Coach H. Devonne Payne

Delores Payne Shares Memories
From August 14, 1975 Centennial Edition Madison Journal

 

NOTE: As a young boy there were many men in Tallulah for whom I had much respect. However, there is no one I respected more than Coach Payne. So I find out today that the Paynes moved to Tallulah on July 4, 1944, and here I am putting this story on the Internet exactly seventy years later! How can that be? Time passes fast! RPS July 4, 2014

 

I received a letter in the morning mail early this week bearing a return address of "Deer Track Plantation, Tallulah, Louisiana." Just reading those words caused my heart to skip a beat, as warm memories—faces, songs, colors, scenes, in­cidents, etc., began to flood my entire being. You see, nine of the happiest years of my entire life were spent in that town! Those people will always be the "Dear Hearts and Gentle People" referred to in the song of that same title made popular during our stay in Tallulah. (Incidentally, it was that song which we all elected to play on the juke boxes returning from that bitter defeat for the state football championship in south Louisiana which had concluded so abruptly and viciously a completely victorious season up to that point.)

 

The writer of the letter mentioned above requested that I share with you some of the highlights of a person's life who was your coach for nine years (1944-53), my husband for eighteen years, our boys father for fifteen years, and a completely, beautiful human being for all of his forty-four years! Howard Devone Payne was his name (at least the official one).

 

We were settling in Tallulah twenty-seven years ago today—July 4, 1944. One of the reasons that Coach Payne had accepted the offer of head football coaching duties at Tallulah High School was the opportunity he saw for deer hunting and fishing which he enjoyed almost as much as coaching. I believe now that he also got a faint glimmer of the kind of people with whom he'd be associated when he was "re-introduced" to Mr. A. J. Boswell. You see, Mr. Boswell had met "Pooby" (Coach Payne's nickname during his college days) when he was starring in football, basketball, and track at Louisiana College. Mr. Boswell's daughter, Margaret , and I were (and still are) close college friends. Mr. Boswell had had time through the years to become well acquainted and extremely confident of the coaching ability of this young man as well as to be highly im­pressed by the strong Christian character this young coach evidenced.

 

As I settled down to really try to present the incidents that would best describe this dedicated person to you, the strains of "On the banks of Brushy Bayou toward the rising sun, Stands our hope, our inspiration, Strength for years to come!" began to give my endeavor "mood music," but the tears that came slowed down my work so badly, that I was forced to turn on some of the boys' more current melodies (?) so that I could at least see what I was writing. Thinking of the Alma Mater did bring to mind one specific incident along with a shiver of ex­citement as I remembered the night we had played to a 26-26 tie for the North Louisiana Championship at Springhill. When standing high in the stands with our band, pep club, supporters, I saw those gold helmets begin to bob up and down from the center of that huge clump of football players and spectators down on the field below. I knew then we'd won on first downs, and so did the band. And that music never sounded so good! But I'm getting ahead of myself!

 

I recall that on our way over to Tallulah from Monroe, one of Coach's former Neville players, who was helping us to make our move, took this opportunity to pose a question.

 

"Now that you're leaving us and going to Tallulah, Coach, I just want to ask you one question. WHY did you always pick on me? Why did you always say, 'Luffey, this, and Luffey, that, 'Get in there, Luffey, and hit, or, Luffey is that just the best you can do? You fussed at me ALL the time. Why, Coach, why?"

 

Quite calmly and seriously, (this pretty well described him most of the time) and without hesitation, Coach turned and looked at the curious young man beside him, and answered, "Let me tell you something right now. I don't waste my time or breath either on somebody I don't think could do better!”

