As they rolled his polished-oak coffin into place, a recording of “Georgia on My Mind” set the mood of the packed funeral-home chapel. That song is one of my all-time favorites. Inside that casket was a high school classmate and one of my all-time favorite football players, Marcus Waters.
By the time we met in the ninth grade, Marcus was a gridiron veteran. “All I ever wanted to do was play football,” he later told me. My epiphany didn’t occur until spring practice of 1963. I had a lot to learn. A scrappy quarterback took it upon himself to get me “in the game.”
We were playing our archrival, the Waycross Bulldogs. When Marcus glared at me, we were backed up near our end zone. With a thunderous slap to the side of my helmet, No. 19 barked, “Get into the game, Dink!” Inside the scuffed gold headgear, my ears were ringing. But I heard his next command, “I’m going to the end zone! Y’all can come with me if you want to.’’
When we hustled up to the line, Marcus surveyed Waycross’ formation. Tapping center George Ogden’s hip, our B-team quarterback signaled an opening in the defense. Taking the snap, Marcus shot through the gap, scorching Jaycee Stadium’s turf. Trailing No. 19 were 10 Jesup Yellow Jackets and 11 panting Bulldogs.
There have been legions of influential leaders in my life. Marcus—the hardnosed field general—ranks among the best. His charismatic competitiveness was spotted by another former Jesup quarterback, Buddy Bennett, who was coaching defensive backs at East Tennessee State. (Buddy’s grandson, Stetson, would later lead UGA to back-to-back national football championships.)
Over the decades, Marcus and I mainly connected at Class
of 1966 reunions. Without fail, he’d apologize for striking my helmet. And I’d
shrug it off. But during our 50th reunion, he insisted on giving me
the rest of the story. “All game, your man had been around my ankles,” he said.
“I wanted you to keep him off me so we could move the ball.”
He continued, “And your man never touched me again.” We laughed about what happened next. On a quarterback keeper, Marcus scrambled 90 yards for a score. We beat those hated Bulldogs.
Marcus had the guts and the grit to back up his swagger. The last time that we were together, I said, “You don’t need to apologize to me ever again. Your leadership made a lasting 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 at football camp at Parker’s Paradise, deep in the woods of Long County. As boys, we grew hair on our chests. That mental and physical toughness demanded by coaches Clint Madray and Ben Park—along with No. 19—helped shape me into the determined person I am today.
With the physique of a No. 2 pencil, I discovered—under sweaty shoulder pads—that I had a sturdy backbone and ample intestinal fortitude to tackle whatever life put in front of me. I will carry to my grave No. 19’s thunderous reminder: “Get in the game!” I will forever be grateful for the positive impact my teammate made on my life.
Georgia will always be on my mind.
So will my friend, Marcus Waters.
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
