For twenty years, I made a living dissecting greatness.
From the grainy footage of early 2000s tournaments in dusty Midwestern gyms to the sleek, high-definition broadcasts of the 2010s, I have watched—and judged—every movement, every cut, every rotation that crossed the hardwood in LSA play. My name is Jamison Long, and for two decades I served as the lead scout and basketball analyst for the Christ Lutheran Comets—a program that, for many years, stood toe-to-toe with the giants of Illinois Lutheran basketball. I’ve seen it all: the dynasties of Concordia Peoria, the street-bred talent of Bethel West End, the machine-like precision of Immanuel Palatine, and the chaos of AAU-style offenses entering the disciplined LSA world. I’ve been both humbled and vindicated by the teams I’ve studied. But never—never—have I come across a team quite like the 2019–20 Our Savior’s Springfield Eagles.
When I announced my retirement after our final loss to O.S. Springfield in the 2020 state semifinals, people assumed it was age. Or burnout. But truthfully? It was them. That team was my curtain call. After twenty years of scouting, I knew I’d witnessed something that would never quite be replicated. I had reached my Everest—and I got beat on the summit.
The Comets had faced elite talent before. We had schemed for Shaun Livingston, game-planned for Imari Sawyer, adjusted to the relentless tempo of Lathan Sommerville’s Christ Peoria squads. But nothing could prepare us for the relentless precision, the controlled chaos, and the surgical execution of that Eagles team—anchored by two of the most uniquely paired stars I’ve ever studied: the unselfish tactician Conor McCaffrey and the cold-blooded scorer Jace Easley. Together with a supporting cast that knew their roles and embraced their grit, they didn’t just play basketball—they rewrote how middle school basketball could be played at the LSA level.
This scouting report was written in the weeks following our defeat, as a final record for the next generation. For those who want to understand why 39 wins weren’t enough to define them. For those who want to understand why, sometimes, greatness isn’t measured in just trophies—but in the way it makes every opponent recalibrate the game.
This is not just a scouting report. This is the story of the team that ended my career—and earned my eternal respect.
Coming into the 2019–20 season, most of the LSA world didn’t know what to make of Our Savior’s Springfield. They were, by most accounts, a strong regional program with a proud tradition, but their 28–12 campaign the year prior had ended quietly with a consolation bracket win—hardly the finish you’d expect from a team that, in my book, was one of the five most dangerous squads in the entire field. It wasn’t talent that held them back in 2018–19—it was seeding, circumstance, and perhaps, inexperience. They were better than people realized. I knew it. I saw the tape. I was already circling their names.
That 2018–19 Eagles team was a tough, balanced group, spearheaded by two future cornerstones—Conor McCaffrey and Jace Easley—yet anchored by two eighth-grade bruisers in Wes Mullen and Christian Lahniers. I’ll say it now, and I’ll say it again: I was glad to see Mullen graduate. The kid was a headache—a lefty slasher with a motor and a bruiser’s confidence, who seemed to get stronger the more contact you threw at him. He gave us hell every time we matched up with them. Lahniers, meanwhile, was a solid big man with good touch and discipline around the rim. Losing both should’ve made O.S. vulnerable. On paper, they were down two major interior pieces and had a first-year varsity head coach, Phillip Heppe, trying to stabilize the ship. For most programs, that’s a recipe for regression.
But this wasn’t most programs.
There was still that looming shadow—McCaffrey and Easley. Even as seventh graders, I had my eye on them. Jace was already a lights-out scorer with a scorer’s swagger. And McCaffrey? He was the thinker. I called him the metronome—because he never sped up. Never panicked. Never deviated from the beat of the game. But he was, at that point, undersized, and we thought we could body him off the line and contain his impact with pressure.
That illusion vanished in the offseason.
