Friday, March 25, 2011
Farewell, Drew Hill. We will always have 1978 in Athens.
Long before Calvin Johnson roamed Grant Field, there was little Drew Hill, a scrawny receiver from Newnan with suction cups as hands and shifty, sneaky speed for returning kick-offs. Drew Hill was a member of the Pepper Power GT gang from the 1970s along with Eddie Lee Ivery, Bucky Shamburger, Lawrence "Sweet N" Lowe, Don Bessillieu, Kent Hill, Ben Utt, and Ivey Stokes.
They were a blue-collar, colorful group, and tough enough and talented enough to beat South Carolina, Miami, Auburn, and Florida in 1978... in consecutive games no less.
They were Gods to me as a wide-eyed 12-year-old mesmerized by these fearless men who wore the White and Gold and ran on to Grant Field chasing the Ramblin' Wreck.
Drew Hill was 5'9" and 170 pounds, but he ran precision routes and rarely dropped a ball. He had four quarterbacks during his playing years at Tech from 1975 to 1978 (Mike Kelley '78, Gary Lanier '76-77, Danny Myers '75, Rudy Allen '75). He made the Tech record books in several categories, including T-15th for receiving yards in a season with 708 in 1978.
When I was at Tech in the mid-80s, I remember seeing Drew Hill and Kent Hill (O-line, Rams) working out together on campus during the spring and summer, preparing for the upcoming NFL season. They would often lift weights together at SAC (Student Activity Center), where the Phi Delts used to play pick-up basketball with the football players and other fraternities.
Although drafted in the 12th round in 1979, Drew Hill played 14 seasons in the NFL, with the Rams, Oilers and Falcons.
One of my all-time favorite plays in Georgia Tech history involved Drew Hill. It happened at the 1978 Georgia Tech-Georgia game in Athens. Georgia's Scott Woerner had just returned his second punt for a touchdown and the Dawgs took a 21-20 lead late in the third quarter. I was sitting in the upper deck at Stanford Stadium in a sea of raucous red. I was the only Tech fan in the entire section. My parents were sitting one section over using a pair of tickets. I got stuck with the solo. To make matters worse, I was wearing my "Pepper Power" gold-and-white long-sleeve T-shirt and I had a large, velvet and yellow GT cowboy hat on my head that Georgia fans kept knocking off of me.
When Woerner scored his second TD, I felt exposed and vulnerable as the stadium rocked back and forth from the deafening noise. I stood with the crowd and watched the ensuing kick off that landed in Drew Hill's hands 1-yard deep in the endzone. I held my breath as he followed his blockers up the sideline and then cut back into the middle and raced for daylight and glory. I screamed, I screamed, I screamed, I screamed. "Drew Hill! Drew Hill! Touchdown Drew Hill! 101 yards! Drew Hill! I love Drew Hill!"
Today was a solemn day on the campus of Georgia Tech as friends and former players gathered to say good-bye to Drew Hill. Dead at 54, struck down by two massive strokes.
I will never, ever forget you, Drew Hill. You are one of my favorite Georgia Tech players of all time. Thanks for the moment in Athens when I was 12. We will always have that… Rest in peace, buddy.
Lessons learned from losing
JOHN CARROLL, November 2005
Thanksgiving week is so much more fun when Georgia Tech at least has a shot at beating Georgia in football.
There have been plenty of years when the whole state has known exactly what was going to happen to Tech the Saturday after Turkey Day. The Yellow Jackets were going to get clobbered by the Bulldogs.
But not this year. After Tech’s stunning upset of Miami, observers on both sides of the fence agree that this year’s game has all the makings of a classic battle between brothers, cousins, friends and enemies.
This is the one football game of the year that means the most to me personally. I was born a Tech fan because my Daddy went to Tech. And then I went to college there, so now I’m forever hitched to the White and Gold.
But why do I care so much about one game? Why is it that this game is the only thing I’ve been able to think about all week? These are just a bunch of 19- and 20-year-old kids playing a game, for goodness sake. Why does it matter so much?
The short answer: Because I’m a huge sports fan and my team is the Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets. And in Southern states like Georgia, college football matters.
This year I read Warren St. John’s book, “Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer.” It’s a wonderfully, descriptive and insightful account of the fan mania that grips University of Alabama football. (One couple even missed their daughter’s wedding because she scheduled it on the day of the Alabama-Tennessee game.)
St. John writes, “Being a sports fan is largely about learning to cope with losing.”
I know that if Tech loses Saturday my 8-year-old son, Wages, will probably cry. And I will feel like crying. We’ve lost four in a row to Georgia and losing streaks stink.
The most devastating, heartbreaking Tech loss to Georgia that I’ve ever witnessed in person was the 1997 game in Atlanta. Tech had lost six in a row to Georgia but faced a realistic chance of snapping the drought thanks to a stingy defense and a young quarterback named Joe Hamilton.
It was a cold, rainy night at Bobby Dodd Stadium. I went to the game with my mother. Just the two of us — Mom and me — taking in a Tech-Georgia game together.
As the drama of the game unfolded, it looked like Tech would win as the Jackets scored a touchdown very late in the fourth quarter to take a 24-20 lead. Mom and I were giddy as we hugged each other.
Georgia’s Larry Munson barked into the radio, “They’ve ripped our hearts out and the blood is pouring down the streets of Atlanta.”
