Obama 08 - Written 9/24/08

If Doc can sympathize with the self-educated Jude Fawley and his common-man character in the strict Victorian era, I sure as hell can sympathize with a former president of the Harvard Law Review, a half-black man who has dedicated his life to improve his country, a son of a single mother who is losing an opportunity at a dream because of his middle name.

In the Daily News recently, in classic Northeast Philadelphia fashion, a local resident was quoted as saying something to the effect of (and I paraphrase fairly accurately), “How could I vote for somebody with the middle name ‘Hussein’?” Impressive backward thinking, my fellow American.

I’m amazed, baffled, and embarrassed by the divide between the Democrats and Republicans in what seems like a “make-or-break” election following the disaster that was “43.” After seeing absolute devastation caused overseas by basic and truly imprudent thinking, half of our country feels comfortable with a party who feels one word answers such as “bomb,” “drill,” and “victory” will be sufficient strategies for the shape of our country. While, on the other side, a brilliant and capable man is being so maligned that a good portion of our country truly believes him to be Muslim, a lie so far from the truth that from the outside it’s comical. Unfortunately we’re on the inside.

As a 17-year old I probably have no grounds to say this, but then again most 17-year olds aren’t as inherently confident in their own view of the country and their history as Tim Vernon is (notice the third-person). Has anybody since Bobby Kennedy inspired the same utter giddiness and enthusiasm among the younger generation that Barack Obama has in 2008? Has anyone even come close?

I’m no Kendall Mattern and I’m not trying to say Barack Obama is any sort of savior, but when an educated American surrounds himself with educated people and arouses a whole sector of society that has laid dormant at the polls for decades, I’ve got to say this man is the one for me.

High School Football - Written 8/27/08

There’s something about football that separates it from every other sport. It’s endorphins and testosterone and adrenaline, but please don’t tell me it’s just teenage boy machismo because it’s so much more to me…Football is training camp and the hundred yard war and suicides and Hail Marys and 6 a.m. alarm clocks calling you to live football for 13 hours only to go home and study a playbook until you fall asleep and line calls and the “quickest two steps in America” and the love you feel for the guy next to you and the hate for the one across and scrimmages and film sessions and countless repetitions of “you make that block and it’s six” and Gerry Bertier and Mike Winchell and the fact that a class of physics students need half an hour to figure out the velocity and trajectory that an oblong, air-filled pig skin needs in order to fall into the hands of a receiver running away at 30 feet a second yet your QB knows the solution in a split second and eye black and ankle tape and wrist bands and the maniacal look in your teammates’ eyes in the locker room before the game and sunsets during warm-ups and bleachers slowly filling up like sand collecting in the bottom of an hour glass and hand held prayers and the thud of the first hit and everyone yelling in the huddle and halftime speeches and coverage adjustments and taking a knee to end it and bus rides home and the screaming thrill of victory and the echoing silence of defeat only interrupted by the hushed whimper of a 6 foot 4 250 pound 17 year old kid and sudden cramps and arm length bruises and the blood and the tears and the incredible feeling of fighting to get out of bed on Saturday morning because everything you have is lying in the grass and dirt 5 miles away.

First Love - Written 5/17/08

Who knew a piece of plastic could transform a 5-year-old on a pair of beat up roller skates into the 1995 Hart Trophy award winner.

A Sunday tradition, the Holly Hill Lane kids would grab our respective Fischer Price hockey sticks, strap up and roll into the street. Like the pros, we’d warm up, lines of shooters against the lucky kid picked to be the starter in net. With our hands to our hearts, we’d form a single file line, swaying side-to-side like Hextall, in tune with every note of the national anthem.

Thoreau once said that “the world is but a canvas to the imagination.” We knew no rules on the streets those sun-spilled afternoons. With the leaves of the evergreen as our flag, the yellow boom box as our speaker system, we’d emulate in exact detail the ones who ruled the game we loved. The laps, the gloves, the sticks; every seemingly miniscule aspect of the game we eventually perfected with time. We started with a piece of clay, adolescent sculptors with a model to match; kids with a vast knowledge of a game attempting to imitate movements with non-existent muscles.

The actual event, at least compared to the pre-game festivities, would be disappointing for those expecting us to measure up to the pros. Yet through our eyes, the asphalt was no different than ice, we expected each other to shake off scraped up knees – who’s ever seen Eric Desjardins leave the game after skidding on the ice?