Reports came in—Conor McCaffrey had grown over six inches, stretching from a wiry 5’4 to nearly 5’11. He’d spent the summer with the Froebe family, and for anyone in Central Illinois basketball circles, that name means something. The Froebes are basketball royalty in Lincoln—a family raised on hard-nosed defense, advanced reads, gym reps, and fundamentals so ingrained they feel instinctual. I don’t know what kind of training regimen they put him through, but it was clear he came back a different player. Stronger. Smarter. More assertive. And with his added size and length, suddenly every pass that was once just a half-second too late was now a bullet through a keyhole.
But what made me really sit up in my chair came in early October when I caught wind of a coaching hire that would change the trajectory of that entire season.
Bryce Thompson.
I knew that name. Anyone who scouted Central Illinois grassroots basketball did. Thompson had built a reputation as one of the savviest AAU minds in the region—known for running complex offensive sets that somehow looked fluid at middle school speed. The man could teach spacing, read-and-react, and player movement like he was coaching college-level motion. When I heard he was joining O.S. as an assistant, I turned to my notes and drew a circle around Springfield.
We were no longer dealing with a scrappy 28–12 team flying under the radar.
We were dealing with a potential juggernaut. And the question for all of us—myself, our Christ Lutheran coaching staff, and every contender in the LSA—was the same:
Who was going to fill in the gaps?
Because if McCaffrey and Easley got help?
If they found even one or two reliable pieces around them?
Then it wouldn’t just be a good year for O.S. Springfield.
It would be the beginning of something terrifying.
Every November, like clockwork, we’d gather the Christ Lutheran coaching staff—myself, our head coach, assistants, and a couple of former players we trusted—to go over the upcoming LSA slate. We’d meet in the back of Coach Anderton’s office, surrounded by old tournament posters, dust-covered game balls, and stacks of footage labeled with duct tape and Sharpie. This wasn’t just tradition. It was intelligence gathering.
And that November of 2019, our eyes weren’t on Springfield.
No, the buzz in that room centered on Bethel Morton.
Coach kept coming back to them. “McLaughlin’s a real matchup problem,” he said, flipping through his notes. “Big body, good footwork, and he finishes through contact.” Noah Suttles had developed into a crafty scorer on the wing with a quiet killer instinct, and Grant Tode? That kid was the glue. Steady, intelligent, and tough as nails. Together, they formed what most of us quietly called The Silent Big Three—not flashy, not loud, but efficient and battle-tested.
And they had something far more valuable: psychological leverage.
It was Bethel Morton who ended Our Savior’s dream season back in 2018 when Easley and McCaffrey led their JV team to a 31–0 record—only to see it snapped by Bethel in the final. That loss stung O.S. Springfield, and you could see it in their body language whenever they faced them. Bethel had their number. The following year? Bethel did it again. Three straight wins over O.S., including the one that knocked them into the consolation bracket in 2019. That’s not just a fluke. That’s a pattern.
So it’s no wonder our staff kept circling Bethel’s name at the top of the scouting board. We ran simulations on them, mapped potential matchups for February, studied every flex screen and defensive hedge they threw at Easley the previous year. There was no question in our minds—if we were going to win conference, or make a deep tournament run, Bethel Morton was the obstacle.
And frankly, nobody brought up Springfield in that room.
Not once.
“Oh, O.S.?” one assistant muttered as he glanced down the schedule. “They’ll be good. They’ll get some wins. But Bethel owns them mentally.” It wasn’t disrespect—it was history. Bethel’s system, their physicality, their confidence—they had always managed to fluster Easley into tough looks and throw McCaffrey off rhythm with constant traps and switches.
But sitting in that room, I had a pit in my stomach.
Because while everyone else was focused on Morton, I remembered something that changed everything.
Conor McCaffrey had spent the summer with the Froebe family.
For outsiders, that may not mean much. But if you’ve been around long enough—if you understand the deep vein of basketball that runs through Lincoln—you know exactly what that meant. You don’t train with Kloe Froebe and come back the same player. You come back harder, smarter, hungrier. Kloe was already being talked about as the next great Illinois prospect, and the Froebe gym wasn’t just some casual summer sweat session—it was a proving ground. She doesn’t hand out respect. She earns it. And Conor? He stayed in that fire. All summer.
