Thank you so much for reminiscing about John. It is so delightful hear his virtues and shenanigans. The 54 years he called me his "little bride" and Patty. Thank you all of the 64 Scrappers for adopting me. It was such kindnesses shown to me I wish we could have a mini reunion every couple of months. We could meet at a restaurant for fellowship Think we could try?
"The real man smiles in trouble, gathers strength from distress, and grows brave by reflection." Thomas Paine.
I am standing on the tennis court facing John Casey, who is about to completely obliterate my fleeting daydream of the fame and fortune that I imagined would come my way in the world of professional tennis. OK, it's 1965; and pro tennis back then wasn't exactly what it would later become. The advent of superstars such as Jimmy Connors, John McEnroe, and Billie Jean King was still years away, but I had thought the name "Mike Cobb" would look good in lights. John Casey burst that bubble, but he did it like he did everything else: graciously and tactfully.
Some background: John and I had transferred to Memphis State from Southwestern in the spring of '65. Registration at Memphis State was an ordeal, a melee of madness based on Stone Age technology that required everyone to go to the Field House and stand in long lines. At Southwestern, one didn't do anything as gauche as stand in line to register (one might perspire on those nice khakis and oxford cloth buttondowns)--"pre" registration was done by mail the summer before school began . However, as freshmen transfer students at Memphis State, we were the lowest of the low; and we faced the likelihood of finding that the classes we wanted were aready filled up and not available. We had to have a phys ed course to round out our dance card at MSU, and there was only one class left: weightlifting. John and I landed in the weightlifting class, along with fellow Scrapper Mickey Simpson; and, being mortified at the prospect of lifting weights for an hour three times a week, I was more than grateful for their company. John of course was right at home, having logged plenty of gym time at South Side, but I had never encountered lifting weights before. As it turned out, I was decent at it (especially with John on one end of the barbell and Mickey on the other); and our grade was based on learning the muscle chart, not the amount of weights we lifted. Then when summer came I was needing to pick up one course to get my credit hours right, so memories of the serendipitous time in weightlifting led me to consider taking another phys ed course: tennis. I discussed it with John, and he decided to do it also. I can't remember if John had another class that summer, but it was the only "class" I had in the first semester of summer school. Five weeks or so spending the morning on the tennis courts--what a life.
There were about fifteen of us, maybe more in the class; and after a brief introduction to the rules and the nuances of court etiquette, the format for the rest of the course was to play a daily series of matches. The pairings were initially seeded alphabetically, with the winners of each singles match then playing each other in the next match, so that one would eventually rise to the top of the standings, or fall to the bottom. I realize now that the alphabet was kind to me. I was paired with a fellow "C," Cunningham. I was worried. Cunningham ws several inches taller than me, with beach-bleached blond hair and movie-star charisma; and his clothes obviously came from some place other than Sears or Dixiemart. He had a pair of "cool guy" expensive-looking sunglasses. I demolished him. John won his match, too. Yay, Scrappers!
Moving up the alphabet, I faced Camper, another "C" in the next match. I still had my innate trepidation. Camper was tall and slender, with graceful moves; and he was also black (still is, I imagine). It was close, but I edged him out. I moved further up the standings chart, ready to stake my claim on the #1 position, earn an A in tennis; and, who knows, maybe I had found my place in the sun. Coming up through school, in every intramural sport I played where the captains chose sides (except soccer, amazingly), I would do an automatic about-face, knowing that I would be chosen toward the end. But here I was, excelling!
Casey beat Baldi, setting up the Showdown of the Undefeated, Alphabetically-Linked Scrappers, which would secure for the winner the number one spot as we neared the end of the first week. Oh lord, I have to play John. He of course was a very good athlete. I had some familiarity with the game, having played it before; and I was able to move adroitly across the court, but John just methodically placed the ball where I couldn't hit it; and he did it without huffing or puffing or any show of flash. That was his style: quiet grace under pressure. I lost the first set badly, then did decently in the second set; but soon it was all over. I knew I could never turn pro; and I would have to complete that accounting degree. There was a loud-mouth guy (whom we had nicknamed the Missouri Mouth) further down the line that John took out, much to my delight. I don't remember exactly where John finished in the standings--but it was pretty close to the top.
