The Last Season: A Father, a Son, and a Lifetime of College Football - Hardcover

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STUART STEVENS grew up in Jackson, Mississippi. He has worked in many political campaigns in the United States and abroad. The author of five previous books, he has also written extensively for television, includingNorthern Exposure. His writing has been published in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Esquire, Outside, andThe Atlantic, among others. He is a columnist for The Daily Beast.

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***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof***

Copyright © 2015 Stuart Stevens
 

The Last Season

PROLOGUE

 It was the first Ole Miss game that season in Jackson and I’d been looking forward to it all summer. I had an Ole Miss hat, sort of a cross between a baseball hat and a newsboy cap that I wore to bed most nights.  I knew the names of every starting Rebel as though they were family members: All American quarterback Glenn Griffing, running back Lou Guy, fullback and linebacker Buck Randall. I knew them all.  The way the radio announcers described them was how I thought of the Rebels: “rocket armed” Griffing; “swivel hipped” Guy; “bruising” Randal. They were like titles bestowed upon knights competing on fields of battle.

I was ten years old.

My parents had a party before most Ole Miss games in Jackson. My favorite was the party before the Arkansas Razorbacks game, which was always a “hog roast” with lots of great barbeque and a big pig. I loved the pig.

The opening game of that 1962 season was against the Kentucky Wildcats. You can’t roast a Wildcat, but it was still a good party. They always had good parties.

The bootlegger came to the house before every party. Mississippi was the only state in the country that had not repealed prohibition so the entire state was dry and everybody had a bootlegger. Ours drove a pick-up truck with cases of booze in the back. Not very discreet but nobody really tried to hide bootlegging. The State Treasurer was even paid a percentage of a bootlegger tax that was collected. You could make a lot of money and one famous candidate for the office when asked how long he intended to serve, said, “I figure it will only take one term.”

I liked our bootlegger. He was a friendly guy who always gave me an ice-cold Coke. Once I saw a pistol in the cab of his pickup and I asked my father if he was a police officer. He laughed and said that he wasn’t but he probably had a lot of friends who were.

The pre-game parties always ended with a couple of the Ole Miss chant, “Hotty-toddy’” and a dash for the stadium. For evening games, there would be an inevitable clothing ritual with my mother that played out with the predictability of a catechism.

“Take a coat. It’s going to get cool.”

“I’ve got a jacket.” I held up the light Ole Miss windbreaker that had been a birthday present the year before. I’d learned not to fight these things. Submission was inevitable so best to make it speedy.

“Is that heavy enough? Shouldn’t you wear that nice wool coat we got you for Christmas?”

The wool coat was the sort of thing that the lead character in ”Sergeant Preston of the Yukon” wore in one of my favorite television shows. Unless the temperature plummeted 70 degrees, I knew I’d want to abandon it on the walk to Memorial Stadium, like heavy equipment on the Russian retreat from Stalingrad. I’d seen pictures of that in the Life Magazine book of World War Two that I kept in my room. Next to the Rebels, I was probably in love with World War Two more than anything.

“I’m okay. Really, mom. I’ve got a coat.”

As he always did at some point, my father stepped in. ”He’s fine,” he reassured her. Then he held up the overly warm coat he had slung over his arm as a talisman to head off the next round of anti-hypothermia suggestions.

My dad and I always went to Memorial Stadium the same way: he’d drive just a couple of miles to the parking lot of Bailey Junior High School and we’d walk. My aunt taught at Bailey and later it was where I went to school.  It was a formidable looking art deco structure that always reminded me, not in a positive way, of the Emerald City in the Wizard of Oz.  It was about a mile to the stadium from our usual parking spot. I loved that last stretch. Dad and I would hold hands and talk about the different ways the Rebels were going to win. He usually wore a snazzy hat and sometimes when the afternoon sun caught us just right, our shadows fell long and lean on the sidewalk, stretching his hat out in funny shapes that made me laugh. The walk never felt routine. Even from a distance, the band warming up the crowd always seemed impossibly loud. The roar probably had something to do with the sound being funneled by the structure and amplified through the crowd. But it might have been my imagination teased to a frenzy in anticipation.

Walking to the game wasn’t like going to the Capri movie theater, our neighborhood favorite.  Even if you didn’t know what was going to happen in a movie, it had already been made. But the game was different. Nobody had made what was going to unfold. No one had any idea what was going to happen. We were walking to history. I imagined families all across the country huddled around radios and big cabinets televisions like the huge Zenith in our living room, listening and watching what we were going to see for real. Going to the game seemed like being on the inside of the most important secret in the world.

I knew that my friends at school who didn’t go to the game would ask over and over, “What was it like?” Some wouldn’t want to believe that I had really been there. I always carried the ticket stubs with me for at least a week after a game.

*       *      *

On the way to the game, Confederate flags were everywhere but that was normal. What would Rebel games be without Rebel flags? Cars drove by with guys and sometimes a girl holding flags and yelling, “Go to hell, Kentucky!” 

I always loved the way the crowds got bigger the closer we got to the stadium. It was like seeing kids on the playground before the first day of school after the long summer. Not that I was friends with my fellow fans, or even knew more than a handful of them, but they were Rebel fans. We were Rebel fans. Perfect strangers would greet each other with, “Hotty toddy,” and it was like a password into our special clubhouse.

But this time my dad steered us clear of any large groups. There was a crowd in the parking lot shouting, “Hell, no!” and even I could tell they were drunk.

At halftime, Ole Miss was ahead 7-0. But my father seemed uneasy, shaking his head and talking about how “sloppy” the team had played. One of my favorite players, Buck Randall, had scored but the refs called it back on holding. “We should be killin’ em,” my dad told me and I nodded solemnly.

At soon as the teams had headed to the locker room, Colonel Reb, the Ole Miss mascot, led out the world’s largest Confederate flag, which seemed to cover the field, followed by the Ole Miss band wearing their standard uniforms of Confederate battle dress. This was the ritual of every Ole Miss game: Colonel Reb, the giant flag and when the marching band finished its famous rendition of Dixie, the crowd would rise as one to shout, “The South Shall Rise Again.”

But tonight, the ritual changed. A podium was placed in the center of the field and a man I had seen before but couldn’t have named came out flanked by Mississippi Highway Patrolmen.

“It’s Ross!”...