Those run-over, high-heeled cowboy boots were just one of his trade marks, stuff you'd know him by. One or both legs of his faded jeans were always tucked inside those worn boots as he lumbered across the ground. His gait was uncertain, like he didn't feel exactly at home on the ground. Watching him go, most anybody in town over fifty years old could tell you a tale about his past.

We high school kids loved him! He was our undeclared good luck charm. He was our high school mascot. Sure, the Screaming Eagle was our chosen...our really, truly mascot, but Old' John was our other good luck, our hero. He'd been a rodeo cowboy years ago but now with his wife gone, no children to worry about him, his days were filled with trips to Stewart's Cafe where he joined other aging members of the local "Club" for swapping lies over heavy mugs of black coffee long grown cold.

After the early morning coffee break, John followed the cracked sidewalk to the post office tucked away next to the fire station. After visiting with anybody who was there, and reading all the "Wanted" posters, John dropped by the hospital where he checked out the patients and made room visits to those he knew. After that, he went home to watch afternoon ballgames on TV or sit close to the radio to listen. If the team was practicing, he'd get on down to Dodson Stadium and watch for awhile.

John loved all sports, but football was the best. He'd never played any when he was in school, but got interested in the game and like most any other Texan, especially West Texas Texans, football became the only game in town, once the season started. Whole communities live or die according to the Friday night score, and for each town there is an dreaded enemy!

Ours was Crowell! We hated the fans from there. Their players always played dirty and if they won, the referees had certainly been on their side and consequently cheated us out of a victory! It was patriotic to boo and cuss and shake our fists in the faces of the Crowell players. They never played fair, according to tradition, and most likely had ineligible players on the field the entire game. John understood all about beating Crowell and he always walked the sideline shouting and shaking his fist to encourage our boys.

We lived every fall just to beat Crowell!

The snake dances down Main Street after a winning game; riding around town standing on car fenders while screaming at the top of our voices....."We won, we won, we won, by golly, we won...." on into the night; the delicious hours at Stewart's Cafe with a hamburger and cherry Coke; those were the days and nights of fall in our town and Old John was always right there with us for every victory celebration, or to help us morn a loss.

In the beginning, John drove his own Ford truck to all the games, parked, entered the gate, and walked over to our side of the field to sit on the bench with the team. Nobody ever minded. In fact he became sort of a good luck charm and later, when he stopped himself from driving, "too nervous," he said, he was invited to ride the school bus with the team. After that he was a permanent fixture on the front seat of the team bus every Friday afternoon during the season.

Sometimes John would join the girls in a snake dance after the games and we'd laugh and clap while he jumped on one leg and then the other, spitting tobacco juice onto the cement street, a street blocked off and lighted by dozens of car headlights. It was at those times that our hero was 16 years old again!

After I graduated high school and went off to college, I seldom saw my old school's games but whenever I did, John was still there, jumping up from the bench to walk the sidelines when it got rough in the trenches, yelling encouragement to "his" team.

And then there was the day my mother called me at school. He'd been at the house earlier, watching the Yankees pound the Senators. Both he and Dad were Yankee fans and they had enjoyed the afternoon. John had got up to go, saying he didn't feel too good and thought he'd go home and lie down. He'd walked up the street toward his little house but never got there. Missy Clark found him out there in the dusty street when she came home from working at the laundry. He was stretched out beside the road and his face was all relaxed, so she said. Dr. James said old John had a heart attack it looked like.

The funeral was simple, there were a lot of young people there, lots of older folks too. Mama told me the high school dismissed and the whole football team were honorary pallbearers. There wasn't much of a family, kinfolks wise, but everybody in town claimed a personal kinship to their friend. Old John was the very spirit of competition, whether riding a bronc, as he did in the early days, or walking the sidelines at a football game. We loved him and we knew we'd miss him. He had the spirit that makes winners out of losers, and besides that he could look you in the eye and make you give more...try harder...focus on doing your best.

"Ol' John would have made one hell of a coach", my dad said over the grave, "but then...he'd probably rather be just what he was and what he was, was an inspiration."