On the eve of Thanksgiving, I bow my head to lift prayers of
gratitude. Life has presented its share of
tribulations, but I know to count my blessings.
With my eyes closed, I see a classmate standing by his white-topped,
teal-blue Chevy II at the Dairy Queen on the corner of Macon and Pine
streets. In that half-century-old
flashback, I can also see my friend roaring into Jesup High School’s parking lot
on his Honda 90 motorbike. But the most
vivid image is number 19 standing before the huddle, almost backed up against
our end zone.
As he glared at
me, our quarterback’s eyes were hurling lightning bolts. With a thunderous slap
to the side of my helmet, Marcus Waters barked, “Get in the game, Dink!” My ears were ringing inside the scuffed gold
headgear, but I heard his next command, too.
Looking from left
to right in the two rows of Yellow Jackets, Marcus said, “I’m going to the end
zone! Y’all can come with me if you want
to.” When we hustled to the line, Marcus
surveyed the opponents’ lineup. Then, he
tapped center George Ogden on the hip to signal an opening in the defense.
Taking the snap, number 19 shot the gap, scorching Jaycee Stadium’s turf
for a score. Trailing Marcus were 10
Yellow Jackets and 11 panting Waycross Bulldogs.
There have been legions of leaders in my lifetime. Marcus, as a field general, ranks among the
best. His charismatic competitiveness
carried into college, where he helped East Tennessee State, as a strong safety,
lead the nation in interceptions.
Another hardnosed Jesup quarterback, Buddy Bennett, was his position
coach for the Buccaneers. After leaving
Johnson City, Tennessee, Marcus spent the next 30 years coaching a game he’s
loved since he was 9. Today, he’s
retired and a resident of Warner Robins, where he spent most of his career.
Since our high school days, Marcus and I don’t see much of each other, except
at class reunions. Without fail, he
would always apologize for hitting me.
And each time, I shrugged it off with a nostalgic laugh.
During our 50th reunion this fall, Marcus brought up the incident
again. This time, I got the rest of the
story. Marcus explained, “All game, your
man had been around my ankles before I could do anything. I wanted you to keep
him off me, so we could move the ball.”
I hadn’t remembered that, but I remember what Marcus said this October:
“Your man never touched me again.”
“Marcus, you don’t ever need to apologize,” I said. “You did me and our
team a favor. I thank you. Your leadership made an impression on
me. My football experiences have helped
to carry me through life.”
Army basic training was a breeze, thanks to blood-on-the-moon drills and
football camps at Parker’s Paradise. That mental and physical toughness
demanded by coaches Clint Madray and Ben Park—along with number 19—helped to shape
me into the man I am today. “Marcus,” I said, “my intensity in our current
toxic coal-ash scrap has roots that run all the way back to that game where you
got my attention. I am grateful for the
positive impact you made on me.”
So, during this season of thanksgiving, I thank God for my family, my
friends, my hometown and our abundant natural resources. If you are still on the sidelines in this
David-and-Goliath environmental battle, I won’t give you a head slap.
But I urge you to listen to my friend Marcus Waters: “Get in the game!”
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
