Larry Johnson, my Dad, still loves football. This fundamental truth was on display in full voice on Friday night as we were hanging on the fence close to turn three of the running track and football field at Corydon Central High School. When Dad was pleased with a play’s outcome, you could hear his satisfaction. When Dad not pleased with a play’s outcome, you could hear his disapproval. When he wanted to impart his version of what the players needed to do on the play they just breaked from the huddle to perform, you could hear his advice. All of it was from the heart and he meant every syllable. Our team, North Harrison, won 43 to 39. It was great game.
I showed you a picture of him on a wall of my new office in a previous post.
This was actually a gift to him upon his retirement. A lovely lady by the name of Jane gave this to him. Her nephew is the one in the picture to the left with my Dad. It now hangs above my computer screen in my office at the same high school where my Dad was coaching while these photos were taken.
As we were standing there watching the game Friday night, I was thinking about all the ball games my Dad had taken me to over the years. There is no way even I remember all of them…and I don’t forget much. As I was there with Dad Friday night, I thought about two games in particular.
Look…for better or worse, I think about decades and what was happening twenty years ago and thirty years ago and even ten years ago. Well, 40 years ago on August 23, 1975, my Dad took me to see the Cincinnati Bengals play the Green Bay Packers in an “exhibition game”…that was the nominal term for the “pre-season” back then. This was forty years ago and the NFL regular season was 14 games instead of 16. They played six pre-season games instead of the four they play now.
This night was to be the first time I got to see my football hero at the time, Ken Anderson, play in person. He did not disappoint. He completed 15 of 21 passes for three touchdowns before yielding to back-up John Reaves. The autographs I procured from these two as a youngster: 
The Bengals won 27 to 10. The Green Bay Packers had a new coach that year. His name was Bart Starr. Though I did not get to see him play in person, I still remember him jogging out of the tunnel onto the field. His stride was just like the footage I had seen when he had a green #15 jersey on. That was a thrill.
The Packers had a quarterback that was starting to see the twilight of a very long football playing career. His name was John Hadl. What set John Hadl apart from all others playing the position in those days was that he wore the number 21. All other quarterbacks wore 10-19 for the most part. The single number jersey was not prevalent in the NFL back then. The Cincinnati Bengals did not allow a single numbered jersey until Boomer Esiason came to the Queen City from the University of Maryland by way of Long Island in the mid-80s. I wish he would have stayed in New York.
Later that same 1975 football season, on September 27th, Dad took me to Bloomington to watch the Indiana Hoosiers play the visiting Utah Utes. This game fascinated me also. I had heard of the state of Utah. I had seen it on maps. Seeing those white jersey and red numbers and helmets with a U circled gave my 7 year-old mind tangible proof that a place called Utah really did exist.
The game was a highlight in a season filled with lowlights. The Hoosiers finished 2-8-1 that year. The 31-7 victory would be the last of the season. A season that saw a long October and a longer November.
In the years since, Dad and I have seen bowl games and pro games and many many high school games. We went to Notre Dame to see a game a couple years ago. He had the time of his life. I had fun too. I thought I was going to freeze to death.
There is but one destination to see a game left. I hope one day Dad and I can walk into the Rose Bowl side by side to see a UCLA game. That is the last place I dream about. Maybe I should leave it at that.
In the meantime, we’ll go to another game on Friday night and…enjoy…and continue to…
Speak the Rights. (You can count on him yelling the rights at the game…)
Danny Johnson