The games were truly like no other. Where else could I skate up-ice, look to my left and see John LeClair, look to my right and see Mikael Renberg, yet return home with my two brothers? I was a legend in my own mind long before I was ever cocky.

Lately I've Noticed - Written 3/4/08

Lately I’ve noticed what is really important in my life.

I’ve realized that the “skip a night out to do work for college theory” is a load of bullshit, that Sunday’s are meant for Church, football, and homework – in that order – and that putting off a night to forge relationships to write essays is a slap in the hypothetical face.

I’ve noticed that I’m saying “I love you” a lot more often; now realizing that when I die I want every person I cared about to know. I don’t care whether it’s my mom every time I leave in the morning or my boys as we leave Wawa before our Saturday night.

I’ve begun to appreciate every moment in my life that renders a strong feeling of emotion, knowing that there are only so many, knowing that those petty, insignificant fights mean nothing and should never get in the way of being with someone you care about.

I’ve noticed I no longer fear death, but rather fear not living.

Cole - Written 2/25/08

Dear Cole,

A saying goes that those who love life shall have no fear to die. There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that on that spring-like February afternoon, there were millions of things running through your head, but fear was not one of them.

Cole, you were the love of so many people’s lives without them even realizing. Nobody will ever match your natural ability to brighten up every room you entered. On a daily basis, you took what can be a depressing, lowbeat school and made it into a party. Your commentary every lunch is now the stuff of legend. Everytime I walk past that beat-looking sophomore chick who you swore was the second-coming of Helen of Troy, I’ll think of you. Everytime Schelke speaks in that incoherent jumble, which is often, I’ll think of you yelling, “No one can understand you!!!” Everytime someone mixes mayonnaise and ketchup into their pasta, which is never, I’ll remember you in that never-been-wrong attitude telling those imitating a puking motion that we had no idea what we’re talking about.

Your persona didn’t change much when the weekend rolled around. No exaggeration, you were the life of every party – you raised every event to another level. I remember the first real ’09 party – Sih’s house early sophomore year, you and your boy Chase showed up late and it got ridiculous… “Who da fuck iz you,” Andrew puking everywhere, your eight-some in the furniture closet. You were awesome, man; that innate knack at making everyone around you laugh is truly unforgettable.

I guess a good judge of a life is the positive, quality impact we make on others. Cole, you passed that with flying colors. You completed in a short 17 years what others can’t do in 70. You found a girl you loved, a friend you loved, and a life you loved. They all loved you back.

You easily discovered things to be passionate about; sports, school, friends and family. You excelled in each through a certain never-quit mindset that most people didn’t realize you possessed. You always tried to display that easygoing, cocky, “everything-comes-easy-to-me” attitude, as if to make those close to you more comfortable knowing you could do anything you wanted. Maybe you began to believe it yourself, high on life that day on Sheaf.

But honestly, I think you’d want to go out that way. Every single situation you became involved in you dove headfirst, unafraid of what people thought, knowing that you have only so many opportunities in life, that they all must be cherished. Someone said you didn’t deserve to be in an AP class, you’d take pages of notes a night. Someone said you couldn’t finish the boot, you did three just for good measure. Every night out you treated like your last, interacting with nearly everyone, savoring every moment; exuding the eternal optimism everyone has spoken so highly about.

And if there’s one thing that I’ll forever take from your life; that ability to relish every instant spent with friends and family. You taught me how precious life truly is. You developed enough love in your family to teach me what it really means when a parent tells their child “you mean the world to me.” You made me realize it’s not weird to tell my boys I love them. You told me that life’s about the moments and the memories that’ll let us live on long after we’re gone.

Timmy Vernon

He Ain't Heavy - Written 1/4/08

As much as I’d like to say that my fearless, almost amused grin across my face was a product of audacity and a certain aversion to cowardice, declaring such would be lying. And, in my family, with my brothers, that assertion would be shot down before it ever took off. According to Pops, the biblical Cain represented all that the Vernon brothers stand against. “What am I, my brother’s keeper?” My dad had only one answer to that: “Damn right you are.”

