Teammates For Life

I never thought I’d write this column. I never knew I’d feel this way. A teammate has passed on and I can’t stop thinking of him. Our journey together brought us a long way.  Because we accomplished great things on the football field 40 years ago, the sports media named us, “The Amazins.” As we grew older, had families, and matured, learning to love each other along the way, we coined our own phrase, “Teammates for Life.”

That’s how I feel about David.

David Langner, died Saturday April 26, 2014. He was one helluva football player. A little guy, I often said he was crazy on the football field but if I had the first choice, I’d take David. I’d rather have him on my side than be against him.

David and I traveled a long way in our journey to friendship. I knew him before he knew me. We played against each other in High School. He was a star at Woodlawn High in Birmingham. They were very good. The night we played them they dressed nearly a hundred guys. They came out of their locker room, cocky and proud and ready to feast on the 40 or so players we had from the small Catholic school who had no business on the field with them. David, his brother, his cousin, and their teammates blanked us 39-0 and it wasn’t that close. David, a winner of all kinds of honors, became a highly touted signee of Auburn University.

I walked on at Auburn. One of three blacks on the practice fields of over a hundred players and the only black walkon. David and I didn’t start out as friends.

Walkons have it tough. David didn’t care for the fact that I had dared to walk on to that hallowed ground that he had already earned a spot on. To further confuse things, we had both grown up in Birmingham in the 1960’s when legal segregation meant we could not play ball with or against each other. Friendship was out of the question. 

We didn’t get along. David had further to go than I did. We fought often on the field. But we were ballplayers and together we won many games. I won a scholarship and in 1972, we shocked the Southeastern Conference by winning 10 games, losing only once and finishing #5 in the nation. David was a hero that year with his two touchdowns against Alabama in the now famous “Punt Bama Punt” (look it up if you don’t know) game against Alabama. He also led us in interceptions, made All-SEC as a defensive back, and instigated many of the fights we had with other teams. He was a bad ass and we were glad we had him. We always knew he would make a big play.

As we won games, he and I tolerated each other the way teammates will do when they are not friends. Winning does that.

When we were done, he went his way and I went mine. Many years later in Nashville, while filming a Legends of Auburn video, we sat across from each other at dinner. We talked and laughed. He’d already had some health issues and discussed them freely with me. It was a great night for me and, I believe for him. After those many years, we were learning to be friends.

Later, at the thirty-year reunion of “The Amazins,” David came up and gave me a hug. Not one of those quick man hugs but a real hug. He wouldn’t let me go. I hugged him back. I remember standing there in the middle of the floor hugging. Hugging for what seemed like a very long time. That is my favorite memory of my friend David.

Since I heard of his death, I can’t stop thinking of him. I’m proud that we overcame society to be friends.

David will be celebrated for the touchdowns against Alabama, and the great career he had at Auburn. There’s talk that David belongs in the Alabama Sports Hall of Fame. You will get no argument from me on that. But most importantly, I will fondly remember the impact we had on each other’s lives. We are teammates for life, and now beyond.

Celebrity Life: 'I never had an entourage!'

I love what I do.  It’s fun!!!  I’ve been doing it for a number of years now and it only gets better.  Whether it’s acting for television, writing a collection of short stories, producing a documentary, consulting with a client or making a speech before hundreds of foundation board directors.  It’s all a blast to me.  Fun!!  Most of the things I do today in the early stages of my career I did them for free.  That’s how much I enjoy them.

So why was I taken aback last week when, during a Q and A session after a speech, I was asked, “What does it feel like to be a celebrity?”  I hesitated.  Had to think.  I was kinda embarrassed.  You see, I’ve never thought of myself as a celebrity.  To be a celebrity, I always thought you have to have an entourage.  I’ve never had an entourage.

But for my next trip I decided to try out the celebrity thing.  I flew to Los Angeles rented a car and drove to the Palos Verdes Peninsula for a speech the next day.

I was given a suite in a resort overlooking the Pacific Ocean, with walking trails into the surrounding mountains.  Gorgeous!  Even though I didn’t have an entourage, I allowed myself to feel very celebrity like.  As I walked along the walking trail, people spoke to me, and gave me big smiles.  I checked in with the client who had purchased my services and they made me feel like the second coming of Brad Pitt.  They were all over me, “Do you need…?”  Someone came up and asked me for an autograph and I hadn’t even spoken yet.  I thought, “Okay, maybe I am a celebrity.”

Later that day, enthused with my newfound celebrity, I blew the audience away with a forty-five minute keynote address for nearly 450 people.  They were generous enough to give me a standing ovation.  Afterward, there were questions and answers; people lining up for photos that I knew would go straight to somebody’s Facebook page.  There were autograph and business card requests.  Man, I was feeling like somebody!  After an hour of celebrity-hood I retired to my suite, called my wife, and wondered why if I was a celebrity, she kept telling me about issues at the house I would need to solve when I got home.  Things like, the motion detector floodlights not working and getting the cars serviced.  I reminded her that celebrities have “people” to handle those kinds of things.  She laughed.  Reminded me that she did have “people.”  Me. Where in the hell was my entourage when I needed one?

