When we lose a fellow classmate- memories of them still live through us and give us strength. The time we have spent with those we've lost makes them part of us. Our thoughts are with all of you who have loved and lost.
Steve as a great guy . We would play basketball with Scott Pace and others at his ward. Then came the free throw shooting contest and i can tell you he never lost. I am sorry to learn of his passing.
As many may know, Steve followed his passion for sports writing for several newspapers (he was sports editor for the Horizon). I probably shouldn't be telling tales but when the ABA was the big draw in town and a rookie sensation with a beachball Afro, known then simply as Julius Ervine, came to play the Stars one Sunday in late December 1970, Steve found himself on the horns of a dilemma. Desperate to see what all the fuss was about, Steve hatched a plan - quite out of character, really - to cover his tracks for the evening.
Knowing his parents would never approve of him spending a Sunday taking in the profane pleasures of a professional basketball game and aware of my fallen angel status, Steve suggested a rendezvous that would satisfy both requirements of getting him out of the house without arousing suspicion and - more importantly - attending the game. I've always assumed the line he fed his folks about going to a fireside was true - in that there probably was one, somewhere, at ward house nearby.
Not wanting to leave anything to chance, Steve instructed me to meet him out front of Shorr's Dairy Queen - now Shivers - on 33rd. The evening was dark, dreary and what I remember most, a dingy, swirling fog adding an air of impending doom Steve no doubt took as an omen for what would befall him after carnal appetites had been slaked.
It was a scene straight out of The Maltese Falcon: Steve, trying to look the part, loitering in the phone booth, receiver in hand in mock coversation until he spied the twain milky stains of the headlights from my Ford Galaxie coming into focus. In all his years slam-dunking his way to the Hall of Fame, Dr J never moved so adriotly as Steve did that evening, Usain-like, bolting from the booth, flinging open the car door and settling into the front seat all in one fluid-drive motion.
I'd have to look up now which team won that evening - the Squires or the Stars - but recalling its particulars for all my dear Eagle alums, Steve ... "Look homeward, Angel."
Vicki Harding
When we lose a fellow classmate- memories of them still live through us and give us strength. The time we have spent with those we've lost makes them part of us. Our thoughts are with all of you who have loved and lost.
Steven Marshall
Steve as a great guy . We would play basketball with Scott Pace and others at his ward. Then came the free throw shooting contest and i can tell you he never lost. I am sorry to learn of his passing.
Leslie Eldredge
Had the biggest crush on Steve when we were in the 6th grade. Friendly competition about who was smarter, girls or boys. Sad to hear of his passing.
Michael Thelin
As many may know, Steve followed his passion for sports writing for several newspapers (he was sports editor for the Horizon). I probably shouldn't be telling tales but when the ABA was the big draw in town and a rookie sensation with a beachball Afro, known then simply as Julius Ervine, came to play the Stars one Sunday in late December 1970, Steve found himself on the horns of a dilemma. Desperate to see what all the fuss was about, Steve hatched a plan - quite out of character, really - to cover his tracks for the evening.
Knowing his parents would never approve of him spending a Sunday taking in the profane pleasures of a professional basketball game and aware of my fallen angel status, Steve suggested a rendezvous that would satisfy both requirements of getting him out of the house without arousing suspicion and - more importantly - attending the game. I've always assumed the line he fed his folks about going to a fireside was true - in that there probably was one, somewhere, at ward house nearby.
Not wanting to leave anything to chance, Steve instructed me to meet him out front of Shorr's Dairy Queen - now Shivers - on 33rd. The evening was dark, dreary and what I remember most, a dingy, swirling fog adding an air of impending doom Steve no doubt took as an omen for what would befall him after carnal appetites had been slaked.
It was a scene straight out of The Maltese Falcon: Steve, trying to look the part, loitering in the phone booth, receiver in hand in mock coversation until he spied the twain milky stains of the headlights from my Ford Galaxie coming into focus. In all his years slam-dunking his way to the Hall of Fame, Dr J never moved so adriotly as Steve did that evening, Usain-like, bolting from the booth, flinging open the car door and settling into the front seat all in one fluid-drive motion.
I'd have to look up now which team won that evening - the Squires or the Stars - but recalling its particulars for all my dear Eagle alums, Steve ... "Look homeward, Angel."