Curt Watson, Neyland Stadium, the Rev. Billy Graham and me

The Rev. Billy Graham did 10 days in Knoxville in late May 1970.

The three neatly collided one magical night in 1970.

Larry Woody’s excellent column about Curt Watson in last edition of Crossville Life brought back a flood of memories of my own. Curt Watson, from afar, was a big part of my growing up.

I was in elementary school in the 1960s when Curt came on the scene. I grew up loving football. I had no choice, really, because my dad was a huge football fan — the Jets and high school football; the Vols and SEC and college football; and professional football, especially the upstart AFL. I’m not sure why he preferred the AFL to the NFL. We watched both, to be sure, but I have more AFL than NFL memories. Maybe it’s just me.

Anyway, my dad had been a standout football player at CCHS in the 1950s and as a senior was co-captain of the 1954 Red Devils. To almost a man, those who I’ve spoken with use the same word when describing him — tough. Tough. Afraid of nothing or no one. He played fullback and linebacker, and I’m told he was not so fast vertically but could fly sideline to sideline and make you pay when he got there. I started hearing those stories when I was really young — not from my dad (who showed his toughness — and his compassion — through his actions) — but from men who played with or against him.

Curt Watson’s fame and star grew along with my interest in football. To have what I knew was the state’s best running back at CCHS was thrilling beyond words, and not only for youngsters like me who loved football. The excitement around Curt was tangibly palpable, and my dad had the fever as much or more than anyone. He’d always been a Jet booster with access to both the field and locker room at games. I had always looked up to high school players from going to games — and into the locker room afterward — with my dad. It was thrilling and I dreamed about being a Jet, when that was my locker room. But Curt being at CCHS — the Jet among Jets — amplified everything.

Curt Watson as a Vol.

And so it was that Curt Watson was involved in two of the biggest moments of my young life. The first was the only time I ever met Curt. He must have been a senior at CCHS. It was during the 1967 season. I was in second grade and loved all things football, especially the Jets, the Vols and Curt. Jet Stadium was still very new, if not brand new. My family had season tickets in one of the lower sections, the ones with the blue benches and individual yellow seatbacks. We were next to the student section, with the cheerleaders down front and the band playing throughout the game. 

My favorite part of the Jet game experience was trying to catch one of the small plastic footballs the cheerleaders would throw into the stands, usually during the third quarter. I (and I wasn’t alone) would anticipate the cheerleaders bringing out the boxes that held the footballs. The balls were white with Jet-blue stripes and were maybe a quarter of the size of a regulation football and emblazoned (in Jet blue) with a Jet (of course), that year’s schedule and the sponsor (usually a local bank). The student section would turn into a frenzy as kids of all ages scrambled to catch/secure one or more of the balls. It was a free-for-all not unlike a scramble for a foul ball at a baseball games, only times about 25. It took a few seasons before I caught one on my own — cheerleaders who were friends of the family would sometimes make a special effort to get me one, which I appreciated, but my first ‘real’ catch was special. I don’t remember anything but the feeling, but it’s a great feeling. It’s what kids did at Jet football games in the Sixties and Seventies.

The night I met Curt Watson was like any other Friday night at a Jet football game — I don’t remember any detail, like who we were playing or the final score, except that it was 1967, Curt’s senior season as a Jet. We must have won because everyone was happy after the game when I went down to the field to meet up with my dad. I found him talking to Curt Watson, whose number 31 in the Columbia blue and gold was covered in grass stains and dirt and whose sturdy frame stood looming, literally, larger than life. Holder Field at Jet Stadium slopes from the track to the field. We were near the northwest corner of the stadium, near the locker rooms, and Curt was standing near the top of the slope, above me and my dad who were on the field looking up at him, his hair and face covered in sweat. I’ve never been more in awe of anyone before or since. I don’t remember what I said, if anything, nor what he said, but it didn’t matter. I’d met Curt Watson and my young life could have ended right then.

