Bulldog Nation is tired of hollow hype and elusive glory

     Fifty years—that’s how long I’ve followed Georgia Bulldog football. I can take you to the exact

spot where I listened to my inaugural game, sprawled on the sculpted Coke-bottle-green carpet of my parents’ living room.  In 1965, my future alma mater’s team was playing Florida State University’s Seminoles in Tallahassee.

     And that was the first time my Bulldog Spirit sagged.  I thought I could hear Bob Taylor’s leg snap on the radio.  On Sept. 18, the running back had sprinted into Dawg lore, as the recipient of the Kirby- Moore-to-Pat-Hodgson-flea-flicker lateral to beat Number 10 Alabama. Taylor rode on the shoulders of the Red and Black that day. On Oct. 16, he rode off the FSU field on a stretcher.    

     Over the past half-century, I’ve seen the Bulldog Nation’s emotions soar higher than Brasstown Bald, including that Knoxville night of Larry Munson’s 2001 hobnail-boot declaration.  Then this year—on that same Neyland Stadium turf—UGA hearts crashed when Nick Chubb was crippled.  The score was ugly, too.

     Add that to the embarrassing loss earlier to Alabama, 38-10.  Could it get any worse?  If you paid any attention to how the Florida Gators shamed the Bulldogs—again—last Saturday, you know the answer.  CBS college football analyst Brian Jones called Georgia’s performance in Jacksonville “putrid.” 

     Jones is not alone.  

     I’ve never seen more Bulldog fans foaming at the mouth.  The only way many of them will be satisfied is to see Coach Mark Richt fired.  They want him gone—tomorrow!  As disappointed as I am with our “putrid” play, I’m not going to pile on that get-rid-of-the-coach frenzy.  

     Not now.

     I’m for focusing on whipping Kentucky, Georgia Southern, Auburn and Georgia Tech.  This year, if we can’t beat that bunch—every one of them—we really do need to wonder what we are getting for our $4 million investment in a head coach.  And that’s not counting his fleet of pricey assistants.  Don’t get me started on our squib-kicking fiasco and last-minute losing to Georgia Tech in 2014.  

     Yeah, I’m unhappy about the 10-year championship drought.

     Yeah, I’m unhappy with our repeatedly being outcoached and outplayed in big games.

     Yeah, I’m unhappy the Junkyard Dog spirit is a ghost of the past.

     Yeah, I’m unhappy that we got flagged three times in one game for having 12 players on the field.

     Yeah, I’m unhappy that we can’t recruit a player who can consistently kick the ball out of the end zone.

Larry Munson: ‘... Lindsay Scott, 45, 50, 45, 40 … run, Lindsay!’

     “Turn left at the Tastee-Freez,” I said, scooting forward on the red leather backseat.

     The clattering of Norfork Southern’s rails punctuated the nervous chatter in the Cadillac’s front seat as we rumbled over the Palm Street crossing in northeast Jesup.

     One of Wally’s Boys, John Donaldson, was riding shotgun, and the Wayne County High head football coach quizzed, “You sure this is the way?”

     Another of University of Georgia Coach Wallace Butts’ disciples, Dr. Hurley Jones, took his right hand off the big car’s wheel and patted his friend on the shoulder.  “Relax, Coach.  This is his hometown, too.”  

     I broke in, “Doc, turn left.  Look for State Street and turn right. The Scotts live at 596.”

     “Nervous” was an understatement.

     The rumor in our tiny corner of the Bulldog Nation was that Lindsay Scott, the trumpet player turned all-star wide receiver, was about to pull on a dreaded orange jersey, courtesy of Tennessee’s Coach Johnny Majors.  “We can’t let that happen,” groused Doc as he turned onto State Street, looking for Raymond and Johnnie Mae Scott’s house—home of the 17-year-old, the one we wanted to wear red and black.

      Hurley helped organize the Southeast Georgia Bulldog Club and cajoled me into being one of its first presidents.  That’s why I was in Doc’s Cadillac that day, eager to talk with an athlete who—thanks to Larry Munson—would become famous.

     But that almost didn’t happen.

     From 100 yards away, I pointed and said,    “There’s Lindsay.”

     Wearing an orange “24,” Lindsay was shooting baskets in his front yard.  “Was” is a key word because when Lindsay saw us, he ditched the basketball and high-tailed it.  Pulling up to 596, Doc said, “Well, I guess this was a wasted trip.  I can’t believe he’s going to Tennessee.”