 

Later, while I was teaching English at Tallulah High, as part of an assignment for the students, I'd requested them to write their autobiographies. To illustrate what I wanted from them, I had written a short biography of their new coach—my husband—and had read it to them. (Yes, I explained the difference between autobiographies and biographies.) I'd included Later, while I was teaching English at Tallulah High, as pan of an assignment for the students, I'd requested them to write their autobiographies. To illustrate what I wanted from them, I had written a short biography of their new coach--my husband—and had read it to them. (Yes, I explained the dif­ference between autobiographies and biographies.) I'd included the happening above. From the back of the room came a loud, enthusiastic sigh, followed by, "Oh boy! I'm gonna be All American—at least that's the way I get hollered at!" That boy didn't become an All American football player, but I understand he's a topnotch doctor of law today. Dr. Bob Bailey, are you remembering?) Who knows, maybe his football training and football coach helped him to develop the discipline that later shaped his life?

 

Coach Payne was a strict disciplinarian—fair, but strict. (I’m quite sure there are some who'd disagree—about the fairness, not the strictness, though.) But I realize now that a person who leaves no enemies, probably leaves no impressions either.

 

When football practice had been going on for a couple of weeks, I'm told that the folks (the Pinneys and Mrs. Hopkins) who lived across the street from the football field took an active interest in watching from their front porch the new coach and his procedures each day. One day they overheard him say, "Well, you might as well make up your mind that you're gonna learn it cause we're just gonna stay out here all night til you do!"

 

Practice continued, and then it got to be supper time and so the neighbors went inside. Someone had occasion to go to the front door, much later on, and of all things, the football lights (which were used only for games) were shining brightly, and the football boys were still at it. "Guess he meant it!" they decided. A conversation I overheard in the grocery soon after our arrival in Tallulah has stuck in my mind too. Two mothers were discussing their sons and their activities. One said, "I guess you're just worried to death now that your son is out for foot­ball."

 

The reply was, "Well, as a matter of fact, I'm not. Now I know where he is every day from 3 until 6. And when he gets home he's too tired to go anywhere else."

 

This doesn't exactly fit here, but I'm going to include it anyhow. One of the managers, Melvin Finlayson, may recall this happening. Coach Payne ran into the dressing room to get some medication one day in a big hurry. When he stuck his hand into the medicine cabinet, the bottle of medicine disintegrated upon his touch. It was obvious that it had been broken, hastily put together and just stuck back on the shelf. Coach Payne turned quickly to the manager and gruffly asked, "Why didn't you tell me that this bottle of medicine was broken?" The reply was, "I just wanted to stay out of trouble as long as I could, Coach."

 

He's only been at his new post a few short weeks when it was time for the first scheduled game. Right now, I can't tell you whom we played, or where, or the score, but I do remember one incident that came from it.

 

It seems that the game had not been in progress very long—perhaps barely in the first quarter—it was rather warm, being September, and the Trojans called a "time-out." The manager ran to the field and then one came running back and picked up a water bucket to return to the field. Coach yelled "Get that water bucket off the field!" The startled boy, with bucket in hand, did an about-face and ran completely off the playing field right on in the dressing room, and, to my knowledge, that was the last time a water bucket was seen on the field during Coach Payne's reign as football coach at Tallulah. Of course, he didn't intend for the boys never to have any water, but he'd felt it was much too early in the game to "tank up on water."

 

If the miles were not so many between one of Coach's staunchest supporters and dearest friends (Edwin Brinson) I'm sure he could supply the exact scores, players, etc. of that game and every other game coached by Coach Devone Payne, but statistics don't stay with me. (They didn't then, and even after completing a doctoral program, they still don't.) I do want to recall for you one more event of that first year though.

 

It was the last game of the first season—we had had a very successful season—we'd won the district—but now we'd just been defeated for the North Louisiana Championship by Arcadia (I think). As the boys, very dejectedly, were filing off the field, Mr. Boswell, among others, was trying to cheer them up and was congratulating them on a good season. Mr. Boswell was doing his best to encourage them to feel good by saying, “Boys, you played a good game tonight. We're not disappointed in you at all. And, just don't you fret. With the Coach y'all have now next year y'all will make it all the way to State!"

 

All was extremely quiet when a stifled kind of snort attracted Mr. Boswell's attention. He turned to see one especially dirty, tired and sad-looking boy wiping at his nose with his grimy hands and attempting to hold back tears, so Mr. B. added, "Come on, cheer up. We'll show 'em next year!”