But with less than a minute to play, Georgia stormed down the field led by the leadership of quarterback Mike Bobo and All-American Champ Bailey. With 15 seconds left in the game, Bobo lobbed a pass to wideout Corey Allen in the corner of the end zone for the winning touchdown with 8 seconds on the clock. Dawgs win for the seventh time in a row, 27-24.
Munson screamed: “We’ve picked our hearts up and we’ve stuffed them back in our chest!”
That was a sick feeling walking out of the stadium with Mom. We were stunned and crestfallen. But something about losing in such dramatic fashion filled me with a sense of perspective and appreciation for what really matters in life.
All of a sudden, I wasn’t sad anymore. I had just attended an incredible game with my mother. I’ll never forget that experience and the fact that I was there with Mom.
In his book, “My Losing Season,” Pat Conroy writes that winning is wonderful, but the “darker music of loss resonates on deeper, richer planes. Loss is a fiercer, more uncompromising teacher, cold-hearted but clear-eyed in its understanding that life is more dilemma than game, and more trial than free pass.”
I’ve had enough losing lessons in my life. I’m ready to learn from winning.
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Goodbye today, hello tomorrow
JOHN CARROLL, 02-23-07
Little Johnny Hollar’s daddy is on his way to Afghanistan. Capt. John Hollar left Columbus last week for training in Fort Riley, Kansas. Then he’s off to the Middle East for a year where he’ll mentor and advise the Afghanistan National Army.
John Hollar is my friend and neighbor. We’ve coached Little League baseball together. We keep our neighborhood swimming pool clean during the summer. We’ve played cards together. I told John that I would keep a close eye on Johnny while he was deployed overseas.
Johnny and my son Wages are great friends. They play together regularly in the neighborhood. They organize backyard games such as football, baseball and basketball. They catch frogs, lizards and snakes. They play tag with the girls.
On his last day in Columbus, John and Johnny spent the entire day together. Father and son hunted for squirrels and birds in the backyard with Johnny’s BB gun. They cut wood for the fireplace. They worked on the car. They went to Bruster’s and bought ice cream. They planted tomato seeds and prepped the garden.
Little Johnny is responsible for the family garden this spring. The last two years he has helped his dad plant and grow tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, onions, squash, green beans and herbs. This year Johnny will be on his own, although next-door neighbor Mr. Pickett has offered to keep a watchful eye on the garden’s progress.
When John, 38, first broke the news of his deployment to his son, the 10-year-old reacted with excitement.
“Cool. Can I go, too?” he asked.
Later, the night before Capt. Hollar’s departure, the reality that his father was going to be gone for more than a year sunk in. Little Johnny got emotional.
“I’m going to miss you. You better come back.”
John Hollar grew up in Hickory, N.C. He is the oldest of four brothers. From 1992 to 2000 he served in the Army with the 7th Infantry Division and then the 10th Mountain Division. During this time he lived all over the place. Fort Ord in California. Fort Lewis in Washington. Fort Drum in New York. Fort Benning in Georgia.
While at Fort Benning in 1995 he met his soulmate Sheila, the daughter of a former soldier. They got married. Little Johnny was born in September 1996. Their family also includes two sons from Sheila’s first marriage, Chris and Kyle Edwards.
After getting out of the Army in 2000, the Hollars settled in Columbus. John worked in corporate training at Synovus for three years. In September 2002, he struck out on his own and opened Titan Gym, a “hardcore gym with lots of free weights for serious lifters,” he said. But the numbers didn’t add up and eighteen months later he shut it down.
Most recently, Hollar has been doing contract work for Fort Benning, assessing and evaluating new Army equipment, weapons, communication devices, uniforms, etc. His work at Fort Benning re-ignited his love for soldiering. In November 2005, he joined the Alabama National Guard, based in Talladega, which required his services one weekend a month and two weeks each year.
A few months ago, Hollar was told that roughly 2,500 national guardsmen from across the U.S. were being deployed to Afghanistan. They are replacing a team that is coming home. Capt. Hollar will be embedded with over 100 Afghani soldiers, who are fighting the Taliban militants still active in the region.
Hollar said he has mixed emotions about his first-ever deployment.
“Part of me wants to go because I’m a soldier and that’s what I do,” he said. “But I’m also a family man so that’s tough. I’m gonna miss Sheila and the boys. I’m gonna miss playing ball with Johnny, gardening with Johnny. Teaching the boys how to work on cars and trucks, watching them play ball, living at the ballfield...”
His voice trailed off.
“As long as I come home I’ll be happy,” he said.
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He’s seen fire, he’s seen rain
JOHN CARROLL, 12-22-05
The day after Thanksgiving Jeff Hudson stood on his zoysia lawn in Columbus and watched his house burn.
He had fought the fire as hard and long as he could. Now it was up to trained firefighters to salvage what they could.
“Please save the left side of the house,” begged Hudson, 34. That was where the family photo albums and scrapbooks were.
A Columbus native, Hudson was on the roof of his Brookstone house blowing off leaves when he heard a popping noise and then noticed smoke coming from the garage. He climbed down to inspect the scene. He opened the door to the utility room and saw flames on the floor that were spreading fast to the walls.