I dropped like an anvil to the bottom of the standings, but was never dead last. On my descent down the alphabet, plummeting toward Tennis Purgatory, I faced Camper again, who had that "not again, buddy" look of determination, and he reaped revenge for his previous loss. I could, however, always beat Cunningham. It obviously frustrated him, being bested by this scrawny guy from South Memphis, who could always, always, beat him on the tennis court. Cunningham's final act of frustration was to invite me to play tennis with him at his swanky private tennis club in Midtown. Surely, he must have thought, on his own turf (or court, actually) he could finally defeat me. He took me there, one day after class. He donned his aviator sunglasses and we hopped into his convertible MG. We went to some fancy place that I didn't know existed, had lunch (for which, mysteriously, no cash ever changed hands). Everyone (except those who served the food) was white and very well dressed. He looked like he had stepped off the pages of a Brooks Brothers catalog, but that didn't help him a bit against the guy with the Sears clothes. I beat him again....and again. Looking back on it, I realize, hell, I should have let Cunningham beat me. He might have invited me again to his club, we could have become best buds; and perhaps I could have met one of those Unattainable Rich Girls with their thin shaplely legs who wandered around his private club sporting tans that I'm sure weren't acquired at McKellar Lake.
South Side produced its share of public figures, the best known of which is Billy Fletcher, who continued his prowess at MSU, where he set records for passing, kickoff returns, and field goals. Those records have all been broken, I think, but it took at least THREE guys to do it. He also earned national attention and acclaim for igniting the Tiger offense in a route of previously undefeated and highly-ranked Mississippi State. South Side also produced Marvin Throneberrry, destined to become "Marvelous Marv," the darling of the beloved but inept New York Mets during their first years in MLB. Marvin, in spite of being the butt of many jokes, became a sports celebrity, but we should not lose sight of the fact that one had to have been VERY good to even make a major league roster, especially in an era when there were ten fewer teams than today. It is interesting to note that Scrapper Jimmy Hardin (('62? '63?) won 19 games as a starting pitcher for the Yankees in 1968, but never achieved the fame that Marvelous Marv did. We also had others who excelled in entertainment and broadcasting, as well as commerce and industry; plus one alumnus who became a U.S. Supreme Court member.
All of that is great, but I think our bread-and-butter was that diaspora of young people who just did the right thing--they pursued their vocations seriously, made something of themselves, took care of their familes, and made their communities a better place. That was John. Our time together during those first few years of college gave me the opportunity to get to know him better than I had in high school. He would talk about what was going on in his life--school, family, girl friend. That's girl friend in the singular. That was John. He would talk about Pat with a reverential tone that was both hushed and excited. Conventional wisdom states that whereas women will talk openly to one another about their feelings and their love life, men don't do that. They remain taciturn. There is, I suppose, some truth to that. Men generally have to be involved in an activity (golf, fishing, hunting, working on cars, etc.), and then they use that as the backdrop for their conversations, such as, Guy#1: "Man, these Stromberg carburetors aren't worth a damn. You and Mary Lou still going out together?", followed by the reply from Guy #2: "Yeah, this car's in bad shape under the hood. Aw, yeah, we still datin'. Hand me that crescent wrench."
That is meaningful dialogue for men, but it wasn't that way with John. He would get a devilish grin talking about how he was going to take Pat to the airport and "watch the planes land." Yeah. Sure. One time he showed me a token that he had made while they were at the Fairgrounds, at one of those booths where you stamp words out on a blank coin. "Loving Patty Always" it was supposed to be, except he had hit the wrong key; and it came out "Loving Pitty Always." But it was the thought that counts, and John knew what mattered.
In the same way that John methodically and graciously worked his way through the Alphabetically Seeded Tennis League, dispatching the brash losers to join me in the nether world at the bottom of the standings, I'm certain that John excelled in his profession, mastering the nuances of the business world and quietly and respectfully showing up the blowhards who often try to dominate things. I'm sure he was a pillar of stability and offered valuable insites to the corporate world. No, he didn't have the flash of Billy Fletcher, or the star power of Marv Throneberry, but he was a hero. Our hero.
Billy Fletcher died in January of 2016. I cried when I got the news, which sort of startled me. I did not know him personally, never had a conversation with him, even though I saw him plenty of times in the halls of the old South Side on Richmond. It was sort of like losing Elvis, mourning the passing of a larger than life figure who seemed immortal. John died about a year later. He had exhibited that grace-under-pressure aura that was his trademark, but I think we all knew that it was coming. Once again, I cried; and I still mourn for how we can never fill the void he left. I wish I had kept up with him better, once I had gotten away from Memphis. With the turn of the century, and all of that technology available, how hard would it have been?