That’s when I started to worry.
I didn’t say much that day—just circled Springfield’s name once on my notepad while the room buzzed about McLaughlin’s touch in the paint and Suttles’ 3-point range. But I remember muttering something under my breath as I packed my bag:
“We're underestimating Springfield. Again.”
They had the scars.
They had the growth.
And for the first time in years…
They had a point to prove.
By late February 2020, the stage had been set.
We were 38–4. They were 38–6. Both of us still in contention. Both of us clawing for our place in the National Tournament. And I’ll be damned if there wasn’t something almost biblical about the way it was unfolding. Two teams, two legacies, and one last bracket spot.
The Eagles had been steamrolling through most of their schedule, piling up wins with a suffocating defense and an offense that was surgical when clicking. McCaffrey had fully taken over as the floor general—no longer a supporting piece but the system itself. Easley? He’d become the LSA’s coldest closer. That wasn’t surprising. But what was surprising… was the supporting cast.
Because they answered the question.
They didn’t just plug the gaps left by Wes Mullen and Christian Lahniers. They filled them—and reshaped the mold altogether.
Jeremiah Perkins had stepped into the center role like he’d been born for it. A mobile 6’4 force of nature, he was the kind of big who could bang in the post on one possession and then rip a cross-court skip pass off the dribble on the next. We hadn’t seen many like him in the LSA. He was more than a post anchor—he was a playmaker. The kind of hybrid 5 you had to scheme for in every half-court set. If you doubled McCaffrey, he’d float the ball to Perkins at the top, and before you could rotate, it was either a dime to the corner or a clean drive down the left lane. And he ran the floor. Like a gazelle with a mission.
Then there was Lucas Schmitt—their 7th grade three-and-D wing. No one in our scouting room was blown away by his stats. But when I turned on the tape, he reminded me of the guys who win you playoff games. He’d guard the opponent’s best wing without hesitation, close out hard without biting, and fight for every possession like he was down 20. His cuts were sharp, his spacing flawless, and he’d hit just enough threes to make you pay for ignoring him. Every good team needs a kid like Schmitt. A soldier. A scrapper. A glue guy before he even hits puberty.
But the real wildcard—the one that annoyed coaches and guards alike—was Logan Allen.
A 6’3 eighth-grade lefty with a head full of hair and a chip on both shoulders, Allen wasn’t built to please—he was built to piss you off. He was Springfield’s answer to chaos. Rodman-esque in attitude, Allen would dive into passing lanes, throw elbows under the rim, and jaw at you from the second quarter on. He played dirty. He played tough. And he was proud of it. But don’t let the antics fool you—he could play. He was the guy who’d grab three offensive rebounds in a single trip, poke the ball loose, and then draw a charge 30 seconds later. You couldn’t predict him. And that’s what made him dangerous.
So now here we were. The conference had played out, the standings were crystalizing, and both Christ Lutheran and Our Savior’s had answered the call.
We were still circling Bethel Morton early in the year. But by now?
Every team in the state was circling Springfield.
They weren’t just a two-man show anymore.
They were a machine.
And I’ll admit it: watching their film those last two weeks of the season, I found myself sitting alone in the film room one night, the light from the projector flickering off the trophy case, whispering to myself:
“We should’ve seen this coming…”
The Scouting Report
If you want to understand the 2019–20 Our Savior’s Springfield Eagles, you can’t start with the players.
You have to start with the architect behind it all: Head Coach Phillip Heppe.
At the time of our scouting report, Heppe was 68–18 through his first two varsity seasons—the best winning percentage in Our Savior’s history. Not bad for a guy who walked into the program with the pressure of reviving a storied tradition and the weight of generational expectations on his shoulders. Heppe’s style wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t loud, didn’t chew through refs, and rarely strutted for the cameras. But beneath that composed exterior was a man obsessed with one thing: maximizing his guards.
And boy, did he have the right ones.
