Hadn’t seen ol’ Red for years until late Monday in a swanky establishment in Indianapolis.
I had written him off years ago and thought he would be dead by now, probably from drinking his sorrows away.
Last time I saw him was at a bar in Jacksonville called the Free Bird Lounge.
He was on the sidewalk out front in baggy pants, frayed flannel shirt and an old pair of oversized bowling shoes he’d found in the dumpster behind the bowling alley.
“Hey, stranger,” he said then, “you got any money for an old man to get a drink?”
As he took of his hat and turned it over so I could drop some coins in it, you couldn’t mistake that shock of sensational scarlet hair.
I looked into his gaunt face and hollow eyes.
“Red, is that you?” I said. “Aren’t you Red Black? Aren’t you the soul and spirit of Georgia football?”
Shamefaced, his eyes darted downward. It was clear ol’ Red didn’t want to be recognized. Too many personal setbacks. Too many embarrassing losses.
Even so, when I offered to buy him a beer, he eagerly followed me inside. He ordered a Schlitz draft and thirstily downed it in a few gulps, licking the beer foam from his scruffy mustache. I asked him why he was in the shape he was in.
That’s when he began to tell me his whole story; the story of his glory days and his gory days. He asked if I would order him another beer and a shot of Jim Beam as he relived the 1980 season when freshman running back Herschel Walker carried his Dawgs to the national championship.
He savoringly smelled the shot of bourbon like it was a bouquet of roses before swigging it down and chasing it with the beer. “Remember that Lindsay Scott play at the Cocktail Party in ‘80?” Ol’ Red said and smiled, showing his rotting, yellowed teeth: “We broke the heart and the spirit of them damn Gators that afternoon. It was the best day of my life. And, man, did we destroy some property that night!!!”
But then Red turned melancholy.
“Another beer and a shot of whiskey sure would cheer me up,” he said.
Another round, barkeep.
“After 1980,” Red explained. “I’m not sure what happened. I started making bad decisions, hanging out with the wrong crowd, drinking too much, thinking that I could get serious and sober anytime I wanted. Then that doggone Steve Spurrier showed up at Florida.”
Ah, yes, Spurrier turned ol’ Red into a laughing stock. He made fun of ol’ Red, taunted him and treated him like the town drunk he had become. All of Red’s old colleagues in the SEC laughed right along with Spurrier, who beat up ol’ Red every October in Jacksonville.
But Red really went over the edge in 1995, when they were renovating the stadium in Jacksonville and Georgia hosted Florida “Between the Hedges” in Athens. Spurrier, whose Gators were already winning by a huge margin, called a pass play late in the game that led to another touchdown and a 52-17 victory.
“That S.O.B. embarrassed me in front of all of my friends,” ol’ Red seethed, trembling with anger. “And then after the game, he bragged and said, ‘We knew nobody had ever scored 50 on ‘em here so that’s what we were trying to do.”
Red said that was the day when he vowed to clean himself up and get his life back together, but as he downed yet another shot of whiskey and another mug of beer, it was clear that he fallen off the wagon yet again.
I asked for the tab, wished ol’ Red good luck and stuffed a $20 into his front shirt pocket. As I waited for the barkeep to bring my change, ol’ Red stumbled out of Jacksonville’s Free Bird Lounge and into the street as the jukebox played Molly Hatchett’s “Gator Country.”
“I’m going to get it together,” he slurred. “Next time you see me, you won’t recognize me.”
Sure, Red.
Whatever you say.
You’re not going to believe it, but after the Georgia Bulldogs beat Alabama on Monday night to win their first national title since 1980, I was in an upscale bar called the Elephant Room in Indianapolis. Across the bar sat a sharp-dressed, well-groomed man with a manicured mustache and derby atop his head. He was dressed to the nines in a $10,000 Valentino cashmere suit with the jewels from his Louis Moinet wrist watch glistening against the varnished mahogany bar.
Two attractive women sitting a few seats down were making eyes at him when the bartender came to take his order.
“I’ll have a snifter of LOUIS XIII Cognac, and bring the ladies a bottle of Dom Pérignon,” the man said, debonairly doffing his derby to acknowledge the women.
And when the hat came off, there it was — that shockingly unmistakable head of scarlet hair.
I did a doubletake, hurried across the bar and exclaimed, “Ol’ Red, is that you? Is that really you?”
Red flashed a grin of perfectly capped white teeth and told me about his resurrection.
He spoke eloquently about all of the persistence and perseverance, the hard work and sacrifices it took to get out of the gutter. He talk about how Georgia’s coach Kirby Smart motivated and inspired him to get back into the game.
The bartender approached and asked Red if he wanted another drink.
Red shook his head and said, “No thanks, Joe, one’s my limit.”
He thanked the women for their company, shook my hand again, left $100 bill on the bar for Joe and sauntered toward the street.
The tuxedoed piano player sang his rendition of Cat Stevens’ “I Love My Dog.”
And as he hit the door, he turned and told me,
“Next time you see Spurrier, tell him ol’ Red’s looking for him.”
