COLUMN: The Tallest Man I've Ever Known

"Cause when it all comes down to zero, there's nothing more this life could ever give. And I know I'll never find another hero. Not another one like him."

- Sturgill Simpson, "Hero"

NORTHPORT, AL — I can hear the sound today as clear as it was over two decades ago.

Swish.

One shot after another, the nylon net kept snapping on the old ragged basketball goal in my grandparent's driveway. My brother, uncle and I stood by watching as my Granddaddy, standing flat-footed in slip-on house shoes and a white T-shirt with holes in the armpits, nailed shot after shot after shot without even having to jump.

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His hands were like baseball mitts and big enough to easily palm a basketball. And indeed, his muscle memory that day in the driveway was something to behold.

Swish. Swish. Swish.

John Robert Chism — my Granddaddy and one of the greatest Tuscaloosa-area basketball talents you've likely never heard of — died Valentine's Day morning at Hospice of West Alabama.

He was 83.

My Granddaddy was so much more than a grandparent and a forgotten basketball star, though.

He was a direct descendent of one of west Alabama's first settlers, a U.S. Army veteran, a loving father and husband and a literal towering figure for my entire life up to the very moment of writing this column.

Standing straight up, when his back was still good, he figured in the neighborhood of 6-6 or 6-7 and was a kind of living folk hero up until the day he died. Seemingly indestructible and strong enough for any task, I always assumed he would live forever — a personality for the ages like Achilles, Paul Bunyan or Babe Ruth.

This made it that much harder to reckon with as he languished in his hospital bed in the days and weeks before his death, still conscious and communicating up until his final hours.

He was ready to go and I can't say I blame him. And after all, he had put up one hell of a fight.

I could expend thousands upon thousands of words telling you the story of Robert Chism and it still wouldn't do justice to the impact he had on our lives. Still, as the family scribe, I feel it is once again my duty to tell you these stories before they're lost.

My Folk Hero

There's a shadowbox above the television at my grandparents' house that holds the picture you see above this paragraph, along with my Granddaddy's blue and yellow No. 33 basketball jersey from Montgomery High School.

Unlike many over-the-hill former athletes, I've never had to take the word of family or the man himself to believe the tales of his glory days.

An old family scrapbook holds numerous yellowed clippings from the Tuscaloosa News that recounted his feats and, even as recently as this year, his name appeared in an article written by Billy Gray and published in the Northport Gazette.

Despite erroneously reporting that my Granddaddy played ball and attended school at nearby Gorgas High, we were all grateful for the mention as Gray accurately recalled his height by writing "After all, the little country school had 6 ft 6 Robert Chism. Let's see the [Tuscaloosa High] Black Bears stop that guy!"

Regardless of the aforementioned factual error, Montgomery High was still very much a "little country school" in northern Tuscaloosa County like its Gorgas High counterpart.

And from an early age, my Granddaddy showed promise on the hardwood, despite playing at such a tiny school. Indeed, there's a certificate in the scrapbook from 1955 to prove it, signed by legendary Tuscaloosa News sports editor Ed Watkins when my Granddaddy was named to the Tuscaloosa News All-Tournament Junior High First Team.

In high school for the Montgomery Hornets, he would go on the capture the imagination of many across the county, putting up big numbers in almost every contest and leading his team to victories time and again over bigger schools who had much more in the way of resources.

When us grandkids were playing sports growing up, Granddaddy would often joke that at Montgomery, they had to practice outside on a dirt court.

We would all get tickled at the thought, but the thing was, he was dead serious. Picture, if you will, the rag-tag group of boys from the iconic 1986 basketball movie "Hoosiers" — only poorer and more rural, if you can believe it. While my Granddaddy was obviously the main attraction, his team was a talented and physically imposing one, playing with high-scorers like Leo Freeman, Jerry Freeman, Buddy Ellis and J.C. Wicker.

But Granddaddy's passion for the game was pure and his raw talent was undeniable, which was evident in the coverage by sports reporters. For instance, in a game in 1958 under coach Trice Ayers, he knocked down 27 points in a last-minute 70-67 win at Brookwood High.

In another contest against Millport, he scored a career-high 36 points. And the clippings go on and on, with nearly each one commenting on his size and briefly detailing performances where he logged 20 or more points for the Hornets.

He was also a spectacular baseball player and, standing as tall in high school as Aaron Judge does today in his New York Yankees uniform, he surely cut an imposing figure as a vacuum in centerfield for the Hornets.

For basketball, though, we often wondered growing up why he never went on to play in the NBA or even at the collegiate level, opting instead to marry my Mawmaw, join the U.S. Army and live a quiet life next door to us in Northport.

Truth be told, he had only wanted to play basketball for his hometown Crimson Tide, but was never given the opportunity — surely one of the most bone-headed snubs in the program's history, at a time when he was at least two or three inches taller than the average NBA star.

I do remember him telling me that the oversight by the UA basketball program was enough for him to set out on a different course in life, despite receiving looks from a few smaller colleges.