The pilot light in his gas hot water heater had ignited a fire. The utility closet was full of dangerous flammable material such as paint and gasoline.
Instinctively, Hudson began stomping on the flames. He tried to fight it with all his might.
Meanwhile, his wife, Libby, was in the kitchen cooking. Their two little girls were next door jumping on a trampoline with friends.
The fire continued to pick up its intensity. Flames latched on to Hudson’s legs and hair. Scared to death, he ran inside screaming, “Where’s the fire extinguisher?” The Hudsons did not own one.
A neighbor ran over with two fire extinguishers and effort was directed at the blaze that had now spread to the garage and Hudson’s Chevy Tahoe. Hudson called 911 and watched the fire in futility. It was now out of his control. Flames were coming through the roof and stretching high up into a nearby oak tree. The sound reminded Hudson of a freight train.
“People have no idea how quick a house can burn,” said Hudson, an insurance broker. “It was a traumatic experience, horrifying to watch. I kept thinking, ‘This is not happening to me.’”
The firemen arrived and battled the blaze with long water hoses. The garage and SUV were completely engulfed in fire. The garage door had burned off its hinges and was flipping violently in the blaze. Flames spread rapidly through the attic and into the living room.
After a long battle, the firemen were able to subdue the fire. But the destruction was done. Half of the house was burned and the entire home was damaged by smoke. Clothes and furniture were gone. Toys and other items disintegrated.
But some things were saved, like the family scrapbook that Libby had worked on for years. The family has moved into a nearby apartment to regroup. Hudson said they plan to rebuild their home.
This is not the first time Hudson has faced adversity. When he was 9 he was in a car accident with his mother and sister. They were hit by a drunk driver on Macon Road. His mother, Donna Hudson, 33, was killed. Hudson, a young boy, was thrown through the windshield and suffered severe head trauma, a ruptured spleen and internal chest injuries. His father, Ron Hudson, a Columbus doctor, thought his son was going to die. But he survived and eventually made a complete recovery.
“Maybe the good Lord wants me on this earth for a purpose,” said Hudson. “Everybody has curve balls thrown at you in life. We can’t control all of the stuff that happens to us.”
The tall, lanky Hudson is known for his dry sense of humor and “easy going personality,” a close friend said.
The father of two girls — ages 4 and 2 — has a unique sense of perspective. “Homes can be replaced, lives can’t,” he said.
Christmas will still go on in the Hudson household this year. “Santa doesn’t have a chimney to come down, but he can check in at the (apartment) front office,” he said.
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The exchange of tenderness
JOHN CARROLL, May 2007
My son was devastated and I was feeling his pain. His Little League team had just suffered another agonizing loss and Wages made the final out. A called strike three at the knees. There’s nothing fun about being 0-7.
“Let’s go Dad,” said Wages. “I want to leave right now.”
I knew this was serious. Usually my resilient son is in no hurry to leave the ballpark. Win or lose, he’ll beg to hang around so he can frolic freely around the grounds, chasing foul balls and playing wall ball with the other kids.
None of that was on his mind right now. As we walked to the car with my arm wrapped tenderly around his shoulders, I could tell that he was holding in his pain, and sensed that he was about to explode.
When we got in the car and closed the doors, the tears poured.
“I’m so tired of losing,” he croaked in between sobs. “I can’t stand it anymore. I was on a losing team last year, and again this year. I’m so mad I want to break something.”
This was new territory for me. I had never seen him this upset after losing a game. I desperately wanted to comfort him and make him feel better, but I stumbled for the right words. I thought about saying, “Win some, lose some, some rained out.” I considered, “It’s not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game.”
But these sports clichés sounded hollow, so I quietly said, “You did your best, son. I’m proud of you. We’ll get’em next time. It will get better.”
“No it won’t!” he cried. “We haven’t won a game all season. I’m tired of losing. I don’t want to play baseball anymore!”
My 9-year-old son was sobbing so hard he could hardly catch his breath. My mind raced furiously. I had to fix this somehow. I reminded him of the two hard-hit singles he had in the early innings.
“I couldn’t see the ball during that last at bat!” he gasped. “I lost it in the sun.”
That was good enough for me. The sun was setting in centerfield and did make it difficult for hitters to pick up the baseball.
“The conditions were tough with the sun,” I said. “It had to be hard to see the ball. But you stayed in there and battled, and did your best.”
When we got home, Wages went to the backyard and started throwing tennis balls up in the air and pounding them with his bat as hard as he could. He was letting off some needed steam. Sulking in the kitchen, I watched him from the window, considering my options for Daddy comes to the rescue.
And that is when I pulled out my ace in the hole. I had a church softball game that night at 9:30 p.m. I usually don’t take him to late games on a school night, but this time I would make an exception. He needed the escape.
Plus, I figured he would get to see his dad play some stellar softball, our team would win, and that would certainly cheer him up.
Well, the game didn’t go very well at all. The wheels came off in the third inning and our defense kicked and threw the ball around like the Bad News Bears. Plus, our bats were ice cold. We took a beating, 15-3.
Perhaps it was meant to be. Perhaps it was no coincidence that our softball team resembled my son’s losing baseball team on this night. Perhaps some Higher Power was at work here.
At home, I tucked my son into bed and we exchanged our normal pleasantries.
“I love you,” I said. “You’re the best.”
