Manchester loses first link to title team

When Kim (Ellis) Eckert heard that a former classmate, Paul Rush, had passed away recently at the way-too-young age of 56 as the result of a motorcycle accident, she immediately thought of one thing, apple cider.

Meanwhile, her husband, Bob, who was also in Manchester High School’s class of 1974 with Paul, had a totally different subject, basketball, come to mind.

Apple cider and basketball?

Two seemingly unlikely bedfellows indeed, but in the case of Paul, they fit like a glove.

For in growing up back in the day in tiny Manchester, where everyone was looking to carve out his or her own niche so as to have an identity – to be somebody – Paul was able to come up with two monikers.

And a couple more that may not have gotten lost in the shuffle over the years.

Paul and his family lived right across from the high school on West Nimisila Road and ran an apple orchard. They sold both apples and, in the fall and early winter, cider, and as a result, everybody called him “Cider Paul.”

A good nickname to have, to be sure, for theirs was the best cider around. And if my dad was still alive, he’d tell you so. Every time somebody would visit our home in the fall, my dad would jump into his big Chrysler Newport and drive them the mile to the Rush home. He would buy the visitor a gallon of cider so they could find out what he already knew – that you just couldn’t beat it. It was the best there was. If I didn’t know better, I would think my dad got a cut of the profits.

But that wasn’t the case. He just enjoyed good cider, and a nice conversation with the kindly Mrs. Rush, who would put on her coat and walk to the building behind the house where the cider was kept.
There was no charge for the conversation, which my dad probably enjoyed just as much as the cider.

But as Paul grew older, he became known for another thing – that is, being the manager of the 1974 Class AA state champion – and undefeated, at 26-0 -- Manchester boys basketball team.

As such, Paul is sadly the first boy off that club to have passed away. This is then a signature moment for everyone who remembers that squad.

The head coach, Bernie Conley, died about 20 years ago, and his assistant, Bill Just, has been gone for decades. Ruby Slayman, the official scorer – and proudly so – of that team, died a short time ago.

All the boys – minus Paul, now – are still with us, though, including Eckert, a point guard who was the first man off the bench behind Mike Phillips, Jeff Roberts, Jack Sliger, Tommy Thompson and Tim Neff. Hopefully all of them will be able to attend a 40th anniversary homecoming during the 2013-14 season that is in the works. That’s news to the players, by the way, but there will be more details later.

If you think team managers get no respect now, then you should have been around four decades ago. With little thanks and plenty of grief, they did the dirty, grunt-work jobs that nobody wanted to do, but had to be done.

They gathered balls, towels, uniforms and water bottles, and had to be ready at a moment’s notice when somebody absolutely had to have something ASAP.

But don’t feel sorry for Paul. He loved it. He loved sports. He loved basketball. And he loved the Panthers.

Paul was a Manchester guy through and through.

So to be around all the things he loved, was, in fact, a labor of love. It wasn’t work.

And to be part of a state champion to boot was something Paul always held dear to his heart. He was proud of that, as well he should have been.

Paul will be missed at the reunion. That’s too bad. Part of the plan was to have some of the players bring him a plastic bottle of Gatorade while he sat there and did absolutely nothing except maybe lean back in his chair.

Paul was probably aware – or maybe he wasn’t – that a wonderful family now lives in his old home. He would have been glad to know that the parents are kind and considerate people – just like his mom and dad were – and that their kids play sports at Manchester.

What he may not have known is that the father is from Hudson.

Ah, yes, Hudson.

Mention Hudson to Paul and he would have told you about one of the top moments of the 1973-74 regular season. Then a member of the Suburban League, Manchester played host to Hudson late in the year. The Explorers had a good team, too, and a good coach in Dave Stouffer, who made the comment after the teams’ game at Hudson earlier that season that the Panthers had played football, not basketball, against his kids and had really roughed them up in a lopsided win. The inference was that the Panthers were thugs.

That angered Conley, a principled, no-nonsense, old-school guy who prided himself on his boys playing hard, but not dirty. Conley had that look in his eye that night in the return match. You knew something was up.

Usually one to substitute liberally and give his players a rest once they had opened a big lead and sealed the deal, which was the case in nearly every game, Conley stepped on the gas pedal for all 32 minutes and played his starters almost the entire time.

At the end of the game, when Phillips – all 6-foot-10 and 260 pounds of him – got off on a breakaway and dunked the ball, which was against Ohio High School Athletic Association rules then, and then hung on the rim for a second or two as the final buzzer sounded to rub in the final score of 103-49, Stouffer looked like he was just about ready to pop a blood vessel.

Paul loved it. He grinned broadly and laughed heartily.

Those are the things you also have to remember about Paul. The wide, warm smile. The laugh that made you laugh when you heard it, or just thought about it.

Then there was the passion. When he cared about something, he cared deeply about it.

Paul’s classmates cared about him, too.

The girls from that class 38 years ago will remember him as being as sweet as that cider.

The guys will remember that he was a sports junkie.

And all of us – the boys and the girls, now with gray hair, retirement portfolios and grandchildren -- will miss you greatly, Paul. Thanks for giving us a chance to remember that glorious winter so long ago. 
We knew the last thing you would do in this world was to make us smile.