By Joe Cobb Crawford
Mountain leaves are ripened and restless while awaiting the first killing frost. A cool nip lingers in the hushed morning air. The winds of fall will soon blow. Like feathers, autumn leaves will be blown over the hill. But will they be forgotten?
Older folks with more past than future know the answer. To them those falling leaves hold treasured meaning. Their vibrant colors are emblematic. They’re symbolic of the best times of our lives. But North Georgians both young and old see other meanings. Those falling leaves and Friday night lights beaming down signal high school football is underway.
When I shaved peach fuzz from the pimpled face of a boy, I played the Friday night game. My team was the West Fannin Yellow Jackets of Blue Ridge, Georgia. I’m now the proud owner of cherished memories of games, my teammates, and our opponents. Old age nor technology gadgets nor passing fads will ever erase those memories. Here’s a brief sampling of the games and their participants:
He was a scrapper in 1965, that freckle-faced youngster from Sugar Creek, Georgia, the type that would charge into hell armed with nothing more than a water pistol. The first time I saw Randy Godfrey, his coal black, burr head was being held at a distance by the Goliath hand of West Fannin’s senior quarterback, Larry Mashburn. Randy’s fists swung frantically, but he landed no lights-out blow. I recall that day thinking to myself, does this runt freshman know who he’s up against? Lucky for Randy, Coach Henson stopped the “fight.” Cleats clicked out of the fieldhouse toward the practice field.
The next season in spring practice Randy encountered an unfortunate incident. One of his “smile teeth” was knocked out and lost somewhere on the same practice field. After practice and enduring 50 of Coach Montgomery’s notorious 50-yard wind sprints, the team combed the field helping Randy search for his tooth. No tooth found.
A full year later, following spring rains, winter sleet storms, and a knee-deep snow the missing tooth was found by Randy. I can still see his proud jack-o-lantern smile as he announced his rare find. Chest out and standing there like the tallest Indian in the mountains, he bragged to the team about finding his lost tooth—his smile at once filled with personal accomplishment, relief and joy. Randy, more than any other teammate, symbolized our West Fannin Yellow Jackets—small, quick and full of fight.
In North Georgia during the mid and late 1960s our team’s schedule was onerous. The eminent North Georgia football powerhouse Dalton High was coached by legendary Bill Chappell. His Catamounts ruled the roost. Some years if we simply scored against Dalton we considered the game a victory for the Yellow Jackets. Many of Chappell’s talented players advanced to the collegiate level. After college several were drafted into the professional football league.
Two such gamers we faced were named Ricky: Ricky Lake and Ricky Townsend. Townsend had a distinct and a mite distracting style. He punted and kicked the football barefooted – something that if done today would surely go “viral” on social media.
Back in the day, personal safety went wanting—especially for those who assisted with the game. Unknown hazards sometimes caused chaos and astonishing consequences in the mountains. In one home game a life-threatening event happened to the visiting team’s manager.
The opponents’ yellow school buses made the twisty 100-mile, two-lane trek into the mountains of Fannin County. The city football team took the field and quickly scored a touchdown. Their field goal attempt was perfect. The kicked ball sailed dead center through the uprights, but its trajectory carried it far into the adjacent woods. The team’s manager jubilantly jogged into the woods to retrieve the ball. He did not return.
An assistant team manager was sent to retrieve him and the missing football. Like an Olympic sprinter the assistant turned and raced out of the woods. He was heard to scream, “Get the ambulance! Hurry! He’s been snake bit; copperheads in them woods.” Sirens blaring and red lights flashing, the snake bitten manager was transported to Ducktown, Tennessee. Fannin County, Georgia had no hospital in the mid-1960s.
A surprising injury interrupted another of the Yellow Jackets’ games in Cleveland, Tennessee. It was late fall, and our opponent was Bradley High. Because budgets for high schools were tight, miniscule funds were allotted for football gear and playing field maintenance. We’d played less than half the first quarter against the Bradley Bears. They’d won the toss and advanced the ball to near the Red Zone and were poised to score on us.
The Bears quarterback called an endzone pass play. Players clapped hands and broke huddle. Eleven robust players confidently emerged and hurried toward the line of scrimmage. The ball was snapped. Then the unexpected happened.
Yellow flags flew, and referee whistles blared from all directions. Players of both teams stood up looking befuddled. Why did they stop the game? What did we do wrong? I recall wondering. Then I saw the reason.
Near our 10-yard line a referee lay flat on his back, writhing in agony. He’d stepped in a hole in the ground, a deep divot dug there by routine extra-point practices. His ankle was broken. A gurney was rolled onto the field. He was loaded into an onsite ambulance and rushed to a nearby hospital. The game promptly resumed as though nothing had happened. We lost that game, but the image of an injured referee being hauled away in an ambulance is forever cemented in my memory.
The West Fannin Yellow Jackets of the mid 1960s were never Georgia state champions, but no team except Dalton High beat us by more than two touchdowns. We were a well-conditioned team. I attributed our great shape to Coach Montgomery’s weightlifting program and to what some players did during the off season.
A few of my teammates and I worked at a very physically demanding job. We caught chickens. The pay was less than $5 per night. During football season we’d chase fullbacks, halfbacks, and quarterbacks who carried a football. In the off season we’d chase “feather-necks’: flighty white Leghorn hens, jet-fast Rhode Island Red pullets, and domineering Dominicker roosters. Chasing those chickens and the competition from our football opponents was a good thing. They availed character building opportunities. We stayed in great condition and out of trouble.
It’s been over half a hundred years since I caught any chickens or suited up to play football. But the memories of the Mountain Boys of Autumn return each year when I see those falling leaves or feel a crisp autumn breeze.
Friday Night Lights Are On. Game On! Play Ball!
- Joe Cobb Crawford, The Poetry Company