Oklahoma State University Athletics
Uncharted Waters: The 1946 NCAA Basketball Champions
June 25, 2013 | Cowboy Basketball
June 25, 2013
By Gene Johnson
Sixty-seven years ago, Oklahoma A&M's Aggie basketball teams traveled uncharted waters while accomplishing a feat no other college basketball team had ever achieved.
In 1945 & 1946 the Aggies won back-to-back NCAA championships, a celebrated and triumphant exploit, for both players and legendary future Hall of Fame coach, Henry P. Iba. What was it like, back then, for those Aggie players? I hoped to find out.
Ninety-one year old Paul Geymann played on that second championship squad and agreed to meet with me at his Bartlesville home to share his recollections.
Healthy, fit and slender at 6' 1", looking at least 20 years younger than his actual age, and with barely enough grayish-blonde hair to need a comb, Paul maintains a 17 golf handicap, playing at least weekly.
Paul begins telling his story about growing up in El Dorado, Kansas. His Dad, much like most people in the 1930s, worked paycheck to paycheck and was lucky to have a job operating a truck that drilled holes for telephone poles.
"The depression was tough, rough on everybody, but we always had plenty to eat -- raised our own chickens. Mom fried chicken most Sundays. I've wrung many a chicken's neck," Paul grins. "We'd also have fry bread, green beans and a cake or a pie for dessert, pretty good eating. I walked everywhere, never gained any weight. I mowed lawns, charged a dime a lawn. Hamburgers were only a nickel or six for a quarter, so I always had plenty of money."
As a youngster Paul developed an avid interest in sports: tennis, basketball, softball, and golf. He routinely walked two miles to the sand-greens golf course.
"How did you end up in Stillwater?" I ask.
"After high school, I spent two years in my hometown, at El Dorado Junior College, and played basketball. I was a darn good shooter, but then in '42, the War broke out. The draft board turned me down, 4F, nothing serious mind you, but they wouldn't let me in. So I ended up with a good paying job at Beech Aircraft in Wichita. I stayed there till the war ended in `45."
With the war over, Paul wanted to coach, but to do that he needed a college degree. Evaluating his options, he decided to drive down to see Mr. Iba, Oklahoma A&M's basketball coach, and personally make his case for a scholarship. Driving a '38 Chevy that ran like a top, he set out for Stillwater.
"Did you call Mr. Iba first?"
"Heck, no," he replied. "Long distance calls were expensive, and I sort of figured he'd be there. Besides it wasn't that long a drive from Wichita."
"So was he there?" I ask, hoping Paul hadn't wasted gasoline.
"You bet, and he couldn't have been nicer, a prince of a man. He told me to go to the equipment room, get some practice gear, and he'd meet me on the court in 15 minutes."
"Did he put you through a rough workout?"
"Not at all,' he replies, "mostly shooting, some running. After about 20 minutes he calls me over." Looking me in the eye he says, "you have a nice shot, but did you know, you're shooting with your weight on the wrong foot?' I wasn't aware of that, but I followed his advice and became a better shooter."
"Unbelievable, you were shooting on the wrong foot?" I ask, puzzled.
"Yes sir, I sure was." And we both laugh.
Paul's quiet enthusiasm, easy laughter and sincerity make him an easy person to be around.
"Tell me about your time in Stillwater."
"Best time of my life, would love to do it again. The only thing... I think, at times, Mr. Iba worked us too hard. Over Thanksgiving break and Christmas break, we practiced three times a day, three hours each time. That's nine hours a day and we did that seven days a week! That's too much," Paul says, describing the boot-camp like atmosphere.
Paul goes on, "I don't think it ever hurt us physically, but mentally, we could've used a day of rest every now and then. Nobody ever beat us because they were in better shape. But sometimes your mind gets fatigued, you know what I mean?"
"I sure do," I answer.
"All of us guys on the team hung around together, played intramurals, and got along. We walked most everywhere, to the picture show, or to get a hamburger or to go `ogle' the girls. There were only about three thousand students. The fraternities shut down during the war, so some of us stayed in frat houses. I lived in the Beta house."
"Tell me how playing basketball was different back then?"