I still clearly see John, in his sweatshirt in the Fieldhouse weight room, or swinging his racket on the tennis court. I see him shifting the gears that were on the steering column of that pale green Chevrolet (Impala?) with the wavy tailfins so loved by auto designers in the early 60's; and, even though I wasn't there, I swear I can see him injecting words of wisdom and tension-easing wit into business meetings, or quietly taking care of his yard, helping his neighbors, going to church, or enjoying each daily routine with his family and the love of his life. The real deal. A real man, the kind that Thomas Paine wrote about. Loving Patty always. Always.
"Nothing you could say could tear me away from my guy /Nothing you could do 'cause I'm stuck like glue to my guy /I'm sticking to my guy like a stamp to a letter / Like birds of a feather we stick together.
As a matter of opinion I think he's tops / My opinion is he's the cream of the crop.
He may not be a movie star, but when it comes to bein' happy / we are / There's not a man today, who can take me away, from my guy."
"My Guy", written by Smokey Robinson, #1 on Billboard in 1964. As sung by Mary Wells. As lived by John and Patty Casey.
I did not get to know John except from afar. He sounds like a wonderful guy to know and Pat was a lucky girl and he a lucky guy. Mike, everyone time that you put words to paper, you give me chill bumps. I don't whether to get out a hanky just be jealous of your adventures. Judy Jackson
I actually envy you your memories, Mike. I have no recall of all those details you share with us so easily. I remember John warmly, but without the specific instances to relate. John and I shared intellectual interests -- usually with the equal involvement of Eddie Brunson. Math and science provided us an arena of mutual admiration, cooperation and friendly competition. The opposing girls' team was usually Gwin Parker, Mary Ann Oliver and Sarah Peyton. And, they were equally admirable, cooperative and formidable. I treasure those remembrances and absolutely detest the lack of detail accompanying them.
I was on the golf team with John, Mickey Hartsfield, John Presley, Teddy Russell, Jerry Hankins. We had to bond because we had no coach or school sponsorship for that matter. We were authorized and recognized enough to earn Scrapper jackets but nothing else. We had to get ourselves to matches, pay our own greens fees, use our own equipment, golf balls, etc. Even so, most of the spcifics evade me. Except I know that I was obsessed with it and it was great fun. I guess I've been too long, loo far separated from those times and those folks.
Bottom line . . . please keep posting these musings you have of those times. I find it quite easy to wallow in your memories and pretend mine are just as strong and heartwarming. In my head right now I hear Little River Band -- 'Reminiscing' . And, yeah, I'm smiling.
I met John in the first grade at Mallory Heights Elementary school. He was always such a nice guy. He was quiet, but not shy, and always a perfect gentleman all the way through South Side. He was one of those kinds of guys that you were comfortable being around. I'll never forget John. He was one of the BEST. Thank you for your beautiful tribute to our friend, Mike.
Mike, Thank You again for Sharing your Memories of our Classmate John. You are a Great Storyteller and I Love to read about your adventures with our Fellow Scrapper's! Looking forward to the next time that We can All Be Together! Stay Safe. 🌹😊🦋
Today is the 4th anniversary of John's home going to Heaven. I miss him terribly but the memories just get sweeter. Thank you all for being so sweet and thoughtful and coming when we had the memorial. We are downsizing to our new home and all would be welcome. Our address is 115 Old Pastures Lane, Piperton, TN 38017. We are about 10 minutes from our old house.
Our grandson, Jack, is graduating and he is valedictorian. He chose Ole Miss majoring in Computer Engineering. Busy packing and graduation festivities. I am tired! Hope to here from you all
Patty Swain (Casey)
Mary Anne
Thank you so much for reminiscing about John. It is so delightful hear his virtues and shenanigans. The 54 years he called me his "little bride" and Patty. Thank you all of the 64 Scrappers for adopting me. It was such kindnesses shown to me I wish we could have a mini reunion every couple of months. We could meet at a restaurant for fellowship Think we could try?
Again thank you for your kind words, my friend
Patty Casey
Michael Cobb
THE REAL DEAL
"The real man smiles in trouble, gathers strength from distress, and grows brave by reflection." Thomas Paine.
