By MONTE DUTTON

It takes a village.

In 2006, Hillary Clinton wrote a book with that title. Nowadays, for many citizens, the opinion depends on the origin of the message.

The late songwriter/comedian Tim Wilson (a PC man, by the way) wrote a song that lampooned the message: “It Takes a Village (To Raise a Nut).”

It takes a village to raise a nut / It take tires squealin’ around a Pizza Hut / It takes a mama and daddy sittin’ on their butt / It takes a principal’s office without any guts / It takes a sorry mayor and a school that sucks / It takes a lot of police and fire trucks / And a high school teacher who likes being kicked and cut / It takes a village to raise a nut

I laughed.

Nonetheless, the thought is valid. It does take a village — this side of the county — one that is not guilty of Wilson’s words.

A high-school classmate of mine told me Clinton raises your kids for you. He said if your young’un is doing something he ought not, you’ll know about it. Either that or they’ll take care of it for you.

Nowadays, I reckon some parents take offense at that.

The football team at Clinton High is a good example that sets a good example. It’s not just the school’s team. It’s the village’s team. I write about the game, but I spend a lot of time staring into those grandstands with wonder. Have mercy. We got it good.

The decade before this one was rough. The crowds at Wilder Stadium weren’t as big as they are now, but given the results, they were impressive. I remember a game at Wren where everyone there had a pretty good idea the Red Devils were about to get thrashed. A heap of fans showed up anyway, and when they left, most of them said, “By God, they won’t beat us like that next time.”

They didn’t, either. It means a lot to the players. The fans, though, have the experience of many long drives. Great granddaddies come out to watch great grandsons, and the great granddaddies remember what playing ball, what looking at the world through a facemask, was like.

This year. Sept. 5-6, an old team of mine is being honored. I’ll get to stand out on the field at halftime and act like I was once somebody, which I wasn’t. Then there’ll be a banquet on Saturday night, and we’ll all laugh at old stories and cry a little, too. That happens when an old man reminisces about being young.

They may win or they may lose. Either way, they’re our lads. They’re not perfect. Neither are we. They’ll follow in our footsteps, and our footsteps won’t be in vain.

It’s been 50 years, and nothing works except first and second gear in our transmissions. Once upon a time, though, we swept through this state in a fever hotter than a pepper sprout. We been talking about the Pride of Clinton ever since the fire went out. (“Jackson” was written by Jerry Leiber and Billy Edd Wheeler.)
Keith Richardson had a lot of sayings. Stenciled on the locker-room walls, they came to be known as The Intangibles. They’re not profound – Hit and Don’t Be Hit – but they work.

Nowadays Corey Fountain has an intangible he brought with him to Clinton: “Respect tradition and build upon it.”

It’s that village talking.

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