Of Heroes and Coaches, Fathers and Sons

WHEN I WAS A STARRY-EYED high school sophomore dreaming that I could be the next Johnny Unitas, I met a real life All American quarterback whose story seemed straight out of an inspiring Hollywood film, long before “Friday Night Lights.”

His name was Robert Duty, and he could have been the older brother of anyone on our team. He was in his early 20s, and he was a legend at our high school in Central Texas, having quarterbacked the school’s only team to ever win a district championship in a state where football is king.

Robert Duty in a sports media photo at North Texas State University, 1960.

Robert Duty in a sports media photo at North Texas State University, 1960.

He had gone on to play college football at North Texas State University, where he was good enough to be signed as a free agent by the San Diego Chargers of the upstart American Football League, which would eventually merge with the National Football League – and that’s where he had been that summer, toiling through the Chargers’ pre-season camp trying to make the team as a rookie.

So imagine our surprise when our high school’s two-a-day football workouts began and we discovered the much heralded high school hero back home where he had become his alma mater’s quarterback coach.

The story of how Coach Duty had wound up back home quickly got out, though not from his mouth. While in the Chargers’ rookie training camp, where he had been impressing the San Diego coaching staff, he got a long-distance call from home with bad news: His father had become seriously ill and might even die.

That day Duty left the Chargers’ training camp with the door open for him to return. He never did.

“Robert wanted to be home to help take care of his father,” our former head coach, Ira Conner, later told me. “Robert loved his father like no son I ever knew. His dad was the center of his universe. He credited him for becoming the athlete he became, and he was going to be at his father’s bedside now that he needed his son.”

The story brought a lump to my throat, as I’m sure it did to other athletes who heard it.

I must confess that I was hardly Coach Duty’s prize pupil.

“For a quarterback,” he once said to me, “you sure ask all the wrong questions.”

That was true. In fact, I never played quarterback for his teams, nor even graduated from that high school.

But it didn’t stop me from asking questions, questions that I’m sure Coach Duty didn’t want to consider.

Was he ever going back to the Chargers? How could he walk away from pursuing his childhood dream? Hadn’t he wanted to become an NFL quarterback?

“Son,” he said to me one day, after I had pestered him once more. “There are bigger dreams than becoming the next Johnny Unitas.”

That shut me up, but only for a while.


Quarterback Robert Duty calling signals in North Texas State University’s 1960 homecoming game against Hardin-Simmons.

A few years later, while I was a young sportswriter at my hometown daily, I was telling the story about Coach Duty giving up his shot at becoming an NFL quarterback to be with his ill father to my role model among sportswriters, Jim Montgomery, a columnist at the paper.

“You know, there’s something there,” said Jim. “Robert Duty had incredible talent. Who knows what he might have been had the stars lined up differently.”

Montgomery then told me that he had once interviewed Abner Haynes, an outstanding running back with the Chargers and other NFL teams in the 1960s who had been teammates with Duty at North Texas State.

“Abner Haynes said that Robert Duty was the best quarterback he had ever played with, bar none,” Jim said.

By this time Duty was head coach of his alma mater, University High School in Waco, Texas. One day I cornered him again, there to continue asking all the wrong questions, I’m sure he thought. His father had died two years after he left the Chargers’ rookie camp, and life had moved on.

Did he have any second thoughts? Being that talented and that close to achieving his childhood dream – some people might have looked on that as a tragedy.

We talked that afternoon, about childhood dreams, about fathers and sons, about heroes and rebels. We each had tears in our eyes. When he gave me a parting hug, it was as if I had hugged Johnny Unitas.

“Son, the only tragedy of my decision,” he finally said, “would have been if I hadn’t come home.”

A few years ago, when my own father died, I got a condolence letter I didn’t expect. It was from Coach Duty and said simply: “Nothing’s greater than a father.”

I had heard the same thing from my own childhood hero, Mickey Mantle, as I have from many other men whose lives would not have been the same without their fathers.

It’s so true.

Sadly, last week I got the news that Coach Duty, at the age of 76, had died there in Central Texas, not all that far from the high school and the football field where he became a legend.

And, in his own way, every bit as big as Johnny Unitas.