Apart from the unceremonious end to his basketball career, he was proud of these moments, so they're more than worth mentioning. But it's not how I'll remember him.

The Tallest Man I've Ever Known

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My Granddaddy loved old Westerns, particularly anything featuring John Wayne.

And maybe that's why, even from a young age, I always saw similarities in the two towering figures — both sporting massive, wide-shoulder builds, a noticeable wave in their hairstyles and deep drawling voices.

He could also whistle with the best of them and I can still hear the little riffs he would cut as he washed dishes or manned the stovetop. And while he might not have made it to the highest level in basketball, he was a professional at popping you with a washrag for a laugh.

Some of my most cherished memories take me back to getting off the school bus at his house in the afternoons, where he would most certainly be waiting with a plate of saltine crackers and peanut butter (still one of my favorite snacks), a bag of popcorn or, if I was really lucky that day, fresh fried chicken like you've never tasted before.

On one such occasion after a school day, when the weather was warm, he set up his small charcoal grill outside and flipped burgers while I shot basketball in the driveway.

Sitting in his lawn chair, he smoked cigarette after cigarette and, at one point, I was inspired to grab a long, thin piece of kindling, stuck it in the hot coals and let the end begin to burn.

I then stood straight up, blew out the flame, stuck the other end of the stick between my teeth and proudly proclaimed: "Look Granddaddy, I'm just like you!"

Instead of eliciting a laugh from him, he had a look of shock on his face as I stood there with a grin while biting down on the smoldering piece of kindling.

He subsequently delivered a sermon about how bad smoking was and how he would soon give it up. Sure enough, he achieved the admirable accomplishment of quitting cold turkey and never again picked up the habit.

I was reminded of this story as I stood outside of hospice on the campus of the Tuscaloosa VA Medical Center amid a beautiful Valentine's Day morning — chain smoking cigarettes with my eyes burning and my face sore from crying.

After all, this was the man who taught me how to fry chicken and how to skin a squirrel. He taught me how to pick peas and snap off corn from the stalks in his garden. And he taught me how a man is supposed to conduct himself and his business with quiet strength and dignity.

As far as I know, the only thing he ever failed at was teaching me to drive his ancient Farmall tractor, which still makes for a beloved memory when thinking back to trying to shift gears on the rattling piece of machinery as he and others stood by hollering directions at me and laughing.

If I'm being honest, it's difficult to say if I even would have ended up in this profession had it not been for the unbridled access to his typewriter as a kid. I can still hear the thuds of those heavy keys and, while I couldn't tell you a thing I wrote, I knew I wanted to be like him.

As we all got older, work schedules dominated our lives while his health slowly began to deteriorate. I'll always remember that feeling in the pit of my stomach when I received a call from my Mama on Christmas Day 2022 to tell me he had been taken to the hospital.

They were certain he wasn't going to make it much longer, but visitor limitations at the hospital resulted in most of us not seeing him until the next day.

With tears streaming down my face, I was led into the hospital room at DCH, presumably to say my final goodbyes and did so thinking it would be the last time to see him alive. It's worth noting that while a loving man in his own hard-scrabble way, my Granddaddy was a product of his own time and not one to get mushy or show much in the way of affection.

But that day, for the first time in my adult life, he told me that he loved me. As soon as I got in the car, I turned into a puddle and squalled like a child the entire drive home.

As providence would have it, though, he recovered enough to spend the next few weeks in hospice care, both on the VA campus and at home. I should pause here to say how grateful we are for the kind souls walking the halls at Hospice of West Alabama who made it just a little bit easier for us to endure such a heartbreaking chapter of our lives.

We also should count ourselves blessed for the month and a half that followed his initial hospital stay, despite the physical and emotional stress it placed on all of us as he was moved from the hospice facility to hospice care at home and then back out again to the VA campus.

We were able to joke a few more times, drink a few more cups of coffee, watch a few more Westerns and even celebrate one last Christmas with him after our annual family Christmas gathering was canceled for only the second time in our lives — the first being during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic.

And I'm so thankful for those few extra moments we were gifted.

I write this partially as my own personal obituary for him and as a tribute to a great man, but also as a reminder to value the time we have with our friends and loved ones. I was reminded of this Tuesday morning as I stood around in the hospice parking lot laughing with my younger brother, who also happens to be my best friend.

You only get so many of these moments and we should do our best to not take them for granted.

Due to his massive physical stature and apparent ability to do anything, I always figured my Granddaddy would outlive us all — "Too mean to die," I would lovingly tell folks.

But, as it inevitably will for all of us, one's time does eventually come.

Still, whether it be those frayed yellow scraps of newsprint or the countless memories he left behind, that mountain of a man's legend is not likely to fade anytime soon.

I love you Granddaddy and I'll never forget you.

Ryan Phillips is an award-winning journalist, editor and opinion columnist. He is also the founder and field editor of Tuscaloosa Patch. The views expressed in this column are his own and in no way reflective of any views held by our parent company or sponsors.