From day one, Heppe made it clear that the success of O.S. would rise and fall with Conor McCaffrey and Jace Easley. That wasn’t favoritism—it was clarity. Heppe had two once-in-a-decade talents at the LSA level, and he wasn’t going to waste them. He leaned on them like a carpenter leans on his finest tools. Every set, every spacing tweak, every sideline out-of-bounds play was designed to put the ball in McCaffrey’s hands as a decision-maker and Easley’s hands as a finisher.
But early in his tenure, there was criticism—quiet, of course, but there. Some said he was too reliant on those two. That when McCaffrey was sidelined with injury in early 2019, the offense sputtered. That Heppe didn’t have a Plan B. That he wasn’t adapting fast enough.
Then came Bryce Thompson.
Thompson, hired as an assistant before the 2019–20 campaign, changed everything. A former AAU guru with a knack for advanced offensive schemes and player development, Thompson became the X’s and O’s engine behind Springfield’s most dominant season in recent memory. He brought in spacing concepts foreign to most middle school coaches—drag screens, ghost cuts, second-side action—and taught the kids how to read them like varsity juniors. More importantly, he helped refine Heppe’s system.
The result? A hybrid offense that was fast when it needed to be, methodical when it had to be, and centered around the dual brilliance of McCaffrey and Easley. Heppe still called the shots, but with Thompson in his ear, the offense evolved from predictable motion into a layered, modern attack. It became harder to scout. Easier to execute. And nearly impossible to stop when humming.
Heppe’s greatest gift wasn’t his clipboard—it was his humility. He let Thompson have influence. He trusted his players. And he fostered a culture where every role mattered. From Easley’s flamethrower scoring to Schmitt’s off-ball defense, each kid knew exactly where he stood and what was expected.
In 2020, that mattered. Because Heppe wasn’t just managing egos—he was managing expectation. After two years of heartbreak, this was supposed to be the year. And Heppe didn’t shy away. He tightened rotations. He leaned harder on McCaffrey’s cerebral tempo and Easley’s killer instinct. And with Thompson scripting sets and Perkins owning the high post, Heppe finally found the balance he’d been chasing since he took the job.
You could see it in how they opened games: calm, calculated, confident. You could see it in late-game execution—where McCaffrey always seemed to make the right skip, Easley hit the dagger, and Logan Allen bullied a second-chance rebound into a backbreaker.
This wasn’t just talent anymore.
This was structure.
This was Heppe and Thompson.
And in the words I scribbled in my final March scouting binder:
“Coaches who figure it out by February are dangerous. Coaches who figure it out in November?
Those are the ones who cut down nets.”
The Conductor with Teeth – Point Guard #22, Conor McCaffrey (8th Grade)
If there was one player in the LSA in 2020 who had complete command of the court—pace, flow, matchups, timing—and could still rip your heart out with a dagger jumper or a downhill drive, it was Conor McCaffrey.
By the midpoint of the season, McCaffrey wasn’t just the best floor general in the state—he was one of its most lethal scorers. He averaged a staggering 25 points and 10 assists per game, a dual-threat menace who had evolved from a pass-first tactician into a scoring savant with an old man’s brain and a grown man’s heart. There were games where he dropped 30 and never looked rushed. There were games where he barely shot in the first half and then unloaded 20 in the second like it was nothing. He didn’t just understand the game. He owned it.
Skillset & Strengths
1. Scoring Versatility – Complete
This wasn’t a kid who needed a system to free him. McCaffrey was the system. He could score on all three levels. His midrange pull-up was automatic—particularly from the elbows—and his floater package was among the best I’ve ever scouted in middle school. He had a tight left-to-right crossover he used to get into his pull-up, and his footwork in the paint let him finish over length or through contact.
From deep? He shot around 40% from three and could hit it off the dribble, especially in late-clock situations. Think Deron Williams in his prime or a younger Jalen Brunson—a guard with strength, poise, and an answer for everything.
- Elite Passing Under Pressure
Even while scoring 25 per night, McCaffrey still averaged 10 assists—and they weren’t basic kick-outs. These were manipulated assists: wraparounds, skip passes through tight windows, bounce passes thrown perfectly in stride. He would beat you with the pass if you helped on him. If you didn’t? He scored.
