We were an
unlikely pair: The legendary
All-American player and Hall of Fame coach, educator, Mayor, and veteran radio
announcer and me—a lowly Baptist preacher from LA (Lower Alabama). For the last ten years of Harold Bowen’s storied
50-year career as the play-by-play voice of the Lexington Yellow Jackets, I sat
by his side. I was his side-kick, his
color commentator, or as Harold said “a common tator.” I loved every minute of it.
In one of my
first sermons in Lexington I made a reference to “Jonah swallowing the
whale.” I did it on purpose to simply
see if the congregation was listening.
They weren’t. But Harold
was. He loved it and the next week invited me to be
a guest on his radio show. We spent the
entire time telling jokes and talking football.
Fred Lohr was
helping Harold broadcast the games back then.
When Fred suffered a heart attack on a Thursday night, Harold called me
the next morning to see if I could help him that night. I helped him for the next decade.
I have dozens of
delightful stories from my time broadcasting with Harold. We made a great team and enjoyed playing off
of each other. The listeners may not
have heard the most professional broadcast, but they could tell we were having
fun. And I quickly learned that Harold
Bowen was all about those young men on the field. The only rule he had was, “You don’t
criticize a player. You never call a
young man out when he makes a mistake.”
Harold and his devoted
wife, Jean, lived their lives for young people. If I hear someone say, “Harold
and Jean didn’t have any children,” I correct them. They have had 100s of
children and they have blessed their lives in a multitude of ways. When Jean died,
Harold set up a memorial endowment in her name to help the young people of our
church. He continues to bless the lives of young people.
Harold became one of my
best friends and one of my most trusted confidants. And when my father died in
1998, Harold became a father to me. I could share things with Harold I couldn’t
share with anyone else. There were times I just needed to talk and he was
always there to listen.
Harold’s health had been
declining for several years. He was on dialysis and it was taking its toll. But
there was one thing Harold loved and that was coming to church on Sunday. His
faith was deep and true. He would sit in the back and pretend to sleep, but I
knew better. I knew if I had Moses building the ark Harold would catch it if no
one else would.
A few weeks ago Harold was
sitting at the front of the church to see his good friend, Dave Colescott,
being baptized. I wore a Carolina T-shirt, ostensibly for Dave who played
basketball for Dean Smith, but really for Harold. Dave was there for Harold,
too. He knew this baptism would mean as much to Harold as it would to him. We
sang Harold’s favorite hymn, “There is a Balm in Gilead, “and I laughed when I
remembered the night we played Mt. Gilead and Harold chastised me for
pronouncing it like Gilead in the Bible. When it came time for the baptism,
Harold carefully poured water from the Jordan River into Dave’s water pitcher.
Two days later Harold crossed the Jordan River into the Promised Land.
I spoke at my Dad’s
funeral. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. And as I
prepared to stand up and speak at Harold’s funeral, I felt the same way. When
Mickey Sharpe started to sing, “There is a Balm in Gilead,” I thought I was
going to lose it.
Harold always taught me
that I needed to be ready to speak at a moment’s notice. If the game is
delayed, if the refs are late, if there is a weather delay, you always had to
be ready to talk. And so somewhere, deep within, I mustered the strength to
stand up and honor the man who was my friend, my mentor, my encourager, but
most of all, a father to me.
