He was quiet. You could hear the crickets in the grass and the deep breathing of the exhausted players. Then I saw the first of a hundred examples of great coaching.
“Men, whether we win or lose, I want you to know something.” He paused to look at each one of them, eye to eye. “I want you to know just how much I admire you as a team and as individuals. I’d be proud to have any one of you as my own son. I want you to wake up Saturday morning knowing that, no matter the final score, you gave your all, you done your very best. You do that, you’ll have kept my admiration and you’ll have earned my respect.” He nodded his head, and they silently turned and began to walk toward the locker room.
As the stands and the fence line emptied of spectators, Coach Dietz and I were alone on the field.
“Doc, mind taking a walk?” He turned toward the cemetery and I followed. We walked up the stadium steps, through a gate in the chain-link fence, and into the field of headstones. He would stop, only briefly, to look at the larger stones and monuments.
As we came up to the peak of the cemetery, the view of the town and the Smokies was both impressive and magnificent—lit up in the setting sun, ablaze with fall colors. I paused to gaze, amazed again at the beauty of the hills. He continued on as though on a mission. He paused at a huge granite rock, and I walked up beside him. Embedded in the stone was a bronze plaque:
HORACE KEPHART
1862–1931
SCHOLAR, AUTHOR, OUTDOORSMAN
HE LOVED HIS NEIGHBORS
AND PICTURED THEM IN
“OUR SOUTHERN HIGHLANDERS.”
HIS VISION HELPED CREATE
THE GREAT SMOKYMOUNTAINS NATIONAL PARK.
“You know who this is?” he asked, his eyes glued to the tombstone.
“Can’t say that I do.”
“Maybe the most famous fella that ever lived in these parts. Educated fella. They say he studied at five universities before battling alcoholism and a mental breakdown. They say he looked at maps and books to discover what he called ‘His Back Beyond.’ He wanted to find the remotest part of the country. He considered the Rockies and the rain forests of the Northwest. He thought about the deep swamps of Georgia or Florida. He finally come out here at the turn of the century—1904 if memory serves me right—and settled on Sugar Fork. That was a branch off Hazel Creek, deep in the woods west of here.”
My admiration for this man was growing. I knew he knew football; I didn’t know he knew the local history, especially having been born and bred in Sylva. He went on. “He recovered from his demons in these woods. And he wrote and wrote—lots of books and outdoors articles. I’ve read his Camping and Woodcraft, Sporting Firearms, and Camp Cooking. But the one I like the best, and the one that brought him so much fame, was Our Southern Highlanders.
“He’d often leave the woods and come up here to Bryson. In fact, he kept a room at what was called the Cooper House, a long-gone boardinghouse. Locals came to call it Kephart Tavern. They say that it was from this place that he took up the battle to create the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.”
The coach looked up and gazed across ridge after ridge of mountains—all the way to the horizon. “Kephart hated the huge timber companies he saw as destroying the land around him. ‘Why must the virgin forests be doomed for their profit?’ he wrote.” The coach’s voice picked up in tone and intensity. “‘Stop the carnage,’ he’d preach to any politician who’d listen. ‘I want to preserve this pristine and shrinking wilderness,’ he said, ‘so that others can come here and recover, as I have.’
“Let me show you another,” the coach said. He took off walking and I followed. Just a bit over the ridge and to the west of the Kephart grave site, he stopped at another tombstone:
KELLY E. BENNETT
1890–1974
THE APOSTLE OF THE SMOKIES
THIS STONE FROM DEEP WITHIN THE SMOKIES
ALONG WITHMT. BENNETT IN THE DISTANCE
ARE LASTING TRIBUTES TO A MAN
WHOSE EFFORTS AND LOVE FOR THESE MOUNTAINS HELPED
IN THE CREATION OF THE GREAT SMOKYMTNS. NATIONAL PARK
He pointed to another small tombstone that just read,
DR. AURELIUS BENNETT
1861–1941
“A. M. Bennett. He was a country doctor—just like you, Doc. His son, Kelly, became the town’s pharmacist and unofficial photographer—for decades. Kelly even served as a state legislator. Even though he was almost thirty years younger than Kephart, they became best friends. Together they led the efforts to form the national park.”