When he got into a rhythm, the court bent around him. It was like watching a young Luka Dončić, but with the humility of a role player and the killer instinct of a closer.
- Tempo Control and Leadership – Off the Charts
McCaffrey controlled the pace like a 20-year veteran. He’d slow it down when they had a lead and speed it up if he saw fatigue in the defense. I called him the pulse of Springfield. Everything moved in sync with him. You couldn’t throw traps or presses at him—he read them instantly, and by the time you committed, the ball was already gone.
He was the loudest voice on the court—talking through actions, calling out weak side rotations, correcting a teammate’s foot positioning mid-play. You couldn’t teach what he had between the ears.
- Strength & Physical Maturity
McCaffrey wasn’t just mentally ahead—he was physically tough, too. After growing nearly six inches to around 5’11, he filled out with broad shoulders and strong legs. He posted up smaller guards and didn’t shy away from contact at the rim. He absorbed fouls and still finished.
- Clutch Factor – Ruthless
I charted seven games where the Eagles were tied or trailing in the final four minutes. McCaffrey took over every single one. He wanted the ball. He thrived in tight spots. He’d hit contested jumpers, bully into the lane for and-ones, or thread impossible passes to Easley or Allen. You could see it in his face—he loved the pressure.
Weaknesses & How to Disrupt Him
Make no mistake: you weren't stopping Conor McCaffrey. You were trying to survive him. That said, here were the only tactics that gave him any pause:
- Elite On-Ball Defenders
If you had a high-IQ guard who could stay low and had the strength to absorb contact, you could make McCaffrey work for it. But that defender had to be mentally locked in—no gambling, no biting on fakes, no ball-watching. Because one mistake, and McCaffrey turned it into three points. If you had a guard like this, you needed to give him help on the drive but still trust him to contest without fouling. And you needed to rotate like hell behind him.
- Soft Traps and Show Doubles
A hard double only gave McCaffrey a clean read. But soft traps—where the second defender showed just enough to freeze him—sometimes forced him to hesitate and eat clock. That was our best way of limiting his scoring and his assist game at once.
- Fatigue Him Physically
Only a few teams had the depth to do this. But rotating multiple long guards on him throughout the game—keeping a fresh body glued to him—sometimes limited his off-ball movement and made him walk the ball up more frequently. If he had to work on both ends for all four quarters, he’d occasionally defer more to Easley late. But this was rare, and more of a moral victory than a tactical one.
- Deny Easley—Force Hero Mode
McCaffrey had full trust in Easley, who was his safety valve and sniper. If you face-guarded Easley and clogged the lane with help defenders, McCaffrey would sometimes be forced to go full iso. And while he could still beat you that way… he had to work harder. Fatigue followed.
Final Assessment
Conor McCaffrey wasn’t just an elite passer or an elite scorer—he was both. A two-way weapon who could beat you with brilliance or brutality. And for a team like ours—built on disciplined rotations and scouting precision—it was a nightmare.
I wrote the following in bold red ink on my February 2020 scouting binder:
“If he’s hot, pray.
If he’s cold, he’ll still beat you with a pass.
If he’s quiet? That’s when you should be scared. Because he’s about to bury you.”
Shooting Guard #21, Jace Easley (8th Grade)
If Conor McCaffrey was the mind of the 2019–20 O.S. Springfield Eagles, then Jace Easley was the heart—and the hammer.
No player in the LSA that year, and frankly no shooting guard I’d seen in the past 20 years of scouting, played with Easley’s combination of raw athleticism, volume scoring, defensive ferocity, and emotional edge. By February, he had already shattered the LSA all-time career scoring record, averaging a blistering 27.5 points per game, and doing it with the efficiency of a seasoned pro: 50% from the field, 80% from the line, and 40% from three.