     “What we going to do?” asked John.

     “We’re going in,” I said.

     “Why?” Doc asked.

     “Because this is Lindsay’s home,” I said.  “I bet Johnnie Mae is in there cooking supper. When Lindsay gets hungry enough, he’ll come home.  All we have to do is wait him out.” 

     Raymond and Johnnie Mae were gracious as we sat in their den.  But you could tell Mamma was uneasy.  Johnny Majors, not long ago, had been sitting on the same sofa—urging Lindsay to come to Knoxville.  And now, there were three Bulldogs in her house, saying how much they wanted her younger son in Athens.  

     You could hear the wall clock in the kitchen ticking through the minutes.  One hour went by, then two.  We kept on talking.  And then we heard the back door creak open.  Hunger pangs had pulled Lindsay back home. Still wearing the orange “24” jersey, he sheepishly said, “I’ve been thinking about going to Tennessee.”  John and Hurley took turns recounting their playing days in Sanford Stadium.  Lindsay started to squirm, and I could see an opening.

      “Lindsay,” I said. “Tennessee is a fine school, but Knoxville is a long way from Jesup.  Would you like for your family and friends to see you play?”

     He nodded.

‘Blind hog’ sings Happy Birthday to Henry W. Grady College

     If Henry W. Grady were still alive today, he’d be 165 and celebrating his namesake’s 100th

birthday—the Henry W. Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communications.  And if my brain and tongue could have synced with Spanish, I wouldn’t be at the cake-cutting either.   But blind hogs do find acorns, and I’m proof a college sophomore can sniff out a degree and a career without really looking.

     In 1966, as my Weejuns climbed the steps of Oglethorpe House, I imagined those shoes–or a pair like them—would walk me into The University of Georgia’s law school.  But midway into my second class of Spanish, I hit a roadblock.  How was I going to get through pre-law’s required four quarters of foreign language?

     A fraternity brother steered me to Grady, where my two quarters of Spanish would suffice for the journalism school.  “Hmmm,” I thought.  “A public relations degree could be a warmup for law school.  Besides, writing skills always come in handy.”  I veered onto the Franklin College of Arts and Sciences’ exit ramp.  Grady was a good alternate route.  I took as many business courses as I could.  Deep down—even if I didn’t hang out a law shingle—I thought a legal background would make me a better businessman. 

     During my senior year, Dean Warren Agee called me into his office.  And for the very first time, a career in newspapers was mentioned.  Here’s how “blind” I was to an opportunity that would eventually feed our family and spawn careers for our sons, too. 

     The Georgia Press Association’s annual Press Institute was under way at the Georgia Center for Continuing Education.  A visiting newspaper publisher wanted to take me to lunch.  I jumped at the chance for a trade up from my usual Beanee Weenee fare.

     A very courtly gentleman, Leodell Coleman, and his brother, G.C., owned The Bulloch Herald.  Leodell was on a mission.  He and G.C. intended to solve a dilemma with an offer that they thought I couldn’t refuse.  They were weary of running a revolving-door operation for young talent.  “We keep a good young man or woman for a couple of years, and they’re gone,” Mr. Coleman lamented.  “We want to change that, and Dean Agee recommended you.”

      Stopping my fork in midair, I asked, “Me?”

     “Yes,” he said.  “The dean believes you could be what we are looking for.”

     “How, Mr. Coleman?” I asked.

     “We want you to come to Statesboro—when you graduate—and become an understudy at our newspaper,” he explained.  “After a year, if you like us and we like you, we’ll give you 10 percent of our company, with an option to buy the rest.  We want someone like you to put down roots in our community.  We believe our newspaper will soon be a daily.”

     I didn’t drop my fork.  But without any hesitation, I said, “Mr. Coleman, that’s a very generous offer.  However, I have never thought about being in the newspaper business.  I’m planning to go to law school.”  He was gracious.  I was, too.  

     Shortly thereafter, the brothers sold their thriving publication to Roy Chalker of Waynesboro, who sold it to today’s owner Charles Morris, who converted the newspaper to a daily, the Statesboro Herald.

     Fast-forward 18 months, the notion of law school was in the rearview mirror.  My bride and I were hauling our 12-foot-by- 40-foot New Moon mobile home to Jesup.  With a Henry W. Grady diploma and an initial $3,000 in borrowed money, I plunged into a 44-year career, rooting for ink-stained acorns.  

