JohnnyU
Footballguy
From an article in 1994 by Jeffrey Marx
I want to know. Might even need to know.
I want Bert to throw me the football again, and I want to throw it back, just like we used to do, over and over, before a game or practice. Helping him loosen up was always such a thrill, the laces of the football burning my hands because he threw so hard and with such a tight spiral. Maybe having a catch with him now will help me to understand more about then.
I also want Bert to take me fishing. He has always been such a dedicated outdoorsman. He has invited me several times, but I have never been fishing, with or without him. Maybe some time together on a quiet pond, something new from Bert now, will help me understand what exactly I might have been learning from him then.
And so here I am, a free-lance writer visiting Ruston, La., 35 miles south of Arkansas, midway between Texas and Mississippi, population 20,000, a hearty collection of folks enjoying the rolling hills, growing the best peaches in the world, and partying at Louisiana Tech.
This is where Bert was born and raised, where he has lived since the day he stopped throwing footballs, where I find him behind his desk at his lumber mill. Bert is speaking into a headset connected to his telephone,lumber. Bert Jones, selling lumber?
He and one of his brothers, Bill, own and operate Mid-States Wood Preservers, buying, treating, manufacturing, selling and shipping wood. Fifteen years ago, when Bert was still playing football and Bill was practicing law, they took a watermelon patch, hauled in some heavy machinery and started stacking wood. Now they employ about 50 locals, and the 18-wheelers keep kicking up dirt as they come and go.
Bert is 42 years old. He does a few television gigs here and there, a celebrity appearance now and then, when asked, but he has no interest in parlaying his football past to pay his bills now. No, the new Bert is taking care of his wife and four children by manufacturing and selling lumber.
But wait. The old Bert is not gone altogether. That red Swiss
Army knife. That leather case holding it on his belt. Those same old baggy shorts, just like the shorts he used to wear to and from practice each and every day during summer training camps at Goucher College in Towson.
One of my jobs before practice was collecting valuables and locking them up. Most players would turn in watches, dorm keys. Bert would just tuck that knife and its case into those baggy khakis, fold them up and turn in the whole thing. His valuables. Something about seeing them again, something to do with familiarity, I guess, is reassuring now. Maybe, just maybe, he is still the Bert Jones I knew, even though he is on the phone, selling lumber.
I want to know. Might even need to know.
I want Bert to throw me the football again, and I want to throw it back, just like we used to do, over and over, before a game or practice. Helping him loosen up was always such a thrill, the laces of the football burning my hands because he threw so hard and with such a tight spiral. Maybe having a catch with him now will help me to understand more about then.
I also want Bert to take me fishing. He has always been such a dedicated outdoorsman. He has invited me several times, but I have never been fishing, with or without him. Maybe some time together on a quiet pond, something new from Bert now, will help me understand what exactly I might have been learning from him then.
And so here I am, a free-lance writer visiting Ruston, La., 35 miles south of Arkansas, midway between Texas and Mississippi, population 20,000, a hearty collection of folks enjoying the rolling hills, growing the best peaches in the world, and partying at Louisiana Tech.
This is where Bert was born and raised, where he has lived since the day he stopped throwing footballs, where I find him behind his desk at his lumber mill. Bert is speaking into a headset connected to his telephone,lumber. Bert Jones, selling lumber?
He and one of his brothers, Bill, own and operate Mid-States Wood Preservers, buying, treating, manufacturing, selling and shipping wood. Fifteen years ago, when Bert was still playing football and Bill was practicing law, they took a watermelon patch, hauled in some heavy machinery and started stacking wood. Now they employ about 50 locals, and the 18-wheelers keep kicking up dirt as they come and go.
Bert is 42 years old. He does a few television gigs here and there, a celebrity appearance now and then, when asked, but he has no interest in parlaying his football past to pay his bills now. No, the new Bert is taking care of his wife and four children by manufacturing and selling lumber.
But wait. The old Bert is not gone altogether. That red Swiss
Army knife. That leather case holding it on his belt. Those same old baggy shorts, just like the shorts he used to wear to and from practice each and every day during summer training camps at Goucher College in Towson.
One of my jobs before practice was collecting valuables and locking them up. Most players would turn in watches, dorm keys. Bert would just tuck that knife and its case into those baggy khakis, fold them up and turn in the whole thing. His valuables. Something about seeing them again, something to do with familiarity, I guess, is reassuring now. Maybe, just maybe, he is still the Bert Jones I knew, even though he is on the phone, selling lumber.
