Seventy.
It approaches, indifferently. I approach it, differently. This one is different. Next Wednesday, March 6, I will become seventy years old. I need to say something about it, and that's a risky business. But it's my birthday, and I can try if I want to.
What a long, interesting, complicated aisle, coming forward from March 6, 1943. If I could return, and tell my grandmother, Susie, where I would wind up when I was seventy, she would say, "You're crazy as a loon, boy."
Approaching seventy feels like the aisle where it emerges from the seats and goes forward to an altar where the coronation will occur. That's where I am today. I'm not seventy yet. But from where I stand, I like the looks of it.
All the other landmark birthdays were grim labels, bitten off in two syllables. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Fifty. Sixty.
Now comes seventy. Three syllables, which come out like a sigh.
What a difference. Forty was a wake-up call. Fifty was to the AARP as Feb. 14 is to Hallmark. Then sixty. I remember sixty like it was yesterday. Sixty was a threat. A cool breath of mortality arrived on that day in light curlicues that tightened around my neck. Too late to plant a tree and expect to enjoy the shade.
The sixties now seem like a proving ground for seventy. Show that you can take this aging thing. Make it, and you will be rewarded with a nice ceremony, conferring the nobility of this age. Seventy.
I know already, approaching it, that next Wednesday I am not to look past seventy. Seventy is a day unto itself, to be breathed deeply in, celebrating not where I've been, or where I'm going, but where I am.
February 27, 2013
February 25, 2013
How they played the game
Back in the 1930s, a great sportswriter wrote of a boxer: "He was a third-rate middleweight second to none."
I can't find the quote, even with Google, and I don't remember the writer or the boxer. But the writer could have been talking about me as a football player. In every practice and in the locker room before every game, my routine was to acknowledge my shortcomings. I suppose it became psychological, but the shortcomings were real. I was slow. I was a third-rate athlete second to none. Glynn Gregory could cut on a dime; it took me a manhole cover, if it occurred to me to cut at all.
I am setting the scene for a legacy bequeathed me, and so many like me, by Glynn after his death, at 73, of cancer, on Feb. 14. At his funeral in Dallas, and events afterwards, teammates would have told stories about him, and how great he was on the field, and off.
It was a haze of lore that has enveloped me. I was an Abilene Eagle, in 1959-60, sat in the same classrooms as Glynn, practiced on the same field, suited out in the same locker rooms, played for the same coach, Chuck Moser, even got to wear Glynn's old jersey, No. 21, in a spring practice scrimmage in 1958. I blocked a punt that day. It was the highlight of my gridiron career.
Through this mist I can actually enter the Eagles' locker room in 1956, and feel what it was like, before a game, with Gregory sitting in front of a locker, and Jimmy Carpenter, Hayseed Stephens, Stuart Peake, Rufus and Boyd King, Jim Rose, John Young. Pull on a jersey knowing I had the speed and the skill and the will. Not just will. We all had will. We wouldn't have stood practice without it. But the will backed up by the speed and the skill, the athleticism, to go out and do something about it.
I can feel what it was like to be one of those Eagles, ready to just go out and play the way they could play. It reminds me of dreams I have had throughout life, where I could fly, not like Superman, but just above the houses and the treetops, above the neighborhood, liberated from gravity. What must it be like to leave the locker room and trot toward the field, liberated from gravity?
Last week a collection of photos from Glynn's life was circulated to an email list of men who played at Abilene High in the 1950s. For me, one image, from a baseball game, stood out. Abilene won three state football championships in Glynn's tenure, and two state baseball championships while he was playing catcher. In this image, an Amarillo batter, a lefty, has swung and hit a ground ball. Behind him, and even with him, is Glynn, the catcher, flinging off his mask in the same motion he breaks for first base to back up the play.
To kids like me, it is a fantasy photo. For Glynn, it was another happy day at the ballpark.
I can't find the quote, even with Google, and I don't remember the writer or the boxer. But the writer could have been talking about me as a football player. In every practice and in the locker room before every game, my routine was to acknowledge my shortcomings. I suppose it became psychological, but the shortcomings were real. I was slow. I was a third-rate athlete second to none. Glynn Gregory could cut on a dime; it took me a manhole cover, if it occurred to me to cut at all.
I am setting the scene for a legacy bequeathed me, and so many like me, by Glynn after his death, at 73, of cancer, on Feb. 14. At his funeral in Dallas, and events afterwards, teammates would have told stories about him, and how great he was on the field, and off.
It was a haze of lore that has enveloped me. I was an Abilene Eagle, in 1959-60, sat in the same classrooms as Glynn, practiced on the same field, suited out in the same locker rooms, played for the same coach, Chuck Moser, even got to wear Glynn's old jersey, No. 21, in a spring practice scrimmage in 1958. I blocked a punt that day. It was the highlight of my gridiron career.