You see, despite everything that my brother Billy may have achieved, my father taught him from the time I departed the womb that my success was his success, my failure his. Legend has it Billy’s first words came in phrase, not “Momma” or “Dada,” but “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother,” and, “We’re gonna stick together like glue.”

I can definitively say this photograph is my dad’s favorite. All that mattered in our relationship was captured in the picture. There were no extraneous, meaningless details; as he used to say, we cut out the bullshit and figured out what really mattered. This moment in time defines all that was our relationship; two boys leaning on each other on the brink of a new challenge, the first day of a new school year. We confronted every new trial with a blind trust; there was no need to ask one another to be there; each other’s presence was a given.

My dad hoped for us to develop that confidence in each other every single day of our childhood, and the vehicle he used was athletics. Dad would take us out in the front yard, hand us a ball and a bat, and leave us for the day. My mom used to pester my dad, fearing that the daily grind would tear apart the grass. Undoubtedly stealing the line from a favorite film or book, he’d reply, “I’m not raising grass, Jean. I’m raising boys.” And he was; bonds formed as we grew closer with each successive pound of the mitt. Inevitably, Bill and I played on the same intramural teams growing up. And despite an obvious competition even between teammates and brothers, whatever we did, we did together.

For us, the same rule applied academically, and it still does. A bad report card for the younger meant a lack of leadership from the older. A teacher claiming I constantly step out of line reflected poor guidance by my brother. Despite the age difference, despite the grade difference, whatever we did in school, we did together.

And finally, throughout our youth, Bill’s social life was my social life. When he went over to somebody’s house, I went with him. When a wise-ass kid had the bright idea to mouth off to me, Billy laid down the hammer (just in case I hadn’t already, of course). “You keep an eye on him,” my dad used to tell him. “Remember, the strain gets stronger. Wherever you two go, whatever you two do, you do it together.”

The same year this picture was taken, U.S. News & World Report published a story by Erica E. Goode, whose research showed that, “Sibling relationships outlast marriages, survive the death of parents, resurface after quarrels that would sink any friendship. They flourish in a thousand incarnations of closeness and distance, warmth, loyalty and distrust.” My father was the oldest of four brothers, and he had since learned the truth of Goode’s claim. With ties unlike those of any other pair; with a truly resilient, nearly indestructible relationship, my brother guided me as I entered a new phase of life, while never taking that hand off my shoulder.

Capital Punishment - Written 12/20/07

In the wake of the neighboring New Jersey outlawing capital punishment in the state, the argument over its use and morality has ensued over the past week.

I’ve truly heard every possible contention as to its positive and negatives: I’ve heard it’s inhumane, I’ve heard it’s only appropriate, I’ve heard it’s the only way to keep “bad men” off the streets. Shall I continue?

But to me, the obvious correlation lies between religion and the use of the death penalty. Is it simply a coincidence that the most conservative Christian state in the United States, Texas, has executed 405 prisoners since 1976, the most, by far, in the country? Not only is that number four times greater than that of the second state, but it is also more than the second through seventh states combined!

Most people relate death row to Hammurabi’s Code in Exodus 24 of the Bible, which claims if harm is done, for example an eye is stabbed out, then the cost should be simple, “an eye for an eye.” What most forget is Exodus 23, furthering the law, adding “a life for a life.” The religious conservatives of Texas find it clearly laid out; the best punishment for murder is murder, a life for a life.

But Hammurabi lived way before the era of men in touch with their emotional side, men like Raskolnikov who live, breathe, and eat romanticism and the explanation (and exaggeration) of feelings. It wasn’t until the Quakers did the self-proclaimed renaissance men of America realize that there was a punishment far greater than death.


Right now, there are three kinds of people on death row:

1) The Atheists – These people believe in no God, in no Satan, in no Allah. The lethal injection, the noose, and the chair simply mean the end to a cruel and unusual world.

2) The Sinners – They believe in an afterlife, and know theirs won’t be a pleasant one. Whether it be the fiery pits of Hell or a lost soul doomed to wander the earth for eternity, the Sinners fear the end. For them, there’s only one thing worse than actually being there – thinking about being there.

3) The Contrite – These religious men and women realize that their mistake was a huge one, yet they believe in a loving, forgiving God who accepts the sinners and the saints into His heaven. The Contrite have faced their Lord and are truly sorry for their actions. They know what lies ahead, and they do not fear it.


