding the perfect spots that would reward me most often with a swish of the basketball going through the hoop.
   Those years of practice were interrupted by two shoulder surgeries because I had bad shoulders. It didn’t take much for them to dislocate. Just before entering seventh grade, doctors operated on my right shoulder – taking a piece of my right upper hip and pinning the piece into my shoulder socket to help complete the socket. During the recovering, I learned how to dribble with my left hand. I also learned to make layups and shoot with my left arm.

Last days of the Valley Vu Drive-In in Granger,
Utah. Credit: Chris Greenwell

   The following summer, after the my right arm had recovered from surgery, Mom and Dad went to the Valley Vu Drive-In about a mile away from home while several of our friends came over to watch “Nightmare Theater.” It was a perfect evening! I had just dined on my favorite food at the time – stuffing down two hotdogs with mustard and a bunch of chips – while watching TV. Gene Openshaw came back from the kitchen with a second plate of food and went to sit down next to me on the couch. I put my hand out to reserve the spot (I probably was just teasing because I did that a lot), but he sat down anyway – right on my arm. My shoulder popped out of place – but this time it stayed out. That was very unusual. In fact, the doctors had always wanted to get a picture of the shoulder when it was out and even had tried once to slip it out themselves – to no avail. But this time it was out and was staying out. I was screaming bloody murder! Merrill quickly got on the phone and called the drive-in. Fortunately, that was back before movie theaters got recorded messages, so he was able to get through to someone live. They located Dad and Mom, and they rushed home. Dad carefully got me out to the car and took me to Granger Medical Center about 10 minutes away. All the while I was crying in agony – every slight bump or jar would send shockwaves of pain through my body. When we finally arrived at

Dad said I was always like a geyser when throwing up!

Granger Medical, I was given a pain shot. When the doctor arrived, he was “excited” to get some X-rays while the shoulder was still dislocated. I was wheeled into X-ray room and put on the X-ray table, which was a “ton of fun.” But by then I was getting really sick to my stomach. I told Dad I was going to throw up. He warned the doctor, so the doctor got a little throw-up bowl and put it up to the side of my mouth. Dad warned him that it wasn’t going to be big enough – but it was too late! Like a volcano, all those pieces of hotdogs, mustard and chips came roaring out of my mouth and plastered my doctor, who tried to jump back and avoid the eruption. Too late, his suit was soiled from his tie down to his pants with all the remnants of my late dinner! Dad was having a hard time not laughing, the doctor was standing there in shock – he had never seen such a yellow geyser! But I was feeling a lot better!
   They took the X-rays, and then my doctor had to put the arm back in place. That really felt weird – not to mention painful! He had to literally pull on my arm and push his knee up against my side and slowly twist it back into place! When it popped back into place, I thought I was going to die! I was off the basketball court for a few weeks.
      A few weeks later I was scheduled to go to Scout camp, but I was very nervous because my left shoulder wasn’t completely healed from the “geyser episode.” But I wanted the canoeing merit badge. The problem was, though, I had to pass my swimming badge requirements in the cold mountain lake with a bum left shoulder – and I hadn’t been able to pass the swimming requirements in previous attempts in a warm swimming pool out in Magna where our Scout troop went once a month.

Merrill about the time of our Scout camp
in 1965, pictured in his Sunday attire
when he was a priest.