Paul recalls the details. Their uniforms, made of heavy wool, during the first 15 minutes of practice, were already wet, soaked and dripping with sweat. It never occurred to anyone, until years later, to make uniforms out of something else. They played with a laced up leather ball and the players never received a pair of practice socks that didn't have a hole in at least one sock, usually both. For games they'd get a `not so holy' pair. The athletic department operated on a shoestring budget.
"How did you guys stack up against the competition?"
"All of us were average players, except Kurland," Paul said, referring to 7-foot All American Bob Kurland. "Bob was a winner. He out-hustled everybody. His intensity rubbed off on us and made our team great. Mr. Iba coached the rest of us to do what we were supposed to do.. molded us into a team. Being in top physical condition gave us an edge. We could run all day."
Paul pauses, and then goes on.
"Now Kurland had a temper, that's for sure, along with an excellent basketball I.Q. Bob was smart. He never got the big head, he definitely earned all his honors and not one of us was ever jealous."
"Your thoughts on other players?"
"Weldon Kern, only 5'9, had cat-like quickness. I've seen him guard another player, mentally time the opponents dribble, and then steal the ball at the bottom of the bounce, never seen anything like it. Today, there's too much damn dribbling -- players need to pass the ball, make the defense work."
I nod. If I heard Mr. Iba say it once, I'd heard him say it a thousand times, "Boys, make the defense work, nobody likes to play defense!"
Paul goes on.
"Sam Aubrey, took shrapnel in his hip during the invasion of Italy, but he was a terrific rebounder. At 6'2, Sam had a knack of knowing just where the ball was coming off the rim, and he'd go get it."
Another irreplaceable contributor was Bob `Pee Wee' Williams, a 5'6" student manager, who did everything: kept stats, refereed scrimmages, swept the court, fetched water for the coaches. "You name it and Pee Wee did it, always with a positive attitude," says Paul. "The whole team liked Pee Wee. One summer he and Kurland roomed together in Gallagher Hall, a real `Mutt & Jeff' combination. Bob could've stuffed Pee Wee in his back pocket and still had room for his wallet."
"How'd you get along with Mr. Iba?" I asked.
"Pretty good, but Mr. Iba thought since I was older, and had a car that I would get the other guys in trouble. If he only knew. I was squeaky clean. Never, to this day, have I had a drag off a cigarette nor a sip of beer, wine or any hard liquor."
"Remarkable," I say, almost in disbelief. "Maybe that's why you don't look a day over seventy."
"Could be," Paul answered, looking pleased at the compliment I had sincerely given.
"In the '46 season our games were packed, fans sitting on top of each other, no fire marshals in those days. Everyone within a hundred miles wanted to see Kurland play. Back then there was no ban on smoking. Fans smoked in the arenas. Kansas City's Municipal Auditorium had three levels. During a game, from the court, you couldn't see people in the top level -- invisible because of cigarette and cigar smoke."
"Tell me more about Mr. Iba," I suggest.
"Tough as nails, but we could tell he loved us, a classy man. He was just as rough on Kurland as he was the rest of us, showed no favoritism -- worked us to the bone, but was never belittling. He believed in us." Paul stopped, his eyes gleaming as he recalled those long bygone days. "His believing in us gave us confidence."
"Mr. Iba wasn't fond of Eddy Hickey, though, the University of St. Louis coach. We were working out the day before a game up there and someone was sitting way high in the stands. Mr. Iba felt sure Hickey had sent someone to scout our practice. Next day, right before the game, he pulled Kurland aside and told him to score as much as he could, to fill it up. Bob got 58 points, which is still a school record. Hickey was pi***d. He accused us of running up the score, but, in St Louis, never again did anyone ever come to watch us workout."
Paul shakes his head, smiling in approval.
"Did you ever get mad at Mr. Iba?"
"Not really, no. On second thought, Mr. Iba once had the whole team so upset we could've wrung his neck!" He hesitates, and then asks me, "Did you ever sleep on a feather mattress?"
"No."
"After a night game in Saint Louis, about 11 p.m., we boarded our bus for home. About 2 a.m. we stopped in Drury, Missouri, and checked into a hotel that had feather mattresses. Best dang bed I ever slept in, you just seemed to sink in, like being on a cloud. I was sawing logs when, all of a sudden, someone's banging on my door. I look at the alarm clock - 4 a.m.! I never hated crawling out of a warm bed more in my life."
