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Pages 8-9

On a bright, warm, fall afternoon I pass a football with my seven grandsons in the backyard of my oldest child Donald in middle Tennessee . Trey (Donald Richard McMurry, III), the oldest at eleven, carries my name and his daddy’s name. Zachary, his younger brother, a cute blonde-headed seven-and-a-half-year old, steals anyone’s heart. Max, the youngest of Donald’s three boys, is about five and a half. Their cousin Brennen, my daughter Caroline’s son, is six months older and much larger than Max, not far from Zachie’s size. Brennen inherited his size from his dad Scott, who set passing yardage records as a quarterback for both Seneca Valley High School and Geneva College in Pennsylvania . Walker, the firstborn of my younger son Joseph, is four and a half. Caroline’s Justin, three, and Joseph and Lisa’s Fletcher, two, round out my all-star grandson team. I can see Justin is going to be an athlete like his older brother Brennen. Justin tries to do everything his cousins and brother do, but can’t quite keep up. Fletcher toddles after the older boys. He enjoys himself and, like the other boys, loves being around PawPaw.

As my boys kick and pass the football with delight, Trey shouts, “PawPaw, watch me kick!” He punts over the heads of the smaller boys. All six of the little ones immediately take off after the errant ball like a pack of puppies, with Justin and Fletcher struggling to keep from being last to the ball, as they usually are.

Donald busily trims the shrubs he planted the year before. He looks up and grins at me. I wink at him as the six littlest ones tumble over each other to retrieve the football. Trey walks to me as the littler ones come running. “PawPaw did you ever play football?” asks Trey. “Yeah, PawPaw,” chime in Zachie, Max, Brennen, Walker, and Justin who make it to me breathlessly. “Did you, did you ever play football? Huh, PawPaw, didja? Didja?” Young Fletcher tries to imitate, “Futball, PawPaw, futball?”

Donald, without missing a cut, sneers sarcastically, “Oh, boys, you don’t want to go there. If you get him started telling his football stories, he will talk your ears off.” Justin feels his ears, questioningly. Ignoring the insolence of my first born, I answer, “Did I play football? Did I play football? Didn’t your parents tell you how great your PawPaw was when he played football?” Zach, jumping up and down, says, “Tell us, PawPaw, tell us, PawPaw!” The others, except Trey, join the jumping and the chorus. Feigning resignation, I expound, “Well, all right, if you insist. I’ll tell you a story or two, but I could go on all night and all tomorrow, too.”

“That’s okay, PawPaw,” exclaims Trey, “let us hear all about you playing football.”

Still hunkered over the shrub he is meticulously trimming, Donald warns the boys again, “You’ll be sorry. After he tells one story, there will be no end, boys. You better just kick the ball around and leave story-telling to our bedtime devotions.”

Looking over at him with mock disgust, I decide, “Well, that settles it. I’m taking these seven fine young men into the house for milk and fresh chocolate chip cookies. We will leave ‘Mr. Stick in the Mud with no Football Stories’ out here in the sun.” The boys giggle with glee as Fletcher takes one of my hands and Justin takes the other. The two of them pull me toward the back door as the older ones sprint on ahead. The fragrance of cookies wafts through the screen. Norma, my loving wife, affectionately called MiMi by the grandkids since Trey named her when he started talking, and Grace, my granddaughter, are baking. As we walk, my mind goes immediately to Public School Stadium in Jefferson City , Missouri , many years ago. I charge down the hill from the locker room while the Jay Marching Band plays our fight song, “On, Jeff City !” to the tune of “On Wisconsin.” The adrenaline courses through my veins a mile a minute as we go forth to battle an opponent. Oh, the joy of football--the victories, the defeats, the glory, the honors, and the memories of days gone by when we Jefferson City Jays were seventeen and life was simpler and times were slower. We were invincible and Kings of the Hill in those days that were gone too soon, but never forgotten.

Reality returns when Justin pleads, “Lift me up, PawPaw,” as we reach the back steps into the house. Once inside and seated around the kitchen table, the boys clamor for fresh chocolate chip cookies straight from the oven, many still cooling on waxed paper on the counter. I set a glass of cold milk in front of each boy. They eat cookies like they are going out of style and drink milk like there will be no tomorrow. The melted chips in the cookies and the aroma of the baking bring memories of my mother’s baking chocolate chip cookies when I was the boys’ ages.

I dip my cookie into my milk, soaking it before I eat it. Each boy follows my lead. Heather, Donald’s pretty wife and mother of four, observes and reminds her sons, “Now boys, remember, we do this only when PawPaw is here. You’re not allowed to do this any other time.” I display fake shock on my face, clutch my chest, and dip another cookie.

