To figure a man’s worth, pretend for a minute he never existed.
Picture it. And while you do, ask: Is the world a lesser place?
“Oh, my goodness,” former Duncan all-state tennis champ Tricia Payne Leavitt said, memories dancing through her mind and tears welling in her eyes. “I can’t imagine a world where coach Phil Barnes never existed.”
Neither can we.
We don’t have to, thankfully.
To those of us who knew him, Phil Barnes lived a life as vital and as large as anyone to ever cast a shadow. The coach who guided Duncan High to seven state tennis championships and taught 37 years for the school district, died Tuesday.
He suffered a stroke May 24 and remained in the hospital for 74 days before succumbing to what family members believe was a fatal brain bleed.
Barnes’ earthly body lasted 65 years, but his influence may well create ripples to infinity.
“The impact he made upon hundreds and hundreds of lives in Duncan … I think it’s changed the course of people’s lives,” Payne-Leavitt said. “There are so many people that I just don’t know where they would be without him.”
Every former player, and their parents, say the same thing about him: “He was more than a coach. He taught how to win at tennis, but he taught more about winning in life.”
The stories, like Barnes’ influence, are endless.
One woman who learned about physical education from Barnes at Emerson Elementary said he changed her life on the first day of school. He told her to go sit by the new girl who remains her best friend more than 20 years later.
A local man marveled at Barnes’ generosity. Three months ago, he watched the coach they called PT — he said it stood for “Pretty Terrific,” others jokingly retorted it stood for “Part Time” — drive by the Duncan tennis courts and notice a kid practicing his serve.
Three years retired from head coaching, Barnes swung his vehicle into the parking lot, stopped, got out of his car, and helped the kid with his serve.
There was no scheduled lesson. No fee for service. No impact on Barnes’ personal win-loss record.
Just someone needed help, a little work, and a lot of love.
That’s when Barnes was at his best. “You can’t drive by the tennis court, wave at it, and expect to get better,” he liked to say. You must stop and do the work.
“Coach was hard, and he would work you hard when it was necessary,” Payne-Leavitt said, “but he would love you harder than anyone, too. He loved people. He loved Duncan.
“He WAS Duncan.”
He was a friend and a throwback to the bygone days when men loved you but also kind of, sort of wanted to hide the fact.
“Never seen someone love kids so much and work so hard to hide it,” one person said.
He was a mentor. A confidant. A conversationalist.
And a comedian.
“He was ornery,” said Payne-Leavitt, who played basketball at Texas Christian after high school graduation. She believes she started taking tennis lessons from PT around age 5, and she won consecutive state championships in 1996 and 1997.
“He used to always tell me, ‘I’m a tennis legend. I beat a guy, who beat a guy, who beat a guy, who beat a guy, who beat a guy who beat John McEnroe,’” Payne-Leavitt said.
“I’d like to know the names of all those guys so I could track down the record.”
Another local man recalls pickup basketball games at Irving Elementary when Barnes taught P. E. there. At some point, all the weekend warriors would break and suck down the water before play resumed.
All of them but PT.
“We thought he was superhuman. He never drank water. How is that?”
Barnes coyly answered: “Hey, I don’t know. I’ve just always been an athlete, you know. Great condition, just don’t need much water.”
Uh-huh.
During one break, the main noticed that PT was conspicuously missing from the group and went looking for him. He climbed up on the stage at the end of the court, pushed back the curtain, and there was Barnes sucking down water at a previously undisclosed fountain.
He always knew the secrets.
“He’d been drinking water the whole time — and we never knew it.”
Another time, Barnes visited Frontier City and started to board a roller-coaster. The park attendant told Barnes he couldn’t wear his hat on the ride, because, you know, it goes upside down.
So Barnes removed his hat while standing in line and then put it back on when the ride started — because if you knew PT, you knew he didn’t roll without wearing his hat.
The ride started, and sure enough, the hat flew from PT’s head.
“In one fell swoop, he caught the hat out of midair and placed it gently back on his head, just like it was there before. That’s when I knew PT was an athlete.”
A former state champion remembers Barnes goading him to be a team leader during his senior year. PT spent the season hoping to convince the kid to ratchet up the intensity and lead the charge.
As Barnes drove the team van to the state tournament that year, he glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed all team members stretched out and asleep. “Good, it’s a ways to Oklahoma City. They’re resting,” he thought.
Not for long.
Thirty minutes later, the kid who Barnes tapped to be a leader rose from a dead sleep and split the silence with a piercing scream.
“OH, MY GOD!” the kid screamed. “DON’T TELL ME WE MISSED THE McDONALD’S AT CHICKASHA.”
Barnes shook his head. “We’re going to play the biggest tournament of the year, and my best player is worried about Happy Meals,” he said.
There was so much laughter and so many memories.
Barnes’ legacy is too large to capture in print or in language.
Unless it’s the language of love.
“When you left Duncan, you never left him,” Payne-Leavitt said. “He always kept up with you. You didn’t quit PT.
“He was always going to be with you.”
Kelly Wray is a freelancer for The Duncan Banner. To contact him, email to kellyswray@gmail.com.