My celebrity-hood ended at that point.

Without an entourage, I awoke at 4:00 the next morning, packed up the rental car, and headed to the LA airport for a 6 am flight.  Who schedules a 6 am flight for a celebrity?  I sure as hell didn’t do it.  In the airport, no one recognized me or gave a hoot that I had rocked the Association of Governing Boards’ annual conference at the Terranea resort the day before.  I was just another passenger.  Still, my first class seat reinforced my celebrity-hood until the lady in front of me who obviously didn’t know I was a celebrity, laid her seat back in my lap damn near pinning me into the seat behind me.  “Damn, woman don’t you know who I am?” I wanted to say.  “Man,” I thought.  “If I had one of ‘my people’ here with me, I’d tell them to handle this small fry sitting in front of me.”

Landing in Houston, my celebrity star not only faded, it lost all luster.

Because of an ice and snowstorm, across the country, my connecting flight was cancelled.  I was directed to a nearby hotel.  After being constantly assured for an hour and a half that the hotel shuttle was on its way, while standing in twenty-degree weather, I took a taxi.  “Damn, Don’t they know I am a celebrity?” I thought.

Believe me, nothing from that point on was befitting a celebrity.  Fifty-four ninety-five was the room cost.  Need I say more?  It was musty and uncomfortable.  The funky heater would have made me laugh if it wasn’t twenty degrees outside.  I sank onto the floor when I sat on the couch.  My electronic key would never work more than once.  If I needed to get back into the room, I would have to go to the front desk where there was never anyone present, and ring the bell.  “What’s wrong?” would be the response.  “Nothing,” I would answer, “other than I need to get in my room.”  If ever I needed an entourage, being stranded in Houston would have been a great time to have one.

Last year, I did nearly 125 days on the road.  It’s part of the gig.  None of those days turned out to be as hectic as the twenty-four hours in Houston.  I reminded myself of the gangster Hyman Roth’s admonishment to Godfather Michael Corleone in the movie, The Godfather.  Roth tells Michael, “This is the life we have chosen.”

Upon landing at home, finally, “my people” (my wife), were at the airport to greet me.  As usual she had her smile on.  She gave me a big hug and said, “Sorry you got delayed in Houston.  Your agent called and they want you to shoot next week in Charleston.”

I smiled back and asked, “Can you go with me?”

Sherman Is Sherman

As I SEE It

By

Thom Gossom Jr.

“Sherman is Sherman”

“Sherman is Sherman,” I accidentally coined the phrase when describing, to a former Auburn teammate, how our mutual friend and teammate Sherman was doing.  Immediately, the teammate understood and giggled.  Everyone who knows Sherman understands.  Keep reading . . . you’ll understand too.

I’ve known Sherman Moon since 1971.  In those days of yesteryear, we were competitors for the same position on the football team at Auburn.  We remained competitors on the field, but friends off the field.  Forty years later we lived one street from each other.  Our visits consist of football debates, reunions with teammates, parties at our neighbors’, and enjoying Sherman’s BBQ.  The man can throw down on a grill.

Sherman, then and now, always has a smile for you.

You see; with Sherman the glass is always half full.  Smiling, laughing, talking, talking, and talking until you reluctantly have to interrupt or ask for a break.

“Oh, Okay TG,” he’ll say, and relinquish the floor for a few – a very few – minutes before jumping back in.  He’ll throw his head back and take you on another one of his verbal journeys.  Upbeat, head held high, and fun.  That’s Sherman.  Rain or Shine.  Sickness and in health, stage four cancer not withstanding.  My phone chimes and there’s his familiar voice on the phone, “Hey TG, what you up to?” 

Sherman beat prostate cancer.  He got ahead early in that game, recovered, and came out with a victory.  The carcinoid tumor he’s been battling for the last three years has proven to be a booger that, even Sherman has to admit, has tested his mettle.  The cancer has metastasized into his stomach, liver, and lymphatic system.  Doctors in the US have thrown their hands up and cried, “No Mas!”  But you didn’t get to be a teammate on the Auburn teams of ‘72, ‘73, and ‘74 without a lot of courage and fortitude.  We’ve never backed down from a good fight.

I have not once heard him complain.  I’ve not once seen him in a bad mood.

Several former teammates, who have occasionally run into him, call me and ask, “Is Sherman still sick?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“I saw him, and he was as upbeat as he’s always been,” they counter.

“Sherman is Sherman,” I respond.

Sherman says, “I have Cancer.  Cancer does not have me.”

My friend Sherman is on his way to the Netherlands for treatments that, over the next few months, will cost him upwards of $70,000.  With all the debate about Affordable Health care in the US, there is little doubt that remaining healthy and finding cures is expensive.  In Sherman’s case, it has cost him dearly.  He and his wife have lost their income and their home.  His final chance at a Hail Mary pass, to regain his health, needs assistance.

Sherman’s teammates and friends are lining up at his side.

