Magnolia’s Football Leagues of the Fifties:
Lessons for My Life
By Mike Musselwhite
Ah, the 1950s in Magnolia!
It was a time when neighborhoods were bustling with school-age children—the baby boomers! Magnolia had three public elementary schools: Briarcliff, Magnolia, and Lawton—my elementary school. These schools, along with Our Lady of Fatima parish school, were overflowing with kids. Fatima was unique as it drew students from all over Magnolia, while most children attending the three public schools resided in the surrounding neighborhoods. Briarcliff drew children from the east side of the bluff: Magnolia Boulevard and the “Monts” (Viewmont, Rosemont, Piedmont, and so on). Children from the west side, up the hill to 28th Avenue West and along that ridge, went to Magnolia Elementary. And Lawton covered Pleasant Valley and the neighborhoods near the railroad. In some ways, these also represented economic boundaries in the neighborhood, with the Lawton environs being less wealthy.
Back then, kids typically stuck to their own neighborhoods for playtime because there were plenty of friends nearby. If you didn’t attend Catholic school or play organized league sports, you were less likely to form close friendships with kids from other parts of Magnolia. Organized sports played a significant role in bringing together kids from all over. The major sports for boys in the fifties were baseball, basketball, and football. Catholic boys could play soccer on the Catholic Youth Organization teams. I played both baseball and football, which helped me make friends with kids I wouldn’t have otherwise known—and made entering Catharine Blaine Junior High much easier on a social level. I have come to realize these friendships were a rich part of my experience growing up.
The local merchants were big supporters of the sports teams. I recall walking into the Hickory Hut restaurant, near the athletic field on 33rd Avenue West where Swedish Primary Care resides today, after a game with my teammates and being treated to free hamburgers by the owner. Another time, we stopped at Evelyn’s Ice Creamery, just up from where US Bank is today, and were treated to ice cream cones because our football team was doing so well. What a wonderful, encouraging community to grow up in!
George Freddy, our neighbor who lived a few blocks away from my family, was a passionate advocate for youth sports in Magnolia. He connected financial supporters with teams to help in their funding. George had two adopted sons who both played baseball. He was the benefactor of my first pair of football shoes, and was known for involving the kids in our neighborhood in a variety of sporting experiences. I vividly recall him taking a couple of other young athletes and me to the Town and Country Club, a now defunct businessmen’s club. Once a month, the Club would transform its space into a venue for professional boxing matches, complete with a boxing ring. This exposure inspired me and a few others to join Joey Velez’s boxing gym in the Greenwood neighborhood. There, we began training as amateur boxers—though that is a story for another day. While I’ve never known where the full funding came from to support our football teams in the 1950s, I do know George Freddy was a key figure in securing financial backing for Magnolia community sports. His dedication left a lasting impact.
It was an honor for me to play on a football team that represented our Magnolia community, especially when playing other Seattle teams representing their own neighborhoods. When we traveled to places like Ballard, West Seattle, or the Central Area for games, we felt a strong sense of responsibility to represent Magnolia well—even as kids. Some teammate would inevitably remind us in the huddle: “Well, ya know we can’t let our community down.”
I can remember it all so clearly
It was the fall of 1958, and the Magnolia playfield, just south of Blaine Junior High, was buzzing with the energy of a crisp early fall afternoon. The sun cast long shadows as a group of young boys, full of excitement and nerves and shaking from the chill, gathered on the field. Coaches, with whistles and clipboards, solemnly stood ready to guide the eager young athletes.
“Line up, boys!” one of the coaches called out, his voice carrying across the field. The boys jostled into a line, each one contemplating the question they knew was coming. As the line moved forward, I thought of my uncle, Ed Justice, who caught the winning touchdown pass from the great Sammy Baugh against Chicago to win the league championship for the Washington Redskins in 1937. Once again, his name was called when he was named to the 1942 All-Star Game (later the NFL Pro Bowl). As I stood in line, waiting for my turn, I could almost feel his presence beside me. It was as if he was patting me on the back. The warmth of his imagined touch brought a smile to my face. I straightened my shoulders, ready to face whatever was ahead. As I reached the front of the line, I took a deep breath, feeling a sense of connection to the past and a renewed determination for the future.
