By MONTE DUTTON

In honor of the Class 2A state title, I added a verse to “Go Big Red,” the song I started writing on a team bus 49 years ago.
My teammates started singing and chanting on the way home from road games, all of which we won during my two seasons on the varsity. I have no idea what we would have done had we lost. I’m sure Keith Richardson would not have stood for such foolishness. Since we won, he let us have our fun.
The last song we sang, swear to God, was the Clinton High alma mater, always when the bus pulled through the gates when we got home. That seems extremely wholesome in hindsight, and we were not any more wholesome than the kids of today. We were, however, as competitive.

When I note that we chanted, I mean one player would sing a line, and the rest of the team would repeat it. I remember one.
Down by the river (down by the river), we went for a walk (we went for a walk), and we met old Byrnes (and we met old Byrnes), and we had a talk (and we had a talk). We had Byrnes in the kitchen (we had Byrnes in the kitchen), and the Devils in the hall (and the Devils in the hall). We had Byrnes peeling taters (Byrnes peeling taters) ‘cause they can’t play ball (‘cause they can’t play ball).

Byrnes had a rooster (Byrnes had a rooster) and they put him on a fence (they put him on a fence). Rooster crowed for Clinton (rooster crowed for Clinton) ‘cause he had some sense (‘cause he had some sense).
Oh, hidy, hidy, ho! Oh, hey, hey, hey!
The lyrics were versatile enough to apply to every team we played. Woodruff, Laurens, Newberry, etc., all had disloyal roosters.

I have no idea why down by a river, there would be a kitchen and a hall, though presumably there could be a rooster sitting on a fence. We didn’t think of holes in the plot back then.
We sang. I was fond of the Allman Brothers’ “Rambling Man.”
My first song was “Go Big Red,” which was just a chorus.
Go, Big Red, don’t you let those people down. They bet their paychecks on you when the mill let out downtown. They probably give the other team and seven points to boot. Our pride and pocketbooks can’t stand to lose (Lord, Lord). Our pride and pocketbooks can’t stand to lose.

There “Go Big Red” stood. I was 17 and didn’t pick up a guitar until I was 42. As soon as I figured out how to play it, “Go Big Red” became a song, and I’ve been adding to it ever since. Here are the verses. The latest, and next to last, is this week old. I sang it for the first time at The Lumberyard’s monthly jam session on Thursday night.
When I was growing up, the biggest thing around our town was watching Clinton High School play, they didn’t mess around. Beat the state in football four times in seven years. Them other three we cried a million tears (Lord, Lord), them other three we cried a million tears.

When football came around, I couldn’t wait to see it end. When it was all over, I couldn’t wait to play again. I’d’ve given all my A’s and half my B’s to be a star, but I wudn’t cut out to go that far (Lord, Lord), I wudn’t cut out to got that far.
Precious memories linger, they still come back to my mind, of Kevin Long off tackle, Charlie Norman in his prime. Kevin played pro ball, but now they’ve passed away. They’ll never die to those who saw ‘em play (Lord, Lord), they’ll never die to those who saw ‘em play.

It had been quite a while since our lads won it all, but back in ’09, they were the masters of the fall. They beat the same school mine beat 34 years before. Myrtle Beach wasn’t bragging anymore (Lord, Lord), the Seahawks weren’t a-braggin’ anymore.
Three thousand fans from Clinton went down to Orangeburg. They went down there to help spread the word. Tushawan, Zoom and Brett helped to lead the way, but the game was won by everyone who played (Lord, Lord), the game was won by everyone who played.

The years pass by, but the story never dies. When football rolls around, the Red Devils come alive. The names and numbers change, but it’s like a rolling stone. Go out there, boys, and win one of your own (Lord, Lord), go down there, boys, and win one of your own.
I hope I have to write more verses.
Last week, I was chatting with Coach Richardson before the championship game. He remembered our Thursday field-goal contests. The practices on the day before a game were just run-throughs. We made sure every player knew which teams he was on: first offense and defense, punts and punt returns, etc. It was fun. It was the only weekday that was fun.

We had unorthodox kicking contests. We’d start out with a kick from the hashmark, maybe 30 yards. Then we’d move to the sideline and kick from an extreme angle. Then we’d stay on the sideline and move closer in five-yard spaces. The winner would kick from the sideline at the front of the end zone, which made the opening about a yard wide.
Coach took part. He also enjoyed playing quarterback at practice. Sometimes a defensive lineman would bump him pretty good. He never said a word. He’d just devise customized blocking schemes. He’d make his point by having, oh, four guys blocking one, and they’d better clobber him.

Oh, he was competitive. It rubbed off.
In spite of these stimulating practices, I was as absentminded then as now. Our defense was really strong, perhaps in part because I wasn’t on it. What I was on were the special teams that did not require great speed. One was kickoff returns. We had a string of shutouts, four in the first five games, during which I became accustomed to returning kicks either at the beginning of the game or the second half.

On homecoming in 1975, a Clover back named Chris “Poke” Cobb returned the opening kickoff for a touchdown. It didn’t occur to me that the Blue Eagles would invariably then kick off. It occurred to me when Coach shoved me out to about the hash mark. It drew laughter in the grandstands.

We won, 27-7.
In spite of these stimulating practices, I was as absentminded then as I am now.
As Tom T. Hall never precisely sang, was that only yesterday or damn near 50 years ago?
“If I’d known I was going to live this long, I might have taken better care of myself.” – Willie Nelson, 91

Wellpilgrim.com is adjusting to the winter chill. The bounces of the balls are getting truer, and soon it’ll all be indoors.
Times are changing. I am aware of how irrelevant what I do for a living has become and thus how unimportant my efforts are. The readers appreciate them, but there aren’t enough of them. I doubt there ever will be again.
It’s what I do. It’s what I know.

Support the advertisers. They are all fine people who want their businesses associated with honest coverage of local sports.
In the off chance you’d like to read my novels and other books, they’re available on Amazon and many prominent bookseller sites.
You can read them on your phones and other devices for a modest cost. I make a bit more if you purchase the actual books, but what I mainly want is for folks to read them.

The most researched of my novels is Cowboys Come Home, set at the end of World War II when two Texans come home from the Pacific and find the world has changed back home, too.
Photo galleries are posted on Instagram @furmanatt and @laurenscountysports.
Thanks for putting up with me.