Note: One October, probably 15 years ago, my boy asked if he and his buddies could camp out in our backyard. As part of the gathering, the rowdy boys asked if I would tell them a ghost story. I had to oblige. Now, maybe it’s my newspaper background, but I’ve always known the best stories are rooted in truth. So, taking my cues from the season, I concocted this story. Warning, not all of this information is truth, so don’t go fact-checking on me. As Coleridge might say, I present the following for your willing suspension of disbelief.
Von Gammon grew up in downtown Rome. Born way back in 1879, he lived in a white two-story Federal on East Third Avenue, just a few blocks from bustling Broad Street. Strong, loyal and competitive, he decided to pursue his higher education at the University of Georgia and joined the football team, long before they were called the Bulldogs. Von was a fullback for the team, which had a goat for a mascot. He helped the Goats to an undefeated season in 1896, outscoring Wofford, North Carolina, Sewanee and Auburn.
The team took that success with them the next year under the direction of the legendary Pop Warner with Von helping Georgia to wins over Clemson and Georgia Tech. Then, on a chilly October 30th, the Goats took the field against Virginia in their third game of the season. A few plays into the second half, Von found himself at the bottom of a pileup, striking his head on the hard ground near the 30-yard line at the west end of the field.
Von emerged from the pile, stunned, but eager to take his place on the line. Team captain Bill Kent asked Von whether he was ready to return to the game.
"Von, you are not going to give up, are you?"
"No, Bill," Von replied, "I've got too much Georgia grit for that."
Those were the last words Von Gammon ever uttered. He collapsed to the ground and was rushed to the hospital where he died the following day. It was All Hallows Eve -- Halloween. Von’s funeral service was held at First Presbyterian Church, its mournful bells tolling the passing of a valiant field warrior.
The outcry from educators, religious leaders and others was swift. Football should be banned, they said. The Georgia Legislature was in session at the time, and some well-meaning senators decided to take a stand, wishing to comfort Von’s family and to remove the pallor of death from the state’s revered university. They passed a bill that would outlaw football in the state, ending the teams at Georgia, Georgia Tech and Mercer. All that was needed was Gov. William Atkinson’s signature, but Von’s mother, Rosalind, wouldn’t have it.
Rosalind wrote a letter to the governor pleading with him not to sign the bill.
“It would be inexpressibly sad to have the cause Von held so dear injured by his sacrifice,” she wrote. The governor listened, and did not sign the bill, effectively saving the sport of football in Georgia. Still, Rosalind mourned her son’s death. Grief is a powerful emotion, and the weight of Von’s death escaped neither Rosalind nor the hallowed hedges that frame Georgia’s field.
On football Saturdays, Rosalind would retreat to Von’s bedroom and sit by the window, remembering the days when her son played the game he loved on their front lawn. And on those game days, Von’s teammates would pause at the western 30-yard line to remember their fallen brother.
As the years have passed, most Georgians have forgotten the legacies of Von and Rosalind Gammon, but not the Romans who know to frequent East Third Avenue in the weeks around Halloween, and not the Bulldogs who find themselves between the hedges on October weekends.
As the leaves fall and the sun sets, Rosalind still mourns her son. Walk or drive by the Gammon house on Saturdays when the Dawgs are playing, and you may see her in an upstairs window, staring absently into the distance. And on Halloween night, if you listen ever so closely, you’ll hear the church bells just down the street, remembering the young football player who died that Halloween night exactly 125 years ago this year.
And, if you have the good fortune to attend a Georgia game, take note of the hedges, somewhere near the 30-yard line at the west end of the field. With each tackle, there’s a rustling, and if you can get close enough to touch them, you’ll feel a noticeable drop in temperature. Georgia football has not forgotten Von Gammon, and some say Von has not forgotten Georgia football. The Georgia grit to which Von held so tightly, has tethered his spirit to the hedges at the very spot where he took his final fall.
Epilogue: It turns out that I may have been a more convincing storyteller than I had imagined. The boys camped out at our house on a Friday night. The next day, two of them were in Athens, watching the Bulldogs play. I was watching the game on TV when my phone rang. "Mr. Bill! We're at the Georgia game! Where did you say the hedges got colder at?" And with that, this story was sealed into legend, at least in a few young minds.
Some details of this story were researched from:
Opmerkingen