   Surgery on my left shoulder was already scheduled to take place right after the Scout camp. I decided I would try and gut it out in southern Idaho. I have no idea where it was because I was in the back of a pickup in the dark. Mr. Kershaw (the father of Merrill’s girlfriend and future wife) drove us up and back to camp. Merrill and Gene Openshaw or Bruce Sharp (I’m not sure which of the two), sat in front seat of the pickup with Mr. Kershaw and the rest of us were in the open back of the pickup with a camper shell cover over the back.   Swimming was really hard on my shoulders. But if I was to do any canoeing and get a canoeing merit badge, I had to get the swimming badge first. I remember praying to my Father in Heaven to help me make the long swim and not let me drown. I remember that I took a lot longer than normal to make the swim because I did the backstroke most of the way and took my time. But I passed the requirement – actually I really shocked myself – and got to do all the canoeing I wanted, earned a canoeing merit badge and had a fun camp.
   On our way home, we stopped just out of camp at a nature lake. I think Mr. Kershaw wanted to fish or check out the lake. I was doing a little exploring myself. That’s when I picked up, with my left hand, some type of bug or worm or whatever, and it bit me – or stung me or something – and I threw my arm up to get rid of it as fast as I could. That’s when I heard my left shoulder crack like it was a hard pretzel – more than just one crack. I thought I had dislocated my shoulder again – which happened way too often. It hurt like crazy – but then I was always hurting my shoulders. Merrill’s reaction was – here we go again! He was sorry – but …
   I rode the rest of the way home in the back of the pickup, bouncing around and clutching my arm – trying to keep it in one place so it wouldn’t hurt more than it did.
When we got home, Dad took me to the doctors, and they X-rayed the shoulder. I had broken the shoulder socket in half and the socket had broken away from the shoulder. They were going to operate on it anyway – so they moved up the surgery right there.
They used staples to connect the socket together and connect the socket to the shoulder and then tightened up the shoulder ligaments so the shoulder didn’t have as much range but didn’t so easily come out of socket.

Lee in front of the juniper tree at our home in
Granger in 1965.

   A few months later I was back on the basketball court. My dream was to first make the junior high basketball team and then the high school team – like Merrill. I tried to pattern my play after Jerry West of the Los Angeles Lakers and Oscar Robertson. They were incredible dribblers, shooters and team players.
   I could have given up I don’t know how many times. But I loved being able to make a shot, to dribble without anyone being able to get the ball away from me, and to make the pass that won the game.
   Dad had taught us from a young age how to work – and Merrill and I used that in sports. Merrill was great at all sports, but I was too frail for football, didn’t have the arm to throw a baseball very far or to bat well. In fact, when I did hit the ball, I wondered why it hurt my shoulders so much. It didn’t seem to hurt anyone else like that. But basketball was a different story. It didn’t hurt my shoulders to dribble the ball and it didn’t hurt my shoulders to shoot – unless someone blocked the shot – which I diligently tried to avoid. I felt I was a very good basketball player – especially for such a little guy.
   Between the seventh and ninth grades, I grew about six inches. Finally, I was tall – I thought. In fact, I was five-feet, four and ½ inches tall.
   During ninth grade, I couldn’t be in the school’s mixed chorus because it was held during the same period as a geometry class that Mom and Dad wanted me to take. I had shown an aptitude for math back in fourth grade and had progressed so that I was about a year advanced in math – and they wanted me to keep going in that area.
So, because I wasn’t in choir, I think I put my focus on making the junior high school basketball team. Plus I was in a new school, and everyone was new to the school. The drawback for me in our neighborhood was that I had attended Monroe Elementary my first six grades, then Kearns Junior High for seventh, Brockbank Junior High for eighth, and now Westlake for ninth grade – and all while living in the same house in Granger.

Photo was posted on the bulletin board
in the gymnasium after being named
by Coach Newton' as the most
physically fit among his gym classes
at Westlake Jr. High in fall of 1964.

So I didn’t have very many friends outside of our neighborhood.
   My gym coach at Westlake was Coach Newton, who was scheduled to be the head coach of the school basketball team. I thought that because he had seen me play a lot of basketball in class I probably had a good chance of making the team. I even received an “award” from Coach Newton for being the most physically fit student in all of his gym classes (he taught more than half of the gym classes). I could do more pushups, sit-ups and jumping jacks combined than any of the other guys in Coach Newton’s classes. It got to the point where I could run home from school – which was over a mile – without stopping. That was a long way for me.
   When tryouts came for basketball, I made all the cuts – except for the last one.
   When I didn’t officially make the team – I decided not to give up but to talk to Coach Newton. I told him I felt I was as good as several on the team and really would do anything to be on the team. Besides, I was willing to be the last or the second to last guy on the team. He finally relented. I had worked hard, I was determined, and I was gutty enough to talk the coach into letting me be on the team.
   Dad called me a “Banny rooster.”
   I played a total of 1½ minutes in regulation play – but I loved the excitement of the games and even just doing the warm-ups in uniform before the games. It was a chance for me to show off my dribbling skills – dribbling behind my back and doing a layout all in one motion. It actually was a real confidence booster for me in life – but still humbling because I didn’t get to play much at all.