     Today, both sons are in leadership roles in our company and the industry.  Alan is on the board of the Georgia Press Association.  Eric is chairman of the Grady alumni board.  So this weekend, the NeSmith Boys will join the gang in singing Happy 100th Birthday to the college.

     Gee, Mr. Coleman, if I had only known.

Bill Simpson still has that voice and that laugh

     The sun was hellishly hot for an autumn afternoon.  My rump was roasting on the aluminum bleacher, but I wasn’t complaining on Oct. 8, 1966.  

     As a UGA freshman, that was my first Sanford Stadium experience. The Bulldogs beat Ole Miss,

9-3, before 45,200 fans. And I was one of them. When the final whistle blew, my red-striped necktie was loosened and my starched, white oxford-cloth shirt was stuck to my back. As I walked out of the stadium, both hands were busy.  One was guiding a pretty brunette through the barking mob, and the other held a sweat-soaked navy wool blazer, slung across my shoulder.

     When you are 17, you think you are going to live forever.  But on that Saturday, it was as if I had died and gone to Heaven.  And this heaven even had a rich, god-like voice booming from the stadium’s loudspeakers. I vowed to do my homework.  Who was the man behind the Bulldogs’ microphone?  When I found out, I wrote his name down and saved it for another day.

     Four years later, I startled Bill Simpson.  He was in his spartan office on Clayton Street, sorting cardboard boxes.  I knew he had just left the university to launch his public relations and advertising firm.  Well, I had just earned a UGA public relations degree. The best way to find a job is to go look for one and ask.  And that’s what I did a few days after my 1970 spring graduation.

     I can still hear Bill laughing.  He wasn’t being rude, just honest.  Waving his hand around the tiny office, he said, in his Sanford Stadium voice, “I don’t even know how I’m going to pay myself.”  Since he didn’t have a chair to offer, we stood and chatted.  As I learned, a conversation with Bill is punctuated with laughter.

     As the years rocked by, I discovered how the dots between our lives connected.  Bill’s stepsons, Ed and David Allen, are my friends.  One of Bill’s best friends is Hubert Howard.  As Sigma Chis at Georgia, the pair bonded, and they have stayed in touch for 65 years. Until he retired, Hubert was my Jesup attorney. Bill calls his buddy “Bear,” and Hubert calls his fraternity brother “The Mouth of the South.”

     Hubert and Bill still get tickled about the 1950-era “Ugliest Man on Campus Contest.”  Bill was determined to nominate his fraternity brother, but Hubert flipped the trick and got Bill on the ballot.  Time has faded memories of who won, but both men still laugh about that stunt.

     One thing Hubert hasn’t forgotten is Bill’s gifts in comedy, songwriting and music.  Bill was a celebrity on sorority row. Genius-like, he could craft lyrics, almost on the spot.  He would play the piano and belt out his originals—like “Peachtree Street”—and young ladies would swoon.  Starting in 1956, he put that voice into action in Sanford Stadium’s press box for about two decades. And just the other day, the 85-year-old had a crowd rollicking to jokes like this:

Who was behind state’s engineering-education expansion?

     Behind every news story, there’s a backstory.  And while some headlines make you frown, others make you smile.  Here’s one that made me grin: “UGA engineering enrollment doubles … 1,233 undergraduates, 81 graduate students majoring in popular program.”

     Here’s the backstory, as I know it:

     During the Great Depression, I understand, UGA gave up its broad-based engineering curriculum.  Georgia Tech filled the gap.  Today, Tech is a world leader in engineering education.

     But in 2010, a Georgia Tech engineer drove all over Georgia, asking questions. He decided his alma mater wasn’t able to serve all the state’s engineering needs.  Too many students were leaving home to get their engineering degrees from Clemson, Auburn, Tennessee and Florida.  As chairman of the University System Board of Regents, Willis Potts wanted to change that. 

     The retired paper mill executive stands about 6-foot four, and has the physique of a Yellow Jacket tight end.   Willis is tough—mentally and physically.  Both attributes came in handy in the ensuing academic tussle.  Some thought the engineering expansion was rooted in the “Clean Old-Fashioned Hate” gridiron rivalry.  The issue did become a political football, but it had nothing to do with pigskin.

     Nonetheless, when Chairman Potts asked me to chair the Academic Affairs Committee, I started

looking for a helmet.  The blocking, tackling and head-butting did not stop until the final vote of the 18-member board.