With a cookie in one hand and a glass of milk in the other, I settle into a chair and say, “Boys, what I am about to tell you is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Do you think PawPaw would fib to you?” “No, PawPaw,” the seven answer in chorus. “Tell us your football stories.” At that moment, Grace runs into the room, “PawPaw, girls like football, too!” I acknowledge, “Come on Gracie-girl, join the team!”

“Just a couple of stories,” I pretend, knowing I want to tell a lot of stories that are rumbling around in my head. “I’ll tell you a few stories now, and more another time.” I secretly hope they will ask for more. As I unpack my “football memory trunk,” I think of my mother telling me about a visit to Higbee , Mo. , her hometown, and how she noticed that I sat by Grandpa’s chair completely enthralled with his stories. After her dad spun his yarns, Mother told me that Grandpa’s stories got better the more he told them and the older he grew. Over 45 years have passed since I last donned the Jeff City red and black. My stories and my playing get better and better. “Boys, I remember the first time I played football…”

Page 31

We Cubs thought we were pretty good. The Bible says “pride goes before a fall.” The fall took an unusual twist for Charlie Brown and Donnie Fulcher. They had played superbly in our season so far, and felt good about themselves. In a move that defied explanation, those two went to Coach Adkins and told him they thought they were ready to play varsity level ball. They had been to Jay games and thought they were as good as any runner on the varsity. Their brashness caught Coach by off-guard. Composed as usual, Coach encouraged the bold pair by telling them he had watched their games and was impressed. He urged them to keep working hard. Coach left them with a bit of advice, “You gotta go through a system, do well, and we’ll take a look at you. I guarantee you guys can play for me if you learn.” The two friends felt good about themselves as they left their encounter with the man who was rapidly becoming an icon. They dreamed of doing great things for the varsity Jays, even as freshmen.

The next Thursday in practice Charlie punched Donnie in the ribs to look toward the side of the field. Coach Adkins had come to watch our practice. The next play called was a 43 Dive. Charlie was to run straight ahead from his left halfback position into the line through a hole created by Bill Powell and me. When the play ran, Powell and I didn’t create a satisfactory hole so Charlie veered toward the sideline. Finding running room, he swept past the outside defenders who had broken toward the middle of the field like the play called for. He raced into the clear for what would have been a touchdown on a regular playing field. “There,” Charlie thought to himself, “Coach Adkins has to be impressed with me now. He’ll move me to varsity.” Coach Adkins called him to the sidelines and in his gravelly voice spoke, “Brown, You’ll never play a down of football for me. If I call a 43 Dive, you run a 43 Dive.” Coach stalked away leaving a crestfallen young halfback in a state of disbelief.

Charlie went home that night and cried to his mother, “I can’t play for such a mean man.” Charlie was ready to quit football. His wise mother sensed a larger lesson in life for her boy to learn. Soothing her youngster’s ruffled feelings, she told him, “No, you are not going to quit. You are going to learn to play the way the coach wants you to.” Charlie did what his momma told him.

Our team’s fall almost came the next game. We dressed in our game uniforms and traveled the winding highway between Jeff City and Columbia as rain pelted the bus. Coach Muir scrambled off the bus and ran to the gym, getting drenched in the process. He came back breathless, and told us the game was postponed. A week later, we played the Columbia Jefferson Junior High Cyclones. Already Coach Adkins had instilled in us a dislike for any team associated with Columbia . That was the hardest-fought game I had played. We were down 6-0 at halftime and Coach Muir tried to fire us up. Charlie Brown came through with a long run to score. We managed to score our extra point on a run by Donnie Fulcher off tackle. We came away with a narrow 7-6 victory. On the bus ride home, we licked our wounds because we knew we had been in a battle. I knew in my heart that we faced major wars with those guys the next three years.

The Cyclones came to Jeff City for a return match under the lights. We played our other games in the afternoons. I wanted to play particularly well since Coach Adkins was there. I wanted him to know who I was. However, everything we did, they answered. Our outstanding backfield that ran over, around and through other teams and that pulled out the previous game, could not get untracked. We punted again and again as they stopped us. Much to our chagrin, Columbia scored in the first quarter. We Cubs yelled at each other and the usual good team spirit vanished. We bickered among ourselves, trying to blame someone for our being behind. Just before halftime, Columbia scored again, putting us behind two touchdowns. We had never been behind in a game before.

During halftime, Coaches Muir and Adkins talked to us while we sat on the cold grass in the east end zone. I am not sure why we didn’t go to the locker room. Both coaches tried to fire us up with their exhortations. Coach Adkins told us we should be playing like sophomores that late in the season, but we played like freshmen at the beginning of the season. When play resumed, not a lot changed. Confusion reigned supreme as our offense sputtered and stalled throughout the third quarter. We were more and more frustrated as the minutes ticked off the clock. When we entered the fourth quarter, the despised Columbians pushed us back repeatedly until they crossed our goal line once more. They led 20-0. My dislike for the Kewpies had been simmering, but intensified from that day forward. Late in the fourth quarter, Coach Adkins encouraged us as he paced the sideline to no avail.