Sherman reluctantly agreed to have his story told and to have others solicit funds for him.  Nineteen thousand dollars flowed in instantly from family and life-long friends.  Next up, was a benefit golf tournament that included a dozen former teammates, some who had not seen him in forty years.

Teammates drove to Florida’s Fort Walton Beach from Mississippi, Tennessee, Central Florida, and Auburn, AL.  Sherman made a brief appearance and took pictures with his friends.  Then he took off for the airport, leaving for his trip to the Netherlands and the first of four treatments.  His teammates and other golfers raised another $8,000 that day.

In Sherman’s honor, we laughed, reminisced with some great Sherman stories, and realized how special we are that Sherman came into our lives.  Those who hadn’t seen him in many years marveled at how fun, positive, and upbeat Sherman was.

Just like always.

Sherman is Sherman.

**Want to support Sherman and Vicki Moon?**

Send donations to:

Sherman Moon

PO Box 2077

Fort Walton Beach FL 32549

Or contact Sandy North:

sandy_north@earthlink.net

January 2014

As I SEE It

By

Thom Gossom Jr.

“Duke’s Barbershop”

It’s the same guy, in the same location.  The other guys, the regulars – at least the ones living – still hang out there.  And yes, they talk a lot of the same loud trash talk they did back in the day.

Welcome to Duke’s Barbershop located across the tracks in Auburn, Alabama. 

Back in the day, we were forced to go there.  No other options.  Our coach made regular haircuts a mandatory team rule.  No exceptions.  Granted, this was before dreads and fashionable baldheads.  Then, it was a time of huge afros and integration.

In 1969, James Owens had the courage to sign with Auburn University as its first black football player.  In 1970, I joined him as Auburn’s second black football player.  We began an odyssey that we still laugh, cry, and reminisce about today, forty odd years later.

What’s the big deal?  Where have you been?  College football has been king in Alabama since long before I was born and more than likely until long after I’m gone.  Dragging it’s feet on civil rights and cultural integration, the deep south fought, scratched, and embarrassed itself in a fruitless fight against progress; preferring to fight to keep people from going to school, eating a hamburger or having anything to do with the Federal Government of the United States.  It was serious business and those times should never be marginalized or forgotten.

But along with seriousness, lives lost, boundaries falling, and unbound courage there was also the absurd.  This was one of those moments in time.

 “Get a haircut,” we were told.  We were reluctant but obedient.  Contrary to my look today, I had a huge, sprouting, afro.  James had what we described as, in those days, a TWA (teeny weenie afro).

James approached a barber in downtown Auburn who, upon seeing the strapping black athlete enter his shop with the intention of getting a haircut, nearly messed his pants.  He begged James to leave his shop,  “Please get out.  I’ll lose everything.  I can’t cut your hair.”

James asked, “Where do I go?”

We were directed to Duke’s Barbershop, across the tracks.  It was literally across the railroad tracks that separated the black community from the university community.  Rush, the barber, doubled as the local school bus driver; meaning, the shop was closed while Rush shuffled children back and forth to school.  We had to time our haircut visits around football practice, classes, and Rush’s bus schedule.

After all these years, a film project took me back to Duke’s with James.  It had been over forty years for me.  Rush knew we were coming.  He was waiting.  We walked into the shop and time stood still.  The small shop looked the same.  Rush stood over the same barber chair.  Regulars sat in the same waiting chairs, not to get haircuts but because Rush had told everyone he knew that James and I were coming by.  “You gon’ film me?”  Rush wanted to know.

The photos of Auburn athletes Cam Newton, Bo Jackson, Charles Barkley, and at least twenty more former Auburn football players hit me.

“All these guys come here to get their haircut?” I asked.

“All except Bo and Cam,” Rush answered.  “The young boys, they cut their own hair now.  Never cut Bo.  He wanted me to open the shop up for him on my off day.  Told him no sir.”

Unknowingly and unwillingly, James and I started something that lasted through the ages.  The photos were a who’s who of black Auburn players down through the years, Byron Franklin, Doug Smith, James Brooks, Joe Cribbs, Harold Hallman, and many more.

“Where’s our picture?” we asked.  Rush didn’t miss a beat.  “Did they have cameras back then?”  The laughter flowed until the phone rang.  Rush answered, “Hey we filming over here, you better hurry up and get here.”

“I’ve been here since 1966,” Rush related.  “Man we were proud when you guys started playing.  Up until then we would go to the games and root for the other team if they had a black player.”

“We sat in Kinfolks corner,” he continued.  Black spectators had to sit in makeshift bleachers in those days, separated from the white fans. 

“We named it Kinfolks corner,” Rush explained.  “Boy, when ya’ll started playing we had our own players then.”

James and I exchanged a look.  We’d always said we felt the weight of the black fans on our shoulders.  Now we knew.

More guys came in as the cameras continued to roll.  They treated James and me as heroes.

Going back to Duke’s still brings a smile to my face.  We brought joy to some old timers who, forty years earlier, had cheered us on in the social experiment of college football integration.  Perhaps we should thank our coach for making us go in the first place.