“I love you too,” he said. “You’re the best too.”
As I made my way out of his bedroom, Wages stopped me with one last gentle comment. I guess he figured maybe I was a little down from our team’s poor showing in softball.
“Well, Dad, you did your best,” he said. “We’ll get’em next time.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We’ll get’em next time.”
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Nightmare in New Orleans
JOHN CARROLL, September 2005
Late summer 2005 will be a time that Columbus native Andy Roddenbery will never forget. The young doctor was in New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina struck.
The week started innocently enough. Roddenbery, a second-year resident in general surgery at the Ochsner Clinic, played golf on Saturday while the storm was still brewing at sea. On a peaceful, gorgeous day in Louisiana, the former Brookstone golfer shot even par 72 at Audubon Park in the Garden District. “The weather was beautiful,” he said. “We had the whole place to ourselves.”
Easy scoring conditions in the Big Easy. It would be Roddenbery’s calm before the storm.
Monday morning the category 5 hurricane pounded the Crescent City and rattled the hospital where Roddenbery works. Windows shattered on the ninth floor. Patients were moved into hallways. Rainwater saturated the roof.
The intensity of the storm lasted all day, said Roddenbery, 27. The hospital, on the west side of town, was powered by emergency generators. Some 500 hospital employees and 800 patients burrowed in while the hurricane ravaged the city.
Unlike Charity Hospital in downtown New Orleans, Ochsner Clinic was not flooded when the levees broke. The private hospital sat just above the flood line.
But the human carnage and despair was just beginning. Ochsner’s ER began to fill up with trauma patients. People came in from all over the city. Some by ambulance. Some by foot. There were lacerations, gun shot wounds, blunt trauma, electrocutions, head injuries, bone fractures, and more.
Roddenbery and others worked the ER as diligently and deliberately as they could. The Medical College of Georgia graduate treated patients and assisted with surgeries.
“We all just tried to take one issue and one day at a time,” he said. “We tried to be as orderly as possible.”
Some nights Roddenbery and others walked out on the top level of the hospital’s parking deck and looked out over the city. The sound of gunshots pierced the night air. Sirens wailed. Fires burned.
“It was chilling,” said Roddenbery. “I’ve never served in the military, but it must have been similar to a war state.”
On Thursday a dozen doctors and nurses from Ochsner loaded up a van with medical supplies, food and water, and drove three miles to the bridge on Causeway Boulevard where tens of thousands of people were stranded. Roddenbery was on board the van.
The group set up a makeshift clinic under the bridge and worked all day to medically assist the injured, the sick, and the dehydrated.
“Some were worse than others,” said Roddenbery. “We tried to assess each patient and determine their medical needs. I was treating hundreds of people simultaneously.”
The image of that experience will remain with Roddenbery forever. “It was the total look of devastation and loss on people’s faces,” he said.
Exactly one week after Katrina destroyed New Orleans, Roddenbery drove home to Columbus to be with family and decompress. He went dove hunting with his dad, Ed. He attended the Georgia-South Carolina football game in Athens. He delivered meals to displaced evacuees who had landed in Columbus. He played golf.
On Sept. 22, Roddenbery returned to New Orleans to resume his residency at Ochsner. There’s work to do, and there’s a city to rebuild.
“It’s not a question of will it be rebuilt, it has to be rebuilt,” said Roddenbery. “And this city will be a better place in the end.”
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Sunflower lady beats breast cancer
JOHN CARROLL, October 2005
My family has a habit of not talking about anything painful, deeply personal or extremely controversial. Subjects that get little discussion include Granddaddy’s suicide, a cousin’s drinking problem or Mom’s bout with breast cancer.
It probably has something to do with growing up in a household full of males (me, Dad, two brothers) and one female, Mom.
Men tend to clam up when it comes to discussing sensitive subjects. We internalize the pain, suppress emotions and halt communication. Be mentally tough, Dad likes to say.
Perhaps that’s why it’s still difficult to talk or even write about Mom’s fight with breast cancer. And it’s a good story to tell. She’s a 16-year survivor.
The details are foggy. The memories both haunting and inspiring.
The year was 1992. Mom was 50. I was 26. A lump was discovered in Mom’s breast. A biopsy confirmed it was malignant.
Suddenly, a bulletproof family became agonizingly vulnerable. Cancer has a nasty way of ripping at the hearts and souls of all loved ones involved.
I’ll never forget one dreary night soon after the bad news when the five of us fiddled around the house like zombies, shunning conversation, interaction or even eye contact. The mood was somber.
I had to get out of the house. I went to a familiar place where old friends were hanging out. I shared about Mom’s dilemma. They shook their heads in comfort.
Then a complete stranger spoke up. I’d never seen this guy before in my life. He had overheard my story. He explained that he had lived with cancer for 14 years. Had it all in his body.
I listened to this man’s story and offered him a ride home. I asked a lot of questions and listened more. Never give up, he said. Take one day at a time. Your mother needs you now more than ever. She can beat this.
This was not an ordinary man, I concluded. This was a messenger from God. An angel.
I drove home as fast I could. Adrenaline carried me through the front door of the house. I called the family together. We need to have a meeting, I said. Huddled together in the back bedroom, I found myself saying, we must pull together as a family, accept the situation and move forward with hope and faith. And we must communicate. I ended the meeting with a heartfelt prayer.
