Triumph and tragedy: A half-century later, legend of Wolf Point's mercurial Willie Weeks and Big 32 endures (2024)

WOLF POINT— Fire codes challenged, fans jammed Montana State's Brick Breeden Fieldhouse on March 15, 1968, for what the Montana press predicted would be “the game of the century” and, later, “the unofficial championship.”

Many, of course, also came to see Mato-Sku— The White Bear. From afar, they had heard of the wizard, Willie Weeks, and his older brother, Big John.

What did they look like? Just how tall were they?

It was a semifinal dogfight between Great Falls and Wolf Point, during the brief but mystical tenure of Montana's Big 32 basketball format of the late 1960s. A newspaper estimated 7,500 fans. Many thought the crowd larger than the 9,300 reported for the following night’s final.

Towering in a veiled entry beneath the stands were a line of Wolves, nine over 6 feet tall and still growing. Colossal, as if they had been shaving since fourth grade. Some wingspans outperformed their height.

Trapped, and last in line, anirritated assistant coach saw 6-foot-4 Willie Weeks jawboning again. He had been warned.

Willie stood close to an unfriendly usher. The fieldhouse official was holding Wolf Point back, waiting for clearance.

“Ever hear of the Weeks brothers?” Willie asked the attendant, both of them bored with the energy of this electric Friday night.

“No,” he replied.

“Well, you will after this game.”

The usher finally gave way, and6-9 Big John Weeks crowbarred ahead of his little brother. He sprint-dribbled across the Bobcat court, a rotating cast of guest stars behind him.

Big John soared and dunked the opening layup, ball slamming like a laser.

Next, was Mato-Sku. He was the theatrical magician bringing an edge. Mouth agape, eyes wide, he galloped, lifted, thrust his pelvis, wiggled his hips and whipped a tomahawk, underhand layup, spinning tightly off the glass.

Fans saw The White Bear float and point at them in his Willie-only "blank-you" way.

The multitude bellowed, the blackened horizon boomed. Great Falls Bison fans found themselves curiously cheering for the charismatic squad from the Fort Peck Indian Reservation.

Willie caught a left-handed rebound and rifled it behind his back to a teammate, who finger rolled it into the hoop.

Oh, this was going to be a game!

Troubled times

And what a relief for the fans. Boys basketball was Montana’s pastime in 1968, a transitional year in America.

Vietnam thundered, hundreds of Americans dying a week. Some in the layup lines were thinking how they could dodge the draft. School, perhaps? Maybe a scholarship? Their working-class families had little to give for college, and hopefully keep them out of the war or a federal stockade.

With Bobby Kennedy ready to spring into the presidential race and LBJ humbled by the Viet Cong, maybe the Democratic war machine might end? Perhaps they would never even receive a draft notice from Uncle Sam?

In two weeks, Martin Luther King Jr. would be gone. By June, RFK’s funeral train would crisscross the Eastern Seaboard.

The brothers’ cousin Owen Weeks, an earlier Big 32 star himself, was shipped to Nam in 1966. Two months later, shot up, Purple Heart in hand, he was sent home, first to Fort Hood, Texas. Soon after, he died by the blade from a fellow American soldier— another Weeks tragedy.

This, and other heartbreaks would mark— and continue — the angst and political activism of the Weeks family, especially The White Bear.

But now? Thank goodness for MontanaBig 32 basketball, with the Weeks brothers versus Great Falls' towering Ray Howard, at that.

Warming up, this Wolf Point boat had pirate-ship energy. Players guffawed and yucked it up, whispering trash and teasing each other. It was the Fort Peck way.

Once the game began, they baited their opponents. Ron Harcharik coached his players to work their chops on defense, to “talk to your man,” with none better at tossing shade, casting a hex, than the sorcerer, Willie Weeks.

“He ran his mouth too much,” emerged one unflattering comment.

But the prodigy could back it up.

The Wolves were a swashbuckling bunch, spilling into the ear of Howard, the stately 6-7 Bison.

With balanced offensive weaponry, Wolf Point incited unrelenting force, descending like hornets.

Howard never blinked. Counterpunching to the end, he scored 49 points. But it was Willie Weeks, the great sun jester, who crammed the box score with 29 points and 15 boards in an 82-79 double-overtime triumph.

“And where is Wolf Point, anyway?” fans groused after the Wolves won the 1968 Big 32 title the next night, a 71-55 coast over 6-10 Brent Wilson and Kalispell Flathead.

William Henry "Willie" Weeks III had showed them, and then some. He was the existential tempest that instigated a media cloudburst. Like a philosophical Pigpen, a prairie dust devil swirled around Willie.

