Last fall, I was supposed to meet two of the best point guards I ever shared a court with—Mount Vernon’s Frank Smith and T.C. Williams’ Glenn Williams—for dinner in Bethesda.
We battled in the same gyms back in the day, which is how I came to know them. Frank was coming in from Indianapolis and had reached out. That alone meant something. In Northern Virginia circles, Frank wasn’t just another good player—he was part of the fabric. When he was back in town, it mattered.
Frank and Glenn went back even further. Teammates at Hammond Middle School—back when it ran through ninth grade—they were already standing out before high school made them local legends. Then their paths split. Frank went to Mount Vernon, Glenn stayed at T.C., and both built careers that are still talked about.
Frank was a rare athlete—an elite quarterback and point guard. He led Mount Vernon to a state title in football and had the basketball program competing deep into the postseason. Glenn was just as special—nearly winning a basketball state title as a sophomore point guard, then going on to quarterback one of the best teams in the country to a state championship.
Frank chose basketball at Old Dominion over major football offers—Oklahoma among them. Glenn went on to a Hall of Fame career at Holy Cross. Two guys who could run a team, command a huddle, and carry themselves in a way that made you pay attention.
I was lucky to compete against them. And even luckier that, years later, Frank thought to include me when he was back in town.
The night of the dinner, I got it wrong.
Frank texted me while they were already at the table, asking what they should order for me. I was sitting in my home office, realizing I had mixed up the night. Bethesda was 45 minutes away, traffic wasn’t going to cooperate, and Glenn lived here—I could have easily told myself there would be another time.
That would have been the easy decision.
Instead, I got in the car.
I sat in traffic. I showed up late. And I had one of those dinners you don’t fully appreciate in the moment the way you should—just three guys talking about games, people, and history. The shared language of growing up in the same basketball world, even if we wore different uniforms.
Frank had gone on to coach—Radford, Old Dominion—and later worked in NCAA compliance. But what stayed with him, what he never lost, was his love for the game and the stories that came with it. That was our connection. He cared about where the game had been, not just where it was going.
There was a quiet confidence about him. No need to announce himself. He just carried it. The kind of presence you recognized immediately if you’d been around players like that—rare, but unmistakable. Around here, only a few had it at that level. Frank did.
News of his passing—far too soon, at 60—lands hard.
But I keep coming back to that night.
The easy decision would have been to stay home.
I’m glad I didn’t.
I’m glad I got in the car. I’m glad I sat at that table. I’m glad I had that time with Frank and Glenn—two great players, and better men.
My thoughts are with his family—especially his brother Barry, another outstanding point guard—his friends, and the entire Mount Vernon community.
Some moments you almost miss.
This wasn’t one of them.