Bryson City Tales (21 page)

“May want to go over to practice and talk to the coach,” he suggested. “Name's Dietz—Boyce Dietz. He's
not
local. Lives over in Sylva. Actually, I suspect if he had his way, he'd be coachin' over there. But he's here, and he does a pretty dern good job. Anyway, go up there and talk to him about it.”

I couldn't wait.

I was almost giddy throughout the afternoon, at times excited about the prospect of being the team's sideline physician, at times nervous, thinking I might be rejected—being new to the town and all. I was aching for a stronger sense of belonging here in Bryson City. And I really wanted to make my mark in some way, to make a difference in the end.

After seeing my last patient for the day, I drove up to the “temple” for local football—the Swain County stadium. For a small town this stadium was magnificent. I suspect there are many junior colleges lusting for such a venue. It was carved into the side of a small mountain. The visitors' metal bleachers could hold nearly 1,000 fans, but the concrete home stands, running from 25-yard line to 25-yard line and climbing over thirty rows high, could easily seat 2,500 fans—with another 2,000 or so being accommodated on the adjoining hillside. At the peak of the stadium was a spacious press box. At the north end of the stadium was a field house that was more suited for a small college than a high school.

I parked outside the chain-link fence and walked toward the immaculately groomed field. I felt strangely at home. Several dozen spectators occupied the lower row of the stadium, and lining the fence at the edge of the field were another couple dozen men. I came to find out that they, along with many others, attended nearly every practice. Some had kids playing, but most did not. They just loved football and they loved this team. It had become part of their life, part of their family. Earl Douthit was right—the team played a vital role in this community's life.

As I walked up to the fence, one man turned toward me. He looked slightly familiar and obviously recognized me. “Hey, Doc. How ya doing?” He was a large man with a friendly smile. He stuck out his hand to give mine a shaking. “Preston Tuttle's the name. Met you at Dr. Mitchell's office.”

Now I remembered. Mr. Tuttle had come in with a bad cold or something. “Good to see you again, Mr. Tuttle.”

“Preston's fine with me, Doc, if it's all the same to you.”

“OK, Preston. And, uh, Walt works for me.”

“Sounds good to me, Doc.” He couldn't bring himself to call me Walt. Never did.

“Doc, this here's Joe Benny Shuler.”

I shook hands with Joe Benny, who had been standing next to Preston.

“He's your mailman.”

“Yep,” Joe Benny said. “Been bringing your mail up to the Gunn house. Man, you shore do git a buncha magazines, and them thangs are some kind of heavy.”

Preston's eyebrows rose. I suspected he was wondering exactly what kind of magazines I was getting. I was to learn that in the economy of mountain gossip, one was guilty only until proven innocent.

Joe Benny chuckled. “Preston, Doc here gets a mess of medical magazines. He don't get any of them brown-paper-wrapped magazines like you.”

Preston swatted him on the head and turned to me. “There's one sure way you can tell that ol' Joe Benny's a lyin' to ya.”

“How's that?” asked Joe Benny.

Preston continued looking at me and said, “His lips are movin'.”

Both men laughed. They clearly liked each other.

“Preston, I'm surprised to see so many folks out here watching practice,” I commented.

He chuckled. “Actually, the crowd's a bit sparse just now. When the plant lets out, then the crowd will really grow. Folks 'round here love this team. Most of these folks either played on this team or had kids who played. A few, like me, have kids playing now.”

“Where's Coach Dietz?” I asked.

“That's him over there.” Preston pointed to a man standing on the line of scrimmage, just watching—allowing his junior coaches to coach. “One mighty fine head coach we've got there. Hasn't had a losing season since his first year. In fact, he's won over 80 percent of his games. Took us to the state championship in '79. Nearly got us there last year. He's put together the best staff in the state. Over there,” he pointed to a man in the middle of the defensive team huddle, “is Bob Marr. He was the head coach over at Cherokee. Man, Cherokee is one of our bitterest rivals. Yet ol' Boyce Dietz done stole him away from Cherokee. Best line coach in the state. Colleges are always trying to recruit him. But he loves it here too much.”

