Skip to content

Kentucky Sports Radio

University of Kentucky Basketball, Football, and Recruiting news brought to you in the most ridiculous manner possible.

The Forgotten Olympian

   

 

In March of 1948, Adolph Rupp and the Fab Five hung the program’s first NCAA Championship banner.  A couple months later, Adolph Rupp and the Fab Five hung Olympic gold medals around their necks, in London no less. It was the beginning of an era of dominance for both Kentucky Basketball and Team USA, which, let’s be honest, might as well be one in the same.  There’s little doubt Anthony Davis will enjoy the same success in London as his brethren 64 years ago. It’s a nice full circle you see, filled with the Olympic triumphs of fellow Wildcats like Billy Evans, who won gold in Melbourne’s ’56 Games, and Adrian Smith in Rome in 1960, and most recently we watched Tayshaun Prince and Team USA conquer Beijing.

Well, Kentucky Basketball’s Olympic prowess dates back much further than that. Back before the days of Rupp, Groza and Beard. But you’ve never heard that story…until now.

Basketball’s official induction to the Olympics came in Berlin in 1936. However, few people know that the sport actually debuted, briefly, in the 1904 Olympics in St. Louis. Barely a decade old and hardly evolved from its peach-basket origins, basketball’s cameo was considered a “demonstration” of sorts here in its homeland. With the world largely oblivious to this new american past time, Team USA made quick work of its three challengers and put away a chippy Newfoundland squad in the championship, 8-2. Leading the way for Team USA with 2 field goals and 4 swipes?  None other than Kentucky’s own Chester Arthur Peel…the forgotten Olympian.

Chester Arthur Peel came to UK in the Fall of 1902 on a cattle scholarship, and like most students on campus, had never touched a basketball before arriving in Lexington from Foggy Lick. But basketball has a way of finding people all its own, and boy, did it find Peel. The story goes, Peel was walking back from class to his residence at aging Haggin Hall when a ball of leather rolled to his feet.

 

“Say there fella, could ya toss us our basketball?”

 

“Your what?”

 

“Basketball. Aint ya hear of it?”

 

“Nah, whatd’ya do with her?”

 

“Well, ya see that basket up there? Well, son, you put that up into that.”

 

“Oh…then what?”

 

“You just keep doin’ it, boy. Why don’t you give her a try?”

 

Without much thought, Peel dropped his books and took aim the basket.

 

“Stand right here and just let her fly.”

 

That was the extent of the man’s instruction and Peel wasn’t one to ask, so right there, about 5ft. from the goal that he reckoned to be a dozen feet off the ground, Peel wound the ball up like he was getting ready to deliver to Ty Cobb and hurled the leather well past the goal where it rolled down a hill and nearly took out a nearby picnic. He heard the laughter.

 

“Well, son, that’s not exactly how ya do it.”

 

“You expect people to play this game?”

 

“That’s exactly what I’m expectin. Name’s Mustaine. Bill Mustaine, and I’m up here starting up a school basketball club. Now, we’ll have to work on your form and put a little fat on those bones but I like your height. Whatcha say?”

 

It took a few days of contemplation, but Peel was looking for something to keep him from going back to Foggy Lick and Mustain struck him as an honest man, almost noble. The uniforms were a touch dainty but he liked using his 6’3″ frame to reach over his teammates and employ the occasional shove. He earned the nickname “Stench,” a hard-earned moniker he was quite proud of.

By the time the inaugural season came around the following winter Peel had worked his way into the starting lineup and led the Wildcats to a staggering 3-0 record in the ’03 season, culminating in an upset victory of the High Street YMCA to take the city crown.

What he lacked in wit was compensated by vigor.  His feet were constructed like flippers, yet he moved with the unmistakable grace of a cattle farmer hurrying about the morning’s chores. He even developed a signature move–the Peel n’ Pop–where he’d wind up like a ball player and hurl the leather at the defender’s head, rendering them down and out and himself wide open. His exploits that season earned him a telegram from Washington DC inviting him to tryout for the National Team that would travel to St. Louis for the Olympics and show the world America’s newest invention.

Not only did Peel make the squad, he famously scored the winning set shot in the 1904 finals against Newfoundland whilst suffering through an excruciating bout of hay fever. It would later be determined Peel was suffering from the onset of Polio. While ineligible to receive medals, each player was given a commemorative nickel and a clean bath. They had to fend for their own way home.

Peel triumphantly returned to Foggy Lick with a college diploma and a new perspective on life. He did not return with his commemorative nickel, which he’d given away the night he got it in exchange for directions to the nearest barber shop. He was never one for keepsakes anyhow, insisting the only thing in life worth holding onto was good company.