I saw the future in the tears that welled in Mom’s eyes. She was prepared for battle.
On Oct. 15, 1992, Mom had a mastectomy. Then, she endured months of intense chemotherapy. She lost her energy and hair, but not her optimism. Her body was poisoned, but her faith, hope and positive attitude never wavered. She was determined to win the fight.
Later, she had reconstructive surgery. During this time she formed a breast cancer support group. She named it The Sunflower Group. Membership grew to 25 women.
“The sunflower always looks to the sun,” she said. “It’s a symbol of hope and light. We chose to talk about the positive things that were going on in our lives. We didn’t dwell on the negative. We were all so happy to be alive.”
In October 2002, Dad threw a big party to celebrate Mom’s 60th birthday and 10-year anniversary as a cancer survivor. A large crowd of family and friends attended. Speeches were given. Toasts were made. The band played, “Be Young, Be Foolish, Be Happy.” Mom danced the night away.
Our story has a happy ending. But breast cancer is still a deadly disease. Great strides have been made over the last decade in awareness, early detection, prevention and treatment. And the beat goes on. We need to keep talking and writing about it so more women will live.
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Miracle girl regains form
JOHN CARROLL, February 2006
One year ago a Columbus doctor said seven words that brought Greg and Kelly Jordan to their knees.
“She’s probably not going to make it.”
Their 15-year-old daughter, Kelsey, was in pediatric intensive care at The Medical Center. She had two skull fractures from a freak golf cart accident. Her brain was swelling and she was in a coma.
“To hear the news that your daughter could die was like a kick in the stomach,” said Kelly. “I felt so helpless.”
The weekend had been so fun and festive. The Jordans hosted a slumber birthday party for one of their three daughters, Shelby. Eighteen girls had spent the night together at the Jordan’s home in Maple Ridge, a north Columbus golf course community.
Sunday morning as girls were being picked up by their parents, Kelsey and friends rode around the neighborhood in the family golf cart. They went down a steep hill, tried to maneuver a sharp turn and the golf cart flipped over. Riding in the back seat, Kelsey was thrown from the vehicle and tossed across the street. On its side, the golf cart slid and slammed into Kelsey at the curb.
Only a few streets over from the Jordan’s home, Greg was the first to arrive at the scene after receiving a cell phone call from one of the other girls. He found his daughter pinned under the golf cart. Blood was coming out of her nose and ear. Greg pulled the cart off of Kelsey and waited for the ambulance, which arrived quickly, he said.
“It was so surreal,” said Greg. “She was conscious but she wasn’t making any sense. She was yelling out stuff. It was spooky.”
It was at the hospital’s trauma unit that the Jordans got the news from a neurosurgeon that their daughter had a serious brain injury. They were told to prepare for the worst.
“We were in a tailspin,” said Greg, who huddled with Kelly. “There were a lot of tears. At that point your mind does nothing but pray.”
But Greg said he and Kelly are “optimistic people” and they never gave up hope. “We had no other energy to be focused on than to try and bring her back into this world,” he said.
A student at Northside High School, Kelsey has a lot of friends, and they all showed up at the hospital to show their support. They brought guitars and sung music. They did their homework. They camped out. They ate food. They prayed a lot. They created a healthy environment around the hospital.
“The kids were everywhere,” said Greg. “It made things not so dismal. It made it bearable for us because all of the other signs were negative.”
After more than a week in a coma, one day Kelsey looked at her mother and asked, “What am I doing here?”
She was back. The Jordans cried tears of joy.
Rehabilitation was slow and sometimes painful, but Kelsey had to learn how to walk and talk again. After a week of therapy at Scottish Rite Hospital in Atlanta, she returned home to further recover and rebuild herself.
The accident caused her eyes to cross so she had to wear a patch to straighten them out. When her friends at Northside learned about this, they all showed up at school one day wearing eye patches.
One year later, Kelsey is doing great and believes she is fully recovered. Her hazel eyes are fine. She’s caught up in school. She’s regaining her cheerleading form.
“I can’t do a standing tuck yet, but I’ll have it before cheerleading tryouts,” she said.
The 16-year-old believes she is a miracle and said she doesn’t take anything for granted. “I realize how important life is because it can be taken away from you so fast,” she said.
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It was the summer of ‘89
JOHN CARROLL, July 2005
When I remember great summers in my life I always think back to 1989. It was the summer after I graduated from college and the world was my oyster.
It was an era of yuppies, social glamour and capital gains. For me, it was a time of self-discovery, youthful rebellion and music that mattered. For one memorable, unforgettable summer, the music allowed me to escape the humdrum call of the work force.
I listened to the grandfather of grunge Neil Young sing, “24 and there’s so much more,” and I believed he was singing to my generation and me. I was 23 and there was never enough for me. Never enough rock ’n’ roll. Never enough parties. Never enough living on the edge of life.
We were the Generation Xers. And I was the master of extreme. I had nothing but wanted everything. I could risk it all because I had nothing to risk.
I attended four concerts that magical summer at Lakewood Amphitheater in Atlanta. The Who. Tom Petty. The B-52’s. The Allman Brothers.
This was my Woodstock, my personal rhapsody, my romantic pursuit of the secret to life.
