c. 2003 Religion News Service
(Samuel K. Atchison is an ordained minister and has worked as a policy analyst and social worker to the homeless. He currently is a prison chaplain in Trenton, N.J., and a fellow of the George H. Gallup International Institute in Princeton, N.J.)
(UNDATED) When I was little, my favorite football player was Jim Brown. At 6-feet-2, 228 pounds, handsome and muscular, Brown was the quintessential man’s man. If he wasn’t quite as fast as a speeding bullet and a little less powerful than a locomotive, he was nonetheless able to run over opposing players in a single bound.
At least, that was what my dad always said.
You see, Jim Brown retired when I was only nine, so I don’t remember seeing him play more than a few times. My father, however, idolized him. And I adored my dad. So I guess it was only natural that I would worship at the same altar he did.
And what worship it was! My younger brother, Wayne, and I would listen with rapt attention as Daddy, driving us around in the `68 Chevy pickup that seemed old even when it was new, regaled us with stories of how Brown stiff-armed Alex Karras and ran over Big Daddy Lipscomb.
He was always ambivalent about Brown’s retirement at age 29 _ at once respecting Brown’s decision to leave at the top of his game, while claiming, even several years later, that Brown could regain his form if he chose to return. Ever the bookworm, I would contribute to the conversation tidbits of information I had read _ facts, statistics, quotes _ anything to prolong the conversation.
My father, you see, was a hard man to get to know. Tall, handsome and strong himself, he, too, was something of a man’s man, meaning that he was long on image and short on conversation. He was friendly but not intimate, possessed of a kind heart covered by a rough hewn exterior. As a result, many people loved and admired him but few really got to know him.
Born during the Great Depression and reared in the South Carolina of Dixiecrat Gov. (later Sen.) Strom Thurmond, Daddy reflected all the lost opportunities imposed by poverty and Jim Crow. He was a sharecropper’s son who never got the chance to play football; a tradesman whose love for literature and the dramatic arts found full expression only after putting his wife and children through college.
Over the years, as Dad gained a measure of peace with himself, it became easier to talk with him. He would often call to discuss “The Last Magus,” a self-published novel he wrote on the birth of Jesus that was a true labor of love. And, of course, whenever we got together and watched football, no running back _ no matter how good _ compared with the great Jim Brown.
In recent years, Dad has grown ill. To make matters worse, his medication has made his reflexes slow and his responses dull. Those of us who love him have come to miss the twinkle in his eye, his mischievous grin and quick laugh _ all the things that make him Dad.
A few days ago, however, I purchased something I believe will grab his attention _ a replica of Jim Brown’s jersey. Here’s hoping old number 32 can start the conversation again.
DEA END ATCHISON
