Robert Pitre remembers the day on the basketball court at the Salvation Army like it was yesterday.
Growing up in East Texas in the 1960s, he and his friends faced a world where racism was open, unquestioned, and often cruel.
Yet it was on the court that Pitre first experienced both triumph and injustice in a way that would stay with him for the rest of his life.
The trophies caught their eyes first—shiny, large, and proudly displayed for a tournament scheduled the next day.
The tournament, however, was reserved exclusively for white teams. For Pitre and his friends, this was not a reason to back down. They promised each other that they would compete, win, and claim the recognition they deserved. And win they did.
Pitre and his teammates dominated every game, often winning by 30 points or more. Their speed, teamwork, and skill left no doubt that they were the superior team. Yet when it came time to celebrate their victories, the trophies were gone. Officials told them the prizes were “for another tournament.”
This experience is central to Pitre’s story and his understanding of life. He vividly remembers beating white teams in basketball, proving that excellence could not be denied on the court, even if the system tried to deny it off the court.
He reflected:
“That moment taught me something that never left me: fairness has never been automatic for Blacks.”
The lessons from basketball extended beyond the gym. Segregation dictated every aspect of life, from schools to public spaces.
Pitre refused to drink from the “colored” water fountains, choosing instead the new, cold fountains marked “whites only.”
As a child, he didn’t fully grasp the danger of his actions, but he understood dignity. Years later, he would realize that such choices could have been deadly in East Texas at the time.
Pitre’s story resonated widely on social media, drawing reactions from family, friends, and community members who connected with his experience.
Pennie Pitre wrote, “You are now and have always been fearless,” while Felicia Pitre echoed, “Indeed! #Fearless.”
Brenda Lee Eikner-Jones reflected on the continuity of struggle, noting that the challenges Pitre faced as a child mirrored ongoing systemic inequalities:
“Those bad days were just a preview of what we are dealing with now. We must stay vigilant and ready. The struggle never ends.”
Linda Wilkerson-Wynn pointed out how the next generation continued to navigate similar paths. “My kids grew up there, taking many trophies,” she wrote, highlighting that Black athletes continued to excel despite historical and modern barriers.
Odinga Kambui tied Pitre’s experience to a broader historical lens, referencing Langston Hughes and the Harlem Renaissance, emphasizing the long-standing fight for recognition and equality.
Others saw potential in Pitre’s story as a creative project.
Wyntoun Xavier Henderson suggested turning these memories into a film, noting that the vivid scenes of triumph and denial would translate powerfully on screen.
Marilyn Douglas-Jones offered her support to edit and publish the story, recognizing the value of preserving Pitre’s memories for wider audiences.
For Pitre, the point is simple yet profound: the trophies may have been physically taken away, but the victories, the lessons, and the dignity earned on the basketball court could never be erased.
“I am not giving up my winning ‘trophies’ today,” he said.
His story serves as both a reminder and a lesson. Sports, especially basketball for Pitre, was a space to challenge injustice, assert talent, and claim dignity in a society built to deny it.
He remembers beating white teams in basketball, not just as a personal triumph, but as a reflection of the larger struggle Black athletes and Black Americans have faced—and continue to face—in pursuit of fairness and recognition.
Through Pitre’s experiences, and through the voices of those who responded to his story, one truth emerges clearly: winning is not always measured by trophies or medals.
Sometimes, winning is about showing the world—and oneself—that skill, courage, and integrity cannot be erased, no matter how the system tries.