I found it watching Pete Townsend thrash in the air, scissor-kicking and executing his trademark windmill guitar lick. I discovered it hearing microphone-twirling Roger Daltry bellow, “I hope I die before I get old!”
I knew I had captured the essence of life when I sang “Free Fallin’” with T.P. at the top of my lungs with 15,000 other euphoric fans. I was sure that I was on to something when I held hands with friends and swayed to the “Love Shack” beat of the B-52’s.
And when the southern psychedelic sound of the Allman Brothers washed over me, I was certain that life could not ever get any better. I was one with the music, one with the universe, one with all things good and simple.
These were my bands. This was my music. This was my time. I had arrived. My world was in perfect harmony, I believed.
Fast forward to the summer of 2005, I’m pushing 40, and my lifestyle and perspective on life have both changed since those idyllic days of ‘89.
Rock ’n’ roll is no longer a critical priority in my life like it was when I was 23. These days I’m often more moved by an old church hymn or a country song than the music I worshipped back then. I’ve learned that with time and age comes maturity and understanding of what really matters in life. Things such as God, family, freedom, and a purposeful passion.
Despite my transformation, the music can still touch my heart and soul like it did last weekend while watching the LIVE 8 concert on TV. More than a 100 bands and musicians performed all over the globe for free to pressure the world’s leaders to aid poverty-stricken Africa.
U2. Paul McCartney. Sting. Madonna. REM. Coldplay. Stevie Wonder. Elton John. And many others.
I got chills watching the original Pink Floyd perform live together for the first time in 24 years. For a brief moment I was comfortably numb.
My young children are learning about rock ’n’ roll. The other Sunday I caught them dancing to punk rock music in my neighbor’s carport. Less than six hours earlier these two little angels were singing Vacation Bible School songs in church. Now they were swept up in the raw power and energy of Green Day.
Irony observed, my mind wandered back to that carefree summer of my youth when rock music intoxicated me. It was a fleeting, yet defining time in my life. It was the summer of ‘89.
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No Pepsi allowed in my fridge
JOHN CARROLL, August 2005
I never knew my great-great Uncle Robert Brophy. He was a Columbus businessman during the ‘30s and ‘40s. Uncle Bob was either smart or lucky because he invested in Coca-Cola stock during his heyday.
I can only assume that he may have been a friend of the late William Clark Bradley, the Columbus entrepreneur who most historians would say put this city on the map.
History tells us that W.C. Bradley was an incredible businessman who developed an empire around manufacturing, banking, steamboat commerce, farming and real estate. To this day, the W.C. Bradley Co. remains a stalwart in the community.
In 1919, Bradley and Atlanta banker Ernest Woodruff formed an investment group that bought the Coca-Cola Co. for $25 million and saved it from a sugar crisis that threatened its solvency. Bradley served on the board of directors of the soft drink company for 27 years until 1946. During this time the Coca-Cola Co. soared to worldwide commercial success.
Legend has it that Bradley was a charismatic salesman and told everyone he knew to buy Coke stock. Many people in Columbus — such as my Uncle Bob — jumped on the Coca-Cola bandwagon. And consequently, Coca-Cola created an abundance of wealth for families in Columbus and around the state of Georgia.
The city of Columbus and its citizens continue to benefit greatly from Coca-Cola money. The Bradley-Turner Foundation, buoyed by Coke stock, has pumped millions of dollars into economic development, historic preservation, education, the arts, and health care.
With all due respect to R.C. Cola and Cott Beverages, Columbus is a Coca-Cola town. There are a lot of people in this city who own Coke stock, and that money is passed down from generation to generation.
When Uncle Bob died in a Delta plane crash in the 1950s, my grandmother Carroll inherited some Coke stock. I don’t know if she kept up with the stock’s progress, but I do know she drank two bottles of Coke each day religiously for most of her life. One at 10:30 in the morning, the other in the mid-afternoon.
Grandmother, like most Georgians, was loyal to Coca-Cola. There was always a six-pack of Coke on her kitchen countertop and plenty of bottles stored in the refrigerator.
After a massive Thanksgiving feast at her house in Eastman, Ga., our family would waddle into the den and plop down somewhere seeking rest. That was when my sweet grandmother would ask me, “John, would you like a Co-Cola?”
Would I ever! I could barely move or keep my eyes open from wolfing down multiple plates of turkey, dressing, corn, biscuits, deviled eggs and caramel cake. With deft hands, she’d pop open an 8-ounce bottle of Coca-Cola and I’d listen to the snap, pop and hiss of the fizz.
Music to my ears! Before long I was buzzing ready for the next activity — whether it was checkers, pickup sticks or a game of H-O-R-S-E in the backyard.
When Grandmother died in 1996, her Coke stock was eventually passed on to her three sons — one of them being my dad. On Christmas Day 1997, I received 100 shares of Coke stock as a gift from my parents. In the spring of 1998, I used that money as a down payment for the purchase of my first house in Columbus.
When my son was born in 1997, I started a college fund and the first thing I did was buy him five shares of Coke stock. Another year, his grandparents gave him some shares of Coke. I guess you can say Coca-Cola runs in our family.
During the early days of my marriage, I came home from work one evening and noticed a liter of Pepsi-Cola in our refrigerator. I asked my wife, “What’s that?”
