He Became A Father To Me

        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.