 

The reply came back, "Y'all might, but I won't. I'm graduating!" (And graduate he did, but Buck Anderson rooted for the rest of his teammates the next year and for  many years since.)

 

I don't think "Pooby's" boys would even mind my using their names to tell these stories that are now practically legends concerning those mighty Tallulah warriors—at any rate, here goes. (As time goes by, it's even hard for me to remember what years the boys played ball—so if I have these events completely out of chronological order, please forgive.)

 

We had a real ugly looking bulldog one time. One day our two older boys, Devone and Robert Charles, their daddy and I had walked up to Crow Drug, just exercising the dog, we didn't need it so badly at that age! We stopped outside the drugstore to chat with some of the ball players. In the course of conversation, "Fisty" Wilkins said, "Coach, that's the ugliest dog I've ever seen. Where did you get him?" Coach answered the boy, and talk went on about other things. After a bit, the boy quite evidently had forgotten what he had said to open the con­versation, and now added, "Gee, Coach, that dog looks just like you!"

 

I believe that was the same day we saw one of Pooby's former football players from Winnsboro coming out of the drugstore. He'd been in the service a couple of years and hadn't played football for Coach Payne in at least four years, but as he emerged from the drugstore, he looked up and saw Coach for the first time and immediately, dropped and stomped on the cigarette he was smoking!

 

Hess Curry told me many years after this football days at Tallulah that he felt Coach Payne had kept him from ending up in a reform school. "That's where I was headed when he started caring about what I did."

 

I replied, "Instead you're in a prison."

 

He quickly smiled and complacently replied, "Yeah, but I'm on the outside looking in." Hess had recently taken the job of Athletic Director at Angola.

 

Glen, do you remember this? One day when Coach and I were returning to school after going home for the noon meal (this WAS a long time ago), we met this very fine looking polite young man walking towards us.

 

When we got close enough, my husband barked, "Hutchinson, didn't I see your football pants on the floor of the dressing room this morning?"

 

Glen, looking embarrassed, sputtered, "I-I-I don't think so, Coach," His face began to redden quite noticeably and he dug in the ground with his foot.

 

"You're not supposed to Think, you're supposed to KNOW," Coach retorted. "And I know. I saw 'em there, but I'd better never see 'em there again if you want to continue playing football here. Go right now and pick 'em up and put 'em where they belong. Run! RUN!"

 

"Yes, sir," the boy answered courteously, and took off run­ning in the direction of the dressing room.

 

Then I turned to Pooby, and in defense of the boy, I said, "Good gracious, Pooby, it looks to me like you could jump on somebody else besides that boy. He's one of my English students and absolutely one of the nicest, smartest, and most polite boys I know."

 

"Yeah, and I want to keep him that way!" was his fast reply.

 

Joe Holley told our two younger boys, Joe Beck and Andy, this story quite recently. It seems that Joe had had his finger hurt during practice one day. So Coach sent him on to the doctor to get it x-rayed. Sure enough, it had to be put in a splint. So, after having his finger tended to, he didn't return to practice. He said, "that was a mistake! Coach came after me."

 

Later on, Joe was told to hit Coach, as hard as he could on some play on the football field (Coach didn't ever wear football pads, but he insisted that the boys have full protection.) Joe said that he hated to just hit as hard as he could since Coach wasn't padded and he was. But, Coach kept yelling at him, "Hit me. Run your route, Hit me." So, Joe did. The next thing he knew they were both on the ground all wrapped around each other. He said that he was so shocked that he couldn't move or say anything. Finally, Coach asked, "Well, Holley, when are you gonna kiss me? You’ve hugged me long enough!”

