November 1958
- charliebunton
- Jul 22
- 4 min read
The Rogers City High School Huron basketball season opened on a crisp autumn night with the kind of electricity that makes a gym feel like the center of the universe. Fans packed the bleachers, breath held tight as the Hurons—lean, determined, and carrying the pride of a small town—fought their way to a 55–52 victory over the Canadian Soo. It was the perfect beginning to a new campaign, one led once again by coach George Noch, whose steady presence and belief in his players had become part of the school’s rhythm.
Six returning lettermen formed the backbone of the team, but the heartbeat came from Junior Captain Ronald Paull and Senior Thomas “Toolie” LaTulip. Paull played with the kind of fire that made every possession feel urgent, while LaTulip brought senior steadiness, the calm of someone who had seen enough tight games to know how to guide younger teammates through them. Around them, the roster filled out with familiar names—Fred Bisson, Duane Sobeck, Norm Gosselin, Bill McCall, Ken Szymanski, John Osborn, Bob Quade, John Paulus, Dennis Schultz, and Dave Patchkowski—each one adding his own grit, his own spark, his own moment that would be remembered long after the season ended.
The Hurons finished 8–8, a balanced record that carried extra meaning: it was their first year in the newly formed Huron Straits Conference. Every win felt like a step into a new era, every loss a lesson that would shape the seasons to come. In Rogers City, basketball was never just a sport—it was a gathering place, a shared hope, a reminder that effort and heart could make a small town feel mighty.
Beyond the gym, November brought election season, and Michigan voters delivered a sweeping victory for the Democrats, re-electing Governor G. Mennen Williams for an unprecedented sixth term over Republican challenger Paul Bagwell. Yet Rogers City had its own story to tell. Emil Peltz, a hometown Republican and State Representative, won his eighth consecutive term, defeating Edward Bouchey of Hillman 6,816 to 4,779. He carried every county in his district, a testament to the trust voters had placed in him year after year. Locally, only one office appeared on the ballot, and veteran Register of Deeds Paul Tank secured his twentieth term. Tank started his career just ten days before he was old enough to vote, working as Deputy County Clerk, and over the next forty-plus years, he became a cornerstone of county government—steady, dependable, and deeply rooted in the life of Presque Isle County.
While politics stirred the adult world, a different kind of excitement swept through the teenagers of Rogers City. A group of young car enthusiasts—boys who spent evenings leaning over engines, trading tools, and dreaming of chrome and horsepower—formed a new club called the Road Knights. Their passion wasn’t just about speed; it was about craftsmanship, safety, and caring for the machines they loved. They elected officers: President Darl Pollock, Vice President Mark Tulgetske, Secretary Dick Kierzek, Treasurer John Bunton, and Sergeant-at-Arms Ray Plath. The club joined the National Hot Rod Association, each member proudly paying the $3 fee that made their group official. For these teens, the Road Knights were more than a club—they were a community, a place where friendship and ambition met under the hood of a car.
Then came the night of November 18, a night Rogers City would never forget. Strong winds and sleet lashed the streets as moviegoers stepped out of the Rogers Theater after watching “The Fly” starring Vincent Price. Among them were teenagers—Sophomores John Bunton and Roger Selke—laughing, talking, shaking off the cold. But the mood shifted instantly when word spread through the crowd: the Str. Carl D. Bradley had sunk.
Shock rippled through the town. The Bradley was more than a ship; it was part of Rogers City’s identity, its livelihood, its history. And now it was gone. Thirty-three men had perished, including James Selke, Roger’s brother. The grief was immediate and overwhelming, a wound that would remain open for decades. Years later, the loss still echoes through families, through memories, through the quiet moments when the lake looks calm, but people remember how suddenly it can turn cruel.
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