The little country church was packed. So was the red dirt yard and parking lot outside the church. A motley crowd of various ages, races and occupations milled about in the July heat of the middle Georgia summer. Crude loudspeakers had been hastily attached to the light poles and haggard trees that surrounded the little A.M.E. worship center. Surely something important was happening. Shaking heads and moistened cheeks signaled the dismay of the various groups who hugged and patted the backs of ladies with brightly-adorned dresses and men with three-piece suits that each of them wore.
What all these people had assembled for was the funeral of a young man of the community who had tragically died at the age of sixteen. I was the head football coach at a large rural high school in Covington, Georgia, some forty miles east of downtown Atlanta. The urban sprawl had not quite reached this area in the early 1980’s, so the large high school served the entire county of Newton. So it was that the young man who had died lived in a very poor area made up of many black families whose ancestors were slaves who worked the cotton fields until Emancipation in the middle 1800’s.
The young man’s name was Leroy Lackey. He was a rising Junior who played fullback on my team. He had had a very impressive spring practice performance and was slated to be our starting fullback in the coming fall season. He was a very stout young man with excellent speed and toughness who was very hard to tackle when he exploded through the line. As part of building a successful football program at Newton County High, I required the boys to participate in off-season workouts, including weightlifting. Leroy excelled in all phases of the workouts: he gained in strength and speed at an unusually productive rate.
Although he was very quiet young man—almost shy—he was very popular with his teammates. The other boys always included him in their off-campus activities. I wish they hadn’t...
You see, it was hot. The boys were tired and sweaty. Come on, y’all, let’s go swimming. Come on, Leroy. You’ll love it! The water is so cold. It’ll feel great! Well...
I’m sure Leroy was hesitant. You see, he didn’t have a YMCA or community pool or country club to teach him how to swim. Like many rural black children, he didn’t know how to swim. And, many black parents did not want their children in the water. There were too many stories in their folklore of drownings and snakebites and other disasters associated with water.
But, Leroy was a team player, so he went along...
The rock quarry was a restricted area. NO TRESPASSING. DANGER. NO ONE ADMITTED. Many young people had drowned there in the past. The water was very deep and its bottom was filled with broken glass bottles and sharp abandoned metal machinery. It was a very dangerous place. The local citizens had unsuccessfully tried to have it filled in for many years. But, alas...
Young men are foolish: brave, but often foolhardy. They love adventure—taking risks, pushing the limits—a band of brothers. Proud daredevils.
“Come on, Leroy, jump! “The other boys had already left the lofty rock cliff at the edge of the pool, yelling “Geronimo,” and kerplunking huge cannonballs as they plummeted into the frigid depths.
What was going through Leroy’s mind? He had to be terrified. He had never been swimming, much less diving, and this cliff was so high. But... “Come on, Leroy! Jump!”
Too proud to fail, Leroy closed his eyes and left the cliff. The shock of the water? The instant cold? The dis-orientation? The gulp of too much water? I don’t know...it is terrifying to imagine.
The boys dove and tried to find him when didn’t surface. Over and over they tried. “Do you see him?”
“No. The water’s too deep. And it’s dark. I can’t see anything. But let’s keep trying. Jim, drive over to the nearest house and call the EMT’s!”
The divers finally found him. Nineteen feet down. Too late to resuscitate.
I was in my office when one of the players rushed in to tell me. I made all the necessary calls to my principal and the superintendent and then what? Have the parents been informed? A call to the fire chief confirmed that they had been told. Okay, into my truck...what to say to his parents. What’s the address? Where is that? Out off Dixie Road. Near Mansfield. Okay.
The house was neat. Jesus’ picture on the wall. Four single beds in the living room. Rugs over the rough board floor. A table already covered with neighborly grief food—fried chicken, biscuits, greens....
“Won’t you have something, Coach?”
“No, but thank you. He was a fine boy. And, I‘m so sorry.”
“Thank you, Coach. He loved you and all the boys.
“Is there anything I can help you with concerning the funeral?”
“Well, Coach, can we bury Leroy in his uniform?”
“Well, I think we might be able to let him wear his jersey. Would that be all right? “
“No, we want his whole uniform...like he was playin’”.
“You mean his helmet and shoulder pads?”
“ Yes, sir, and pants and shoes.”
I looked over at his three younger siblings sitting shoulder to shoulder on one of the beds,
hands folded primly, staring wide-eyed at me, anticipating my answer.
“Well, sir, I’ll have to ask my principal, but we’ll do it, if there’s any way at all. Anything else?”
“Yes, sir. Could the coaches talk about him at the service?”