He was a true three-level scorer with the bounce of a track star and the instincts of a streetball legend. Whether it was pulling up from deep, exploding downhill off a McCaffrey screen, or rising up through contact for a second-chance finish, Easley didn’t just score. He imposed his will on the game.
And when he got rolling?
You could feel it in the walls of the gym.
Skillset & Strengths
1. Scoring – Unstoppable
Easley’s shot chart looked like an NBA-ready prospect. He could score on every spot of the floor:
Catch-and-shoot three from the corner? Money.
One-dribble pull-up from the wing? Textbook.
Baseline fadeaway with a hand in his face? Routine.
Backdoor cut with a hammer dunk in transition? Don’t blink.
His athleticism was second to none in the LSA. He had hang time—he could get up, float, and finish through trees. You rarely see that kind of body control at this level. His jumper was pure and high-arcing, and his footwork off curls and flares was polished beyond his years. Think Anthony Edwards, if you want a modern comp—explosive, flashy, and deadly.
- Defensive Menace
Easley wasn’t just a scorer—he was the best two-way guard in the state. He took defense personally. He wanted the opposing team’s best player. He played angles well, anticipated crossovers, and had active hands. But his greatest defensive tool was his energy—he could lock you down and then scream at the baseline after the stop. It rattled kids. His emotional edge turned defense into psychological warfare.
He averaged 3 steals and 6 rebounds a game—many of them in traffic over taller forwards. He rebounded like a wing, boxed out like a forward, and crashed the glass like a man possessed.
- Transition Play
In open space, Easley was devastating. McCaffrey would lead the break, and Easley would fill the lane like a freight train. His second and third steps were lightning-quick, and once airborne, no one was stopping him. He had that extra burst that separated him from other LSA guards. It was one thing to keep up with him—it was another to time him.
- Shot Creation
Easley had solid handles and could go isolation if needed. His crossover was sharp, and he had a surprisingly smooth hesitation move from the left wing that froze defenders. His first step wasn’t just fast—it was aggressive. He dared defenders to stay in front, and most couldn’t.
Weaknesses & How to Disrupt Him
Now here’s the truth: you weren’t stopping Jace Easley, not over four quarters. But he could be thrown off rhythm under the right conditions:
- Physical, Fast On-Ball Defenders
Easley’s handles were good—but not elite. When guarded by uber-athletic, low-center guards who could body him up full court, you could occasionally force a turnover or disrupt his balance. Teams that had a “dog” guard—someone who lived for contact and refused to bite on shot fakes—had the best shot at keeping Easley to 20 or fewer.
- Deny Him Early Touches
He was an emotional player. If he didn’t get involved in the first 3–4 possessions, sometimes he’d press. He’d force a shot, commit a reach-in, or get frustrated with contact. Denying him the ball early—face-guarding him off screens, denying baseline pin downs—sometimes disrupted his rhythm.
- Push Him to Be a Primary Ball-Handler
When teams blitzed McCaffrey, Easley was forced to bring the ball up. And while he was capable, it pulled him away from where he was most dangerous: off-ball cuts, wing isolations, and off-screen jumpers. If you could tire him out making decisions, you could take a little juice out of his scoring motor by the 4th.
- Make Him Guard and Work
This was the other pressure point. Easley took pride in guarding the other team’s best player. But if that player made him work—constantly moving, using screens, cutting baseline—it slowly chipped away at his legs and sometimes led to short-armed jumpers late.
Final Assessment
Jace Easley was a lightning rod. The most electric scorer in the state. The most competitive dog on both ends of the floor. And the emotional fuel that drove the Eagles into one of the best seasons in LSA history.
I wrote this line in capital letters across the top of our Easley scouting page:
“IF MCCAFFREY IS THE MIND, EASLEY IS THE KILLER.”
“NEVER LET HIM GET COMFORTABLE. NEVER LET HIM GET COCKY.
IF HE SCREAMS AFTER A BUCKET, IT’S ALREADY TOO LATE.”