Coach Dietz smiled, almost to himself, then continued, “Doc, these men had a passion and a mission. It gave them meaning. It gave them life. It gave us this beautiful place.” He paused to look out over the town toward the national park. “Kephart became the first living American to have a mountain named in his honor while he was still alive. Can’t see Mount Kephart from here. It’s deep in the park out thar. A monument to his passion—to his life’s work. Bennett also had one named after him—after he died.”
The coach paused. “Doc, my monument’s them kids.” He turned to look at me. “For most of them, this team’s the highlight of their lives. This here’s their glory days. These become the lifelong memories they’ll relive the rest of their lives. When they’re working in one of the mills around here, or lumbering, or working in the furniture factory, they’ll look back on these days and they’ll talk about ’em. Their memories are my legacy. I just don’t want to let them down. I love what I do, and I love the kids I do it for.”
He took in a deep breath and then let it out slowly as his eyes turned from mine to gaze down at the gravestone. “Kephart died in an automobile accident. April 2, 1931. Died not too far from here. He was 69. Bennett lived into his 80s. Their work didn’t go unnoticed or unrewarded. In 1940 ol’ President Roosevelt came out here to dedicate the park. Bennett was there in the flesh, Kephart in the spirit.
“So Mr. Kephart and Mr. Bennett are both buried here, looking out over the park they helped create. But their monuments aren’t really here—they’re out thar.” The coach swept his arm over the expanse in front of us.
“I hope that a hundred years from now, there’ll be folks who’ll see in my kids’ kids’ kids, some of me. That’ll be my monument, Doc. That’s what gets me up in the morning. That’s what stirs my cocoa. That’s my legacy.” He smiled and said in a near-whisper, “My legacy’s not property, it’s people. When I’m gone, I’m gonna leave behind relationships. I’m gonna leave behind kids that’s better than they would have been. That sound crazy to you, Doc?”
“No, sir,” I responded. “Not crazy at all.”
“Better be going. Don’t want to keep you from your family.”
We turned to leave. We walked quietly down the hillside, through the monuments to people now departed from this earth—perhaps with their legacy buried here with them. The idea of investing in others and not in oneself was amazingly appealing to me. I thought there’d be no better place to start than with my family. After all, I thought, what if I get to the end of my career with a great practice and a big estate but with a marriage in ruins and kids with no integrity or character? What will I have gained? What use were all the riches I could earn if I ended my life with regret about what I gave—to my family and to others around me?
I wasn’t sure whether Coach Dietz was a religious man, but his sermon that day resulted in my praying a simple prayer of commitment as I sat on my bench that night, looking out over Kephart’s and Bennett’s monuments. Lord, help me know you better. Help me make you known, first to my family and then to my patients. Lord, help me be the best husband, the best daddy, and the best doctor possible. I want my legacy to be my family.
To this day the Lord is at work answering that prayer.
chapter nineteen
MY FIRST HOME VICTORY
Friday finally arrived. Tonight would be my first football game as a team physician in private practice. Gary Ayers’s morning news was b
asically all about the rivalry—past and present. He was predicting a record turnout and advising fans to arrive early for the best seats.
When I got to the office, Helen gave me a funny smile. “We’ve got something for you, Dr. Larimore.”
I followed her to the staff lounge. There was a gift-wrapped package, with maroon paper and white ribbon—the Swain County colors. I unwrapped it under the curious eyes of the staff. Inside was a white golf shirt with maroon-tipped sleeves. Over the left chest was embroidered “Dr. Larimore” and, just below that, “Team Physician.”
Leave it to Helen to burst my bubble. “Better not let Mitch see that,” she warned. “They’ve never given him one like that. And after all he does for them! I guess to get a shirt you need to be the new kid on the block, or from Duke or something like that.”
