Bryson City Tales by Walt Larimore MD

Author:Walt Larimore, MD
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Array
Publisher: Zondervan

chapter nineteen

MY FIRST HOME VICTORY

Friday finally arrived. Tonight would be my first football game as a team physician in private practice. Gary Ayers’s morning news was basically all about the rivalry—past and present. He was predicting a record turnout and advising fans to arrive early for the best seats.

When I got to the office, Helen gave me a funny smile. “We’ve got something for you, Dr. Larimore.”

I followed her to the staff lounge. There was a gift-wrapped package, with maroon paper and white ribbon—the Swain County colors. I unwrapped it under the curious eyes of the staff. Inside was a white golf shirt with maroon-tipped sleeves. Over the left chest was embroidered “Dr. Larimore” and, just below that, “Team Physician.”

Leave it to Helen to burst my bubble. “Better not let Mitch see that,” she warned. “They’ve never given him one like that. And after all he does for them! I guess to get a shirt you need to be the new kid on the block, or from Duke or something like that.”

I tried to defend the difference between being a sideline and a grandstand team physician, but the explanation was lost in a cacophony of comment and argument.

Late that afternoon Mitch caught me in the hall. “Heard about your shirt, Walt.” He paused. I braced for the coming onslaught. I was certain his next comment would be, You stupid? It wasn’t. “Walt,” he sighed, “I think that’s great. Folks normally don’t take a shine to a newcomer so quickly. That’s a good sign, son.”

After finishing up the afternoon’s paperwork and stopping by home for a quick dinner, I was off to the stadium. I arrived an hour before kickoff and was waved into the reserved parking area. Joe Benny was the attendant. “Been expecting you, Doc. We done put up a special sign for you right over by the gate.”

I thanked him and drove on. Another attendant waved me into a parking spot next to the fence. “Dr. Larrimore, Team Physician” were the words on the freshly painted sign wired to the fence. I don’t mind telling you that, despite the misspelling, I was feeling pretty special indeed. At least “Larimore” was spelled correctly on my coaching shirt. But I was secretly hoping that my senior colleagues didn’t see this sign. I could only begin to imagine the professional jealousies. Perhaps petty jealousies, but nevertheless very real.

It was already getting dark, but the stadium lights lit up the field like day. The lighting system was as good as any college field I’d seen. Fantastic.

For a die-hard football fan, there’s nothing quite like the feeling of walking out on the cool turf on a crisp autumn evening. The crowd gathering in the stands, the smoke from the hamburger-stand grills, the band warming up. I drank in the sights with childhood memories surging through my mind. From my earliest memories I have deep-seated impressions of Death Valley. That was the name opponents gave to the football stadium in Baton Rouge. Games at

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