Meeting 'the runnin'est son of a gun they ever saw' made me a teen again
By RICK BRAGG - 08/28/05 - For the Journal-Constitution
He stood in line with the mortals at the book signing, and when he finally stood across from me at the table, he reached for my hand. "I'm Boyce Callahan," he said, smiling, and in my mind the bookshelves became bleachers, and I was a teenager again, sitting next to my Uncle John in a slight, cold rain. It was under the lights, Jacksonville State University vs. Troy, or North Alabama, or somebody, and my Uncle John was grumbling that we would see some football, if the people would just put down their umbrellas, which he called "them parasols." I can still hear the announcer's call, still hear "and the pitch goes to Callahan."
I saw a lot of college football in my l ife. I saw Bo Jackson and Herschel Walker fly like cannonballs over the gnashing pile. I watched The Bear in winter, his coaching career and life almost gone. I smiled, always, as Keith Jackson drawled, "It's time to let the big dogs hunt," grinned every time the evil genius in Gainesville spiked his visor, and sat in grim self-righteousness as the Crimson Tide defense dismantled Miami for the national championship. I watched Charlie White run wild in Legion Field, burying Alabama, and can still hear the thunder of the USC marching band — I hate tubas even now.
I saw a lot. But when people ask me about the greatest thing I ever saw on a football field, I always say the same thing.
". . . and he's stopped at the line of ... no, he's loose ... he's at the 50, the 40, the ..."
Boyce Callahan was a running back at small-college power Jacksonville State in the old days of the Gulf South Conference, three decades gone. He was small and not exceptionally fast, but he was tough, and slick as a boiled owl. He would get hammered on one play, and the next, and the next. I saw him actually stagger back to the huddle. But there would always come a time when he would hit the pile, bounce off, shake loose and bust it outside, running like he stole something. He had this habit of cocking his head back when he was in the clear, like he was daring them to catch him, and he ran straight into the hearts of the mostly blue-collar crowds that came to see him play. My uncles just say he's the runnin'est son of a gun they ever saw, period.
In the bookstore, he was gracious and thanked me for the few nice things I'd said about him in one of my books. I should have thanked him, for the show he put on under those lights. And it made me wonder what I'd missed, behind those parasols.
— Alabama-born Rick Bragg is author of the best-selling autobiography "All Over but the Shoutin'."