In 1968, it centered on the ideas of H. Rap Brown, Stokely Carmichael and Muhammed Ali. When Willie later studied history at MSU, where he would become an academic All-American, it would flower into the viewpoints of Dennis Banks and Russell Means.

Willie’s torment compounded with the revelation that 300 of his Assiniboine ancestors starved to death in 1884 in Wolf Point. It was their first winter— a ruthless one— on the Fort Peck Reservation. With the buffalo gone, they were forced to submit to government promises of food and resources.

It never came.

The Assiniboine were hastily buried, only to be discovered decades later, with some of their remains horribly dishonored.

In addressing the unfairness, the convictions of Willie and his allies did not have patience for the conformist endorsem*nt of civil disobedience. It was time to act.

Now.

Ironically, Willie was the only one who could deal with the thunderstorm he created — until his final days, long after basketball ended.

The top gunner

As early as Jan. 30, 1967, a Havre reporter, charmed by a red-headed illusionist, put Montana on notice. After a Blue Ponies loss in Wolf Point, the paper reported about an unknown sophom*ore named Willie Weeks:

“Weeks showed some unconscious shooting ... one of his shots being an off-balance backward throw which split the cords. And on top of it, he was fouled.”

Weeks led all scorers with 20 points. Later, the same paper enshrined Willie as “the top gunner” for the Wolves.

Welcome to the Willie Weeks reality show.

Wolves guard Harvey Langager felt Weeks' breakout game was Dec. 16, 1966, during a 59-56 win against formidable Glendive. Weeks scored a modest 15 points but, “that was the turning point,” said Langager, a four-year letterman for the Wolves and high school All American quarterback.

Weeks' confidence soared in the win over the Red Devils— and from then until his death he would lead with his chin.

Harcharik meshed Willie’s superpowers with his gifted teammates, including the rocket growth of Big John Weeks, who was seeing more action and contributing significantly.

The Wolves began taking the fight to their opponents, going 17-8 in 1966-67, including knocking off Great Falls twice before falling to eventual Big 32 champ Billings Senior 79-56 in the divisional semis and 60-51 to Miles City in a loser-out contest.

It had been quite a year. For the Wolves' first games, the Weeks brothers played a modest role, wrangling for playing time. Like Willie, Big John’s growth zoomed. He worked the left hand, ran the court, pushed fastbreaks by dribbling to the middle.

“Willie could score and play from any position,” recalled former Billings West assistant Jim Peterson.

To comprehend the growing Weeks legend is to appreciate the abundance of the Wolves’ supporting cast. Harcharik had to cut skilled players or, at best, not play them.

The Wolf just short of 6 feet, Dennis Dillon, would end up state AAU boxing champ. Bruce Erickson was a 6-1 senior gunslinger and team-selected alpha Wolf. There was eventual MVP of the 1968 Big 32 tournament Steve Dethman. And the steadfast Greg Redekopp.

Some saw the writing on the wall and transferred, including former starter Gary Martell. He went 20 miles west to Frazer and starred for the Bearcubs. For those still on the team, playing time would be cut. A buffet of talent spread across the banquet table.

“There were excellent athletes who never suited up,” says Langager. “There were others that never saw playing time. Guys that were 6-6, 6-5, 6-4, and 6-3. Excellent athletes. Some went on to play college ball, but never played on our team. Some were four-sport athletes. I considered one the best athlete in our school.”

Harcharik was the reluctant puppet master of the Wolves’ smorgasbord. He had the unenviable task of not only who would be on the team, but who should play.

Years later, when the former Big 32 Coach of the Year reminisced, he anguished over the seniors he had cut— from any team.

Another obstacle for the Wolves was playing every game on the road because the high school, including the gym, burned to the ground during that previous season's divisional. Most “home” games would be 23 miles to the east in Poplar. They played Havre in Nashua, 35 miles west.

Twice a week, they loaded up on a frigid bus to practice in Poplar. Otherwise, they prepared in the tiny southside school gymnasium.

Nevertheless, at the 1967-68 state tournament in Bozeman, Wolf Point defeated Anaconda 61-55 on the first day before avenging an earlier loss to Great Falls with the classic 2OT win. And then, with the 71-55 triumph over Kalispell Flathead for the Big 32 title, their legend was secured.

“We always felt we were in control of the Kalispell game,” Langager said.

A hero's welcome

On Sunday, the champs packed into their bus and trekked over 400 miles back to Wolf Point. By the time their victorious war party reached the western city limits, it was 12 miles long. Cars were jammed in the ditches and entry roads along US Highway 2. Banners greeted them in the cold night.

