There's a strong likelihood a prolific Gustavus basketball player would not have been as familiar to Minnesotans, even grade-schoolers in Fulda, if he was referred to in newspaper coverage as Dwayne Smith, rather than as D.L.
This was the 1950s, and the affectation of initials was prominent with board members at local banks, but rare with athletes.
"He always gave Ray Canton, a Minneapolis sportswriter, credit for being called D.L., but I'm not sure,'' said Smith's wife, Cathy. "Maybe he thought 'D.L.' would be an attention-getter.''
For sure: If Dick Jonckowski had called me this week and asked, "Do you remember Dwayne Smith?" I would've said, "Which one?''
When Jonckowski did call and ask, "Do you remember D.L. Smith?,'' the response was, "Of course. D.L., the mad-gunner, Gusties' scoring machine.''
The unhappy news was Dwayne Lawton Smith had died last Saturday at 85, soon after a stroke. We lamented this for a couple of minutes, and then Jonckowski hit me with this fine example of D.L. wackiness:
"Five, six years ago, I got an envelope in the mail from him. There was a check for $300. I called and asked, 'What's the check for?' And he said, 'It's for you to give the eulogy at my funeral.'"
Jonckowski went with the lay-up line, "I didn't even know you were sick,'' to which D.L. responded: "I'm not. You can spend it now, but be there when the time comes.''