First Published: April 16, 1950
Last New Year's Night the boys in the back room at Brook Hollow Country Club were getting their kicks from songwriter Harry Revel, who between songs specializes in soothsaying on an amateur basis. It was Dallas, Texas, and the Cotton Bowl was in season. What the man who wrote "Did You Ever See a Dream Walking?" and "With My Eyes Wide Open, I'm Dreaming" was doing in Dallas I never knew. We'uns from North Carolina were waiting around to get stomped by Rice Institute the next day.
Songwriter Revel was captivating his audience with a method of fortunetelling in which he employed the letters in his subject's last name as the key. He was in such fine form, as you'll see presently, that about the only event he couldn't foretell was the outcome of the upcoming game. As he eventually worked his way around to me, the distinguished creator took the letters B-I-S-H-E-R and came up with this message:
"Bisher
Important Long Distance Call
Surprises You
Exciting
Readjustment."
Naturally, I rushed home, resigned from The Charlotte News and took up a vigil by the telephone. Two months and a half is a mighty long time to sit by a telephone, and many a day my faith in fortunetelling wavered. The call came and the exciting readjustment of switching from Charlotte to Atlanta was experienced. Many another citizen has made the move for such an odd period as a year and a day, but under duress. I come of my own free will.
That's how come this column at the end of a week-long Constitution campaign out of which you may have expected anything from a new brand of blowtorch to a third candidate for Governor. I feel sure all the kiddies will be disappointed. I understand that 88 percent of them were expecting a rival for Hopalong Cassidy, 10 percent a third elephant and the other two percent read The Journal.
There's something about first columns that should classify them along with bread loaf heels, opening days of Spring training and the first slices of bologna. They have all achieved a certain sort of useless necessity. Since we can accomplish nothing today, we'll merely spar a few fast rounds and retire to the showers, feel each other out, in a manner of speaking.
I have made the break from the Carolinas about as clean as one can. On crossing the Savannah River into Elbert County, I stopped my car, got out and formally turned my back on Wallace Wade, Carl Snavely, Beattie Feathers and associates. You'll note I didn't mention Peahead Walker up to Wake Forest. You don't swear off the comic Peahead suddenly. It's sorta like giving up booze, or cigarettes. You got to take it by degrees. After the wearing-off, I wheeled south and took the oath of allegiance to Wally Butts and Bobby Dodd, so long as we all three shall live, and hold our jobs.
That brought me squarely before the next problem, that of what to write about on kickoff day. I gave some thought to the first visit I ever made to Georgia. Holding the "responsible position as a manager of the Furman University football team, " as reported in my hometown weekly, I crossed over in 1935 to play Georgia in Athens. The casualty list was tremendous that day. Within the first 15 minutes four of our Baptist brethren were laid out cold, and a back named Joe Watson didn't come to life again until 10 o'clock the next morning. If the other three had been smart, they'd have possumed until it was all over, too, for we got beat something like 31-7. You can see what a distasteful topic that would have been for our Baptist readers.
The thought was passed that I should compare Charley Trippi with Charley Justice, the North Carolina quadruple-threat who runs, passes, kicks and does the family wash. But in Georgia I know there is and has been only one Charley, and his last name is Trippi. Besides, I recall from the game in Chapel Hill last fall that Georgia still regards Justice as a slacker for starting off the field after kicking a touchdown punt to Eli Maricich. Scratch that debate.
That brings us up to baseball, and the common practice of the moment is to pick the major league pennant winners. In the past I have conformed to the sure-fire method of picking a team in each league that won't win it. So far, my average is A-1, perfecto. I haven't missed yet. This year I'm growing brave as an Indian buck. I'm picking two teams in the same league not to win it, the indomitable St. Louis Browns and the dauntless Washington Senators in the American. The situation is precarious in the National League. My prestige may suffer, but I select the Baltimore Orioles. (That's safe enough. They're not even in the league.) Such brevity is unbecoming a first column, however.
There was, of course, excellent excuse for a Clayton Heafner column. But that would have been too much Charlotte for Atlanta all on the same weekend. Besides, up yonder in what they call the Queen City there has been a ban for years on Heafner opuses until the golf tournaments are done and the grizzly gent is in with his loot. That has been so ever since 1939, when the then juvenile Mister Heafner walked in and out on the National Open lead within a matter of hours. The abortion was charged to an extensive Heafner research campaign, which led to the discovery of unbelievably ancient boyhood photos, and a premature journalistic celebration by a Charlotte gazette. Heafner must wait.
But not the end of this thing. This is what I'd call the equivalent of a fast preliminary of, say, three rounds or so. I've worked up a quick sweat. From now on every day's a main event.