Through this mist I can actually enter the Eagles' locker room in 1956, and feel what it was like, before a game, with Gregory sitting in front of a locker, and Jimmy Carpenter, Hayseed Stephens, Stuart Peake, Rufus and Boyd King, Jim Rose, John Young. Pull on a jersey knowing I had the speed and the skill and the will. Not just will. We all had will. We wouldn't have stood practice without it. But the will backed up by the speed and the skill, the athleticism, to go out and do something about it.
I can feel what it was like to be one of those Eagles, ready to just go out and play the way they could play. It reminds me of dreams I have had throughout life, where I could fly, not like Superman, but just above the houses and the treetops, above the neighborhood, liberated from gravity. What must it be like to leave the locker room and trot toward the field, liberated from gravity?
Last week a collection of photos from Glynn's life was circulated to an email list of men who played at Abilene High in the 1950s. For me, one image, from a baseball game, stood out. Abilene won three state football championships in Glynn's tenure, and two state baseball championships while he was playing catcher. In this image, an Amarillo batter, a lefty, has swung and hit a ground ball. Behind him, and even with him, is Glynn, the catcher, flinging off his mask in the same motion he breaks for first base to back up the play.
To kids like me, it is a fantasy photo. For Glynn, it was another happy day at the ballpark.
February 17, 2013
The Eagles and Secretariat
Following up on Glynn's blog, only last summer did I learn something new and significant about Abilene High's "Team of the Century." Last summer at my household we watched "Secretariat," the movie about the racehorse that won the Triple Crown in 1973, and winning the last and toughest race, the Belmont Stakes, by a totally preposterous 31 lengths.
Many of the reporters at the Belmont that day – Pete Axthelm, Heywood Hale Broun, George Plimpton, Furman Bisher, Jack Whitaker, Frank McGee – wrote and told of people crying as Secretariat roared down the stretch, actually accelerating, near the finish line, away from the rest of the field far up the track.
Broun told of Jack Nicklaus, the legendary golfer, telling him, at a tournament later that summer, "I was all alone in my living room, watching, and as he came down the stretch, pulling away, I applauded, and I cried." Broun said to him, "Jack, don't you understand? All of your life, in your game, you've been striving for perfection. At the end of the Belmont, you saw it."
When I heard that, I remembered I had seen perfection somewhere else, as a seventh-grader on Dec. 17, 1955, at Amon Carter Stadium in Fort Worth. That day, Abilene beat Tyler, 33-13, for the AAAA state championship. It was the 23rd game in the Eagles' winning streak, but this game stood apart. In building a 33-0 lead, the Eagles realized their potential. Chuck Moser always taught perfection, but realistically, knowing 75 or 80 percent of perfection would give his team a significant advantage. Against Tyler, though, perfection was achieved. Even Moser said it: "That game was something a coach lives for. Our first team played a perfect game all the way."
As always, when you remember those Eagles, two names rise first: Moser, and Glynn Gregory. That afternoon at Fort Worth, Gregory provided two memorable plays. Well, Moser would get mad at me for putting it that way. The Eagles provided two memorable plays in which Glynn was the ballcarrier.
The first was the second play of the game. The Eagles were in a hole at their own 10, then Gregory carried 48 yards to the Tyler 42. It turned out to be the biggest play of the game. Six plays later, the Eagles scored their first touchdown.
"On either side of the field," I wrote in "Warbirds" 50 years later, "people didn't quite know what to think. After a nerve-rattling start, the Eagles had moved 95 yards in eight plays, all of them rushes inside the tackles, and they did it in three minutes and seven seconds against the unbeaten Tyler Lions, who had allowed only one touchdown in the playoffs, and only 87 points all season."
The second memorable play came in the second quarter, fourth and 25 from the Tyler 40.
"It was the Statue of Liberty play. Gregory took off to the right, his cleats kicking up chalk dust at the 50 as he turned upfield . . . In front of Gregory was left tackle Rufus King. Gregory galloped across the 40, then the 30, with King five yards in front. At the 20, running at full speed, the 185-pound King hit (Charles) Milstead with a block that knocked the 6-2, 190-pound Milstead five yards backward and to the ground at the 15. Behind King's block, Gregory cut back across the field. Of the nine players near him, six wore gold jerseys. (Freddie) Green, racing across in front of Gregory, knocked down one defender who in turn rolled into a second Tyler back. Near the goal line, (Henry) Colwell set up to screen off the last defender, who wasn't going to catch Gregory anyway as he strode into the end zone."