 

That used to bother me so badly—his not ever wearing pads-- I used to go to football practice (just to watch, of course ) and see him demonstrating to the boys what he wanted. Even after he went into college coaching where boys were often twice his size—he'd still play the "dummy." That's what I used to tell him—he really was the dummy to let himself get hit like that all the time. Maybe that was his way of trying to even things up. His roaring at them all the time— if the boys got mad enough, they could always let him have it—of course, in the name of good football

 

After football season was concluded each year there was always a football banquet. Everyone was invited and everyone usually went. The cheerleaders decorated for it just as they had done the goals and field during the regular season. They were always so wonderful as were the pep squad and the band and the spectators and the public businesses! They did a superb job—decorating, cheering, keeping the spirit high. I rode the school bus full of the pep squad, etc., and yelled as loud as they did—I was as proud as they were, and I was the hoarsest of the bunch for two to three days afterward I can still hear "We're from Tallulah, Couldn't be prouder. If you can't hear us, We'll yell louder," and I automatically inserted Tallulah in that diddy for years after. I'd have to concentrate on my yelling in the future years after we'd left Tallulah because my nine years of active support of the Tallulah Trojans had me pretty indoctrinated, and it was embarrassing to find yourself yelling for Tallulah when your sons were playing AGAINST Tallulah on the opposing team.

 

At the football banquet each year those precious fighting Trojans presented Coach with a gift of their own choosing. I do believe this is where some of his superstition started. (I’m sure if he were here he'd deny being superstitious, but let me tell you some things and then you decide for yourself.)

 

One year the boys presented Coach with a tailor-made suit—his very first. His build being so broad in the shoulders, small in the waist and hips, and close to the ground lent itself to tailor-made clothes beautifully. He was so proud of that suit. The next season he had it on when we won our first state championship at Tallulah under his coaching tutelage. From then on he wore that outfit—brown suit, fresh white shirt, and brown tie. The boys got the message and provided him another when that one was to the point of literally "exposing" him when he did his usual pacing up and down and squatting at the line of scrimmage on the sideline for each play. I knew to have the brown suit fresh from the cleaners, a white shirt freshly starched and ironed from then on. I thought it rather ridiculous for him to don an absolutely "fresh from the cleaners" outfit when it was raining outside or looking like it would any minute, but it never seemed that way to him lie always "dressed" for his profession a suit, a tie, a white shirt. To him, it was a profession, not a "display. (He was buried in his brown suite, and tie, white shirt, and football tie pin and cuff links.)

 

The day of that first state championship game just added to his (and my) superstitions! It was played on Friday, Dec. 13. That was the 13th game of the season. It was his 13th year of coaching. It was 13 years since Tallulah had been state champs. He used 13 boys in the game and just before the game he found a 1913 coin on the field. The score of the game was 13 to something our favor) So from that day forward we liked the number 13.

 

Besides his tailor-made suits, the boys presented him with a deer rifle one year. On the side of the gun they'd had a piece metal the shape of a football inscribed "To Coach Payne from your State Champs." (That gun was later stolen we think.)

 

I'm not sure he ever shot a deer with that rifle but he cherished it and so did I. We have a lovely pair of brass lamps the boys gave us one year, and one year he got a fishing rod, tackle box, baits, etc.

 

While I'm talking about the boys and their show of affection materially, let me tell you how the town people supported him too. At the end of each season someone would come up and slip a large stuffed envelope into his coat pocket. It was full of checks and cash from various "Satisfied supporters." Once after a particularly gratifying season, they gave us money to buy a lot for a house and we were thus able to buy our first home! So now you know why we are so attached to Tallulah.

 

I'm sure that I'm leaving out many things that I should be telling, but I didn't write everything down through the years, and then, of course, some of the choice happenings I probably never knew about.

 

I did hear that Coach pulled a "Knute Rockne" on the boys once. Coach Payne tried to appear tough and hard. But he was soft, kind, tender, and sweet! He fed beggars who came by our house (I decided our house was marked), spent time with old people, rocked babies who were unhappy, gave money when he didn't really have it to give, protected and took up for people others wouldn't look at, etc. We went to see the movie "Knute Rockne" soon after we were married. That was the only time I ever saw Coach cry at a movie—but he cried at that one. Later (not right afterwards, though) I asked him why that movie had upset him, and he said that it was the first time he'd really realized that he wouldn't get to play any more football. He'd have to do all his playing through coaching from then on. Gee, he loved the game! (I really don't know what he'd think of it today.)

