Clinton, South Carolina, Saturday, April 27, 2019, 6:07 p.m.

It’s been a busy week but also one full of rich, evocative experiences. All week long, I experienced warm reminiscences through the mists of a time that seem superior to what I’m living now. That’s the way memories are. They get better with time.

It wasn’t all joy. Cally Gault died, but I’ve reached the age where the death of a great man who lived a long, distinguished life doesn’t cause undue sorrow to arise. I enjoyed writing memories of a man whose influence spanned my life, but I more enjoyed the memories of others. The funeral was on a day that seemed indescribably beautiful and appropriate. Outside the First Presbyterian Church, the trees and grass seemed greener, the flowers more delicate, the sky bluer. No way the Lord was going to let Cally be buried on a rainy day.

On Thursday night, the Laurens County Sports Hall of Fame inducted five new members: the great Laurens runner, Lonnie Pulley; the great Presbyterian College star, Bill Hill; the great Clinton flanker who set records at Clemson that lasted for more than two decades, Phil Rogers; the great Clinton tennis coach, Clovis Simmons; and the great and pioneering broadcaster, Bill Hogan.

Halls of fame tend to attract greats.

I never spoke to Pulley until I interviewed him for the program. Hill’s football stardom – in addition to being a bruising fullback, he once intercepted 11 passes in a season – was before my time, but I knew his family, and his son, Bill Jr., quarterbacked a Clinton state champion. Mr. Hill is now old enough for me to still call him Mister, and he knew more about my father and grandfather than I could have imagined.

Rogers died of a brain tumor at age 27, many years ago, so many that he taught me science in the eighth grade during the brief period between his time in the NFL and his untimely and shocking demise. Clovis’s latest team is 12-2 as of this writing, with playoffs looming, and it’s been my pleasure to write about her and her teams for several years.

Hogan was the voice of Paladin basketball when I first went to Furman. He is a gentle, low-key man, with a dry wit and eyes that betray his amusement. His broadcast partner at Furman was Dr. John Block, who also found time to teach me history. John and wife Barbara were there, and the last time I saw her was when senior seminar met each week at their house. That was the spring of 1980. I found it rather remarkable that she remembered who I was. I tend to leave an impression, though, for better or worse.

At The Ridge, Laurens’ recreation facility and banquet hall, I worked the room like a politician. The only thing that seemed missing was the unmistakable laughter of Cally, which would be a roar in other people.

It was Thursday when Furman memories, by way of Dr. Block, came to me. The following night, I went to Furman, there to gather with old friends who annually meet for a weekend to recall the glory years and raise money to repeat them in the beloved Paladin football program.

Robbie Caldwell, with whom I used to referee intramural basketball games, was there. In addition to being one of America’s truly great coaches of the offensive line, Robbie loves to tell old tales and have fun as much as anyone, and unlike some who like to try, he’s a master at it. A lot of people were there, and most of them wanted to spend some time with Robbie, so he and I never even got around to telling about the time we had to hotwire the equipment van and drive it through a rainstorm without windshield wipers in order to get back from Appalachian State.

A man did what he had to do back in them days.

The golf tournament was today, and I gave up golf when I took up guitar, and my plan was to just hang around for an hour or two Friday night, sneak out, and hit the road back to Clinton, but, of course, that didn’t happen. I did pry myself away long enough to talk about NASCAR on the radio, but my old buddies, heroes, and I managed to close the joint down. Calling the Younts Center a joint is a stretch. The Stump on Poinsett, that was a joint. Most things at and around FU are well appointed these days.

Lord, I’ll never get around to all the old friends I saw. It’d be like singing Hank Snow’s “I’ve Been Everywhere” without having the lyrics to read. Bish. Big Daddy. Fritz. Carp. Tuna. Butch. Vinnie. Yogi. Goose. Sandy. Boss Hogg. Rocky. Skip. O. It’s easier for me to recall the nicknames than the names. We talked a lot of football but lots of things that weren’t. By gosh, I’ve been in and out of trouble with about every one of them.

I talked about Trivial Pursuit games on the road with Bobby Johnson, who later took Vanderbilt to a bowl game with Robbie coaching his offensive line. Robbie became the interim head coach there when Bobby retired. After teaching the Commodores to block, winning two national championships at Clemson must have been a snap. Back at Furman, Robbie was a center.

Spirits are high at Furman, in large part due to the performance of Clay Hendrix, who played guard back when I was Sports Information Director.

These days it’s hard for me to get away. I had most of a day’s work in my email when I got back from Greenville within close range of midnight. No matter what’s going on at Furman, folks are still prone to die and get arrested in Laurens County. I got up early, cranked out part of the work, and headed over to Clinton High School to take pictures of the softball team clobbering Fairfield Central and thus staving off elimination from the playoffs.

I need to get to know some of the Furman football players who have graduated in the last 30 years. No telling what stories they’ve got to tell.

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The new novel, my eighth, is called Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

Lightning in a Bottle is now available in an audio version, narrated by Jay Harper.