Columbia put in their reserves and late in the game so did our coaches. Near the end of the game, Chuck Wickizer called a play and the team to move left. While the Cyclones moved with the Cubs, Ronnie came around the right end on a reverse, limping worse than anyone on the field on his re-injured an ankle. The play caught Columbia by surprise and Ronnie limped down the sideline to score a last minute touchdown. That gave us a little to cheer about amid the chilling 20-6 loss. I thought it poetic justice that Ronnie scored our last touchdown of the season. Our season record stood at four wins and one defeat. Ronnie knew that night he had played his last football game. He had injured his ankles too many times. Ronnie chose to concentrate on basketball and baseball.

Pages 51-52

After the starters punched in a couple of scores in the second half, Coach played us reserves the rest of the game. In the fourth quarter the Colts backfield gained traction and moved the ball toward our goal line. I played right inside linebacker and thought Bonna, Fishback and Davidson were good ball players. I got tired and looked toward our bench after each play, hoping the first team was coming to quell the Pirate mutiny. But no help came. There was no movement on the bench. Our brilliant coach let us experience the situation when we had to be the man. We sophomores and a few juniors were against their seniors. We gave up ground, grudgingly. Realizing that we were staying in the game, I determined the Pirates were not going to score--at least not through my territory. They pushed us back until they scored despite our collective best efforts.

After their extra point conversion, Coach motioned us to the sideline. I knew he was going to give us a tongue-lashing and probably pull us from the game. We huddled around him. He calmly asked, “Do you girls want to come out and powder your noses?” Then with blazing fire in his eyes, he thundered, “Or are you going to get out there and play football?!!” Shocked and surprised, we managed to yell, “Play football!” Coach countered, “Then get out there and show them Pirates what Jay football is all about!”

We sprinted on the field with fresh eagerness and took our kickoff receiving positions. He challenged us eleven players who wore the Red and Black to reach deep inside ourselves and find reserve strength, will, courage, and energy to play better. Their score revived the Pirates. They had drawn blood from the Mighty Jays. A couple of weeks before, the Pirates had given the Hickman Kewpies a stiff battle before falling 27-7. The Kewps scored a couple of times late in the game to pad the score. The Pirates wanted to make a better showing against the Jays--if for no other reason than a moral victory. The Jays weren’t into moral victories; we wanted the real thing.

The kickoff runback left us 75 yards from their goal line. The situation was gut check time for the second team. Play after play we punched into the enthusiastic Pirate line. Helmet crashed against helmet, body against body, as we clawed our way for each yard, each first down. The rejuvenated Pirates recovered slower and slower after each play. Fatigue set in and the adrenaline rush of their lone touchdown faded. Their only hope to stop our drive was the clock.

Embarrassed at allowing the Pirates to score, we second teamers built momentum and moved in for the kill. Terry Green called plays masterfully as we marched down the gridiron of Public School Stadium. He handed off to Bill Goldammer who punished tacklers with his runs. Green pitched to swift T. D. “Touchdown” Pawley, who gained big yardage. The crowd cheered our every play. Our fatigue vanished as adrenaline coursed through our veins. We moved the ball closer and closer to their end zone. With the ball on their eight-yard line and the game clock about to expire, Terry called for reserve halfback and place-kicker Jackie Garvin to run right over me. When I sprinted to the line of scrimmage with my teammates, I had all the confidence in the world that I could blow my man off the line. Green set the line, then barked out the snap count and all eleven of us moved simultaneously. Green deftly spun, handing the ball to Garvin who followed my block, veered to the left and into the end zone untouched. We did it! We answered Hannibal ’s score with one of our own! We whooped and hollered and slapped each others’ shoulder pads and helmets! When the game ended Coach went to each second team player and told him, “You showed me a lot tonight.” Coach had a knack for knowing how to make a player feel good, and I felt really good about myself that night.

I looked forward to film night to watch us beat Hannibal all over again. The closing drive that we second teamers executed was a definite turning point in most of our lives. Prior to that drive we looked to the Webers, the Taylors, the Hackmans, the Hawkins, the Dorrs, the Steigers, the Richs and the Klugs to carry the load. We still looked to our seniors for team leadership, but we proved the Jays’ preview edition for next year had character, strength, and courage of our own to continue the Jays’ winning tradition.

Film night was a bitter-sweet affair. We won the game 46-6, but endured Coach’s scathing critique of the second team because we allowed a touchdown. We watched in agony as they pushed us back and scored. Embarrassment quickly turned to jubilation as The Drive began. We relived every down, every block, every yard gained as we reserves showed what Jay Pride was all about. We drove the length of the field and finished the job. We went home happy campers, but not before Coach told us how dangerous the wounded Tigers of Sedalia Smith Cotton were.