I tried to defend the difference between being a sideline and a grandstand team physician, but the explanation was lost in a cacophony of comment and argument.
Late that afternoon Mitch caught me in the hall. “Heard about your shirt, Walt.” He paused. I braced for the coming onslaught. I was certain his next comment would be, You stupid? It wasn’t. “Walt,” he sighed, “I think that’s great. Folks normally don’t take a shine to a newcomer so quickly. That’s a good sign, son.”
After finishing up the afternoon’s paperwork and stopping by home for a quick dinner, I was off to the stadium. I arrived an hour before kickoff and was waved into the reserved parking area. Joe Benny was the attendant. “Been expecting you, Doc. We done put up a special sign for you right over by the gate.”
I thanked him and drove on. Another attendant waved me into a parking spot next to the fence. “Dr. Larrimore, Team Physician” were the words on the freshly painted sign wired to the fence. I don’t mind telling you that, despite the misspelling, I was feeling pretty special indeed. At least “Larimore” was spelled correctly on my coaching shirt. But I was secretly hoping that my senior colleagues didn’t see this sign. I could only begin to imagine the professional jealousies. Perhaps petty jealousies, but nevertheless very real.
It was already getting dark, but the stadium lights lit up the field like day. The lighting system was as good as any college field I’d seen. Fantastic.
For a die-hard football fan, there’s nothing quite like the feeling of walking out on the cool turf on a crisp autumn evening. The crowd gathering in the stands, the smoke from the hamburger-stand grills, the band warming up. I drank in the sights with childhood memories surging through my mind. From my earliest memories I have deep-seated impressions of Death Valley. That was the name opponents gave to the football stadium in Baton Rouge. Games at LSU are almost always played at night, and the turf is and always has been genuine—thick and luscious. My dad and I would go to the games together, and not only can I still name my childhood and adolescent heroes, I can also remember some of their most spectacular plays.
As I walked onto the field, a thousand memories flooded my soul and my arms looked like gooseflesh. I felt at home. The kids from both teams were already on the field warming up, and to my surprise the visitor and the home stands were nearly full—one whole hour before the game! Fans were beginning to claim spots on the grassy mountainside. And all along the chain-link fence around the field, the men were a dozen deep.
I dropped off my medical kit in the locker room. It was a fabulous locker room—as large as some college locker rooms. On my way back down to the field, I passed Preston guarding his and Joe Benny’s spots on the fence at about the 40-yard line on the home side. This was just far enough down to avoid having their view blocked by the players on the sidelines, yet close enough to yell any needed encouragement to coaches or kids.
Once on the field I checked in with Coach Dietz. He had no medical concerns to report regarding the kids, but asked, “You got some Tums in your medical kit?”
“I do.”
“Can you keep some handy for me?”
“Will do, Coach.”
I stood by him to watch the warm-ups.
“Doc.”
“Yep.”
“Doc, I’m glad you’re here.”
I nodded. I didn’t say anything. May have been the lump in my throat. But I remember thinking, Me too, Coach. Me too.
As I looked across the field, I was astonished at how small our boys were compared to the Sylva kids. Our largest player, tackle Mac Gossett, was probably six-foot two, 210 pounds. He was by far our largest kid. And most of Sylva’s kids looked bigger than him. We’re gonna get creamed, I thought.
After warm-ups were completed, the teams retreated to the locker rooms. Each coach had his kids in a small group, reviewing last-minute details. Asking and answering questions. The kids had each been taught how to “scout” their opposing players during warm-ups and had observations on any apparent injuries. Several of the junior varsity coaches who had scouted Sylva in previous games and during the warm-ups would go from group to group to share their observations.
A referee entered the room. “Coach, I’ll need your captains in two minutes.” Finally Coach Dietz, who had been watching the preparations, clapped his hands. The room instantly became silent. All eyes were on the coach.
“Men, you’ve prepared well for tonight. There’re probably four or five thousand folks who’ve come to see you. They’ve spent their hard-earned money to root for you—to see you do your best. I know that’s what you’re planning to do.”