For the next twenty years, Peel tended to the family farm. Sometimes he’d tend to his wife Hazel and together raised four beautiful children–and a fifth, who was born “funny.” He’d built a basket up on the barn for his boys but mostly for himself. Some nights he’d be right back there under the bright lights setting fundamental picks, hitting set-shot after set-shot and whipping two-handed chest passes to his old friends and foes. His Polio would worsen with each turn of the page however, and by the age of 40 he could no longer perform his daily cattle call. Of course, it didn’t help that five years prior he’d severed a thumb and most of an index on his good hand in a freak tilling mishap.

While the world waged war, Peel fought his own battles with disability and a couple new demons who’d recently introduced themselves as Wild Turkey and the down and outs. On his worst days he’d sit on his porch with his drink, cursing the emptiness of his soul and his harvest and his damned disease. Only Hank Williams crying on the phonograph could break the silence. On his good days he’d think about basketball.

It was around the time Hazel succumbed to the measles and the marines hoisted the flag on Iwo Jima that Peel had an epiphany. He thought back to that very day on campus, when basketball literally fell before his feet, into his heart and carried him on the journey a god-fearin boy from Foggy Lick never could’ve imagined. He’d found a powder down at Early’s Drugs that when mixed with his water bought him a few hours of relief from the storm. In these moments his thoughts were clearer and he’d lose himself in the way he used to be and where he was heading and eventually set off again on the right path.

Peel found a second career as a motivational speaker on the Polio circuit. He filled fellow sufferers with hope, confidence, and what at the time was believed to be the breakthrough vaccine, but years later was determined that it was not.

Chester Arthur “Stench” Peel took his last breath in 1952. Ravaged by polio, maimed by tiller and hardened by time, the forgotten Olympian left the world with an endearing legacy and mountains of debt. It was said that up until his dying day you could always find him on his porch with his old hound and his radio tuned to the Cats. You know, he’d never asked to be remembered, then again, he’d never asked for anything at all.


Article written by John Dubya

The Twitter: @Johnawilk

16 Comments for The Forgotten Olympian



  1. dr catfish
    5:07 pm July 27, 2012 Permalink

    No idea who “Intern” is, but this is an interesting story. Well done.



  2. Ashcat
    5:29 pm July 27, 2012 Permalink

    The Best thing I’ve read in a long time. Thank you.



  3. bill
    6:01 pm July 27, 2012 Permalink

    Tomlin is that you?



  4. backwoodzukfan
    6:04 pm July 27, 2012 Permalink

    Very nice article Mr. Intern , I really like the historical aspect of U.K.



  5. UK Snuggie
    6:05 pm July 27, 2012 Permalink

    Jalen Rose? Chris Webber? JaJuan Howard? Ray Jackson? Jimmy King? They won Olympic Medals with Coach Rupp?



  6. johnnypittman
    6:28 pm July 27, 2012 Permalink

    Are you sure it was Foggy Bottom..? I thought Chester was from Murky Water. When relating the story did he say, “some of its magic & some of its tragic but I’ve had a good life all the way?”



  7. frankoa
    6:29 pm July 27, 2012 Permalink

    What great story. We need more of these type things. Like: Where are they now and what’s going on with them! Even those that are deceased. Tom Payne would be a very interesting story.Ralph Beard and many, many more.



  8. GuyWhoLikesGoodStories
    6:33 pm July 27, 2012 Permalink

    That a really good story.



  9. Mark
    7:04 pm July 27, 2012 Permalink

    I do love fairy tales, Mr. Intern.



  10. Hendo
    7:18 pm July 27, 2012 Permalink

    He’s back!



  11. Bledsoe's Biceps
    8:17 pm July 27, 2012 Permalink

    Excellent job. A very entertaining story. Now you must contact Jon Scott ASAP, so he can update his Bigbluehistory database. It seems he is unaware of this great UK player and his history. 🙂



  12. bill
    10:54 pm July 27, 2012 Permalink

    do you people actually believe this is real? ha, still, great story



  13. bmack
    12:05 pm July 28, 2012 Permalink

    Nice one, J.W. You have a way with words.



  14. Milly
    5:40 pm July 28, 2012 Permalink

    He’s back!!!



  15. BlueNotes
    10:44 pm July 28, 2012 Permalink

    BTW His grandson was Sid Finch.



  16. Billy Cat
    6:11 am July 29, 2012 Permalink

    Takes me back to the good ole days of this site with Gidel, Intern, Tomlin and MJ.