Thank You, George

By Brian McLane

It’s certainly not a “stop the presses” moment when I tell you that, at least in my mind, 2021 was an awful year.  It was a year, at least for many, full of too much pain, fear, desolation and, above all, loneliness.

I should know. I lived and breathed many of those things right along with you, especially as I watched the world outside my suite at the Sheraton Inn on the S.U. campus slowly recede into itself, countless faces who would have otherwise constituted my daily routine suddenly pulled from my life in a moment's notice, ripped away and held captive in their very own homes, shackled by a creepy mix of fear, uncertainty and caution.

But rather than dwell on that, I’ve chosen – like I’ve done time and time again – to dwell only on the good things that happened to me last year, the things for which I’ll remain grateful for as long as God grants me breath.

And of all such things that transpired in '21, right near the top of my list was being able to participate in the weekend-long gala to celebrate the 75^th birthday, if not the life and times, of one George Hicker.

Now, many of you may not know George from Adam’s housecat, so let me do the honors.  George Hicker was a basketball star at S.U. during the mid-to-late 1960’s, when I too was a wide-eyed student – in the graduating class just after him, as a matter of fact.

As a schoolboy, George had managed to grow into a full-on, full-bore basketball legend in tiny Franklinvillle, a village in Western New York that on a good day probably could have given either Mayberry or Bedford Falls a run for its money.  And in his day, George Hicker was a guy who, but for one devastating injury before his junior year, might have gone down as one of the greatest Orangemen to ever lace them up.

As it is, George remains important for reasons that go beyond his often well-hidden decency as a man, his steady financial giving and unflinching loyalty as a Syracuse alum, and his deep and decades-long tenure as a friend of yours truly.

George Hicker matters deeply in Central New York because, just as Dave Bing ushered in a new day and age, and almost single-handedly elevated S.U. basketball to national prominence, a year or so later Hicker emerged to become the first in what would soon become a decades-long line of great long-range legends who'd call Manley Fieldhouse or the Dome home – a line that would included such legendary perimeter bombers as Greg “Kid” Kohls, Andy Rautins, Preston Shumpert, Marius Janulis, Gerry McNamara and, now, Buddy Boeheim – to name but a few.

Now, make no mistake, and depending upon who you talk to, George can occasionally be a hard person to wrap one’s arms around, nor has he ever been accused of being someone one might mistake for warm-and-fuzzy.  Few people I know are any stronger-willed or more relentless and single-minded in their pursuit of something. He, at times, can be pig-headed, a touch prickly, and almost jaw-dropping in his stubbornness.  And he has always managed to play by a set of rules to which he is not only deeply wedded, but that can, at times, seem abundantly clear only to him.

What’s more, at least politically, George and I couldn't be any more different.  I’m a dyed-in-the-wool, lifelong Kennedy Democrat.  He remains to this day a proud and conservative old-school Republican.

Yet don’t kid yourself for a minute.  I love George Hicker. George Hicker is my friend.  George Hicker is as loyal and as generous as just about any man I know. And, if the time came when I needed someone whose actions might spell the difference between life and death, George Hicker might just be the very first call I’d make.

The two of us met almost sixty years ago one afternoon on the S.U. quad. I was something of a campus oddity, the undersized freshman with the thick glasses and the wheelchair. He was the shooting comet, the sophomore heartthrob with the good looks, the fame, and the steely resolve – the All-American boy who cut the most dashing of figures, and the blonde bomber who all the girls loved and wanted to be with. There was no reason, in other words, why the two of us should have ever become friends.

But somehow, George and I managed to do just that.  And, frankly, that’s a distinction we hold to this day.  In fact, just a few years ago, and out of the blue, George up and donated a million dollars in my name to Syracuse University. He told school officials his intention was to improve conditions and provide greater opportunities for students with physical disabilities – students, in other words, just like me.  To this day, the gesture still puts a knot in my throat and brings tears to my eyes.

I bring this up this afternoon, because as I sit here looking out over Marshall Street and the dying light of yet another chilly and slate-grey January day in traditionally chilly and slate-grey Central New York, I find myself thinking about the year just passed.  The year that kicked so many of our asses and the year that drained so many of us emotionally; the one that forced us inside, separated us, and deprived a number of us of the very thing we love most in this world – one another.

That’s what made me think of George.

You see, last year George and I both turned 75.  I did it quietly in my room, surrounded by a few friends.  But the bigger-than-life (and wildly successful) George did it in a manner befitting the way he’s managed to live his entire life; with a show.  To celebrate his 75^th trip around the sun, he flew nearly 60 of his closest friends – people who’d meant something to him along the way, including a few of us from his old S.U. days – and treated us to a glorious weekend in Las Vegas, complete with all the bells and whistles.  All we had to do was get there.  Everything else – the food, rooms, drinks, gratuities, and stage shows – was on him.

And George did this, mind you, while suffering from severe complications following hip surgery – which meant that for the first time in our respective lives he and I got to spend time sitting eyeball-to-eyeball, both of us in our very own (you guessed it) wheelchair.

As you might expect, all weekend long the laughs, memories, and stories flowed freely and in, shall I say, copious amounts. And for one glorious 72-hour stretch, it was no longer 2021 for George and me.  Once again it was 1965, and once again he and I were – if only for the briefest of moments – no longer defined by our choices and what we’d done with our lives, but by what those lives still had a chance of becoming.

I’ve thanked him any number of times since that weekend for his generosity, but none of my gestures felt adequate. What’s more, none captured what it truly meant for me to feel connected once again with something about which I remain so passionate (and, frankly, so completely floored): the remarkable people who’ve helped make me the man I am today, and the man I’ve worked so long and so damn hard to become.

People like George Hicker, a guy I love, a guy I’d lay down my life for, and a guy who a full lifetime ago, someway, somehow and against all odds, became my friend.

Be well, George.  And, once again, thanks for everything.  I love you, brother.

Brian