"I opened the door. Our assistant coach barks,'Geymann, get dressed, pack up your gear and be downstairs in fifteen minutes'."
"'Damn, I thought, what's going on? Come to find out, Mr. Iba had gone to bed, tossed and turned, couldn't sleep and had decided, `Let's go home.' I can laugh about it today, but that night me and my teammates were stirred up like a hornet's nest."
Buses and trains, with sleeper bunks, were the mode of transportation for athletic teams in the 1940's.
"On road trips," Paul goes on, "we'd take in movies and burlesque shows. Burlesque back then was like vaudeville, it didn't mean naked girls, not R-rated but pretty racy, pretty girls involved in comedy, melodramas, singing, lots of laughs, but nobody took their clothes off."
Once, while wandering around New York City, Paul and several of his teammates entered a towering skyscraper, where they discovered a stainless steel contraption with a double set of moving stairs, one going up and the other down, connecting to the second floor. After Paul's group rode this novelty a dozen times, Paul asked a local New Yorker "What is it?" `Escalator,' came the reply.
While the team was in New York, Time magazine ran an article on the Aggies. Mr. Iba gave Paul cab fare plus money to buy a dozen copies. Arriving at the Time Building, Paul paid the cabby the metered mount and walked off when, suddenly, the cabby gives Paul hell, shaking his fist, cussing and shouting! Paul hadn't tipped the driver, didn't know he was supposed to. Paul kept walking and didn't look back.
"I'll bet that cabby's still looking for me!" Paul laughs.
I could tell it was time to wrap it up and we had still not gotten to the championship game.
"What about winning the national championship?"
"Well, it was a real big deal, but not near as important to us as our games against DePaul University and George Mikan, their 6'10' All-American. Kurland and Mikan were the premier players of that era. Mikan had better skills when they beat us in Stillwater, but the second time, in Chicago, we played flawlessly and Bob dominated. We were ecstatic. Beating them in the rematch meant more to us than the national championship. We were the two best teams in the country. That NCAA championship means more today than it did back then."
DePaul opted to go to the National Invitation Tournament that year, which they won, skipping the NCAA tournament.
On the road to the NCAA championship, the Aggies defeated Kansas, Baylor and Cal. The finals, played before 18,000 fans in New York's Madison Square Garden, was won by the Aggies. It was a 43-40 victory over the University of North Carolina Phantoms [later Tar heels]. Kurland, named tournament MVP, scored 23 points.
"Don't get me wrong. We were tickled to death to win the championship, but beating Mikan was sweeter," Paul adds. "I didn't get to play too much, but sure was blessed being part of that group of guys, developed lifelong relationships: Bob, Sam, Weldon, J. L. Park, Joe Halbert and others."
Two weeks after returning to Stillwater the '46 Aggies were feted at a dinner in recognition of their achievement.
"We got our picture in all the newspapers, a steak dinner and a Bulova wristwatch." Future hall of fame announcer Curt Gowdy emceed the affair. "That's about it," Paul sighs, "doesn't seem like it's been that long ago, but it has."
"An experience you'll never forget I'm sure," I add.
On asked if he'd do anything different, Paul states that he played hard, gave it his all, tried his best to be a team player and has no regrets. Today's college game, according to Paul, has better athletes and is on a bigger stage, but they don't play any defense, dribble too much and don't attack the basket. His advice to young players is to work as hard as you can, be a team player and practice, practice, practice!
Graduating from A&M, Paul enjoyed a 36-year career in athletics, both as a coach and an administrator. Today, along with his weekly golf game he regularly attends Bartlesville High's home basketball games. He is still in possession of his Bulova watch and his 1946 `O' Club card, #30, awarded to varsity letterman. The card reads, `admit one to all A&M sports activities.'
"They reneged on that in 1957, when Oklahoma State joined the Big Eight," Paul says, grinning.
It only seems fair that anyone who played on a national championship basketball team for their alma mater should be admitted free to all future home sports activities, but I guess Paul has a treasure more valuable - an NCAA national championship, plus all the memories he made along the way. He is a part of sports history that forever will be etched in the record books. Paul has been there, done that and, along the journey, experienced the blood, the sweat, the tears, the pain and, most of all, the joy of the ultimate thrill of victory!