Playing catch with Merrill in Liberty
Park in Salt Lake City in the spring of
1965, after I had had a "growth spurt."

    Some time during that basketball season, Dad and I sat in the old Buick in the driveway after one of Merrill’s games. I don’t remember how we got into the discussion or why we were sitting there in the car, but Dad asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up.
   My dream from the time I first watched my uncles Vivian, David and Clifford play for Bingham High School was to play basketball. So I told Dad I wanted to play professional basketball. I don’t remember if he laughed or what – but he pointed out that the chances of me making a living at playing basketball weren’t too promising. He wasn’t discouraging me from going after that dream but he suggested I think about an alternative course – or dream.
   He asked me what I would do if I didn’t make it as a professional basketball player. I thought about that for a minute and then said what I thought was a very practical alternative – “I’ll be a professional singer like Mario Lanzo.”
   Dad said, “Yes, you’re a really good singer, but what are the chances of you making a living as a professional singer?” I thought the chances were actually pretty good – since singing came so naturally to me.
  Dad then asked me what I would do if that dream didn’t work out. I thought about that for a while and realized I really didn’t have another alternative. Maybe I could become a scientist or engineer like Vivian, David and Clifford were doing in California.

I had a lead part in my drama class production of "Drop Dead"
at Westlake Jr. High during the spring of 1965.

   Dad then asked me what I would need to do to accomplish that. I answered that I would need to do really good in school and then graduate from college.
   He said that would be a very good alternative dream if the other two don’t work out. He pointed out that I would need to work very hard in school and earn money for college because the family didn’t have any funds to send us kids to college. He said that if I would hold on to those dreams and work at them, something would work out – and that I would find a career I would enjoy.
   Funny how that short talk in an old Buick with Dad that night was so right on: I didn’t make the high school basketball team – though I still think I would have been a starter at a small school like Richfield High School. The top basketball honor I received was being named to the Church Stake All-Stars team and playing in the All-star game. I remember I had a lot of fun practicing for that game and playing in the game.
   I did have a lot of success singing and even made Madrigals my senior year, but my singing career ended pretty much in college.

There's Lee on the right end of the second row up during
a performance of the Granger High Madigrals in 1967-68.

   However, Merrill’s involvement in high school athletics helped me get on as a manager on the high school football team, which led to being manager of the basketball team for all three years of high school. That and a suggestion and encouragement from an English teacher named Miss Plant led to my writing for the school paper as sports editor. And my involvement in singing and athletics and writing on the school paper I think helped me get elected as president of the Associated Lancer Men my senior year. And all of that combined reaped an academic scholarship to BYU and a scholarship to be a football manager at BYU, which led to my mission, where I served half my mission as the public relations director in the mission home.

After completing my degree at BYU at the end
of 1973, I started as the obit writer at the
Deseret News, soon moving on to the copy
desk. I hung up my tools there after 33 years.

   When I returned home, minus a leg, I still had a dream and a plausible career – which led to a thirty-three year career as a copy editor and copy chief of the church’s newspaper, the Deseret News. Life has been a whirlwind – really! I suppose that’s why I remember so many things from when I was young – it seems like just yesterday! 
   My life moved so slowly when I was young. I wanted to grow up and get on with life. Then all of a sudden I look back and wish I hadn’t been in such a hurry and had enjoyed my younger years – and especially my family years. I think I was always looking past the mark. Now I look back and wish I had not been in such a hurry to get somewhere that I left behind so many precious times with my children – especially my boys. I fret that I didn’t teach them the principles they need to succeed in life, how to work – and enjoy the pleasure of a job well done. I worry that I set a mixed example for them. They saw the older Dad who had worked so hard for so long that he neglected the more important things in life like, for example, temple attendance.
   The lessons I see from “A Dream Without Works is Dead” is that dreams are essential in our lives – even

multiple dreams. But dreaming is just the blueprint, if you will, of getting something done. We have to go out and do the work – make it happen and work toward those dreams. Work as hard as possible to make them come true and then things will work out – but maybe not exactly how we thought they would.
   But we can’t just dream and think it will just happen. We reap what we sow.
   If we have the faith to make it happen, then work to make it happen, good things will happen – but not necessarily exactly what we might have expected. And this is in conjunction with our spiritual side – because “all things are spiritual” to our Father in Heaven.