By the FreeWire Team
There are people who come and go in a community, and then there are people like Phil Joseph — legends who shape the very heart of a place, whose influence never fades.
When I first met Mr. Joseph — “PAJ” to many — I wasn’t sure what to expect. My mother had him in high school, and the stories about him had already been passed down like folklore. Nothing really prepares you for a man like Phil, larger than life in both presence and personality. He turned health class into something more than just textbook lessons, weaving humor, wisdom, and the kind of real-world insight that stuck with you long after graduation.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned since his passing, it’s that everyone who knew Phil Joseph has a story.
For example, one time he unknowingly screened Romeo and Juliet in the ’80s, unaware of the nudity. School board president Randy Blankenship recalled the blunder, and the subsequent laughter from students at the time. It was an absolutely perfect — if unfortunate — moment.
Classic Phil.
Phil’s ability to command a moment extended far beyond the classroom. Cole Hollis remembers struggling to make a shot in a JV game. Phil called a timeout, reached into his pocket, and tried handing him a five-dollar bill.
“Here,” he said. “Because you clearly can’t buy a basket.”
On another occasion, when Cole took a hard foul, Phil didn’t waste the chance for theatrics.
“Oh my god! Did you hear that? I think he’s bleeding! Hollis! Are you bleeding?”
No blood. Just Phil, keeping everyone on their toes.
Even off the court, he was the same. Chelsea Edgell remembers him kicking a student out of class, only for them to ask, “Where am I supposed to go?”
Without missing a beat, Phil responded, “I don’t care where you go as long as it isn’t here.”
When the freshman boys’ basketball team struggled against the girls in a scrimmage, Phil gave them a dressing down they wouldn’t forget: “You guys are playing matador defense! Why don’t you wave the red flag because you keep letting them right through!”
Beyond health and coaching, Phil also taught The History of Baseball, an elective that quickly became legendary. I took it my senior year, and in terms of sheer knowledge gained, it was in a class of its own. It wasn’t necessarily the most useful class for life, but it was one of the best classes ever taught at Bucyrus City Schools.
Mr. Joseph was known for what he did teach — health, gym, The History of Baseball — but he was also known for what he didn’t teach, as he was everyone’s favorite substitute teacher. Separate stories were told to us some thirty years apart where Phil substituted for an English class, only to turn it into something entirely different. In one case, he threw on Hoosiers and justified it by saying, “They’re speaking English, aren’t they?” Then of course there’s the story about Romeo and Juliet’s nudity scene; the best part about that story? The superintendent happened to be walking by as Romeo’s bare backside was on screen. These stories, decades apart, show that Phil had been himself every step of the way.
But Phil wasn’t just wit and sarcasm — he was a coach in the truest sense. He made you better, and he made you believe in yourself. One student recounted a time he remembers: not trying out for basketball his freshman year, thinking it didn’t really matter. After the first practice, Phil pulled him aside in the hallway and asked why he wasn’t playing. When Jason admitted he didn’t think anyone cared, Phil told him otherwise. He showed up at the next practice and played for the next two years.
That’s the kind of man Phil Joseph was. He saw people. He lifted them up.
Take the story that Blankenship and Phil’s wife, Patricia Joseph, both shared:
In the ’80s, Phil got word that classroom engagement evaluators would be coming by. Never one to leave anything to chance, he devised a system. He told his students, “If you know the answer, raise your right hand. If you don’t, raise your left.” That way, when the evaluator walked in, it would appear that every student was engaged.
Sure enough, the evaluators arrived, and Phil asked a question. Every student raised a hand.
Phil called on one.
The student hesitated for a second, then shrugged. “Mr. Joseph, I raised my left hand…”
Genius in theory. Classic PAJ in execution.
Phil was also one of the biggest supporters of keeping the Bucyrus Redmen name. Randy Blankenship recalled that when the school board met to vote on the name change, Phil spoke up against it. His first reason? “Because it would wipe out most of my wardrobe, and I can’t afford to buy new clothes.” It was another classic example of Phil — humor masking sincerity, always able to get a room to laugh while making his point.
PAJ was a humble man. According to his wife, Patricia, when they planned their funerals years ago, the idea of holding his calling hours in the gym was suggested. But Phil declined, saying he didn’t want a “big empty space.”
If only he could see now just how full that space would have been.
Lifelong Bucyrus resident and Bucyrus High School graduate Stacy Mahley shared her memories of Phil beyond the classroom. “Phil and Pat were my neighbors on Victoria for nearly 20 years. Not only did Phil teach me and all three of my kids, but he had a next-door view of watching them grow up. He coached my son in basketball. They were such great neighbors and truly became treasured friends to me. I would often see him out in his driveway just shooting baskets. He loved the game so much.”
Phil Joseph wasn’t just a teacher or a coach. He was a mentor, a storyteller, a quick-witted giant who left a mark on every student, athlete, and colleague who crossed his path.
He was also, as his wife Patricia so perfectly put it, a man who loved that ball that is orange and round:
There once was a boy
Who found his joy
In a ball that is orange and round
He dribbled a lot
And took shot after shot
With that ball that is orange and round
Soon, crowds cheered his name
As he won many games
With the ball that is orange and round
Then one day he grew
And taught all that he knew
With the ball that is orange and round
Then sadly, he died
And all he loved cried
Even that ball that is orange and round
But still to this day,
You’ll hear people say
How he loved that ball that is orange and round
Phil never wanted a grand tribute, but it’s impossible not to give him one. Because the truth is, no gym would have been empty if he were in it. No court, no classroom, no game, and no moment spent with him was ever wasted space.
And just like that ball, always spinning, always in motion — his impact carries on.