I am standing on the tennis court facing John Casey, who is about to completely obliterate my fleeting daydream of the fame and fortune that I imagined would come my way in the world of professional tennis. OK, it's 1965; and pro tennis back then wasn't exactly what it would later become. The advent of superstars such as Jimmy Connors, John McEnroe, and Billie Jean King was still years away, but I had thought the name "Mike Cobb" would look good in lights. John Casey burst that bubble, but he did it like he did everything else: graciously and tactfully.
Some background: John and I had transferred to Memphis State from Southwestern in the spring of '65. Registration at Memphis State was an ordeal, a melee of madness based on Stone Age technology that required everyone to go to the Field House and stand in long lines. At Southwestern, one didn't do anything as gauche as stand in line to register (one might perspire on those nice khakis and oxford cloth buttondowns)--"pre" registration was done by mail the summer before school began . However, as freshmen transfer students at Memphis State, we were the lowest of the low; and we faced the likelihood of finding that the classes we wanted were aready filled up and not available. We had to have a phys ed course to round out our dance card at MSU, and there was only one class left: weightlifting. John and I landed in the weightlifting class, along with fellow Scrapper Mickey Simpson; and, being mortified at the prospect of lifting weights for an hour three times a week, I was more than grateful for their company. John of course was right at home, having logged plenty of gym time at South Side, but I had never encountered lifting weights before. As it turned out, I was decent at it (especially with John on one end of the barbell and Mickey on the other); and our grade was based on learning the muscle chart, not the amount of weights we lifted. Then when summer came I was needing to pick up one course to get my credit hours right, so memories of the serendipitous time in weightlifting led me to consider taking another phys ed course: tennis. I discussed it with John, and he decided to do it also. I can't remember if John had another class that summer, but it was the only "class" I had in the first semester of summer school. Five weeks or so spending the morning on the tennis courts--what a life.
There were about fifteen of us, maybe more in the class; and after a brief introduction to the rules and the nuances of court etiquette, the format for the rest of the course was to play a daily series of matches. The pairings were initially seeded alphabetically, with the winners of each singles match then playing each other in the next match, so that one would eventually rise to the top of the standings, or fall to the bottom. I realize now that the alphabet was kind to me. I was paired with a fellow "C," Cunningham. I was worried. Cunningham ws several inches taller than me, with beach-bleached blond hair and movie-star charisma; and his clothes obviously came from some place other than Sears or Dixiemart. He had a pair of "cool guy" expensive-looking sunglasses. I demolished him. John won his match, too. Yay, Scrappers!
Moving up the alphabet, I faced Camper, another "C" in the next match. I still had my innate trepidation. Camper was tall and slender, with graceful moves; and he was also black (still is, I imagine). It was close, but I edged him out. I moved further up the standings chart, ready to stake my claim on the #1 position, earn an A in tennis; and, who knows, maybe I had found my place in the sun. Coming up through school, in every intramural sport I played where the captains chose sides (except soccer, amazingly), I would do an automatic about-face, knowing that I would be chosen toward the end. But here I was, excelling!
Casey beat Baldi, setting up the Showdown of the Undefeated, Alphabetically-Linked Scrappers, which would secure for the winner the number one spot as we neared the end of the first week. Oh lord, I have to play John. He of course was a very good athlete. I had some familiarity with the game, having played it before; and I was able to move adroitly across the court, but John just methodically placed the ball where I couldn't hit it; and he did it without huffing or puffing or any show of flash. That was his style: quiet grace under pressure. I lost the first set badly, then did decently in the second set; but soon it was all over. I knew I could never turn pro; and I would have to complete that accounting degree. There was a loud-mouth guy (whom we had nicknamed the Missouri Mouth) further down the line that John took out, much to my delight. I don't remember exactly where John finished in the standings--but it was pretty close to the top.
I dropped like an anvil to the bottom of the standings, but was never dead last. On my descent down the alphabet, plummeting toward Tennis Purgatory, I faced Camper again, who had that "not again, buddy" look of determination, and he reaped revenge for his previous loss. I could, however, always beat Cunningham. It obviously frustrated him, being bested by this scrawny guy from South Memphis, who could always, always, beat him on the tennis court. Cunningham's final act of frustration was to invite me to play tennis with him at his swanky private tennis club in Midtown. Surely, he must have thought, on his own turf (or court, actually) he could finally defeat me. He took me there, one day after class. He donned his aviator sunglasses and we hopped into his convertible MG. We went to some fancy place that I didn't know existed, had lunch (for which, mysteriously, no cash ever changed hands). Everyone (except those who served the food) was white and very well dressed. He looked like he had stepped off the pages of a Brooks Brothers catalog, but that didn't help him a bit against the guy with the Sears clothes. I beat him again....and again. Looking back on it, I realize, hell, I should have let Cunningham beat me. He might have invited me again to his club, we could have become best buds; and perhaps I could have met one of those Unattainable Rich Girls with their thin shaplely legs who wandered around his private club sporting tans that I'm sure weren't acquired at McKellar Lake.
