By Franz Beard
A very personal story to jump start your Christmas Day:
Do you remember when you knew in your heart of hearts that you were helplessly, hopelessly a Gator for life? Do you remember when you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Florida Gators were the only team that would actually matter for the rest of your life?
That moment for me was December 25, 1964. Two months earlier my life had been turned upside down when I was uprooted from the good life in Gainesville and exiled to McComb, Mississippi. I say exiled because everything I held sacred was in Gainesville. I could walk to Florida Field from my home in 10 minutes. I played center on Mr. Red Dulaney’s Hughes Supply football team. A year before I had played left tackle (Tom Petty was the right tackle) for Mr. Dulaney in the 100-pound weight league and we had gone undefeated to win the county championship. As a 13-year-old I moved up to the 120-pound weight league and because I could snap a spiral (we ran single wing, and of course, there were times we had to punt) I became the center. Before I could move up to the 13-year-old team, I had to teach Mike Sloan (Norm’s kid) how to snap, however.
At Westwood, I had made some very good friends and I made good grades. Mr. Hayes, my history teacher, was my favorite. Fuzzy Fratella was my phys ed teacher. On Saturday’s, Sarge Squires knew me, so I had my choice of selling Cokes or hot dogs. I chose Cokes because I had a regular clientele of Jacksonville lawyers who bought from me. My job was to arrive 90 minutes before the game and make sure they didn’t run out of Cokes. They were great guys, and a couple always had me drink most of their Coke because they wanted about half Bourbon and half Coke. Life was good. On a good Saturday I pocketed about $6, a rather hefty sum for a 13-year-old during the 1960s when we could still buy a Coke out of the machine for 10 cents and I could get a cheeseburger, large Coke and fries at Chandler’s on 13th Street for 50 cents.
All that was interrupted when the Altamil Corporation bought out Adkins Manufacturing, where my dad was the general manager/CFO. My dad was transferred immediately to McComb in September. Six weeks later, our home sold in Gainesville. I had to quit Mr. Dulaney’s team (we were in second place), say good-bye to friends at Westwood and we moved into a new brick house at 202 Westview Circle in McComb that had central air conditioning (I was impressed).
It was life among the heathens in McComb. I was the only Gator fan in the whole place. Everyone else was either Ole Miss, Mississippi State and LSU. Oh, a bunch of folks went to Southern Miss over in Hattiesburg, but they were Rebels, Bulldogs and Tigers first. Fortunately, there was a 50,000-watt radio station in Pensacola that was my lifeline. I listened to Otis Boggs describe those high, lazy spirals and turn three-yard gains by Jack Harper into adventures, but it wasn’t the same as being there. I did get to go the Florida-LSU game in Baton Rouge (COLD that night) on December 5 because my dad’s boss, Mr. Crosby was an LSU grad and he had tickets. The Gators won 20-6. Spurrier was unbelievable and Mrs. Crosby had to put a Florida pennant on their front door for a week because she lost a bet with me.
Christmas Eve we packed up the car and drove all night to Gainesville where my mom’s parents lived at 313 NW 11th Street. We arrived sometime around dawn and my sister (living with my grandparents and a freshman at UF) Donna was the first one out the door. Then came my grandparents and after the hugs and kisses, I had luggage duty, after which I went to sleep for what seemed like 10 minutes. I woke to the smell of bacon. Nobody on this planet ever did bacon like Ivey Van Sickle.
After breakfast it was time to open presents. My sister gave me a pair of white Levis, which were sure to make me the envy of the small circle of friends I had already made in McComb. I highly doubted Denman-Alford had them in stock yet.
After opening all my presents, my grandfather handed me one more. He said he had overlooked this one. Must have fallen back behind the tree he told me. I ripped it open and found a white University of Florida football jersey complete with the orange and blue UCLA stripes on the shoulder and a blue No. 11, Spurrier’s number! He had it custom made for me at Jimmy Hughes Sporting Goods.
The jersey went on immediately. I asked if I could run down to the stadium and I was waved out the door. They knew where I was going, straight to Florida Field. I raced over to 13th street, turning south at Captain Louie’s and west when I got to University Avenue where there was a fresh coat of paint on the SAE lion. As a seventh grader at Westwood, rumor had it that Coleman Stipanovich once poured a can of paint on the lion. I don’t know if it was true, but since Coleman had a rather fearsome persona, it seemed believable for a seventh grader.
Once I got to Florida Field, the gates were locked in the north end zone but I remembered the gate was rarely locked in the southeast corner so I ran down there. Lucky for me, the gate was unlocked and I ran out on the field where I was transformed into Steve Spurrier. I threw passes to Charlie Casey. I handed off to Jack Harper. I avenged Florida’s 17-14 loss to Alabama. I don’t even remember what the final score was against Georgia, but I threw at least 11 touchdown passes to match the number on my jersey. In about 20 or 30 minutes the Gators had gone unbeaten and won their first SEC championship. Oh, it was wonderful.
It was all in my 13-year-old mind, but because I was wearing that jersey, it seemed so real. I looked up at empty stands but in my mind they were full (capacity was about 48,000 in those days) and the fans were on their feet screaming for more.
That was my Gator moment. Right then and right there, standing in the north end zone, I knew that nothing would ever take the place of being a Florida Gator. I loved the Baltimore Orioles back in those days, but eventually Frank and Brooks retired and Jim Palmer’s fast ball lost its steam. I loved the Reds, but the Big Red Machine threw a rod. I loved the Celtics but Bill Russell and Havlicek retired. I loved the Baltimore Colts but they traded Johnny Unitas and moved to Indianapolis.
But the Gators were always in Gainesville and win or lose, they were always my team. To this day, they are the only team in my life that truly matters. I’m 70 years old now, but the Florida Gators were, are and always will be my team.
I walked back to my grandparents home that morning. Dirty Dan the bicycle man was out fixing a bike. I think he rolls over in his grave now that apartments are going up at the place where he used to always have a soft heart and a cheap bike for a student with a sad story. Dan remembered me (he knew my grandfather well) and asked where I had been. I told him Mississippi. He just shook his head, then reached out a greasy hand that I shook although I was careful not to touch my jersey until I got home.
When I got back to my grandparents home nobody really had to ask where I had been or what I had been doing. They knew. My smile told them. I wore the jersey all weekend and every chance I got when we got back to Mississippi. I kept wearing it even when it didn’t fit anymore. It became threadbare and I had to toss it finally, but it will always be my favorite Christmas present of all time.
So where where you and what were you doing when you realized that there was room for only one team in your life and it was the Florida Gators?
Merry Christmas everyone. God bless you.