Preston went through each of the staff, highlighting their résumé, their strengths and their weaknesses, their families and their pedigree. Then he proceeded to inform me about the team members and their biographies. His knowledge was truly impressive. “I've been coaching most of these boys since their youth league days. Watched 'em grow up. It's a joy to watch 'em now. We're gonna have a great team this year. A great team.”

I explained to Preston my desire to work with the team.

He looked worried. “Have you talked to Doc Mitchell? He kinda thinks of hisself as the team physician, although he's never been out to a practice and only comes down from the stands if he's called. Seems to like the glory he gets when the whole town hears his name called over the loudspeakers. You best talk this over with him.”

“Preston, I have.”

He looked shocked. “You
have?
What'd he say?”

“Well, he encouraged me to come talk to the coach about it.”

“I'm surprised. Real surprised. When did you talk to him?”

“Well, I'm working with him in his office, so we talked just this afternoon.”

Preston nodded knowingly.

“What?” I asked.

“You're working for him. That explains it,” Preston announced matter-of-factly. “You see, that man wants to either control everything or know about everything. So maybe he thinks he'll still be able to control things and still get the glory even if you're on the field.”

Preston motioned for me to follow him, and we headed over to Coach Dietz.

“Coach, this here's the town's new doc. Dr. Larimore, this here's the finest high school football coach in the great state of North Carolina, Boyce Dietz.”

“Good to meet you, Doc.”

“You too, Coach.”

“Coach, Doc here wants to help the team.”

“Need all the help we can get, Doc. Whatcha got in mind?”

“Well, for the last three years of my residency I studied sports medicine under Dr. Frank Bassett, the team physician for Duke University athletics for many years. If you'd be interested, I'd be willing to pitch in and help you with any sports medicine needs you might have. I'd be pleased to come and check the kids at practice once or twice a week and to be on the sidelines during the games.”

His eyes widened a bit.

“Of course, I don't mean to intrude if you've already got some folks working with you. Just want to help out if you need me.”

He remained silent, looking real serious.

Preston broke in. “Doc here's working with Docs Mitchell and Cunningham—down in their office. He done talked with Doc Mitchell and Doc done give him the OK to come talk to you.”

Now the coach's expression relaxed. He smiled and turned his head to spit out some dip. “This town can be a bit political,” he confided.
The understatement of the century,
I thought. “Can't be too careful. But if it's OK with Mitchell, I'd be right glad to have you with us.” He stuck out his hand to seal the deal.

I was thrilled. To me there was nowhere better to be during football season than on the sidelines with your favorite team. Number one, you had the best seat in the house. Two, you got to know the coaches and the ballplayers and their families. Three, for a would-be or over-the-hill athlete, there was the ongoing and vicarious thrill of reliving past hopes and dreams. I couldn't believe my good fortune. I couldn't believe that no other doctor wanted this honor—this joy.

I whistled all the way home. I was a team physician. Well, . . . sideline physician. This was big—really big!

chapter eighteen

MONUMENTS

F
riday couldn't come soon enough. After the Monday football practice, the week slowed to a snail's crawl. I felt like a kid during the week before Christmas. Game day couldn't come soon enough.

I returned to the practice field every day after work. It quickly became my habit to be as close to the team as possible. Most days the team didn't practice in the stadium. It was reserved for the games. The practice field was across town—on School House Hill. I had stopped by the practice field the night of the murder. It was located right next to the Bryson City cemetery.

During the practice I'd quietly walk around, observing and learning. Watching how the coaches and kids interacted. Looking for limps that might disclose an old injury—or maybe one that was being covered up. It was the closest I could come to being part of the team. It felt good. Real good.

I also began to get to know Boyce Dietz. My experience as a team physician while at Duke had taught me that head coaches are in an unusual position. Often they don't have anyone to share with, to be vulnerable with. To share with assistant coaches or with players risks appearing weak or indecisive. Most have wives who tolerate their profession and its sacrifice of family time—at least during the season. Nevertheless, most of these women don't want to hear anything about football in the brief amount of time they have with their husbands. That leaves the team doctor—who often becomes the coach's sounding board, confidant, adviser, physician, and friend. It was a relationship I enjoyed at Duke and hoped to enjoy with Coach Dietz.

