My Dad Went to Central

Originally written for the shuttered Frost Illustrated Newspaper

My dad went to Central and was a known quantity. An elite athlete in multiple sports. A varsity starter as a freshman on the basketball team. Big heart. I imagine Willie Rozier was the type of hallway celebrity that freshmen would stand a little taller – pop their collars – if he responded to their hellos with an “All right, now.”

His mom (I think) donated all of his Central stuff. So I never held a Cauldron yearbook until about a year and a half ago. I never saw him at age 17.

In 2007, my dad suffered a stroke while he was sitting outside and lapsed into a coma in the ambulance. His last words to me: I’m sick. His diabetes had by then siphoned his body. All had been done.

So I was really happy to see him at age 17 for the first time, in a Cauldron, holding a basketball. And I wanted to spread that feeling around. The Central High Blowout was created, for me, in that moment. Dr. John Aden, Executive Director of the African American Museum, where 3 boxes of Cauldrons are stored, came to the same conclusion: Let’s do something with these books.

My dad had 5 daughters and one son. So we were close. But, naturally, his world was bigger than I knew.

Willie Rozier stood with the late Willie Curry (Class of ‘60) when he married Martha ('60). She was at the 1960 State Championship Semi-Final game that my dad and her Willie played in and lost by one point.

Martha remembers “nothing other than screaming, crying and being mad” from the game. She does remember how fun and loving my dad was, the jokester. He was also comfortable being quiet. But “I couldn’t out talk him about [basketball].”

Martha hooked me up with Ray Thompson, the sixth man off the bench their junior year. He told me that my dad’s nickname was Jack.

“We never hung out with ["Jack”] much, he was always after them girls. Actually, they didn’t allow me to hang out with them too much, they always thought I’d be college material. They didn’t want to mess me up. Willie [Rozier] kind of took care of me a little bit.”

My dad’s junior year was better than his senior. "I think Willie just got tired and didn’t want to play anymore.” Maybe, all had been done.

“He wasn’t a real tall guy (about 6'1”) but he had perfected his skills,“ recalled Wayne Township Trustee Rick Stevenson ('64). "Willie B. came from the west side of town, which was the first stopping ground for blacks in Fort Wayne. From there, they would move to the south side.”

Rick continued. “He was a humble guy. As an athlete, he was one of my mentors. And I never saw your father upset.” My dad had this thing against throwing tantrums; I was dumb enough to do it once. Enough about that.

At every batting cage, there were three speeds: slow, medium and fast. I could always hit, and, one day, I was tearing that medium cage up. From dad’s POV, it was time to graduate. That day we couldn’t leave until I hit one fast ball. All I had to do was tap it. Blow in its ear.

I nicked the third pitch; dad said, “That’s it.” We walked away with the cage still throwing. We repeated, each week until I was good. Life is a process.

No joke…Willie B. Rozier passed away on September 10, 2007 (9/10/07), at 9:10 p.m., a year to the day after his brother Rudolph. The day before he lapsed into a coma, he hit the lotto for like $1,000. And I just happened to have my camera. In the picture I took, he’s on the phone, finding out, hitting my leg, laughing. He had a good feeling about it earlier. Willie B. Rozier had the touch, baby.