Page 5, May 1985
. i
1 f ) P ' I :
Joel SartoreSower
Hare and son, Freddie
Hare becomes quiet. He paces the floor, fists stuffed in his
pockets. -
Painfully, he talks about the contract, the final chance he had to
play pro ball, the reasons behind the last-ditch attempt at
professional greatness.
"I guess in the back of everybody's mind, they want somehow to
recapture the past, recapture what was lost or taken away. I think
my reason for wanting to play over and over again . . . it's like
fighting your innerself, saying I really want to play, I don't want to
play. I had the opportunity to do what was taken away, what was
undone ... I had the opportunity to excel I never reached my
peak. They say I was great, tremendous, fabulous. But I never
reached my peak, so how much better could I have been if I had?"
Hare won't talk about the specifics of the head-on collision that
robbed him of that last chance. The memory of the injuries are
painful. He still can't deal with it.
Hare leans back and stares into space, mumbling generalities.
His voice sounds hollow, almost impersonal. It fades. He needs
nudging.
"My body is just a mass of scars, like I've been through
Vietnam," he whispers. That's all he'll say.
The possible permanence of his injuries dominated his thoughts
the next six months.
"Nothing is more important than life itself," he says. "I could've
cared less whether I ever played ball again. I just wanted to be a
whole, a sane individual."
Hare tells about the fear of being blinded and paralyzed for life.
He contorts his body to show the physical deformation he faced.
"I haven't yet come to grips as to why I'm still alive," he says.
His internal injuries were serious enough, he says, that he should
have died. Even after a six-month hospital stay, he says, doctors
were concerned about his kidneys failing.
The accident, Hare says, strengthened him spiritually. Although
never religious, Hare says, he never would have survived the
trauma of his injuries if he had not been emotionally strong.
While lying in the hospital, Hare says, he had time to review the
direction of his life. He talks vaguely of not wanting to die because
he had too many "loose strings," in Omaha and elsewhere.
One of those loose strings included finding Terrence, the second
of Hare's four sons, who w-as living in Chicago. Hare acknowledges
that perhaps he had not been the best father to Terrence and his
oldest son, Freddie a fact Hare hoped to remedy.
But Hare did not return to Omaha for five years. He stayed in
Denver to recover and to prepare himself for questions he knew
people would ask. He lived off the money he made in Mexico or
worked at odd jobs.
When he returned to Omaha in 196, Hare found himself
experiencing exactly what he had hoped to avoid Fans were
immediately curious, he says, asking him questions like why wasn't
he playing? How badly injured had he been? Why wasn't he living
like a superstar?
"It was as if I was almost in high school or college again. The
minute they (fans) found out where I lived, I never had any peace.
They still wanted me to be in there playing ball, coaching, doing
something."
The media was even worse, Hare says, gesturing with his hands.
The Omaha World-Herald would find his address and seek him out.
Hare says now he refuses to talk to the press. Reporters are only
looking for a story, they're not interested in his feelings, he says.
They want to chase him, to get a story on how low he has fallen.
His usual soft voice rises.
"I want empathy, not sympathy."
Hare's voice softens again when he talks about returning to his
hometown. Recollections of his childhood in the ghetto border
between affection and hate.
"I could've cared less whether I ever
played ball again. I just wanted to be a
whole, a sane individual. "
The racial conditions in Omaha and the poverty of the ghetto
bothered Hare the most. At Tech High, the blacks and whites
segregated themselves. Even the basketball team was subject to
racial criticism, Hare says.
One time, Hare says, Coach Neal Mosser showed him some
"hate" letters from fans. The fans criticized the coach for
favoritism by playing only black team members.
Hare throws his head back, searching for other pieces of his
childhood memories.
There are painful memories like three brothers killed in a
housefire before the Hares moved to Omaha in 1950, like the death
of his older brother, Frank, who was shot during a gas station
robbery in Chicago and eventually died in 1966; like the death of
his younger brother, Percy, who was shot and killed by the Omaha
police in 1967.
There are happy memories, too. Hare grins as they flood back.
But even those memories bring moments of sadness.
Hare's mother, Genetter Hare, was the backbone of a family of
18 children after Hare's father, James, died in 1945. Although the
Hares were poor, Mrs. Hare tried to instill in her children a sense of
dignity and strength. Her efforts, Hare says, were evident in
everything she did.
He recalls with a laugh, how his mother scolded him when she
caught him wearing clothes he had stolen. There also was the time
she went to a local grocery to buy food when the cupboards were
empty and the owner tried to kick her out. Mrs. Hare stood
unbudging when a police officer arrived. The officer asked the
owner whether Mrs. Hare paid her bills on time. When the owner
admitted that she did, the officer left her alone.
When his mother died of cancer in 1 967, Hare says, she did not
owe.anyone.
"My mother taught me to make the most of what we had," Hare
says. "That being poor was a blessing ... a gift, that you don't
have to remain poor all your life. It wasn't intended to be that way.
And to never give up."
The family-taught determination led Hare to complete his
degree at the University of Nebraska at Omaha in 1979. The degree
in general studies has been little help in finding a job. Employers
talk to him about his basketball career, Hare says, then tell him he
is either overqualified or he lacks experience.
"I chose to stay in my hometown but I cannot find a decent job.
When people look at my resume, my credentials, I think they're a
little embarrassed. They tell me they don't have anything to,
accommodate me. I guess they think I'm supposed to be making
$100,000 ..."
Hare has worked briefly at several jobs the last nine years. He
was a gym aide for Kellom Recreation Center, a machinist for
Valmont Industries Inc. and Nebraska Engineering Co., a bus driver
for the Omaha Public Schools system, a coil wire technician for
Western Electric Co. Inc. and a truck driver for Coffey Trash
Service.
He presently has a worker's compensation claim pending with
Watts Trucking in Omaha for injuries obtained on the job. While
the case is pending, Hare is living on Aid to Dependent Children
with his 4-year-old son, Freddie, whom Hare is raising. He has not
seen Terrence for five years and his third son, Frederico Anaya
Olvera, lives with his mother in Mexico. Hare's oldest son, Freddie,
16, was stabbed to death by his girlfriend in 1981.
Hare grows thoughtful, remembering the pain, the guilt he felt
when his son died.
"I don't think you could've found a sweeter, a better son," he
says. For months, Hare says, he anguished over what he could've
done to prevent his son's death.
"I shed no more tears," he says, "because there was absolutely
nothing I could have done."
Hare says he is satisfied with his life these days. He smiles often
and talks enthusiastically about the future.
Together with the owners of Gunter Harz Sports Inc. in Omaha,
Hare will sponsor a basketball training clinic for talented athletes.
He would like to start a professional basketball program in Europe
for players who don't make the NBA. And he has started writing a
book about "the beauty and ugliness" of basketball so other
athletes don't fall into the same trap he did.
Eventually, Hare would like to return to Mexico with his son,
Freddie, permanently.
"Mexico is home to me," he says softly. "Mexico is like my
country ... the warmth, the people
The peace. Gsh Y. Kusy
t