Eric Montross Basketball Camp
The first time I met Eric Montross, I was 13 years old. Summer of 1994.
The Heels had won the NCAA National Championship the year before, then got bounced by Bill effing Curley and Boston College that spring. Eric was either about to be or had had just been drafted by the Celtics.
I spent part of that summer working as a Senate page / coffee go-fer at the North Carolina General Assembly.
One night, our group went to Crabtree Valley Mall in Raleigh to eat at Ruby Tuesday’s, the pinnacle of fine dining in those times.
Eric was sitting a few tables over with his girlfriend (presumably his wife Laura), on a double date with Travis Stephenson and his girlfriend.
He was already UNC royalty, so we asked him (in the most annoying way possible I’m sure) if he’d take a picture with us.
He said, “Yeah, when I’m finished eating.”
So we stood around awkwardly for what felt like forever. And he obliged.
My buddy and I were equally excited to get a picture with Travis, a walk-on bench warmer on the ‘93 team.
These photographs exist, but I have no idea where.
The next time I met Eric Montross was when I brought my son Thomas to the Eric Montross Father’s Day Basketball Camp.
On very good advice from a friend that worked at UNC Children’s Hospital, we actually signed up Thomas for the camp waitlist shortly after he was born.
Thomas was 8 that first year – a tiny, sweet boy that loved basketball and loved the Tar Heels. He had a shaggy head of hair and all the players called him Baby Nash, after Steve.
The camp is for dads and their kids. A few of the kids are pretty good players, most are pretty bad…some have never dribbled a ball. It’s beautiful, messy basketball.
Grandfathers join their sons and grandkis. Former players coach. Current players – men' s and women’s teams – coach and hang around with the kids. It’s in the Dean Dome.
It is very Carolina.
And it all raises money for UNC Children’s Hospital.
The camp idea started from a relationship that Eric formed with a 15-year old cancer patient named Jason Clark in 1993, while he was still a student at Carolina.
During his time in the hospital, Jason made a list of possible improvements to the hospital environment that would have a positive impact for kids and teens.
After Jason lost his nine-month battle with cancer, Eric and Laura Montross started the camp as a fundraiser to deliver on Jason’s vision.
Our first camp was six years ago. We’ve gone every summer since, minus a couple COVID years.
Now my dad and my daughters come too.
It’s become our tradition – it’s my dad’s annual Father’s Day gift and something we all look forward to.
None of my kids really play basketball, which was a little disheartening at first because I was a basketball head growing up. Camp is basically the only time Thomas and Barbara pick up a ball all year. Catherine plays a bit more than those two…but not much.
I got over the competitive thing pretty quickly because that’s not really the vibe, though this year Barbara was on a bad team and wanted to win so bad she was crying after most games. That apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
Every year the kids have a blast — they see friends, reconnect with coaches, and run around the Dean Dome like they own the place. And though I imagine most won’t admit it, the dads are even more excited than the kids.
The first year my dad joined us for camp, he was grinning ear to ear the entire time – shaking hands with former players, sheepishly asking 19 year old kids (who now play in the NBA) if they’ll take a picture with him, chatting up Randy Wiel.
He proudly texted me a few days ago to share that he’s now Facebook friends with Pete Chilcutt.
It’s honestly one of the best things I do every summer.
Eric died 18 months ago. Cancer.
The summer before he passed, he couldn’t attend camp but sent a video message. He looked good. Sounded positive.
So when news got out that he died, it felt sudden and shocking.
Like many others I’m sure, I was worried that the camp wouldn’t continue — though I hoped it would as a way to honor Eric’s legacy.
I was so happy to get that email from Deanna.
That first camp without him was tough. The energy was different.
There was no 7-foot giant fist bumping me and calling me “Big E” with a friendly, teasing grin.
Last year my dad and I spent a long time talking with Eric’s dad, Scott.
He had tears in his eyes when he told us about the day that Eric came downstairs for breakfast and told him he wanted to play for Dean Smith at Carolina.
I told him the Ruby Tuesday story, emphasizing how hyped we were to get a picture with Travis Stephenson.
He laughed. Said, “Eric would’ve loved that.”
I wish I could’ve told him myself.
That moment with Scott felt immediately heavy.
It was a little unnerving how I found myself identifying not with my departed childhood hero, but with his dad.
I was there with my dad, watching my kids run around a basketball court, on Father’s Day Weekend.
It made me think about the incredible privilege, opportunity, and responsibility I have as a dad.
It made me think about when my dad is gone.
It made me think about when I’m gone.
It made me think about families like the Montross family and the Clark family that had a giant piece of their life ripped away from them in an unexpected season.
It made me feel deeply grateful.
Thomas is 13 now and he turns 14 tomorrow.
This was his last year at the camp. He’s aged out.
The little guy I brought that first year is a beautiful memory, but I still see echoes of him in the young man that he’s becoming.
The camp goes on like clockwork. Eric isn’t there, but you can still see him everywhere.
In the way his kids have taken over camp leadership.
In the way that Tyler Zeller has stepped into Eric’s camp cheerleader role.
In the way that Jason Clark’s parents are still involved in the camp.
In the way his ‘93 teammates show up every year – Lynch, Rodl, Wenstrom, Salvadori, and – yes – Travis Stephenson.
In how the coaches love on every kid – here’s Dave Hanners (played for Dean Smith, ‘93 assistant, 15+ year NBA coach) patiently (and hopelessly) trying to teach Catherine how to rip through and drive and high-fiving Barbara with a big smile after she clangs another one off the backboard.
In the way the Carolina Family just keeps showing up.
We’ll keep showing up too, at least until Barbara turns 13 and hopefully beyond.
Born and bred.