 

In that film, on one occasion. Rockne's Notre Dame team was getting beat. At half time, the "other" team was ahead. During the time in the dressing room, the boys from Notre Dame awaited, with much dread, the arrival of Coach Rockne. They sat there looking anxiously at the floor at first, then questionly at each other as time elapsed, and finally when time had run out, a door opened and there was Rockne who said, "Come on, girls, let's go."

 

Coach Payne used a similar situation. His boys were also behind in score at the half. When the time for the half had been used up. Coach Payne opened the door where his boys were looking sheepishly at the floor, and hastily said. "Oh, excuse me. I didn't know this was the girls' dressing room."

 

Bill Jones, this one's for you -Word had gotten to Tallulah that the opposing team was going to take care of you for a certain ball game. Coach heard it too. He took it to mean that they might kidnap you, so he made you come over and spend the night with us. The next night during the game, when it had just started in fact, two boys teamed up on you, and bang! your fists flew back at them. Sure enough, out you went! The referees put all of you out—but the other two boys weren't even on the starting line-up. and your were our "shining back!"

 

"Boogie," (it's so hard to realize that it's now Dr. Robert Harrop) ironically the one I remember about you has to do with medicine. You had a wretched cold, in fact I believe the "flu bug" was going around, and your mother thought it probably best that you not go to football, but stay at home and take some medicine that day instead, but you thought differently. You went, you practiced, you came home. And right behind you came Coach Payne with a big bottle of castor oil. "May I please have a spoon, Mrs. Harrop? And would you call Boogie? I'd like to give him some medicine if you don't mind." Mrs. Harrop cooperated.

 

"Open your mouth, boy," he ordered and down went the medicine without a murmur.

 

There was also one about your typing and Miss Spears, but I can't get that one straight in my mind.

 

What about that time we played Greenville, Mississippi, and fumbled so many times? Remember? Arlen Ray, was that you had to carry the football to all your classes the next week? I do remember at the football banquet that year y'all presented Coach Payne with an ole deflated, patched football to which you'd attached yellow broomstick handles. When you, Sonny Clark, gave it to him, he came right back with, "Shoot, I oughta give this right back to you. I wasn't the one out there fumblin."

 

Sonny, you remember when y-all went up to play Lake Providence one night, when y-all were freshmen, and when you got there the skies were filled with lightning and thunder and so Coach wouldn't let y-all play? When you got back to Tallulah and were putting your equipment up, you discovered you hadn't even taken your football pants with you?

 

Two more specific things I can recall about you, Sonny. When we went to play a ball game in Ferriday one Thanksgiving and you boys had eaten a pre-game meal at some restaurant there and were returning to the bus. Someone missed Coach and asked, "Where's Coach?" Another replied, "He's still back there paying for our meal."

 

 And you, Sonny remarked, "You mean you have to pay for that stuff? I though that was just something they had left over!"

 

Our older sons can vouch for this—at our house we started training in August exactly as Coach expected you to. We had no more cold drinks, no more between meal snacks, regular hours of "early to bed" and "early to rise", etc. He and the rest of his family abided by the same rules of training as set for the football team.

 

During football seasons from then on, our own boys when in training at "pre-game" meals before their own games. (Maybe that's why they don't care for roast beef, baked potatoes, toast and hot tea today.)

 

Y'all remember Coach's clipboard with the plays on it? Well that cost me dearly every season! Y'see before each new season coach began to scribble his new plays every place he went. I recall riding down the road one day when he just snapped his fingers, took his foot off the accelerator, pulled off the side of the road and began fumbling for paper and pencil. "That's it," he smilingly exclaimed, "That's exactly what I'll use."

 

"What in the world is wrong?" I asked, and he replied with a smirk on his face, "I just thought of a new play I believe will really work."

 

It must have—we won the State Championship again that year!

 

About a month before each fall practice Pooby would get out the old clipboard, pencils, and paper. Then he'd ask if I was ready to work on plays. I was ready?