Over 1,000 fans stuffed the Elks ballroom to listen to the victors speak. Shy, some of the behemoths sounded more like fifth graders at an elementary talent show than champions of “all of Montana.”

Wolves faithful expected toretell their storybook tale in 1969, but Laurel had other plans.

The loss of key seniors meant Wolf Point synthesized differently. Although prolific, the 1969 Wolves offense occasionally warped and, at times, deformed.

Wolf Point, at 21-2, led the Big 32 in scoring for the 1969 season, averaging over 75 points a game. The Wolves topped 90 points four times. Willie Weeks was second in Big 32 scoring with 23.2 and Big John seventh with 19.5.

The Billings Gazette called Wolf Point “an unmatchable scoring machine” led by “the sensational Weeks brothers.”

During the Division 2 tournament in Billings, Wolf Point plundered Hardin, Billings West and Sidney to defend its title. Afterward, the media predicted Laurel and Wolf Point in a semifinal matchup— the real state championship.

But nobody had factored in Butte Central.

The Maroons stunned Wolf Point 46-40 before only “5,800 disbelieving fans,” earning Butte Central the moniker “giant killer.” The game was dubbed “upset of the year.”

Cognitively hogtied, Wolf Point never recovered. Since the Central game was “obviously” not worth the extra day off from work, the complete battalion of Wolves fans was not in attendance. They'd planned to leave Friday morning, in time to check into motels and make the Laurel game.

Therefore, some even missed the Friday afternoon loser-out squeaker over Missoula Hellgate, 62-61. The Wolves were flat. Saturday morning, Wolf Point fell to CMR’s defensive shamanism again, 55-53.

It was the last Big 32 game for Wolf Point and the Weeks brothers.

Wildly athletic

Willie Weeks, The White Bear, with envious charisma, always dashed to the next competition, debate, political match or business opportunity.

Now he was on to a new chapter.

Both John and Willie had patchy college basketball careers, at times shining brightly.

Willie, the two-time high school All-American and only unanimous all-Big 32 selection, attended MSU. By his sophom*ore year, he was all-Big Sky. He once shelved 38 points on Idaho State. He dropped 22 in a victory over the Washington Huskies in Bozeman.

“First time I watched him warm up at MSU, his moves were like a pro athlete,” says BertMarkovich, starting center on the 1976 NCAA Division II national champion football Bobcats. “He was wildly athletic. A force.”

In Willie's fourth and fifth games as a junior, he scored 25 points against Seattle then another 25 against Midwestern. He was the Cats' leading scorer once again.

Then he walked off the team, puzzling his coach and fans.

He would rejoin the Bobcats two more times. But after three head coaches, a few disagreements, and a devastating knee injury, the cage artiste hung it up— declininga written invitation to play for the Wilt Chamberlain-coached San Diego Conquistadors of the old American Basketball Association.

Big John began his collegiate career at Dawson Community College in Glendive. He excelled immediately, amassing points and boards. Then he had a falling out with his coach and left school. They traded barbs in the state newspapers.

Eventually, John made it to Western Montana College for his sophom*ore year. He earned first-team all-conference and was tabbed a “sophom*ore sensation” by The Billings Gazette. He played another season, earning honorable mention all-conference as a junior.

John then left school and joined the army, graduating from Fort Sill artillery school. He was shipped to West Germany, serving with the Third Armored Division and NATO during the Cold War with the former Soviet Union.

In college, the Weeks brothers were sociable, amiable.

“Kids from other schools liked them,” remembers Jim Haugen, former award-winning executive director of the Montana High School Association. But both kept different types of company.

“John and I socialized together,” recalls Langager, who starred for Rocky Mountain College. “We got together when Western played Rocky.”

Willie was a thinker, a history major.

“I had a 400-level history seminar with him at MSU,” remembersMarkovich, an all-Big Sky football player. “Willie participated and stated his position.”

With supreme charisma, Willie had to ditch followers. Today, seemingly every MSU attendee of that period claims to have known him, like rock and roll groupies. The Weeks were tailed by civil-rights hustlers and political flunkies claiming to be "down with the brown."

Willie and John weren’t easily duped by the typical trite admirer. They treated disingenuous fans with an asymmetrical toss.

And the reason? They were never fully accepted by some in mainstream society. For one, others didn’t know the Weeks family experience, from the beginning of the reservation period especially.

When others weren’t looking, Willie and John defended the Fort Peck marginalized. They supported struggling community members. But from being called an Indian, in a non-Indian gym, or being labeled Apple by a few back home, they were also caught in a social purgatory.