Pages 126-127

The UNC Tar Heels provided our next test. I started at offensive left guard. I thanked God for the position. Though the coaches tried several players in my spot, none replaced me. We gained a slim 3-0 lead in the first half on the strength of Chick George’s 35-yard field goal. Joe Popp coached the kickers and commented, “He’s got one of them live legs.” Carolina drove on us late in the first half. I was surprised and pleased that Coach Tate told me to go in for Overton. I raced onto the field and called out his name with a little more glee than I probably should have. “Now, I’ll show them what I can do,” I thought as I took my position. I had been on the sideline and didn’t realize the ‘Heels sat two yards from our end zone and knocked on the touchdown door in a fourth-down situation. Our defensive signal put us in our eight-man defense when I entered the lineup. Linebacker Bo Williams called out, “Come on guys! It’s fourth down. Let’s hold ‘em one more time!” The ‘Heels broke their huddle and their left tackle and tight end looked right at me so I figured the play would follow. I dug in and charged low the instant the center snapped the ball. I stopped the tackle cold. The tight end hit me, but he only added to the pile. Linebackers Bo Williams and Jimmy Clack, who later won three Super Bowl rings with the Pittsburg Steelers, filled the gap. We stopped them just short of the goal line and preserved our lead.

Late in the fourth quarter we still led 3-0. Coach Tate sent me in on defense for the ’Heels final drive. Danny Talbott sat on the bench until that last series of downs. Sportswriters picked Talbott as a preseason All-American, but he injured his ankle and missed their last three games. Talbot led his Rocky Mount High School to win North Carolina championships in football, basketball and baseball. Talbott later played professionally for the Washington Redskins. Carolina coach Jim Hickey sent Talbott onto the field late in the game. A crescendo of cheers rose and became deafening as the fans greeted the hero’s return. They sensed a comeback. As if scripted for a movie, Talbott methodically led Carolina down the field from deep in their territory. I played like a man possessed, and made or assisted on seven tackles their last drive. Talbott drove the ‘Heels to our fifteen-yard line. On a third and one situation, the defensive coach signaled for our eight-man line defense. The game situation paralleled the Clemson game of last season even to the wide side of the field toward me. When the center snapped the ball, I covered my territory, but I expected Talbott or another Carolina back to run wide. Just as I guessed, Talbott rolled to his left. I pursued him, caught him, and tackled him for a nine-yard loss. I was so pumped that for the very first time I trash talked. I straddled Talbott’s body, kneeling on my left knee with my right leg over his chest and said, “There, Danny Talbott, you’re down. You stay down.” As quickly as I spoke, the Holy Spirit convicted me. I stood up, stuck out my hand, helped him up, swatted him on the backside and said, “You got one more try Carolina Man. I’ll be waitin’.” The Wake Forest radio announcer excitedly described my tackle. When he saw me help Talbott up, a practice not done in those days, he told the audience, “Would you look at that, he helped Talbott up. Well, after all, McMurry is a ministerial student headed for the mission field.”

Bill Angle, a freshman linebacker and KA pledge, stood in the Carolina stands and cheered my tackle. An inebriated man behind Bill and his friends shouted, “Who made that tackle?” Bill turned and said, “That’s Don McMurry, my fraternity brother.” The drunk said, “Well, here, give him this umbrella, he’s just won me $25.” My bride Norma sat with her father not far from Bill. He handed the umbrella to Norma and told her the story. The umbrella must have cost twenty dollars. When I carried it, that umbrella reminded me of “The Tackle” and my fifteen seconds of fame.

On fourth down Carolina ran a reverse to the wide side of the field away from my side, but I took off after the runner. Safety Digit Laughridge made a game-saving tackle to secure our 3-0 win. If Digit had not tackled the runner, I would have, but not before he made a first down with only seconds left. A tremendous feeling of pride and joy flooded over me as the defense jogged off and our offensive unit came to where I stood on the field. The small but noisy crowd of Wake fans cheered approvingly. My teammates pelted me with congratulatory slaps for helping stop the Carolina drive.

After the game Coach Tate asked me to appear on his “Coach’s Show” as one of the stars of the Carolina game. I asked him the time the show started, and he answered 10 o’clock Sunday morning. I became pensive a moment then told him, “I’m in church at that time, and I can’t do it.” He said, “Oh, okay. All right. You can be on another time.” I knew another time would never come. How often did an offensive lineman who doubled as a spot defensive player have an opportunity to affect the outcome of a game? Even if my play merited another invitation, my priorities would not allow me to go on television during church time.

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