Category: Victory Village

Bear Bryant Called

Vito Ragazzo, an assistant football coach at University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, dropped by the Sports Information Office one afternoon to see Bob Quincy, the director. I worked there after class and I heard this exchange.

Paul William "Bear" Bryant
Paul William “Bear” Bryant

Ragazzo, who coached ends, told Quincy that he had just gotten a phone call from “Bear” Bryant, the legendary University of Alabama coach whose team had just won the national championship.

“What did he want,” Quincy asked.

“He wanted ends,” Ragazzo replied.

“I hope you didn’t give him any of ours,” Quincy said.

“He doesn’t want our ends,” Ragazzo said. “Coach Bryant wanted to know if I knew of any good ends we couldn’t get in school.”

Ragazzo said he told the Alabama coach that he knew of a couple of good ones but he said he told Bryant they were dumb as a post.

He said Bryant told him, “I’m not looking for students. I’m looking for ends.”

Coming Friday: How Times Have Changed

Were They Talking About Me!?

During my freshman year at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, when school and work allowed, I hitchhiked 121 miles to Charlotte on the weekend to see my fiancée, Donna Joy Hyland.

On one trip home four guys from the Middle East picked me up.  They spoke English but when we were almost to Charlotte they switched to, I don’t know what, their native tongue, I guess.  And I began to sweat.

Why would they do that unless they were talking about me?  What were they saying? And then driver began to slow down, and ease the car off of NC 49 onto the shoulder of the highway.

I was sitting in the back seat, next to the door on the right, and I got ready to bail. There was no winning against four of them, but maybe I could outrun them.  Hey, I had run track in high school.

When the car slowed almost to a stop, I popped the door, hopped out, and took three or four quick steps toward the rear, to get a head start.

They got out slowly, congregated next the guard rail, unzipped their pants and began urinating.  I joined them.

NOTE:   I hitchhiked home but I always took the bus back to Chapel Hill.  I would plan to leave Charlotte on Sunday afternoon or, if I just couldn’t pull myself away [Or she wouldn’t let go.],  I’d tell myself that I would take the evening bus for sure and get back into Chapel Hill at midnight.

But the bus I actually caught, time after time, left Charlotte at midnight and pulled into Chapel Hill at 4 a.m., leaving me with a long walk to my dorm, Ehringhaus, and a renewed vow: Next time I’m going to catch an earlier bus.

But I never did. Not once.

Coming Monday: “The Retort”