 

Yes, I drew all those plays, circles, crosses, dots and dashes, arrows, etc. He'd go over the route with his finger, then I was supposed to do it in pencil. Well, sometimes, I'd get one-tenth of an inch off, and he's even holler at me, boys! "Don't you know he’d get killed if he went that way?"

 

"No, I don't" I'd reply curtly.

 

"Well, it seems like you would after 15 years of drawing these plays!"

 

For two or three weeks we struggled like that while dishes were waiting to be washed, beds to be made, clothes to be hung out. etc.

 

Sonny, you and Martin should remember this. One afternoon I was visiting over at your folks (Lula Mae and Clyde Clark) when you two boys came staggering in from football practice. Y'all fell on the nearest bed, completely exhausted. Your mother went to see about y'all and asked, "Hey, what's the matter? I thought y'all had an open date this week-end. Who are y'all playing?"

 

One of y'all came back with, "Notre Dame, I think. At least that's who we practiced for."

 

Once at the football banquet when we'd lost one of our state championship games, was it not one of you who stood up and said, "Two good teams got beat this year...us and Notre Dame!"

 

Y'all remember Brother Shirley Briggs, I'm sure. He was our pastor at the First Baptist Church in Tallulah, and he too loved football. Coach and Bro. Briggs got along beautifully. You see, Coach Payne backed Bro. Briggs' profession—he lived a good example of a Christian athlete—he taught a Sunday School class (high school boys), took part with his own family in church activities, and encouraged his "other boys to seek God in their lives. He even took his football team to Thanksgiving services before going to play our Thanksgiving Day football game.

 

And Bro. Briggs backed Coach Paynes' profession—he was a staunch supporter of the Tallulah Trojans. One Friday night when we were playing Oak Grove, the stands were packed. A man coming into the stadium yelled at Bro. Briggs who was an early arrival and was seated high in the stands. "Hey, Bro. Briggs, I'm from Oak Grove! YEAH The Trojans defeated Oak Grove that night. As the crowds were filing out and Bro. Briggs spied his Oak Grove friend, a loud and proud voice was heard above the din, "Hey, Bro. Cheatham, I'm from Tallulah! YEAH!"

 

After a very exciting victory and winning the State Cham­pionship for the second time, when our household had finally settled down for the night, the telephone rang. Coach got us and answered, and I heard him say, "I'll be right there."

 

"What's wrong?" I queried as he began to redress to go out. "Something's wrong with Bill. I told his daddy I'd be right down."

 

Sure enough, Bill Christian had appendicitis and was taken to Vicksburg immediately where he underwent an emergency operation. After surgery was over, the doctor came out and faced the two men, Mr. Christian and Coach. When he'd assured the two of them that everything was going to be all right, then it was his turn to question and asked, "Now, I want to ask a question—which one of you is the boy's father?"

 

Our own "flesh and blood" boys learned early and through experience that Daddy's "other" boys were also "Tops" with him. Many were the times that he had planned to do things for and with our own boys, and they had to be cancelled because of an unforeseen problem of complication in the life of one of his "other," boys.

 

I don't know why this one seems to stick out in my memory but it was you, Billy Laird, who came to Coach one night just as we were preparing to go out with our own boys. We didn't get to go, but I think you more than paid us back with that terrific catch at Northeast that made us beat Tech! Thanks.

 

As far as I can remember there was, of course, disap­pointment but never resentment on the part of any of our family. Our first two sons (Devon and Robert C.) were reared by the football boys at Tallulah. They so enjoyed going to practice and afterwards being allowed to frolic with the "Big" boys. They never missed a game. I dressed them in their football outfits with numbers ½ and ¼ on their backs. Football was definitely our "way of life." Our third son (Joe Beck) has a birthmark on his abdomen—a brown spot shaped like—you guess it—a foot­ball. Our fourth son Andy, (the biggest of the lot) was only two when his daddy had to leave us, but he has the "feeling" through the coaching of devoted, older brothers. One of our boys was learning his ABC's at quite an early age, and when he got to the letter "H" he looked up at me questioningly and asked, "Goalpost?"