She didn’t know exactly what I was talking about, but I told her that Pepsi is not allowed in our fridge. Coca-Cola products only, please. Like most people with roots in Columbus, I am a Coke loyalist.
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A December to remember
JOHN CARROLL, 01/12/07
My little girl Anna walked into the dining room where I was working and sat down in a chair across from me. She put her elbows on the table, rested her face in her hands and nonchalantly dropped a bombshell.
“Why didn’t you go to church with us today?” she asked.
I looked up from my computer.
“It’s like you don’t believe in God,” she said.
I melted in my chair.
“I do believe in God, sweetie,” I calmly replied. “But I have a lot of work to do ...”
Anna’s warm blue eyes penetrated my soul. She remained silent, soaking in my response. Guilt washed over me as I stared at my compassionate and perceptive 7-year-old daughter.
She, brother and Mom had just returned home from church — without me. Too much work to do, too many bills to pay, blah blah blah. I can’t even make time to spend Sunday morning worshipping with my family. What has happened to me?
My little girl knocked me figuratively to my knees.
Look up from your life, I thought to myself. God is sending you a message through your own sweet child.
Rattled, I was determined to spend some quality time with my daughter in December. Just she and I. No mom, no brother. I needed to get to know this little girl better.
I took her to see a play at the Liberty Theater, “High School Musical.” We sat in the audience together and enjoyed the singing and dancing. Afterward, we stopped by Target and I bought her the CD to the popular Disney production.
We did other things together too, such as shopping, practicing basketball, playing board games, and watching Christmas specials on T.V. Joy is the only word to describe the time that I spent with my little first-grader.
Another afternoon, I spontaneously said to Anna, “Let’s go hiking at Pine Mountain.” Hours later, as we were hiking out of the forest, we paused on a ridge and sat on some big rocks to take a break. Darkness and fog were settling in. As we rested, I was amazed at how quiet it was in the woods. Just dead, eerie silence. Not a bird chirping. Not a leaf rustling. Just calm, soothing silence.
I listened hard for something, anything, when I heard it bubbling down in the valley. The subtle sound of water flowing in the creek below.
“Do you hear it?” I asked Anna.
“What?” she asked.
“The water in the creek.”
She listened hard. “Yes, I hear it.”
Driving home, we listened to music together and sang out loud, sometimes at the top of our lungs. Anna likes my CDs, she likes my music. I stuck in Neil Young’s “Prairie Wind” and we jammed to his soulful tunes coming down Highway 27.
Track 7 is a song called, “Here For You,” a ballad that Young wrote for his daughter who had just left home for college. I identified with Young’s touching lyrics: “Happiness will always find you, and when it does, I hope it stays. You might say I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you.”
On Christmas Eve, our family attended church. Anna sat between Kim and me. She stood in the pew and put her hands on our shoulders as we sang hymns and Christmas songs. At one point, Anna and I looked at each other and she gave me a big smile. I smiled back.
And then we lit candles and the soprano lady sang “O Holy Night.” There’s nothing more spiritual to me than when the soloist hits the very high note at the end of “O Holy Night.”
I got chills as the music filled the sanctuary.
Despite my shortcomings, as I sat in church with my family on Christmas Eve, I was grateful for the things that I need in my life — God, family, the outdoors, and especially a little girl named Anna.
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The turmoil of a Tech fan
JOHN CARROLL, May 2005
It’s not easy being a Georgia Tech football fan. But that’s what I am. A diehard Yellow Jacket. I graduated from the college in 1989. I followed in my dad’s shoes — class of 1964.
We have had some good seasons and significant upsets through the years, but the typical Tech team is short on talent and big wins.
The most discouraging part of being a Tech fan is that we usually lose to cross-state rival Georgia. That is a tough pill to swallow.
Remember the drought from 1991-1997 when Tech lost seven in a row to Georgia? I don’t. I have successfully repressed all of those bad memories.
Georgia Tech head football coach Chan Gailey is coming to Columbus on May 18 to speak to the local alumni club. Undoubtedly, some hopeful Tech fan will ask Gailey, “Can we beat Georgia this year?”
That is the question Tech fans ask each other every year. At last count, we’re currently on a four-game skid to the Dawgs.
Growing up as a kid it was difficult being a Tech fan. I caught a lot of abuse from Georgia cousins and friends.
My first exposure to the Bulldog slaughterhouse occurred in 1971 at a family reunion in South Georgia. Tech played Georgia that Thanksgiving night on television. My mother has hundreds of cousins and they all pull for Georgia. That night several of the women broke out Georgia cheerleading outfits and pompoms and led a pep rally by the bonfire.
It was too much for a 5-year-old Tech fan. I cried.
And to make matters worse, Georgia quarterback Andy Johnson led a second half comeback to beat the Jackets 24-21. My cousins showed no mercy.
The very next year I attended my first Tech-Georgia football game in Athens at the tender age of 6. I was there with my parents and Uncle Johnny, a rabid Tech fan.
Georgia was killing us. Late in the second half, Uncle Johnny got in a shouting match with a Georgia fan who threatened to smash him in the head with a liquor bottle.
I started to cry from all the drama and my father snatched me up and took me down to the track right behind the Tech cheerleaders. He put me on his shoulders so I could see over the hedges and we watched as Tech’s David Sims crashed over the goal line for a meaningless touchdown late in the fourth quarter.