Willie and John loved their 10 brothers and sisters, highly influencing Tom to a captain-ship of the powerful 1972 Wolf Point football team. They mentored their youngest brother, Wayne, when he was tiny, practicing his corner shot in the southside gym in the 1960s. Wayne ended up the MVP of the 1979 State A tournament.

When their little brother Bobby was found dead on the Burlington Northern tracks in the summer of 1976, under highly suspicious circ*mstances, the Weeks family felt betrayed.

“Everybody knows my brother was murdered,” Willie told the press directly— and indirectly to those in charge of the investigation. “But nobody wants to talk about it.”

Where were the multitudes when Bobby died? Where were the crowds at the funerals and wakes? Certainly not like the fieldhouse in 1968. Because of this, the Weeks family recognized unfairness quicker than most.

Willie was complicated, an amalgamation of unrivaled, jaw-dropping talent that included football Shrine Gamer and state placer in the shot put and javelin. His personality was as complex as his talent. His nature placed him into ambiguous relationships, even with his own community.

After college, John and Willie returned to the reservation, working in the oilfield as either administrators, executives, or entrepreneurs. Willie, who would earn a bachelor of science degree in history and creative writing from Washington State in 1999, founded and was the first director of the Tribal Employment Rights Office (TERO). John was a founding member of the Wolf Point Community Organization.

Contentious, bureaucratic tribal politics and unrelenting reservation tabloid culture did not scare John and Willie. The Weeks siblings completed their duty in serving their home communities.

They were both elected to the Fort Peck Tribal Executive Board, with the steady Big John winning four terms as Sergeant at Arms. Willie, the impassioned lightning rod, was elected to the general council once.

When elected to the tribal council, Weeks was seen by some as a savior to the underrepresented west side of the reservation, the Assiniboine part of Fort Peck. To others, he was “radical” and too experiential.

Beyond basketball, Weeks' celebrity went in more than one direction. Just like his collegiate peers, Willie participated in the metaphorical communion of his idealistic generation. He was, therefore, automatically doubted by some older peers.

Transformed states of consciousness and optimistic possibilities were threats to the greatest generation. They feared change.

Still, as the years passed, and if John or Willie were seen around town, young boys shouted, “Willie!” or “John!” They loved them. Wanted to be like them.

There is a reason that few people live in northeastern Montana. Those who remain are hardened. Like Butte, it is a diverse and complicated society, but the collective culture is one of survival.

Before whites, it was a Nakoda, Lakota, Dakota horse culture. Before the automobile, farmers and ranchers expected their children to be responsible.

Leaving out food, water, and a loaded rifle for them for a few days, was not uncommon. Line cabins, relative’s farms, and cattle had to be checked. Hired hands needed to be bailed out and “mom and dad will be gone for a few days.”

For three magical years, the Weeks brothers and their teammates had brightened the darkness of those arctic winters.

The 1968 team brought unmatched joy. Willie and the boys seemed infallible. The 1969 experience staggered Wolf Point back to reality.

At Big John’s funeral in February 2024, younger family members and friends cooed over his attendance at their activities.

Big John was provincial, salt of the earth, making the games of younger relatives. Spending time with families and playing bingo with friends, saying hello to the castoffs on the streets of Wolf Point— that was Big John.

“He always came to our games,” remembered his relatives.

Not pictured: Willie Weeks

When Willie was a just a tyke, he claimed a 1950s ducktail. As a smiling freshman in the 1966 Fang, he looks 12 years old— unaware of his supernatural growth to come.

For the 1967 varsity football image, the Wolves’ arms are ordered militaristically to their sides, while Willie has his folded in clear contrast. The White Bear has his hands on hips his junior year, slightly out of alignment with the rest of his football teammates.

And the formal picture of the 1968 Big 32 champs? The color image? All the giants looking sharp with white turtlenecks, blazers and dark slacks? Not pictured: Willie Weeks.

As soon as Willie was born, he dodged the hugs and gushes, zipped out the hospital door, hopped in a car and punched the gas. And if someone were in front of him? He honked the horn or slipped to the side.

Willie was a water bug, a rolling stone with rockets strapped to his legs. Always forward, seeking possibilities, challenging the status quo. He was cosmopolitan, universal, worldly, on occasion finding time for unannounced generosity.

Willie always took time to talk to the unseen, the forgotten. He knew “everybody,” looked out for a few.

Willie Weeks, forever synonymous with the Big 32 since that mercurial weekend in March 1968, died of natural causes in a Havre hospital on May 22, 2006. He was 55.

Mato-Sku — The White Bear — could finally rest.