For me, the solution to a seemingly undying argument is simple. For all types of people on Death Row, or as Perry would describe it, “The Corner,” the end isn’t the worst they will face. So get rid of the death penalty, it’s that easy. When the court gives someone a life sentence, make it a true life sentence, none of this 20 years and parole crap. In fact, to make it easy, leave the current ruling system in place - except when someone’s sentence calls for death, simply transform it into solitary confinement for life. There’s no worse future for the murderers and rapists of the USA then decades alone to think about and “reminisce” about the crimes they committed.

Sinners, Atheists, and Contrite: Welcome to the United States of America!

Lessons on Crime and Punishment from the Bruise Brothers - Written 10/28/07

For the past 30 years, a furious debate has raged over how children should be disciplined by parents, with a special focus on how fathers should discipline their sons. One argument, represented by the post WWII generation of fathers, held that the small crimes of boyhood should be met with swift corporal, physical punishment, necessary to build young men of character. The more current view, probably an outgrowth of the 1960's liberalism, argued for a more nurturing and gentle approach, including reasoning and "timeouts" with elaborate explanations to help young children discover better behavior on their own terms. In fact, today, the latter, liberal approach to discipline is accepted as the correct way, with many considering the former approach almost "child abuse."

Reading that last sentence with the wisdom of our late teens, my brothers and I can only laugh. You see, we grew up with a father who rationalized his "tough love" by quoting the Bible, as if he wrote it just the day before. His favorite was Proverbs 13:24: "He that spareth his rod hateth his son." However, also being a man of education greatly influenced by my mom's library worth of modern parenting books, he had treated his first born and my oldest brother, Pete, like a reincarnated Baby Socrates. Little did we know how much the arrival of my brother, Billy, and I (only 22 months apart) would allow our Dad to return to his better judgment and make him say, "Screw the liberal parenting approach; the 1940's were right all along."

To more fully examine the complex societal and child raising debates, I will illustrate below some important passages from parenting "experts" and contrast those with my Dad's battle-tested ideas of "expertise."


“‘Punishment’ may alienate family members.” – Sal Sever, Ph.D.

At this point we were still living in the house on Holly Hill Lane, so I couldn’t have been over 7 years old. Back then, still too small to engage in any sort of real tackle football, my brothers and I played knee football in the living room (formerly the garage my dad transformed). In a weird, yet in my humble opinion, genius mix of Bill’s second grade education and my typical kindergarten imagination (along with an insufficient knowledge of professional sports), instead of simply being Terrell Davis vs. Gilbert Brown, he was Stegosaurus while I was Triceratops.

In this mini Knee Football League (KFL) - with a Jurassic twist – we simply played 1-on-1, with an oriental rug substitute for the famous Veteran’s stadium turf. One day, though, on a complete Kool-Aid/Ice Pop high, the typically one-sided game became a little more even.

Fifteen minutes into the game, I scored my first TD since the previous summer. Bill, known at that age for his extreme temper tantrums and complete incapacity for any form of self control, immediately punched a hole through the first thing he saw; in this case, the screen door to the outside.

So for scoring my first KFL touchdown, I was rewarded not the game ball, not a plaque or recognition at the post game press conference, not even a 7-11 Slurpee. Because I had a brother whose restraint matched that of an uncaged lion in the gazelle section of the Philadelphia Zoo, my reward was a 45 pushup sentence, administered equally by my dad to both perpetrator (Bill) and innocent victim (yours truly).

Two weeks later, still pissed off at my brother for my set of sore shoulders, I demonstrated my feelings not through eye contact, but rather through simple contact. As he drove past me towards our Fischer-Price basket, I whipped around and drilled him into the back, sending his face straight into the rim. The blood on the ground and the hole where his teeth used to be signified nothing more to me than reprisal. In the heat of the moment, especially with 8-year-old kids, cooler heads never prevail. English poet Samuel Johnson once said, “Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged.” That phrase defined exactly my feelings at the time.