I Believe in Tom Wolfe, the Writer Almighty…

In 1979, New Journalism guruTom Wolfe dropped by the old journalism building of the Los Angeles Herald Examiner.

This is columnist Tony Castro’s take of the day in 1979 when New Journalism guru Tom Wolfe dropped by the old journalism building of the Los Angeles Herald Examiner.

Published in the Los Angeles Herald Examiner, October 21, 1979


THE POPE WALKED into the office today. His presence was high-fashion pietistic.

Divine off-white three-piece suit, his manicured hands cradling a dark hat, looking all majestic, like a communion wafer you would wet on your tongue and then swallow as if Sanctifying Grace were a course of French cuisine at Perrino’s.

There was nothing radical chic about the way he walked. Like an astronaut to a launch. He mau-maued a few newsroom acquaintances and caught no flak in our pumphouse gang known as the Herald-Eczema, where we celebrate mass with Kool-Aid acid-tested beer since we’re too poor for Chateauneauf du Pape or whatever the pope orders at Perrino’s or Elaine’s in New York where he lives.

He seemed almost like a vision, one of those Ahas!, an exclamation point on a constipated key of an IBM Selectric because the pope sometimes writes as if suffering from colitis, and, of course, because he is the pope, he can get away with it.

Tom Wolfe walked into the office today. He is on his national tour mau-mauing his latest book, The Right Stuff, to critics, reporters, talk show hosts, to all the brethren of the written and spoken word. whose souls have a tinge of intimidation and spasms of insecurity around the man, the writer, Caramba! the pope of New Journalism himself, the only being among us with, yes, the right stuff.

More than any journalism school, more than any creative writing class, Tom Wolfe and the so-called New Journalists, who all seem to trace their ancestry back to the old New York Herald-Tribune, have had a greater influence on the kind of writing that is being practiced today in non-fiction, in magazines  and now, in some places, in those dinosaurs of writing, newspapers.

But at the top of them, el numero, the writer who has never been left behind because he has the same eye for the word as he does for threads, is Tom Wolfe. Compared to him, the works of other writers read like Hallmark greeting cards. No one can touch him. He is the High Mass … the right stuff.

You feel, uh, not worthy that his word should enter under your roof. When you see him, nothing about him out of place, you have to recite the New Journalists’ Creed:

I believe in Tom Wolfe, the Writer Almighty, Artist of Culture and Life. And in the Kandy-Kolored Tangerine Flake Streamline Baby, His first Son, Our Model, Who was conceived of’ the Holy Mind, born of the Virgin Word, suffered under Smaller Minds. was criticized, denounced and nearly banisned.

He ascended into legend, sitteth at the right hand of James Joyce, the Artist Almighty. From thence, He shall come to judge the Radical Chic and the Fad.

I believe in the Holy Mind, the Holy Painted Word, the Conmunion of Style, the forgiveness of excesses, the reprinting of His works and fame everlasting.

Pope Tom Wolfe walked into the office today, and I looked at him in awe. Again.

I know he is the pope because every time I see him I become just like all those masses who lined the streets to see John Paul II. I freeze and go duh…

Once, I went to hear Pope Tom speak at Boston University, and I had a great front row seat. Pope Tom came out dressed in a white pin-stripe suit, snapping his fingers and strutting, yes, strutting like he’d just blown out the sun. He smiled and with that round face of his, he looked like the man in the moon, which convinced me that the entire American space program was conceived and designed just so that we could discover Tom Wolfe.

After he spoke, Pope Tom took questions from the audience. I waited, not wanting to be an early guest into his parlor, then I finally raised my hand.

And he pointed to me! The pope actually wanted me to ask him a question! My palms went clammy. I had this great question to ask him about the New Journalism, and it stayed written there in my head, because when I finally opened my mouth and got the words out, I blew the whole thing.

“I Iove your suit,” I said and sat down.

When Tom Wolfe walked into the office today, I again sat there staring with a copy of his latest book under my arrm. I was going to ask the Pope to sign it for me.

But I couldn’t. My pulse rate was too fast and the blood pressure too hi;gh.

I would never have made it as an astronaut either.

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