 

Even though football was Coach's life, football seasons sometimes "got to him." Someone once told Pooby a story about a coach who got drunk and had to be locked up in the jail over­night. Coach Payne retorted, "I wish somebody'd lock me up at the beginning of football season and not let me out til it was over!" It was a real headache for him. He used to make orange juice by the gallon and put it in the deepfreeze to give his boys at football practice the next morning. He drove innumerable miles going after and returning boys who lived out in the country. Once, due to pure exhaustion, he fell asleep at the wheel coming back to town after one of his 50 mile trips over the parish delivering boys after practice. (Not many boys had cars nor the use of their parent's cars in those days.)

 

I used to accompany him sometimes just to keep him from having to go alone. Once I went with him to pick up a new ballplayer out past Mound. That ball player played the guitar and sang. Actually, looking back I thoroughly believe he was a premature Elvis Presley. That boy happed to be Harold Jenkins (better known as Conway Twitty today). Years later, he hap­pened to be performing in West Monroe and our second-born, R.C. went. Harold told him a couple of stories about his dad that you'd probably enjoy.

 

Harold told Robert Charles that he actually owed his singing career to Coach Payne. It seems that one afternoon back in Tallulah in his high school days, Harold had gone out for foot­ball. He said he heard Coach Payne say in a loud whisper, "Boy, you might as well take that guitar and 'git'—you shore ain't gonna make a football player!"

 

On another occasion, Coach had called all the football players together to tell them that he expected them all out for track (incidentally, Coach Payne was responsible for starting track at Tallulah.) Harold Jenkins said that he leaned over to his friend, Sonny, and whispered, "He's crazy if he thinks I'm gonna go out for that stuff." Just as he finished his sentence, he heard his name called, "Jenkins, what size shoe do you wear?"

 

"Size 7½, sir," he quickly replied, and the next 8 weeks saw him running and panting daily."

 

One thing I heard coach say repeatedly in speeches he delivered at his own and other football banquets was that there was no way to measure desire in a football team. Be in better shape—physically and mentally—than your opponent! And he worked hard to prepare his boys on both counts.

 

Richard Powell related his feelings of having played under Coach Payne. He made all-state guard at 150 pounds. He told me "Y'know, Coach Payne used to tell me I was the roughest, toughest, meanest guard in the whole state. And I believed him. Y'know, that was a good way to get killed!"

 

Howard Brown who died when a freshman at LSU was another of those "little" guys from whom Coach Payne became noted. Built close to the ground and willing to work to develop speed and agility, he made himself known throughout the state. (When Coach lay close to death for nine days, it was Howard Brown's mother who came over and stayed with our four boys so that I could be by Pooby.)

 

Booney, I remember this about you. Robert Charles had drawn a picture one time of a Tallulah ball game. When I asked him to tell me about the hard, heavy, repeatedly scratched line on the drawing, he said, "That's Daddy, walking up and down during the game."

 

When I questioned about a figure he'd drawn stretched out on the ground, he replied, "That's Booney. He always gets hurt." Weren't you the one he loved so because you gave it all you had and always ended up getting hurt?

 

I almost forgot to tell about "the fight." For Tallulah it got to be "old-hat"—playing in the finals. But one year Tallulah didn't play for the state Championship; Delhi did.

 

(And they were such bitter enemies of Tallulah that because their school colors were red and white, our little boys objected strenuously to our buying a new family car in "red.") We were nice enough to offer Delhi the use of our stadium for their play­off game. Well, Delhi got beat in that play-off.

 

After the game Coach Payne was going to his car when he heard someone say, “It was Coach Payne's fault we lost. He told that other team all our plays!"

 

It was dark, and Coach couldn't tell if the speaker was a man or just a schoolboy, so he grabbed him to pull him inside the gymnasium to take a better look. When he did, the guy's coat tore right down the back. At any rate, he found that it was a young fellow, so he just let him go, and when he walked back out of the gym, he struck his head on the corner of the trunk lid of the back of a bus, (putting a bloody gash on Coach's forehead.)