“‘Eye for eye, tooth for tooth.’ –Don’t use. Not a moral [use of punishment].”- Philip Osborne

Other kids had this thing call “time out” that was supposedly a “punishment.” I guess my brothers and I read a different dictionary, because our two-word substitution for “punishment” was called “free shot.” The free shot was only allowed by my dad in those cases where he was “sure” that blame could be assigned to only one of us (usually Bill for picking on me, or Pete for picking on either of us). In those rare cases, the victim was allowed one free shot on the perpetrator. For example, if my dad only saw one side of a fight, he’d deem the older one guilty for picking on his little brother (although it was usually the younger who instigated it). Finally, the “full nelson hold” was placed on the guilty party by the neutral party (the third brother not involved), while the victim could throw a shot anywhere below the chin and above the belt (this punishment stopped once we developed muscles).

“Don’t use punishment to humiliate a child”- Louise Bates Ames, Ph.D.

My dad would agree with A.C. Benson when he said: “Little boys are odd, tiresome creatures…with savage instincts; and I suppose many fathers feel that, if they are to maintain their authority, they must be a little distant and inscrutable.”

Honestly, based on what I remember from my childhood, I would agree with that too. The Vernon boys were famous throughout the community for being the physical, out of control trio, who at any moment, over any issue, could break out into a brawl. Our family friends called us the “Bruise Brothers,” and found it funny anytime a pushup “contest” followed a little sparring session. Fortunately, they all knew my dad for who he actually was; the third oldest from a family of six, a Chicago kid who grew up running from “the belt,” and a father who knew some fights and pushups wouldn’t damage our psyche. Unfortunately, the moms at the grocery store didn’t know that.

-“What you are doing to those boys is humiliating and abusive.”

-“I can’t wait to see how they turn out”, (followed by a little scoff-like noise).

-“They are just little boys!”

All were common phrases mumbled under your typical desperate housewife’s breath as they walked past us doing pushups in the grocery store. Arguments between my brothers and me over which cereal to get erupted, as most of our arguments did, into a mini wrestling match in Aisle 6. But my dad’s rules applied inside or outside Holly Hill Lane. Ironically, I’m convinced the comments were exactly what my dad was shooting for. Okay, while not humiliating and abusive, I think he knew that there was a link between muscle-memory and behavior change. There is something swift and lasting about dozens of pushups that a quiet timeout can’t touch.


Clearly, my father had a much different approach to his sons than many others. An aspect of his personality that can’t be explained through stories is his everlasting patience. He dealt with three athletic, physical, aggressive boys whose idea of a high was the showing of dominance over a peer. We lived for the scratches, the sweat, the fatigue felt after a fight, whether it be a battle won with pigskin or one with fists. Literally every day during a span of 8-9 years, punishment was dealt out in the form of pushups. We all had the Macbeth-syndrome, trying to be the best, going to any measure to destroy the opponents.

Eventually, we learned a lesson no amount of timeouts could teach us. The combination of religious teachings, stories of brotherhood, and suffering through punishments taught us competition is okay, separation is not. Sparring and rivalry is fine; it’d be unnatural not to do that. But for us, my dad explained that no crime is greater than the division of that brotherly bond. Every pushup was done with my brothers next to me. If I played soft in a game, not giving my full effort, every lap I ran around the house was with Billy two steps ahead. Never mind the stitches my brother needed for the rim incident, anger is a byproduct of sport; I was the first one to make sure he was alright.

In Eric Miller’s “Theodicy in New Brunswick,” the speaker describes overwhelming guilt due to a lack of punishment. My dad never subjected me to that type of pain. Guilt and shame, that’s real punishment, far worse than any supposed corporal punishment or child abuse.

For us, pushups were no punishment. They were simply a reminder; telling us we could fight, but no more. The real punishment would come if we ever asked, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” (Genesis 4:9).

The most commonly told story by my dad was of Father Flanagan’s Boys Town. One winter day, two orphan brothers showed up at his doorstep, the older carrying the younger miles through a snowstorm. The Father let them both in, amazed at the strength of the older, claiming the younger must have been a burden as he carried him. To that, the older replied “He ain’t heavy, Father – he’s my brother!”

I have heard that story - no lie - at least 150 times in my life, and only recently realized that it was usually told just after the “pushup sentence” was served by the Bruise Brothers.

The Multi-Sport Athlete: A Dying Breed? - Written 1/28/07

Craig Conlin, Luke Harris, John Barr, Colleen Magarity, Alex Holcombe, LeBron James, Allen Iverson. What do they have in common? They are examples of the many success stories of the multi-sport high school athlete. Yet, the rate of specialization in high school sports is growing exponentially. Kids are quitting sports they love in order to focus on the one at which they think they can be most successful. Why are they quitting, and who is influencing them to do so?

