When he walks through his neighborhood Kroger store, he’ll greet workers behind each counter by name and talk to them as if they’re old friends. A trip to pick up milk and bread can take an hour or two.
That’s why it’s no surprise he developed tight bonds with the staff at IU Health Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis after going through emergency surgery just after Christmas — two seven-hour operations, actually — for bone-marrow cancer in his upper spine, followed by three weeks of rehab and recovery.
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He was so personable with the staff that he even chatted with them while under the fog of anesthesia — though the words didn’t always come out as he intended.
“I threatened one of the sweet guys who was trying to keep me under control after the first surgery,” he said with a chuckle. “I was hallucinating, and I told him, ‘I know a hitman, and he’s going to come down from Philadelphia to see if I’m OK.’ We laughed about that for a long time.”
My first real conversation with Terry took place as we were going through the training table line after practice as Flyer teammates in 1976-77. He was singing — beautifully — with a complete lack of self-consciousness. It probably was a Gospel song, but it could’ve been Marvin Gaye.
Me: Hey, you sing pretty well.
Terry: Thanks, Doug. Actually, basketball is my third talent. First is art, and second is singing.
Me: Really?
Me thinking to myself later: Who talks like that?
I was intrigued and won over by his openness and confidence, neither of which I had in great abundance. We connected immediately. Opposites attract. Though I didn’t know it then, we’d become best friends for 40-plus years, through good times and bad.
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On a road trip with the Flyers to New Orleans, we went to the premier of a little film called “Star Wars.” We didn’t think it was much, but I hear it did pretty well.
We became roommates after college and went to movies regularly. Confession: We’d sometimes pay once and see two or three shows, sneaking into adjacent theatres. I’m hoping the statute of limitations has run out on that.
Before my junior year and his senior season in 1977-78, I tried to gently warn him not to get his hopes up about finally cracking the starting lineup, figuring a hotshot incoming freshman would get the nod at center.
Not only did Terry start, but he was a rugged defender on a 19-10 team that beat No. 7 Notre Dame and No. 11 Syracuse and just missed the NCAA tournament (it was a 32-team field then). We played in the NIT and advanced to the quarterfinals.
Jim Paxson, Erv Giddings and Jack Zimmerman did most of the scoring, but Terry — who held the solo UD single-game record for rebounds by a freshman with 16 until the late Steve McElvene tied it 40 years later — averaged 8.0 points and 6.0 boards. And at 6-foot-9, he contained taller players like DePaul’s Dave Corzine, Cincinnati’s Robert Miller and ND’s Bill Laimbeer.
As our coach, Don Donoher, said about those matchups, “They would all tell you it was a fight.”
Donoher added: “He was a delight. He had the best attitude any player could ever have. A marvelous teammate and a contributor at the same time. He wasn’t a scorer, but, boy, he gave his all every second.”
Zimmerman, a UD Hall of Famer, recalls Terry being “the adult in the room. He was super grounded in who he was and how he perceived life. You always felt great around Terry. He radiated joy and optimism.
“He was enthusiastic every day — happy to see and engage with people, but also doing so with a quiet, spiritual calm. He saw the best in everyone.”
Terry was the best man in my wedding, and I was a groomsman in his. We’ve laughed a bunch. But we also cried together when both our wives went through cancer.
That’s why seeing what he’s endured these last few months has left me feeling helpless, and a little scared.
It started innocently enough. We’d gotten together frequently since he retired after a long career as a graphics designer for a TV station in Indy (I’m a semi-retired sports writer). But while he’d been experiencing pain in his upper back for months, he didn’t realize he had a serious condition until collapsing in his garage.
“I saw some trash on the floor, and when I went down to pick it up, both of my legs turned into rubber. I suddenly realized I was paralyzed,” he said.
“I’m going on 64 years old, and I can’t remember anything in my life that has terrified me more than having paralyzed legs — well, except thinking I might lose my dear wife Elaine to cancer. It was horrifying. I hollered for my wife and told her, ‘Honey, I can’t get up.’
“I had feeling in my upper body, and she managed to get me back in the house. But we looked at each other and knew there was something seriously wrong.”
He was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma, stage 3. Doctors were only able to remove about 20% of the cancer, despite going through his throat and the back of his neck. They had to stop because of excessive bleeding from the tumor, which was pressing against his spine.
The doctors operated again on Jan. 2 to install hardware to further stabilize his neck and back, which were wearing away. He was fitted for a hard-shell neck brace for protection, and he’s gone through more than 30 radiation and chemo treatments with more to come.
He’s mobile again with the help of a walker, but he’s lost that melodic voice, at least temporarily, because doctors had to displace his vocal chords during surgery. His words come out in a raspy, Vito Corleone near-whisper.
But while the prognosis isn’t good long-term, doctors are confident he can beat it — mainly because of how physically strong he is. That probably wouldn’t come as a surprise to Corzine or Laimbeer.
He also has a whole host of people pulling and praying for him, including the UD community. He received an encouraging note from basketball coach Anthony Grant, saying, “Once a Flyer, always a Flyer.”
And he has an inner strength, having been steeped in Christianity from childhood. His late mother, Eva Ross, was one of the most saintly people I’ve known, and Terry would read his Bible daily when we lived together, though he admits he’d lost some of his fervor.
That’s why he considers his ordeal ultimately a blessing. He’s never felt closer to the Lord, and he believes, whether his stay on earth is long or short, heaven is waiting on the other side.
“At one point, I was contemplating, do we move forward with this?” he said of the recovery battle, concerned about leaving his wife with heavy medical bills. “But Elaine was always the same: ‘Honey, we’re going to get you better.’ So, we chose life.”
He feels as if there’s more for him to do, more smiles and hellos to share with people like those at Kroger, which would certainly make them happy.
But it probably also means he won’t be on time for dinner.
Anyone wishing to help Terry with his medical expenses can make donations in his name to Agape Christian Church, 6701 Oaklandon Rd. Indianapolis, Ind., 46236. For more information, contact Doug Harris at pdouglasharris@yahoo.com.
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