During those first days I could sense him testing me. He'd come to the sideline after going on the field to fix a problem he'd seen, and he'd ask me a question or two. Partially probing my knowledge of football, football players, and sports medicine, partially probing my ability
to communicate. Would I be an uppity know-it-all doctor? He'd seen far too many of those. Would I be a coach wanna-be—deluded into thinking I knew more football than he did? He heard from far too many of them every week, especially at practices.

“Doc,” he said, “Tony Plemmons, my quarterback, likes to ice his ankles after practice. You think he ought to use some heat?”

Careful,
I thought. Coaches without team physicians on the sideline had to learn a lot of practical day-to-day sports medicine. They had
their
ways. And they certainly didn't want some newcomer upsetting their ways or challenging their authority. I knew I'd have to tread lightly.

“Well, Coach, the college and pro trainers really debate this. Some like to use ice, some prefer heat. One of the newer approaches is called contrast therapy, where you alternate icing and heating, but you start and stop with ice. If you want, I can tell you what I think.”

He looked interested—or perhaps amused—as he lobbed the ball back into my court. “Well, I think I
am
interested in what you think.”

Careful,
I thought again. “Well, Coach, I think you've kinda gotta go with what works best out here, not just with what worked best at Duke. What have
you
found to be the best treatment?”

He smiled. I was guessing I had gone the right direction by giving him some options and then deferring to his experience and expertise—which he was glad to share. “I've found that the ice packs work best. I think if it's OK with you, I'll stick with that.”

“Sounds good, Coach.”

He smiled.

A little later he came back to where I was standing and continued the test. “Thinking about adding a triple wham. Sylva's got a huge defensive end on the right side. Hard to double-team him. What do you think?”

Now he was testing my football knowledge. When you wham blocked, you used two guys, usually running backs, to block a single defensive player. A triple wham was almost never tried, because it left too many other players unblocked. “What's their tackle and linebacker on that side like?” I asked.

He nodded his head. “They're big, but slow. And the corner-back can be taken away pretty easily.”

“Can your tight end set it up OK?”

“Think so.”

“Coach, I haven't seen a triple wham since my sophomore year in high school.”

“I don't think Babe Howell [the Sylva coach] has ever seen one either. Might like to have it ready.”

Having passed question two, I watched him run out on the field and teach his team a new trick. Boyce loved new tricks and always had a few in every game plan. He was an intensely driven man, and his drive resulted in both significant football success and consequential acid reflux. I noticed him almost constantly chewing on Tums tablets, and over time I learned to read his pained facial expressions. I could sense when he was angry, disappointed, or simply experiencing heartburn.

During Wednesday's practice I was standing on the sideline watching the scrimmage. Coach Dietz had become livid about a poorly run play and had gone into the offensive huddle to fix the problem himself. After things were running smoothly again, he came back to the sideline and walked over to me. But instead of turning toward the field, he kept his back to the action. After a moment I turned to see what he was looking at. He was staring up the hill at the cemetery.

“Doc, you ever think about death?”

I nodded. “Coach, in my profession we think about it more than we want.”

His next question took me by surprise. “Doc, you ready?” He paused. Then he looked me straight in the eye. “I mean, if you knew you were going to die today, would you be ready?”

Now it was my turn to pause. I looked down at my feet for a moment and then up at the hill of headstones. I thought about having just started my new profession and about my young family. I thought of Kate—a whole life in front of her as a disabled adult. I thought about Barb, now pregnant with Erin Elizabeth—and we didn't even have life insurance. I thought about my personal relationship with God, a relationship that had begun in my college days. I enjoyed my times of Bible reading and my quiet times, and our worship at church too. I felt
spiritually
ready for death but not financially or psychologically ready. It was my turn to choose. Would I be vulnerable? Would I be transparent?