The issue seems to begin with parents. Something has changed. It’s no longer simply the classic “loving,” overbearing parent who wants their child to get a full ride to a 1-A school, and live vicariously through their experience. Now, it seems every parent with an athletic kid faces the temptation. They believe in order to “make it,” their kid needs to play on the school team, the travel team, the AAU team, the summer team, and train all off-season. Ted Silary, the Philadelphia Daily News high school sports writer, who’s covered the area for over 20 years, sees it this way: “The competition for scholarships and grants-in-aid is fierce. A kid is medium to good in two or three sports. The parents think, 'Hmm, if we can get him to play just one, maybe he'll become very good to great and get a ride to college.' The AAU programs and personal coaches LOVE these kinds of parents. As they suck them dry. And Possible Stud still winds up going to Medium State, hoping to make the team as a walk-on.”

After parents, coaches inhabit the next circle of responsibility. In the recent survey Ms. Hofmann passed out to the upper school students, 35% of the junior boys said they felt pressured to specialize. The leading source of the pressure for those juniors was the coaches. Granted, “coaches” doesn’t necessarily mean GA coaches, but also AAU coaches. Still, what is, or isn’t, the athletic department and administration doing on this issue? While Coach Harris made it clear to me that in no way, shape, or form do the coaches support specialization, I think there is more the coaches could be doing. Why isn’t there a guideline stating the school wants its student athletes playing multiple sports, similar to PC’s policy? Why don’t all coaches (Harris has already done this with his football players) hold meetings telling their kids the benefits of multiple sports?

Jack Turner, probably the single most successful GA graduate in all aspects of athletics (as an athlete, coach, athletic director, and father of 3 GA Hall of Fame athletes), thinks something is lost at GA because of specialization. “If you don’t have many athletes participating in more than one sport, while you may have some success for individual teams, you won’t have it across the board,” and “The ability to increase your athleticism by playing another sport has incredible carryover.” This “carryover” became glaringly obvious to anyone watching the GA-Malvern basketball game on Jan. 19th, as Malvern’s cross-sport star Joe Hoban dominated the game with his quickness, toughness, and tenacity.

Playing multiple sports can also effect, or help, one socially. “All my teams had different personalities,” said Sean Grieve, an Inter-Ac/GA baseball and football MVP (and a self-proclaimed all-star JV basketball player on Coach Conlin's last undefeated team), “I had such an enjoyable experience because I didn't hang out with the same people all the time. I feel it forced me not to be socially one dimensional.”

Lastly, how much does not playing multiple sports impact your ability to deliver in clutch situations? “I want my quarterback to have been at the front end of a 1 and 1 down by two, with seconds left, having to make both to tie,” explained Harris. “I want him to have been on the mound with a full count with the bases loaded. There’s nothing better than that to prepare him.”

Remembering The Good Times - Written 12/12/06

As everyone’s probably heard, we’ve seen the last of Allen Iverson in a Sixers’ jersey. The disgruntled star demanded a trade after a terrible loss to the Bulls on December 6th, claiming that it’s time for him and the franchise to go their separate ways. The team soon after deactivated him, giving him the Sixers version of “the TO treatment.” The trade demand not only contributed to a devastating losing streak for the Sixers, but also an outpouring of criticism for the man who was once the hero of the city. Radio hosts have bashed his “selfish” style of play, arguing that he never made the guys around him better. Even Charles Barkley, the former Sixer and once avid Iverson supporter, said that AI needs “to learn how to share the ball.” But before all of you usher him to the door, try and find how many non-Iverson Sixers jerseys you have, and remember a few things…..

Remember the excitement he brought back to a team that had failed to win 20 games the previous year…

Remember the way he crossed up MJ his rookie year…

Remember that he’s a 7-time All-Star, 2-time All-Star Game MVP, ‘97 Rookie of the Year, ‘01 MVP…

Remember that the 36-year old Dikembe Mutombo, with two bad knees and a worn out body, was Allen’s second option on the team he took to the finals.

Remember that along with Mutombo, Allen’s starting 5 included George Lynch, Eric Snow, and Tyrone Hill (the three combined for a 23.3 career ppg).