In July, 1970, my father loaded all of us into a blue, 1968 Chevy Impala sedan with newly-mounted, under-the-dash AC and headed west to Cal-ee-forn-i-a; swimming pools, movie stars, and the American Postal Workers Union Annual Convention at the Biltmore Hotel in downtown Los Angeles.

He decided that since this was a once-in-a-lifetime trip, we should hit all the highlights. On the itinerary were The Painted Desert, Grand Canyon, Disneyland, Yosemite, Sequoia, Vegas, Salt Lake City, Yellowstone, Mt. Rushmore and the St. Louis Arch. We even ventured off the beaten path and got a few kicks on Route 66 at some kitschy attractions like the Fort Courage Trading Post in Houck, Arizona.

But first, to get to all those iconic, picture postcard destinations, we had to pass through Arkansas.

That would have been Day Two of the trip. I remember because the first night we stayed on the Memphis side of the I-55 bridge in what was then a brand-spanking new Best Western but is now an abandoned, burned-out shell that you can stare straight through, front to back. The Brady Bunch was on TV that night, and Marcia, as usual, was reaping some praise or award while combing her flowing, golden locks and Jan, in a fit of jealous pique, had collapsed on the floor in one of her patented meltdowns.

The next day, we crossed the bridge into The (a la) Natural State and continued toward Little Rock. Accustomed to the towering Blue Ridge Mountains, I remember being appalled at the profound flatness of it all and watching out the window, slack-jawed, as I saw nothing but miles and miles of water, soybeans, alfalfa, rice, cotton, and for the first time in my life, houses on stilts.

But finally we reached Little Rock and civilization–such as it was. And I remember stopping for gas and a snack, and that’s when I saw the strange, exotic creature for the very first time.

It was a red pig on a postcard. I picked it up and stared at it and slowly read the caption–Arkansas R-a-z-o-r-b-a-c-k-s, Fayetteville, Arkansas. [...]

Dear Tim,

I don’t usually talk to dead people, but the special circumstances of your untimely death call for unusual tactics. You see, it’s very important for people to know the story I’m going to tell because I think it gives a capsule insight into who you were.

Or are. My apologies; I really don’t know what to say, because I really don’t really know what lies beyond that murky river. I guess that’s why they call it faith. I hope it’s all true, but I can’t prove it. For all I know, you could be sleeping soundly. If so, you can read this when you wake up.

First let me say this: I’m so sorry that this happened. I know you would have never chosen this and would have done anything within your power to prevent it. Runners aren’t supposed to die, at least not at 31. They’re supposed to keep on well into their 80s and become shirtless, wrinkled, leathery geezers who shuffle up and down Bailey Cove on a soupy, crock pot summer morning. But they say your heart was too large for its own good. Mine is bigger than normal, too. Supposedly my arteries are clear and my echo normal, but I still think about it anytime I feel the slightest twinge or ache in my left arm.

We all know they’re coming: Death and all his friends, bastards every one of them. But I’m resolved after watching the way that you lived–and what you did for my sons–that they will not get the last word. [...]

I remember that 1973 butt-whoopin’ like it was yesterday. What I didn’t remember were all the rest that went along with it.

No, I’m not referring to the time I was playing in my mother’s sacrosanct living room and broke her prized vase. The scalding that followed burned bright and hot. She regretted that one, as I recall, checking me later in the afternoon for “marks” and apologizing profusely, probably worried that Dad would get on her for being a little too rough.

I’m talking about the 77-6 smackdown that Bear Bryant’s boys, with their high-octane wishbone offense, laid on Charlie Coffey’s hapless crew of Virginia Tech Fighting Gobblers (aka, “The Hokies”) in October of that year down in Tuscaloosa. The Alabama record book still glows like Three Mile Island from that one: 833 yards of total offense, 53 runs for 748 yards, 4 runners over the 100 yard mark.

Afterward, The Bear knew how that one would be received. He offered up a mea culpa of sorts,  hemming and hawing in that gravelly baritone of his.  “The last thing I wanted to do was embarrass young Charlie Coffey,” he said. “The first team only played 12 minutes, and we were shoving in the reserves as fast as we could…I couldn’t do anything to stop it. We played 74 men.”

I couldn’t do anything to stop it. But what about the band, Bear, what about the band?

Alabama finished that year 11-1 and won the National Championship. As for “young Charlie Coffey?” All he got was a pink slip and a one-way bus ticket out of Blacksburg.

But as I rediscovered this week, the 1973 Beatdown in T-town was no isolated incident during that era. [...]