 

Well, it seems that one of our managers was walking that way, and he thought two guys were beating up on Coach. So he ran all the way to town to the cafe where some of the Tallulah boys had gathered and told what he'd seen.

In the meantime Coach came on home—we put some medicine on his head and had gone on to bed. We commented on the unusual amount of traffic by our house. Soon we heard someone calling Coach's name. Pooby looked out the upstairs bedroom window and saw some of his boys down there, so he went on down. They decided to check out the story about Coach being in a fight. He assured them that he was fine—he thought the boys who'd done the big talking were probably drinking. "just go on home and go to bed—everything's fine" he advised them.

We again began to settle down for the night. We talked awhile and did finally doze off when the telephone awakened us. Pooby answered and I heard him say, "I can't come out to a place like that. Y'all don't need to be there. Y'all don't do anything. You'll just get into trouble. They didn't hurt me."

What had happened on the other end of the line was, "Coach, we got 'em. Come on out to the — We're gonna show 'em they can't come over here and treat our coach like that and get away with it."

Pooby had said he couldn't go out to that kind of place and the voice said, "You don't have to get out at all—just drive up and shine your lights, so you can see it. They'll be sorry."

That's when Coach had told them to go on home—they'd just get into trouble themselves. Pooby came on back to bed, but he was so restless that he couldn't go back to sleep. He lay there debating on whether to call the law or not—but he was afraid he'd get everybody in trouble. It was just no time at all when again someone was calling his name from outside. Again he went down, and there was a whole bunch of his football boys. They told him how they'd rounded up all the T-Club members they could find. They'd gone out to the club and asked these boys if they were the ones who'd crossed up with Coach Payne. They admitted it, so they were "invited" outside.

On the outside they made a circle with the two guilty ones on the inside. Actually, I think nothing really happened—Jack Gilbert grabbed one in each bended arm and asked if they knew who he was, "Remember me, I'm Bear Lake!"—those boys knew they'd been foolish to attack the Tallulah coach though.

The next morning our phone woke me up, and a very grave and solemn voice asked, "How's Coach? Is he hurt seriously?"

I answered, "I guess not, He went hunting early this a.m."

I guess it was only natural to have "mixed emotions" in December, 1970, when our third son, Joe Beck, was playing his senior year of football at Natchitoches High. Of all people to have to play against for state championship—TALLULAH! I knew what we were in for and I dreaded it! I wanted to see my old friends, but I knew there would be such a strained situation. Sure enough, if it had not been for Walter Scott and Fred McDuff who came seeking us out, I would have not seen anyone from Tallulah...I'd planned to go over to the Tallulah cheering section at the half—but since the score wasn't even, I decided to wait until after the game. I saw no one else from Tallulah.

I received a Christmas card the next week from Ida Dell Neumann. On it she'd added this note, "Had so hoped to see you and Andy (our youngest son) at the ball game. Saw entirely too much of Joe Beck."

Y'know what I thought about Joe Beck's good luck that fateful night for Tallulah? Even though things ended up like they did, I felt that our old friends from Tallulah were saying "Well, if there had to be touchdowns against us, I'm glad they were made by Coach Paynes's son. He'd have been proud of him—all 145 lbs." (J. B. was born 6 months before we left Tallulah.)

Once I mentioned that I dreaded to end the football season. The reason being there were always decisions to be made—offers would come, and I was always afraid one would come some day that would take us away from (Tallulah.) Pooby reminded me that the time to worry would be when he didn't have any decisions to make. that would mean no offers, and no offers would be the result of a poor season.

I never had that worry—"no" offers—but I did have to face the offer that took us away from Tallulah. It was back to his (mine, too) Alma Mater-Louisiana College—from high school coaching to the college level. He even took some of his Tallulah boys with him to Louisiana and then some even went on to Northeast with him where he succumbed during his 44th year of life with cancer. There's not a doubt in my mind, nor any of his ardent followers, that had he lived, he'd have been another Knute Rockne!