When I was a little boy in Anaheim, the walls of my bedroom were adorned with the images of my boyhood heroes. I wasn't enamored with movie stars or rock stars. My fascination with The Beatles, Springsteen and girls would eventually come, but when I was a little tyke, I would lie in bed gazing at the posters of my heroes of the gridiron, Roman Gabriel and Deacon Jones of the Los Angeles Rams.
Without fail, I would join my friends in the neighborhood park every Saturday morning for a game of football. The shirt I would customarily wear was worn thin, but one could still see the number 18 I had scrawled on the back with a black marker, representing the quarterback of the Rams, Roman Gabriel. Once my team was playing defense, I would turn my shirt inside out, where the number 75 would display my admiration for the greatest of the Rams' Fearsome Foursome, David "Deacon" Jones. Mr. Jones was my hero. Why? Only because he was the greatest defensive lineman in the game. That's why.
One day, I learned that the Rams' Deacon Jones, Jack Snow and Bernie Casey would be signing autographs at the Sears store at the Buena Park Mall. After begging my mother to take me, I stood in line with about 20 other kids and their parents. I recall that many of these kids had purchased glossy photos for these players to sign, but I came equipped with nothing but three small scraps of paper.
As I approached the table, and Mr. Jones reached out his huge hand and asked me for my name. I reached for his hand and only later realized that he was merely reaching for my piece of paper. I shook his huge hand, muttered "B..B..Brad" and then watched him sign my little scrap of paper. He was so very nice, not just to me, but to everyone in line on that hot summer day. That little scrap of paper was pinned to my bulletin board for years, eventually to be lost forever. Mr. Jones was my hero that day. Why? Only because he was the greatest defensive lineman in the game, and a very nice man. That's why.
Deacon Jones retired from the NFL in 1974, and was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame in 1980. Thereafter, Mr. Jones was rarely in my thoughts until late one night, while lying in bed channel surfing, I found a sports channel where the great Deacon Jones was being interviewed. At the bottom of the screen was a telephone number to call if a viewer wanted to call in to speak to this legendary player. Well, my lovely wife was still brushing her teeth, so what the heck. I picked up the phone and dialed the number. To my surprise, I was put right through to speak once more to my boyhood idol, the great Deacon Jones.
We talked at length. I told him that he was my boyhood idol and that I met him 35 years earlier at the Sears store at the Buena Park Mall, in a courtyard that no longer exists. He kept me on the phone for what seemed like an eternity. He talked to me during a commercial break, referencing the Fearsome Foursome's 1965 appearance on a teen dance show called "Shindig," and laughing about the fact that Merlin Olsen had no rhythm and couldn't dance worth a lick. I imagine there were other callers waiting on line, but he seemed to like me, and he and I talked at length. Mr. Jones was once again my boyhood hero. Why? Because he was the greatest defensive lineman ever, he was nice, and he was generous. That's why.
A few years ago, I played in a golf tournament in Coto de Caza, and as luck would have it, Deacon Jones was the celebrity host. He was no longer the Deacon Jones of years gone by, his gait altered by severe arthritis and surgical intervention, and his physical stature now less than mine. But there he was. Just 20 yards away from me. Sitting at the VIP table along with his wife, calmly eating his meal and seemingly laughing every 30 seconds or so.
Now, there is an unwritten rule that one should NEVER interrupt a celebrity as they eat, and you should NEVER invade their personal space. Nope. This is a major faux pas known by anyone with half a brain. You should always time your approach when appropriate. I knew this basic social norm, but hey: This is "Deacon Jones!" I decided to put the remaining half of my brain on pause and interrupt the man's meal.
After approaching Mr. Jones' table and interrupting his conversation, I dropped to one knee and told him what an honor it would be for me to just shake his hand and to formally thank him for serving as my boyhood idol for all those years. Well, he took his cane, moved it to the other side of his chair, spun ever so slowly and shook my hand. His hand now seemed so small. Once again, we talked at length.
As his wife leveled a rather severe stare at me (I did not care in the least), Mr. Jones and I talked about football. We talked about the autograph he gave me (he joked that with me growing up in Anaheim, he must have been the first black man I had ever met...I think he was). We talked about "Shindig." We talked about the Rams. We talked about the members of the Fearsome Foursome who had passed away, Lamar Lundy and Merlin Olson. We talked about his charity, the Deacon Jones Foundation (an organization dedicated to mentoring young, inner city kids and providing financial assistance for college in exchange for those students providing services to their communities for seven summers). We talked through the salad, the entree and the desert. He then got up to give a speech (I sat in Mr. Jones' chair) and then he returned to talk with me some more.
After Mr. Jones mentioned the grief he experienced at the death of his former teammate, Lamar Lundy, I mentioned my favorite quote from Abraham Lincoln. Mr. Jones loved it. He turned to his wife to get a pen and a small scrap of paper not much bigger than the one I handed him 40 years earlier and he wrote the quote down. He then asked if I had a "fancy phone," and we stood to have the waitress take our picture.
Mr. Jones was once again my boyhood hero. Why? Because he was the best defensive lineman the game has ever known. Because he was nice. Because he was generous. Because he founded a charity to help inner city youth and to teach them to give back to their communities. Because he was a great man. That's why.
While flying to Oklahoma City last week, I learned that Deacon Jones had passed away at his home in Anaheim Hills at the age of 74. I'd be lying if I didn't admit to shedding a tear when I saw the news broadcast in the airport terminal.
I imagine that after our last encounter, Mr. Jones never gave me a second thought. But I would like to think that at some point after our last meeting, he emptied his pockets after returning home and found that little scrap of paper that referenced my favorite quote from Abraham Lincoln:
In the end, it's not the years in your life that count, it's the life in your years.
God blessed Mr. Jones with a great talent, and God blessed me with a boyhood idol who was everything a boyhood idol should be. He never let me down.
Not once. Not ever.
Brad McGirr didn't grow up to be a football player, but is an attorney who was elected overwhelmingly to be a City Councilman in Rancho Santa Margarita