“What position do you want to try out for?” the coach asked, looking me straight in the eye.
“Halfback,” I replied without hesitation. I had dreamed of this moment, imagining myself dodging defenders and sprinting toward the end zone for the Magnolia Little League football team. We had already been assigned to the appropriate team according to our weight. The coach nodded and directed me to join the group of boys who had also chosen halfback. As I walked over, I felt a mix of excitement and determination. This was my chance to prove myself, to show that I had what it took to be a part of the team. To live up to my uncle’s reputation of excellence on the field.
The beginning an end; the end a beginning
As the first practice began, the field came alive with the sounds of boys calling out to each other, the thud of footballs being kicked, and kids being tackled to the ground. For three weeks, we practiced hard. Every day after school we ran drills, learned plays, and pushed ourselves to the limit. The coaches watched us closely, evaluating our every move. We knew the moment of truth would soon come.
We were nearing the end of practice after a couple weeks of tryouts when the coaches called us over to the three-tiered wooden benches. The day had arrived. We sat down, our hearts pounding in our chests. The head coach stepped forward, clipboard in hand. He looked at us with a serious expression. We all knew what was coming; no one wanted to be cut from the team. We had given it our all out on the field during the practice sessions.
“All right, boys,” he began, “I’m going to call out the names of those who made the team. If your name isn’t called, it means you didn’t make it. There are no other teams, no second chances. This is it.”
My heart tightened and both hands balled into fists. This was the moment we had all been working toward. The coach began to read the names, one by one. Each name called was met with a mix of relief and joy from the boy who made it—and growing anxiety from those who hadn’t heard their names yet.
As the list went on, my heart sank deeper and deeper. Finally, the coach stopped reading. My name had not been called. There was no backup plan, no other opportunity. I was simply out, no longer a team member. No words of encouragement or comfort were offered.
The boys who had made the team were directed to take their two laps around the field as usual, which would conclude practice for the day. As the team cleared the benches, I watched them start their laps. For the first time in my life, I felt a sharp sting of disappointment, loss, and embarrassment. With those feelings weighing heavily on me, I began my mile-long walk home, stinging disappointment my only companion.
Second chances and lasting lessons
When the tryouts for the team came around again the next year, I decided I would give it another try. The sting of not making the team the previous year had lingered, but I was ready to face the challenge and succeed this time. I truly believed I could. I felt even more determined than the previous year. I also recognized I had grown slightly taller and quicker. The selection process for making the team was much clearer to me, and the previous year’s failure didn’t shake my confidence. Instead, it strengthened my resolve. And Uncle Ed’s legacy was always on my mind.
One day after practice, several of us stayed on the field and played a game without the coaches. We were all laughing and enjoying ourselves, the pressure of tryouts momentarily forgotten. Little did we know the coaches were watching us from the sidelines. As we wrapped up our game, the head coach Sandy Letterman, former quarterback for the University of Washington, called me over and asked my name. I was a bit surprised to be singled out but answered him confidently. The next day at practice, he placed me as running back with the strongest players—also known as the starting team. That casual, fun game had given the coaches a chance to see something in me they liked.
From that moment on, I no longer had to endure the exclusion of not being chosen. I remained on the starting team, not only playing as a halfback (or running back) but also taking on the role of a linebacker on defense. I finally felt the acceptance and belonging I had longed for since the previous year’s cuts. My first season was nothing short of amazing. I played every game, and my efforts were rewarded with victories and personal growth.
I remember the first touchdown I scored for that Magnolia team like it was yesterday. We were up against a tough team from Ballard. The game was tied. The tension was high both on the field and with the fans along the sidelines. When the team huddled up, our quarterback, Bob Cook, called play number “33 Left.” This play was designed for me to take the ball from him, run between the guard and tackle of our team, and score.