I have been told that Rufus King, rest in peace, cried, when he read these words about that play 50 years later. I think it must be that humanity, as it began to develop on this Earth, started to use performance as an exercise in trying to understand potential. Eventually they learned that performance potential, when realized, reveals a spiritual element, and that element stirs the soul. When the soul is stirred, as most people now well know, it's common for some tears to spill over.
It's happened to me, watching Secretariat, and the films of the first half of the Tyler game, which are available in a DVD set created by the Abilene High video department.
Many of the reporters at the Belmont that day – Pete Axthelm, Heywood Hale Broun, George Plimpton, Furman Bisher, Jack Whitaker, Frank McGee – wrote and told of people crying as Secretariat roared down the stretch, actually accelerating, near the finish line, away from the rest of the field far up the track.
Broun told of Jack Nicklaus, the legendary golfer, telling him, at a tournament later that summer, "I was all alone in my living room, watching, and as he came down the stretch, pulling away, I applauded, and I cried." Broun said to him, "Jack, don't you understand? All of your life, in your game, you've been striving for perfection. At the end of the Belmont, you saw it."
When I heard that, I remembered I had seen perfection somewhere else, as a seventh-grader on Dec. 17, 1955, at Amon Carter Stadium in Fort Worth. That day, Abilene beat Tyler, 33-13, for the AAAA state championship. It was the 23rd game in the Eagles' winning streak, but this game stood apart. In building a 33-0 lead, the Eagles realized their potential. Chuck Moser always taught perfection, but realistically, knowing 75 or 80 percent of perfection would give his team a significant advantage. Against Tyler, though, perfection was achieved. Even Moser said it: "That game was something a coach lives for. Our first team played a perfect game all the way."
As always, when you remember those Eagles, two names rise first: Moser, and Glynn Gregory. That afternoon at Fort Worth, Gregory provided two memorable plays. Well, Moser would get mad at me for putting it that way. The Eagles provided two memorable plays in which Glynn was the ballcarrier.
The first was the second play of the game. The Eagles were in a hole at their own 10, then Gregory carried 48 yards to the Tyler 42. It turned out to be the biggest play of the game. Six plays later, the Eagles scored their first touchdown.
"On either side of the field," I wrote in "Warbirds" 50 years later, "people didn't quite know what to think. After a nerve-rattling start, the Eagles had moved 95 yards in eight plays, all of them rushes inside the tackles, and they did it in three minutes and seven seconds against the unbeaten Tyler Lions, who had allowed only one touchdown in the playoffs, and only 87 points all season."
The second memorable play came in the second quarter, fourth and 25 from the Tyler 40.
"It was the Statue of Liberty play. Gregory took off to the right, his cleats kicking up chalk dust at the 50 as he turned upfield . . . In front of Gregory was left tackle Rufus King. Gregory galloped across the 40, then the 30, with King five yards in front. At the 20, running at full speed, the 185-pound King hit (Charles) Milstead with a block that knocked the 6-2, 190-pound Milstead five yards backward and to the ground at the 15. Behind King's block, Gregory cut back across the field. Of the nine players near him, six wore gold jerseys. (Freddie) Green, racing across in front of Gregory, knocked down one defender who in turn rolled into a second Tyler back. Near the goal line, (Henry) Colwell set up to screen off the last defender, who wasn't going to catch Gregory anyway as he strode into the end zone."
I have been told that Rufus King, rest in peace, cried, when he read these words about that play 50 years later. I think it must be that humanity, as it began to develop on this Earth, started to use performance as an exercise in trying to understand potential. Eventually they learned that performance potential, when realized, reveals a spiritual element, and that element stirs the soul. When the soul is stirred, as most people now well know, it's common for some tears to spill over.
It's happened to me, watching Secretariat, and the films of the first half of the Tyler game, which are available in a DVD set created by the Abilene High video department.
February 15, 2013
Glynn Gregory
One morning in 2004, the phone rang.
"Mike, this is Glynn Gregory."
I about fell out of my chair. Men in their 60s aren't supposed to do that, but this was, well, Glynn Gregory. Calling me!
He wanted to order a copy of my book, "Warbirds," a history of the 1954-57 Abilene High School Eagles, who were voted the "Team of the Century" in Texas high school football.
When you remember those teams, two names rise first: Chuck Moser, the coach, and Glynn Gregory, a player. He is routinely named the best player/athlete on the Team of the Century, but I don't know. Stuart Peake and Sam Caudle played like hurricanes, but they were guards and didn't get much ink. Jimmy Carpenter, whose program weight was 153 pounds, scored both touchdowns in the 1956 state championship game and gained 227 yards rushing, and he still holds state tournament baseball records for hits (eight in 11 at-bats, a .727 average) and runs scored (nine).
