Several years ago, I was pretty torked when Forrest Gump came out. OK, I am not quite as slow of a yapper as ol’ Forrest, but I am from Alabama and I share a heck of a lot of that same history.
My father worked with Hank Williams (the original, not his Monday Night Football son) at a sawmill briefly and later worked for a company owned by Coach Paul “Bear” (few called him that to his face) Bryant.
In March of 1965, I sat on the Mobile Highway and watched the now-famous and truly historic Civil Rights March from Selma to Montgomery. As I sat on the curb with a friend (the authorities had fearfully let everyone out of school that day), Dr. Martin Luther King and many other heroes of the movement walked not 20 feet in front of me. Dr. King even looked over at me, sitting with an African American friend, and he winked. Maybe seeing black and white boys sitting together with a basketball beside them on a highway that had been so horribly bloodied a week earlier inspired him later to use that analogy in a famous speech. It wasn’t the last encounter with history for this Southern boy.
Twice I met Governor George Wallace. One memorable meeting was on an elementary school field trip to the capitol when we were told that he was busy. As our class walked away from the door, I caught sight of the governor in his office. The dude was just looking out the window. So I yelled, “There he is! He ain’t busy! He’s right there!” Chagrined, he was forced to shake every kids’ hand, saving a particularly tight squeeze for mine.
“Thank you son!” he said faking a smile. “Good to see you too.” I knew what an angry man looked like even back then. He might have been smiling, but he wasn’t happy with me for outing him.
“Thank you sir.” It was all I could say.
Later, in college, at The University of Alabama, I was standing in line with my soon-to-be wife, waiting to get into a football game at Denny Stadium, and I felt a forceful tapping on the back of my head. Several drunken fraternity brothers had already tried to break in line earlier and I was ready for them.
“Look you…” I saw the hounds tooth hat looming over me and a craggy face grimacing down at me like a really mad John Wayne. It was Coach Bryant.
“Son, mind if the football teams cuts in line here?” he growled.
“No sir,” I stammered. It was all I could say.
A year later, during what would be a national championship season, one of the assistant coaches asked me to work on a logo design for the Crimson Tide helmets. It was no secret that Coach Bryant wanted his uniforms as simple as his playbook.
I did a few designs that I liked and went to Memorial Coliseum and up to Coach Bryant’s office. The assistant coach told me to go on in. I noticed he stayed outside. There was the hint.
Stupidly I went in and stood inside the door, waiting for the legend to see me. I stood there for what seemed like a month. He sat at his desk looking at something. The smoke from his unfiltered Chesterfields wafted up and hugged the fluorescent lights in a carcinogenic fog.
Finally I heard a grunt. And the big man stood and looked at me.
I won’t repeat exactly what he said. Let’s just say he didn’t want any &%$#@! logos on his &$%# helmets and asked me did I think he should put $#@!! logos on those red “hats” (he called them hats).
“No sir.” It was all I could say.
“Good to meet you,” he said, sitting back down. “Close the door on your way out if you will.”
“Yes sir.” It was all I could say.
A month later, I met Joe Namath at his Tuscaloosa restaurant. We were seated next to the kitchen door and he came out and hit me in the head with the door.
“Sorry man! You okay?” he grinned that Joe Willie smile.
“Yes.” It was all I could say.
Later, I had a class with actress, Sela Ward, who was a cheerleader at Alabama at the time. She sat next to me once. I never said anything to her.
Now that I think about it, I don’t remember saying much of anything to any of them beyond “yes sir and no sir.” It was all I could say. I hate to admit it, but when faced with Southern History, Forrest Gump (an apparent dimwit) had better lines.