In 1978, at age 12, I sat in the upper deck at Sanford Stadium by myself wearing a “Pepper Power” T-shirt and a gold GT cowboy hat that Georgia fans behind me kept knocking off my head.
I cheered as the Jackets jumped out to a 20-0 lead behind the rushing of Eddie Lee Ivery. But then the Dawgs came storming back in the second half led by punt return specialist Scott Woerner and freshman quarterback Buck Belue. We lost the game 29-28.
By then I was immune to the sting of loss. We Tech fans are big on moral victories.
And then finally – the breakthrough year – 1984. My freshman year at Tech. A group of fraternity brothers and I traveled to Athens and saw the Jackets beat the Dawgs 35-18. What a glorious day!
And then, as if the football gods were smiling on me, Tech beat Georgia the next year in Atlanta. Those wins were more aberrations than a shifting of football dominance.
My son was born into the Tech torture chamber. At 7, he’s too young to remember the last time we beat the Dawgs in 2000. Last year, as we lost again my son screamed, “We never beat Georgia!”
Like my dad said to me 30- something years ago, I could only sigh and say, “I know, son, it’s tough. But your day will come. It may just be later than sooner.”
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All columns above were originally published in the Columbus Community News.
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Father-son road trip for the ages
JOHN CARROLL, September 2007
The clock was ticking and I had to make a decision fast. My Labor Day weekend was hanging in the balance.
My choices were attractive: Golf at Ponte Vedra Beach, Fla., or college football in South Bend, Ind.
My father had booked a tee time on the Ocean Course at the Ponte Vedra Inn & Club. But my friend was offering me two tickets to the Georgia Tech-Notre Dame football game.
Two roads diverged, and I took the one less traveled to the campus of Notre Dame.
As much as I love golf, I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to watch my beloved Yellow Jackets battle the Fighting Irish on their home turf. And to make the trip even sweeter, I would take my 10-year-old son Wages, a spirited boy as diehard a Georgia Tech fan as I am.
It would be a road trip for the ages. A romantic excursion to the Mecca of college football. A father-son experience of a lifetime.
Wages was elated, and danced around the house when I broke the news to him. Dad completely understood and canceled our tee time.
My wife said the long drive—1,500 miles roundtrip—was a great opportunity for me to discuss “the birds and the bees” with our fifth-grade boy.
“Yeah, uh, good idea, honey,” I said. Secretly, I cringed, “Is she crazy?”
We packed our bags and set out Thursday for the 12-hour journey north through four states—Georgia, Tennessee, Kentucky and Indiana. Our route took us up and over mountain ranges, across powerful rivers and through notable cities such as Chattanooga, Nashville, Bowling Green, Louisville and Indianapolis. We studied the atlas and talked about landmarks such as Lookout Mountain, Mammoth Cave, Louisville Slugger Museum and the RCA Dome.
We ate lunch on the banks of the Ohio River, where my son stuck his hand in the mile-wide waterway. “I want to be able to say I touched the Ohio River,” he said.
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| Father and son inside historic Notre Dame Stadium. |
At night we gazed at the stars and constellations, and watched a brilliant near-half moon rise over the gentle, rolling terrain of Indiana. We slept in roadside hotels with free Wi-Fi, swimming pools and late-night Sportscenter.
Our first stop in South Bend was the College Football Hall of Fame, a museum and shrine to the sport’s greatest players, coaches, and teams. There were plaques, memorabilia, statues, movies, and interactive games. There was the Galloping Ghost, the Four Horsemen and the Gipper. There was legendary Notre Dame coach Knute Rockne. There was Buck Belue to Lindsey Scott. There was the display of Georgia Tech’s 222-0 slaughter of Cumberland College in 1916, still the largest margin of victory in college football history.
With our heads full of pigskin particulars, we headed to the campus of the University of Notre Dame, north of town, and started to get pumped for the 3:30 kickoff. We maneuvered through a maze of tailgaters, the smell of beer and barbecue nipping at our noses. We saw the golden dome atop the school’s administration building rising above the skyline. We took pictures at Touchdown Jesus, a majestic mural painted on a wall of the library.
And then we entered historic Notre Dame Stadium, one of the most storied venues in all of college football. We stared at the banners and plaques on the redbrick walls inside the stadium. Seven Heisman trophy winners, eight national championships, 79 consensus All-Americans.
We found our seats among 5,400 Tech fans, positioned in the corner of the oval-shaped stadium packed full with 80,000-plus spectators. We were a small but enthused patch of white and gold floating in a sea of Irish green. “This is awesome,” my son said more than once.
The game started and it was clear from the outset that Georgia Tech had come to play. Our boys sacked the Notre Dame quarterback nine times. Our running back Tashard Choice ran wild for 196 yards.
My son and I hugged, high-fived and danced in our seats on every great play that Tech made. And we had much to cheer about. In the end, it wasn’t even close. Georgia Tech won handily, 33-3. We came, we saw, we conquered.
And then it was over, and time to turn around and head home. On the long drive back I briefly thought about discussing “the birds and the bees” with Wages, as my wife suggested, but I was too gun-shy to pull the trigger. It was more fun to talk about the game, the experience and other stuff. Maybe I can address that subject with my son someday on the golf course together.
**Originally published in the Daily Report.
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