(Editor's note – This tribute to Gordon Pogue written by his son, Greg Pogue, ran Feb. 16 in The Daily News Journal in Murfreesboro, Tenn. Gordon Pogue passed away the following day).

Starting the fire to warm the gym so the team could practice over Christmas break was just part of the job for the head basketball coach at this rural high school. It usually took an hour or so for the gym to warm up enough so the squad could get in their work.

Before the players showed, coach would coach son on how to shoot jump shots and pass off the dribble. After practice, the coach would gather the practice gear, bring them home to be washed, and then do it all over again the next day.

Or maybe it was bouncing in the back seat to and from Tuesday and Friday night high school basketball

games that were more than just competition, but rather a communal rallying point and gathering place

for the local folks. It was as much a part of the weekly routine as church services on Wednesday night.

Back then, dad coached both junior varsity and varsity teams in the doubleheader long before the

advent of girls basketball. The only one that counted, though, was the nightcap, which meant for either

a happy or somber ride home.

“Your dad is the coach?” I would be asked by adult and fellow youth alike.

“Yes, Coach Pogue is my dad,” I would respond.

Being the son of the center of attention in a gym full of wannabe coaches made me feel proud. It also

meant for many a supper of hot dogs and chips.

It also made me grow up being a wannabe coach, too. To this day, I'm still that way, but my coaching

friends already know that.

This week as former basketball players and students of life – as well as family and friends -- visited

Gordon Pogue in the hospital room in which he will never leave, that hit home along with a myriad of

emotions. Encapsulating five decades into one or even a hundred of sittings isn't easily done.

For soon, my father will lose consciousness and then his life. It is a time of sadness and rejoicing and

relief. His suffering will soon end.

After turning 81 on Valentine's Day, it is time to celebrate his life and do tell how many people my

father impacted as teacher, coach, father, grandfather, veteran, wannabe farmer (that just about killed

me when we moved to a small farm during my high school days) and wonderful person.

And back in his days, he was one heckuva basketball player at Lewisburg (Ky.) High School, where

he was named all-district five times. Yes, that's right, he was all-district performer on the high school

basketball team as an eighth-grader. For years and maybe still does, he held the Region 4 tournament

single-game rebounding record of 28. Yes, that's right, he had 28 rebounds in one game.

His high school play landed him a basketball scholarship in the early 1950s at Western Kentucky under

legendary coach E.A. Diddle. A standout on the WKU freshman team, he never played a varsity game

after enlisting in the Navy ahead of being drafted into the Korean War.

Dad was a rock star in the Navy, though. He was considered one of the best basketball players in the

Armed Services at the time. And that landed him plum assignments in Alameda and Hawaii. Guess those

naval base commanders liked their basketball.

Upon his honorable discharge, dad was hired as a graduate assistant coach at WKU by Diddle, who

helped him land the head high school coaching job at the new Brownsville (Ky.) High School. There, his

team would win 52 games in its first two seasons and propel him into being a bright young coaching star

on the Kentucky high school basketball scene.

And that also landed him a college assistant coaching job at Northwestern (La.) College, a notion that

didn't fit his desires. Soon, he returned from the bayou to Kentucky for a lengthy high school coaching

career.

All the while, dad dabbled in woodworking. Truth be told, he might have headed that direction if he

could have made a living at it. Then again, I remember him selling World Book encyclopedias during the

summer to make ends meet.

He also fashioned himself a farmer, too. So, when he bought 25 acres and dragged the family from the

city to the country, little did I know the kicking and screaming back then would unwittingly develop a

strong work ethic. After getting up early before school to bottle-feed calves in the dead of winter, raise

tobacco, cut and haul hay and raise a pepper patch, any work these days seems like a walk in the park.

These are some of the fond memories of my father. Yet, they only scratch the surface for me and my

mother Nannie Ruth, sister Angela, late brother Anthony, grandchildren and great-children, and all

those he touched.

So why not write my tribute to my father while he is still alive and can read it? By this time next week, I

probably won't have that chance.

My father reminds of Jimmy Stewart's character George Bailey in the movie “It's a Wonderful Life” and

the quote from angel Clarence Oddbody that went, “Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many

other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?”

Gordon Pogue isn't leaving any holes. He filled so many so many times over.

I love you, dad. You really did live a wonderful life.

Greg Pogue is host of the morning sports talk show on WNSR 560-AM and managing partner of Blue

Restaurant. E-mail him at Greg@Blue-Restaurant.com.