The Team had many great players: Hawkins, Millerman, Ash, Thomas, Bourland, Welch, Colwell, King, Rose, on and on. Still, Gregory's name rises first. My own adulation for him has remained strong for more than 50 years. When I learned last night that he had died of cancer, yesterday, at age 73, it felt like a corner of the firmament had been knocked off.
I was beginning sixth grade in 1954, the September when Glynn, a sophomore, first pulled on an Eagle game jersey, No. 21. The Eagles were No. 1 in state preseason rankings, a big deal, I can tell you, to sixth graders interested in sports. Then they lost the third game of the season.
The following Friday, on Oct. 8, 1954, the Eagles beat Borger, 34-7. It was the beginning of a winning streak that stretched into December, 1957, meaning, from October of the sixth grade to December of the ninth grade, a stretch of 49 games, I never saw the Eagles lose. Glynn was on the field for 37 of those games, from Borger in 1954 to the 1956 state championship game at Austin.
By then, not just the kids, but adult Abilenians, were mesmerized by the glory. Even in the 1950s, cities the size of Abilene, without the natural identity of a Dallas or Houston or Austin, were trying to tag themselves. Abilene was "The Key City of West Texas." Anything to get on the map. The Abilene Eagles were terrific publicity.
Not until I was finishing "Warbirds" did I realize another kind of continuity might have been at work. This is from the last paragraph of the book:
"A feeling emerges, among the players but also among Abilenians of that generation. It is a feeling of being different from people their age who grew up in other cities. They saw for almost four years – almost the length of an entire high school education – what can happen when you live by the rules, know all the plays, and run till the whistle blows. Now they wonder if the message was so strong that they carried it with them, part of their education not available to others. They wonder if their lives have been different, because of a football team, the Abilene High School Eagles, 1954-57."
When I wonder about that message, as I am wondering now, two names rise first. One is Glynn Gregory.
"Mike, this is Glynn Gregory."
I about fell out of my chair. Men in their 60s aren't supposed to do that, but this was, well, Glynn Gregory. Calling me!
He wanted to order a copy of my book, "Warbirds," a history of the 1954-57 Abilene High School Eagles, who were voted the "Team of the Century" in Texas high school football.
When you remember those teams, two names rise first: Chuck Moser, the coach, and Glynn Gregory, a player. He is routinely named the best player/athlete on the Team of the Century, but I don't know. Stuart Peake and Sam Caudle played like hurricanes, but they were guards and didn't get much ink. Jimmy Carpenter, whose program weight was 153 pounds, scored both touchdowns in the 1956 state championship game and gained 227 yards rushing, and he still holds state tournament baseball records for hits (eight in 11 at-bats, a .727 average) and runs scored (nine).
The Team had many great players: Hawkins, Millerman, Ash, Thomas, Bourland, Welch, Colwell, King, Rose, on and on. Still, Gregory's name rises first. My own adulation for him has remained strong for more than 50 years. When I learned last night that he had died of cancer, yesterday, at age 73, it felt like a corner of the firmament had been knocked off.
I was beginning sixth grade in 1954, the September when Glynn, a sophomore, first pulled on an Eagle game jersey, No. 21. The Eagles were No. 1 in state preseason rankings, a big deal, I can tell you, to sixth graders interested in sports. Then they lost the third game of the season.
The following Friday, on Oct. 8, 1954, the Eagles beat Borger, 34-7. It was the beginning of a winning streak that stretched into December, 1957, meaning, from October of the sixth grade to December of the ninth grade, a stretch of 49 games, I never saw the Eagles lose. Glynn was on the field for 37 of those games, from Borger in 1954 to the 1956 state championship game at Austin.
By then, not just the kids, but adult Abilenians, were mesmerized by the glory. Even in the 1950s, cities the size of Abilene, without the natural identity of a Dallas or Houston or Austin, were trying to tag themselves. Abilene was "The Key City of West Texas." Anything to get on the map. The Abilene Eagles were terrific publicity.
Not until I was finishing "Warbirds" did I realize another kind of continuity might have been at work. This is from the last paragraph of the book:
"A feeling emerges, among the players but also among Abilenians of that generation. It is a feeling of being different from people their age who grew up in other cities. They saw for almost four years – almost the length of an entire high school education – what can happen when you live by the rules, know all the plays, and run till the whistle blows. Now they wonder if the message was so strong that they carried it with them, part of their education not available to others. They wonder if their lives have been different, because of a football team, the Abilene High School Eagles, 1954-57."
When I wonder about that message, as I am wondering now, two names rise first. One is Glynn Gregory.
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