The
afternoon was warm but not hot. Spring time in Oklahoma was windy but a
pleasant time of year. Flowers were staring to bloom, trees were budding out,
the grass was green, and nests were full of baby birds. It was 1961 and
everything was full of promise and reborn. I was nineteen-years old and suited
up for my second spring football practice at the University of Oklahoma.
A
small group of us were doing drills with Coach Bobby Ward. Everyday all the
varsity players gathered around the head coach, Bud Wilkinson. He would read
out the name of an assistant coach followed by the names of the players who
would be with him for the hour of drills before we would gather for the days
practice scrimmage.
After
their names were read, each group would cheer and run off behind their coach
toward a section of the practice field for their workout. Coach Ward’s name was
always read last. There was no need for the names of the last fourteen of us to
be read aloud. With our heads bowed, eyes casting about for some way to escape,
we knew we were condemned.
“Let’s
go girls. Time to play,” Bobby said every day, and we all followed him at a
reluctant jog to a far corner of the practice field to begin our hitting drills
by the numbers. No cheering from our small ill-fated bunch as we ran off to
hell. Bobby was unforgiving and relentless.
We
had been at it for about 30 minutes when I saw out of the corner of my sweat
filled eyes a tall guy approach Coach Ward. After a short conversation, Bobby
walked over to me, and for the first time, he had a look of something other
than a fiery intensity about him. He put his hand on my shoulder pad.
“I
am deeply sorry,” he said. “You brother and cousin need to talk to you. You can
go and change. Don’t worry about football practice.”
I
took a deep breath and headed over to where my cousin Hal and my brother
Michael were waiting. I knew immediately why they were there. My father had
been ill with cancer for a long time.