He paused to spit out some dip into a cup he was carrying.
“Seniors, you’ve never lost to these boys. And their seniors have never beaten you. That’s what they’re here to do. Tonight is their entire season. They’ve come to our house, to our backyard, to beat us up and to beat us bad. They’re planning to use tonight in their bedtime stories they’ll tell their kids and their grandkids until the day they die.
“Men, tonight’s your legacy. This is your house. Don’t let these folks down. Don’t let your parents down. Don’t let the men along the fence down. But most of all, don’t let yourselves down! This is your house. Get out there and let’s defend it!”
In a rush of adrenaline and pent-up energy, the team erupted to its feet and moved toward the door, a surging, chanting masculine mass.
What a coach! I thought.
The players tore through the paper tunnel, fire extinguishers went off, the band played the fight song, and the stands erupted in noise. I thought for sure I could feel the ground trembling. The sound was deafening. Welcome to Swain County Football.
At the kickoff, at each home team score, and at the times the team left and then reentered the field at halftime, the stadium thundered. But the most notable and fascinating part of the evening for me was watching and listening to the men along the fence. Their intensity was well-nigh unto fanatical—both their approval and disapproval of every play and every decision. I had been on the sidelines at every SEC (Southeastern Conference) and ACC (Atlantic Coast Conference) stadium and many others around the country during my college and residency days, but never had I seen this level of intensity, passion, and zeal.
At halftime the score was tied. The halftime sermon was intense and motivational. The third quarter was scoreless. The team and the crowd seemed to be waning in strength and energy. Sylva’s size and strength seemed to be wearing down our smaller guys. Tony Plemmons, our quarterback, was a small fellow but as tough as a bobcat. Unlike many quarterbacks, he liked to run, to hit, and to be hit.
As the fourth quarter began, we had the ball. Tony took off on a run and got hit hard on the play. After the Sylva players got up, Tony didn’t. He was writhing in pain. We had no experienced backup quarterback. After a collective groan, the stadium went deathly quiet.
By instinct I found myself sprinting toward him, followed closely by Coach Dietz. By the time we got to his side, Tony was sitting up and leaning forward. He was holding his right hand across his left shoulder—his left arm lying limply in his lap. He was moaning in pain.
As I knelt at his sid
e I said, “Tony, it’s Dr. Larimore. What are you feeling?”
“Doc, I think my shoulder’s broken. I can’t move it.”
With one hand I was instinctively feeling for his pulse—which was normal—while running my other hand up his jersey to the shoulder. The clavicle was intact. But the ball of the shoulder was prominent, and he yelped when I palpated the rotator cuff. I knew what it was and I knew what I had to do, but I’d have to act quickly before the shoulder muscles began to spasm—which would only make the pain greater and the treatment more difficult.
“What is it, Doc?” asked Coach Dietz, now at Tony’s other side.
“Think we’re fine, Coach.” I was trying to reassure him—and me too.
“Tony, I need you to lie back.” He slowly lay back, moaning from the pain of the sudden motion. I could hear a hushed groan from the crowd as they saw him slump to his back.
“What is it, Doc?” asked the coach emphatically. “We need to call the paramedics? You need Doc Mitchell?”
I didn’t have time to explain. My mind was racing. I could hear Gary Ayers the next morning. “Swain County had a chance to win the game until the newest doctor in town broke the quarterback’s shoulder trying to treat a simple dislocation.” Pete Lawson’s headlines in the Smoky Mountain Times would read, “Perfect record given to Sylva by an inexperienced team physician. After the game Coach Dietz commented, ‘We’d have won the game if only I had called Dr. Mitchell out of the stands to care for our quarterback. Now we’ve lost him for the season.’” I could feel the cold sweat dripping down my forehead and was hoping no one would notice my trembling hands.
“Tony, let your arm go real loose. Don’t fight me. I need you to trust me, OK?”
“OK, Doc. Just make me better, will ya?”
Bryson City Tales Page 16