“Sure. I’ll get Coach George to say something.”
“We want ALL the coaches to say something. He loved all y’all.”
“Okay, Mr. Lackey.”
I cleared the uniform business with my principal, but the funeral director said he had to order an extra wide coffin to accommodate the shoulder pads. I told him not to charge the family. The booster club would cover the cost. I took the whole uniform over to Lester Lackey’s Funeral Home. I never found out if Leroy was related to Mr. Lester Lackey.
I told the coaches to prepare something to say at the funeral. There were six coaches plus me, so there would plenty of speeches.
The day of the funeral, I made sure that everyone was prepared and ready for the service. Then I sat down to catch my breath. Whew, I guess we’re ready to leave for the little church.
WAIT A MINUTE. What are you going to say, Mr. Head Coach? Where’s your speech? What are you going to say about Leroy?
I panicked. I had not prepared anything to say. Lord, help me!
From an early age I have been blessed with the ability to make rhymes. My Dad was a preacher and I knew the words of lots of hymns. I guess that helped. I grabbed a pen and just started jotting down a simple Sunday school type of idea. Jesus called Leroy to come play ball for Him in Heaven. I hoped it would work. I scribbled a few verses on a scrap of paper, and with God’s help, I got a decent tribute to my lost player.
When we got to the church, I thought we would never get in. I nosed my truck through the crowd standing outside. It looked like everybody in Newton County was standing in the bare dirt parking lot of the church. Much of the crowd were high school kids— hundreds of them, and there were many older folks too. They recognized me, and patted me on the back, saying things like “Sorry, Coach” and “he was a good one one, Coach” and “we’re gonna miss him, Coach.” I nodded and thanked each voice and inched along. The church probably seated less than a hundred people, so most of the crowd would have to rely on the hastily-rigged loudspeakers. Sweating profusely in my navy blue suit, I wound my way to the pulpit past the designated lady mourners in their white dresses. They were gathered on the front two rows. I then made my way to the casket to see Leroy for the last time. There he was with his blue helmet, blue jersey, grey pants and football cleats, wearing No. 34, peacefully asleep, awaiting the Big Game.
There was no hurry to begin the service. The choir members began to assemble in the choir loft behind the pulpit, resplendent in their gold and maroon robes. Soon the parade of flowers took place. Each arrangement was brought in by an attendant and held high over his head, while another official in a black robe announced out loud who had donated the flowers. After this, the choir began to hum “Rock of Ages.” Swaying slowly, they hummed a verse or two and then one of the ladies began to sing in a rich, low voice. The mourning ladies began to sob and moan and raise their hands. This went on for several minutes. Then the preacher opened the service with a brief prayer. He then turned to me and I gestured to the first assistant coach, telling him to come up and speak. Each of the coaches told wonderful little stories about what a great young man Leroy was. I was proud of them, but then the last one folded up his notes and sat down. It was now my turn. I just stood at the podium and looked at the sea of faces— young, old, black, white, students, teachers, sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents. The windows were wide open and the back doors were also. I saw hundreds of pairs of eyes focused on me. Slowly, and with as much emotion as I dared to show, I began to read my verse.
When Jesus called to Leroy
To climb the golden stair,
He didn't know the glory
Waiting for him there.
The football team in heaven
Is the best you've ever seen,
Every lineman and every back
Is big and fast and lean.
And angels lead the cheers up there,
Waving their golden wings,
And there's always great team spirit,
The victory praises ring.
The crowd will welcome Leroy
With a hallelujah roar,
As he checks into the game,
Wearing No. 34.
And the coach that gives the signals
Is undoubtedly the best,
For Jesus wears the coaching hat
And whistles to the rest.
The devil's troops won't have a chance
On the day of the big game,
With Leroy bustin' holes
And knockin’ demons lame.
I know we're sad to think
He won't be playing here,
But the championship that
Leroy wins is good for every year.
And he'll look down on us
And tell us in his way:
"Y’all fight hard and live for God
And you'll play for us someday."
When I finished reading the poem, I turned slowly and sat down in one of those high-backed preacher chairs. The preacher made his way to the pulpit, paused, and then in a solemn tone, he said:
“There is no need for any more words. The Coach done said it all.” Then he turned and nodded to the choir, who began to sing slowly and quietly another nice funeral hymn.” But then, the audience began to mourn loudly. Ladies began to cry out and moan and some even fainted. The preacher then stood up, turned to the choir and motioned them to stop singing. Order was slowly restored, and after a brief benediction, the crowd began to file out. I sighed in relief, and thanked the Lord for helping me through this ordeal.