Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth (Matthew 5:5).

My wife knows me pretty well, and overall, she seems to approve. Except for one thing. She finds it perplexing that the proponent of nonviolence she married fondly remembers playing football in his youth.

When we married, she had two kids in the high school band, which forced her to attend games. After we witnessed a particularly vicious tackle, she turned to me and asked, “How could anyone want to play this sport?” Normally slow on the uptake when put on the spot, I threw a hail Mary for a touchdown: “Well, short of warfare, it’s the only chance guys get to put their bodies on the line for their friends.” 

Recently, I read the news that Donnell Thompson, a teammate on the Lumberton High School Pirates in the mid-1970s, died at 65. He had many more teammates, and not only in high school. He played on the storied University of North Carolina defensive unit. Then he moved on to the Baltimore-then-Indianapolis Colts, for which he started all 11 years of his professional career. Many of his teammates undoubtedly have great stories to tell. I’m sure this is one among many. 

In any case, let’s be clear: I was a pint-sized offensive guard who shared with the guys beside me the dubious privilege of blocking Donnell in practice. Let me add, however, that thanks to a superb offensive line coach named Tommy Thompson, we were a first rate unit. We contributed to Donnell’s early development by challenging him every practice. He almost always prevailed, of course, but we made him work.

Everyone knew Donnell Thompson would go far since he was a giant at about nine or ten in the Midget Leagues. I was still a midget in high school by offensive line standards. Now I was small, BUT…..I was slow. Donnell was enormous, BUT….he was quick, agile, and savvy. Sometimes I fired out at him and got nothing but air because he jumped over me. But typically, we collided, and I’m proud to say I usually emerged in one piece. Note the word, “usually.”

During my senior year, his junior, Donnell and I served on the four player football committee, a term our new head coach introduced instead of “co-captains.” One day we came out of a football committee meeting angry at the coach. It was pure teenage anger over something silly, probably fueled by the fact that the new head coach was, well, new. 

Whipping each other into an adolescent frenzy with our bitter complaints, I finally blurted out, “Maybe I should just quit!” Then Donnell said, “Yeah, me too.” He might as well have thrown a bucket of ice water in my face. I woke up to reality, from which we had drifted far, and said, “Donnell, don’t you ever even think that! You’re going to play in the NFL! I’m just going to do something boring like go to graduate school!”

Donnell laughed – and his laugh was always contagious – so we laughed together all the way to the locker room. My comment tickled us, but we laughed more because we both knew how absurd it was to think that either of us would ever quit.

About seven years later, I walked across the UNC campus after a summer class I took toward a doctorate in counseling psychology. The sunny, Carolina blue sky illumined a towering, muscular figure walking toward me. Just as I made out his beaming smile, Donnell Thompson called out, “Jenkins, what are you doing here?!”

Beside a low wall, he stepped his left foot up on it and lowered his face to my level with a warm smile. No collision this time. I told him briefly about my doctoral work, but of course, I knew about his work. I read it in the papers: The Baltimore Colts drafted him in the first round, and he started immediately with the number 99 on his jersey. Which raised the question, “What are you doing here, Donnell?”

Coach Smith made sure of it, he explained. Of course, he was referring to Dean Smith, the legendary basketball coach whose most winning attribute was his care for student athletes even if they played a different sport. Thanks to Coach Smith, Donnell’s contract with the Colts included a provision that he must complete his bachelor’s degree. He said he enjoyed his classes. 

So the NFL star and graduate student met. I never saw him again. But as sad as I am to see the news of his death, my heart warms with the reports I read of him before and since he died. They tell of a businessman who cared about the character of his employees and who gave generously of his resources and wisdom to young athletes, even the pint-sized ones. 

Apparently, Donnell was meek. In the Bible, “meek” does not mean wimpy. One does not wipe up the floor with a meek person, as Donnell could have done with just about anyone. It means using one’s strength gently for just and caring purposes. About 40 years ago in Chapel Hill, told him I was proud of him. But I am even more proud of him for the way people remember him in the community after his athletic career was a distant memory.

So I did not write this because Donnell Thompson was famous. I wrote it because he was my teammate, and not the first to die. We put our bodies on the line for each other, each and every one of us, and we laughed together too. Even way over in Rome, Georgia, far from the old hometown, I get this lump in my throat when I hear of their deaths. I do not know when this one will pass.

Related Post

Bart Starr: My Childhood Hero

Indianapolis Colts Photo