Except …

Nearly three years later and I thought I would burst waiting for the end of the sermon and program. I didn’t have a plan, really, but I had a goal. A mission. I was going down to the field. I was going to stand on Shield-Watkins Field.

Billy Graham might have been saving souls that late May night in 1970, but nobody was closer to heaven than me. Hell, I was already there. I was standing on the floor of Neyland Stadium, on the hallowed Tartan turf where Curt Watson and the mighty Volunteers pitched battle on fall Saturdays. Curt’s era as a Tennessee Volunteer, the 1969-71 seasons, are still my favorite Volunteer teams. I went to my first game in 1968 (a 10-9 win over Alabama — I sat in the south end zone with my cousin Mike) and several more during Curt’s seasons. My dad had season tickets to the Vols during those years and I usually got to tag along. I dreamed of playing football at the University of Tennessee. Standing on the field that night, I was at the apex of my life. It would be all downhill from here.

Our church had filled two charter buses with parishioners and others who were excited to see the Rev. Graham. The faithful in Knoxville had petitioned Graham to bring his crusade to East Tennessee, and when he did they responded. Graham was in town for 10 days, filling Neyland Stadium many times over and even drawing the attendance of President Richard Nixon one night.

But none of that mattered to me as I stood looking up into the cavernous stands, stands that weren’t completely double-decked yet and still had bleachers behind the north end zone but loomed as large as Curt Watson had three years before at Jet Stadium. Curt himself had run wild on the very surface on I which I stood, imagining myself in the Orange and White and running through the T and rival defenders with equal gusto. I scored several touchdowns that night, including a long run for the winning points over Alabama.

It took a few minutes but I realized that I was separated from my group and that I needed to find my way back to the buses. I had been to several games at Neyland and I sort of knew the lay of the land, so to speak, but I was not quite 10-years-old so I wasn’t real sure of myself. But  I remembered generally where we’d parked and I found the buses at about the same time everyone else got there. No one had really missed me. (Everyone, including my parents, just assumed I was with someone else. No one panicked or assumed the worst. Maybe it was the lingering Billy Graham vibe infecting the faithful but I think it was just the way folks were back then — they had a little more faith and trust in their children, and kids in turn were a little more resilient and self-sufficient.)

And that would be the end of the story, except …

I never played on the turf at Neyland Stadium. I stopped playing football — quit, if you must — just before the start of my junior year at CCHS for reasons that were far more important to me then than now. It’s a regret because I never stopped loving football. I could never have played beyond high school but I missed the last two years that I could have played for what I now realize are some pretty petty reasons, reasons that could only be important to a teenager. I don’t even remember them all. I don’t dwell on it but it never really leaves me and sort of numbs the nostalgia of those years when I really think about it.

Curt Watson went on to professional success in aviation, not football, but it wasn’t for lack of my support of his football career. I just knew he’d plow through NFL defenses like he did in college and high school and was really disappointed when nagging injuries impeded his professional progress. It was exciting to know that he was a Naval aviator then part of the elite Blue Angel aerial demonstration team, and even more exciting to learn that he’d arranged for the shell of an A-4 fighter on static display in front of CCHS be painted in blue and gold — both Jet and Blue Angel colors — by a Blue Angel maintenance crew. What a tremendous giveback to the school and community.

I’m not prone to hero worship and I don’t revere ground upon which any man walks, but my memories of Curt Watson are lasting and, the ravages of time notwithstanding, indelible. My memories are mine but I’d bet that everyone in Crossville from that time has a Curt Watson story. A former CCHS classmate recently reminded me that when seeking an update on the Tennessee game, people would ask “How’s Curt doing?” before asking about the team. He was that big of a deal. Everyone loved Curt Watson. It wasn’t just me.

But especially after I met him, he felt like he was all mine. Thanks, Curt.

rpdgraham@gmail.com