Our center, Steve Norby, hiked the ball to Bob, who handed it off to me just as I charged forward. We were about thirty yards from the goal line. Everything happened in a blur. One moment I was weaving through the defense, and the next I was standing in the end zone with the football tucked securely under my left arm. The referee’s whistle blew, and he signaled a touchdown. I felt my teammates patting me on the back and saw the people sitting and standing along the sidelines clapping, but all I could hear was the pounding of my heart.
That first touchdown is a memory that still brings a big smile to my face every time I think about it. It was a pivotal moment in a season that turned out to be one of our best. We had a winning season that year, and the camaraderie and teamwork we built were unforgettable. Our left tackle, who blocked one of the opposing linemen and helped me score the winning touchdown, was Robert Leisy, winner of a US Medal of Honor during the Vietnam War. Robert went on to give his life in that war blocking enemy fire and protecting his men on the battlefield.
The best part of the season wasn’t just our success on the field. It was the friendships I forged with my teammates. We became a close-knit group, supporting each other through every high and low. The camaraderie and bonds we built were as valuable as any victory, trophy, or accolade. After all, the most unexpected moments can change everything. That casual game after practice during tryouts had given me the opportunity to shine. And I carried those values of perseverance, teamwork, and having fun through the season.
The season ended with a team dinner where various awards were handed out: best lineman, best ball receiver, best running back, most improved player, most inspirational player, and most valuable player. Our end of the season team dinner was more than just an occasion to honor players for their outstanding leadership and performance. It was also a special time to celebrate each other, share stories, and reflect on the memorable games we had played.
The dress code for the evening was a coat and tie, which made it feel even more formal and significant. I recall going to the JC Penney department store in downtown Seattle. My father was out of town, so my mother stepped in. She turned out to be the perfect shopping companion and advisor. After all, my Uncle Ed was her brother, and she was a sports fan and knew he was a big part of my love for football.
The dinner was a truly wonderful experience for everyone, but it was especially meaningful for me. I received the most valuable player award, an honor I have never forgotten. It wasn’t just about recognition; it was about the journey, hard work, and lasting friendships I created along the way. That season remains a cherished chapter in my life, a testament to the power of perseverance and teamwork that has played a guiding role in my life to this very day. I discovered there’s nothing quite like the power and love that comes from a community joining together to support their young people. It was an incredible experience for a boy growing into a man on Magnolia.
What it all really meant
Throughout my career as an educator, I’ve kept that small plaque tucked away in the drawer of every desk I have occupied, whether as a teacher, vice principal, or principal. It wasn’t just a decoration. It was a conversation starter for when a young man or woman found their way to me, feeling lost or struggling. At just the right time I would pull out the plaque, quietly put it on my desk, and tell them a story.
Mike, now semi-retired, still has his plaque and cherishes it and the many memories it brings.
Courtesy of Melissa Islam.
I’d share how, once upon a time, I was standing alone on a Magnolia football field after being cut from the team unceremoniously—discouraged, unsure, and honestly questioning everything about myself. But then I’d explain that with perseverance and a lot of hard work, I made a comeback the following year and discovered the joys of friendships, the strength of teamwork, and the power of memories that have lasted a lifetime.
With a little humor and a lot of heart, I’d tell my story to remind them that setbacks aren’t the end—they are often the beginning of something greater. I’d encourage them to try something, anything that could offer the same sense of satisfaction, success, and camaraderie that football gave me as a kid. And I’d hope that maybe, just maybe, they would walk out of that room inspired to begin anew.
Mike Musselwhite has served in many roles as an educator with the Seattle Public Schools and still serves as a consultant. He has been a lifelong Magnolian for eighty years. He wrote a popular chapter in Magnolia: Midcentury Memories, “Magnolia’s Theater, Gone but Not Forgotten,” about the theater where he served as an assistant manager in the late fifties and early sixties. He also serves on the Magnolia Historical Society Board.