Small Forward #5, Lucas Schmitt (7th Grade)
If you looked at the Springfield Eagles on paper, Lucas Schmitt wouldn’t jump out. At around 5’7 and still a 7th grader, he was significantly smaller than the star-studded backcourt of McCaffrey and Easley. But the tape told a different story.
Schmitt wasn’t there to fill stat sheets. He was there to do what most players at this level couldn’t handle—defend the most annoying assignment, absorb contact, play within himself, and win the 50/50 war. He was Springfield’s Danny Green: steady, unbothered, and team-first to his core. But there was also a dash of Patrick Beverley in there too—he had a chip on his shoulder, and if he was guarding you, you were going to feel it.
Skillset & Strengths
1. Elite Defensive Versatility
What made Schmitt so valuable was his willingness to take on any assignment. Despite being listed at the small forward slot in Springfield’s lineup, Schmitt often guarded opposing point guards. When McCaffrey or Easley had to switch onto elite wings or post threats, Schmitt was the one who slid up to the perimeter and took on the ball-handler—no hesitation.
He fought over screens, timed his digs perfectly, and played with incredibly low hips and active hands. He forced more five-second calls than any player we scouted in 2020. He wasn’t just reliable—he was relentless. Coaches love kids like this. He made every dribble feel heavy.
- Spot-Up Shooting and Floor Spacing
The ball didn’t touch the floor much when it got to Schmitt, and that was by design. He was Springfield’s safety valve. Positioned in the corner or on the wing, he was a catch-and-shoot specialist who rarely forced anything and always knew where to be. His jumper was compact and repeatable—think Danny Green in his prime Spurs days—and he could hit open looks from deep when defenders sagged to help on Easley or McCaffrey.
He wasn’t a volume shooter, but he made defenses pay for sleeping. And that mattered in tight games, especially when Easley drew doubles.
- Off-Ball Movement and Cutting
Schmitt understood spacing better than most 8th graders. He didn’t clog driving lanes. He cut when the defense collapsed. He leaked baseline when the weak side wing turned his head. Springfield ran a lot of flex and motion sets that only worked because Schmitt kept his timing and angles tight. He moved like a coach’s son. Never flashy. Always in rhythm.
- Rebounding and Scrapping
Though undersized for the three, Schmitt had no issue diving into a pile and fighting for a rebound. He’d get pushed around at times, sure, but he didn’t flinch. He’d box out a kid four inches taller and still find a way to tip the ball to a teammate or poke it loose. There’s a reason Coach Heppe and Thompson kept him on the floor in late-game possessions: he made the small plays that win games.
Weaknesses & Scouting Strategy
Schmitt wasn’t a threat to beat you off the bounce, and that limited his isolation capabilities. But that didn’t mean he was exploitable—just that his role was narrow. Here’s how we approached him:
- Pressure His Catch
We knew he wouldn’t dribble much, so we closed out hard. If we forced him off the line, he often just swung the ball or dumped it back to McCaffrey. He wasn’t looking to attack off two dribbles. If your closeouts were tight and contained, Schmitt became a connector rather than a threat.
- Make Him Switch Onto Bigs
When possible, we ran cross screens to try and drag him into mismatches on the block. But credit to Springfield—they switched smartly and often pre-rotated to protect Schmitt when bigger wings posted him up. He held his own, but there was only so much a 7th grader could do against a 6’2 slasher with weight.
- Don’t Leave Him in the Corner
If we overhelped off Schmitt in the weakside corner, we paid for it. He hit too many clutch threes from that spot for it to be a fluke. The key was disciplined rotations—we tagged McCaffrey’s drives without abandoning Schmitt.
Final Assessment
Lucas Schmitt was the kind of player that winning programs need to function. He didn’t chase stats. He didn’t need the spotlight. He knew who he was—and he was damn good at it.
I wrote this quote from one of our assistant coaches in the margin of our Schmitt file:
“If Easley’s the finisher and McCaffrey’s the conductor,
Schmitt’s the guy who holds the instrument case before the show…
Then turns around and wins the biggest possession of the night.”
Tough. Disciplined. Overlooked. And absolutely essential.