     As emotions flared, I volunteered to sit down with Gov. Sonny Perdue.  He was vehemently opposed to expanding engineering.     For 60 minutes, Regent Larry Walker and I sat on a Gold Dome hot seat.  Our friend, the governor, wasn’t happy.  Gov. Perdue addressed the board’s next meeting, urging us to vote “no.”

     I was determined to study the data and base my convictions on what was best for all 10 million Georgians.  For decades, I had been listening to the engineering debate, ever since Allen Paulson bought Grumman American.  Savannah’s airplane manufacturer wanted more engineers available, starting with adding engineering to Georgia Southern’s (GSU) degree offerings.

     Allen Paulson had been dead for 10 years by the time the engineering proposal for UGA and GSU came to a vote.   And when that day arrived, I was standing in the middle of the board’s horseshoe seating arrangement.  Passion overheated the debate.  Like a poker player counting cards—as the secretary called roll—I tallied votes in my head.

     Earlier, I learned the committee chairman could only vote to make or break a tie.  When the other 16 Regents present had cast their ballots, the vote was knotted, 8-8.  Without hesitation, I said, “Yes!”  Thirty days later when Regent Jim Bishop’s term was up, he would not be reappointed because he voted “yes,” too.  

     I believe decision-making is much like architecture.  When you build a structure or make a bold decision, you want to be able to look back—25 years later—and reaffirm: “We did the right thing.”  Fortunately, we don’t have to wait that long.  

     The headline “UGA engineering enrollment doubles” says enough.  Add to that what GSU’s president, Dr. Brooks Keel, told me. Statesboro’s engineering enrollment is up from 1400 last year to 1700 in 2014.  Now, GSU has added much-needed Manufacturing    Engineering, too.

     There’s a saying: “There’s no limit to what can be accomplished when it doesn’t matter who gets the credit.”  The top of Willis Pott’s bald head would would blush crimson if you tried to give him the credit.  But UGA and GSU cannot ignore who is responsible for their new-found engineering success.   The backstory—for history’s sake—needs to record Willis Potts had the vision and the guts to inspire the necessary nine votes for our state’s future.

Answer to prayer comes via governor’s messenger

     Worried might be too strong a word, but my dad was concerned about my college education.  “Do

GONE FISHIN’ will be a sign hung on my door more often, now 

that I’m off the University of Georgia’s Board of Regents. 

I was honored to  be appointed by Gov. Sonny Perdue, 

and I enjoyed helping “create a more educated Georgia.”  

During the six years on the board, I made numerous 

lifelong friends, while crossing paths with some phenomenal educators 

and students. However, I had prayed for more leisure time to spend with 

our seven grandsons.  On April 16th, that prayer was answered. And now o

ne of my favorite things to hear will be: “Grandpa, let’s go fishing.” 

(Photo by Eric NeSmith)

you have time to study?” asked Big Dink.  “Why would you say that?” I asked.  “Because,” he teased, “you’ve joined everything at The University of Georgia except the women’s glee club.”

     He had a point.  

     Since Cub Scouts, I’ve been a joiner.  I like people, and I really like the synergy of group dynamics.  If you get enough people energized toward a common goal, you see that teamwork really does work.  Gender kept me from singing with UGA’s coeds, but I’ve had abundant satisfaction in joining worthwhile causes.  Volunteerism is crucial in filling the voids left by government.

     That’s why I was interested in a 2008 phone call.  A voice asked, “Can you be in the governor’s office Thursday at 10 a.m.?”  Three days later, I was sitting on the leather couch in the inner-sanctum under The Gold Dome.  Gov. Sonny Perdue was facing me in a side chair.  His chief of staff, Ed Holcombe, was a few feet away.

     “I’d like to talk with you about serving on the University System of Georgia’s Board of Regents,” he said.  He had my attention.  Higher education is one of my passions.  And since Gov. Richard B. Russell founded the Board of Regents in 1932, only two other Athenians had been appointed to the board.  The publisher of the Athens Banner-Herald was on the inaugural group and Julius Bishop served in the 1970s.  Even if it wasn’t me, I thought it was time for another member from the hometown of the state’s flagship university.

     I told the governor that I would be honored to serve, but I had strong feelings on two things:

     1. I hoped he trusted me to be a good student of the issues. I assured him that I’d always listen to him and others.  But in the end, I would vote my convictions.  

     2. I would never accept pay of any kind—per diem or expense reimbursement.  My time and my wallet were all-in for Georgia.