South Side produced its share of public figures, the best known of which is Billy Fletcher, who continued his prowess at MSU, where he set records for passing, kickoff returns, and field goals. Those records have all been broken, I think, but it took at least THREE guys to do it. He also earned national attention and acclaim for igniting the Tiger offense in a route of previously undefeated and highly-ranked Mississippi State. South Side also produced Marvin Throneberrry, destined to become "Marvelous Marv," the darling of the beloved but inept New York Mets during their first years in MLB. Marvin, in spite of being the butt of many jokes, became a sports celebrity, but we should not lose sight of the fact that one had to have been VERY good to even make a major league roster, especially in an era when there were ten fewer teams than today. It is interesting to note that Scrapper Jimmy Hardin (('62? '63?) won 19 games as a starting pitcher for the Yankees in 1968, but never achieved the fame that Marvelous Marv did. We also had others who excelled in entertainment and broadcasting, as well as commerce and industry; plus one alumnus who became a U.S. Supreme Court member.
All of that is great, but I think our bread-and-butter was that diaspora of young people who just did the right thing--they pursued their vocations seriously, made something of themselves, took care of their familes, and made their communities a better place. That was John. Our time together during those first few years of college gave me the opportunity to get to know him better than I had in high school. He would talk about what was going on in his life--school, family, girl friend. That's girl friend in the singular. That was John. He would talk about Pat with a reverential tone that was both hushed and excited. Conventional wisdom states that whereas women will talk openly to one another about their feelings and their love life, men don't do that. They remain taciturn. There is, I suppose, some truth to that. Men generally have to be involved in an activity (golf, fishing, hunting, working on cars, etc.), and then they use that as the backdrop for their conversations, such as, Guy#1: "Man, these Stromberg carburetors aren't worth a damn. You and Mary Lou still going out together?", followed by the reply from Guy #2: "Yeah, this car's in bad shape under the hood. Aw, yeah, we still datin'. Hand me that crescent wrench."
That is meaningful dialogue for men, but it wasn't that way with John. He would get a devilish grin talking about how he was going to take Pat to the airport and "watch the planes land." Yeah. Sure. One time he showed me a token that he had made while they were at the Fairgrounds, at one of those booths where you stamp words out on a blank coin. "Loving Patty Always" it was supposed to be, except he had hit the wrong key; and it came out "Loving Pitty Always." But it was the thought that counts, and John knew what mattered.
In the same way that John methodically and graciously worked his way through the Alphabetically Seeded Tennis League, dispatching the brash losers to join me in the nether world at the bottom of the standings, I'm certain that John excelled in his profession, mastering the nuances of the business world and quietly and respectfully showing up the blowhards who often try to dominate things. I'm sure he was a pillar of stability and offered valuable insites to the corporate world. No, he didn't have the flash of Billy Fletcher, or the star power of Marv Throneberry, but he was a hero. Our hero.
Billy Fletcher died in January of 2016. I cried when I got the news, which sort of startled me. I did not know him personally, never had a conversation with him, even though I saw him plenty of times in the halls of the old South Side on Richmond. It was sort of like losing Elvis, mourning the passing of a larger than life figure who seemed immortal. John died about a year later. He had exhibited that grace-under-pressure aura that was his trademark, but I think we all knew that it was coming. Once again, I cried; and I still mourn for how we can never fill the void he left. I wish I had kept up with him better, once I had gotten away from Memphis. With the turn of the century, and all of that technology available, how hard would it have been?
I still clearly see John, in his sweatshirt in the Fieldhouse weight room, or swinging his racket on the tennis court. I see him shifting the gears that were on the steering column of that pale green Chevrolet (Impala?) with the wavy tailfins so loved by auto designers in the early 60's; and, even though I wasn't there, I swear I can see him injecting words of wisdom and tension-easing wit into business meetings, or quietly taking care of his yard, helping his neighbors, going to church, or enjoying each daily routine with his family and the love of his life. The real deal. A real man, the kind that Thomas Paine wrote about. Loving Patty always. Always.
"Nothing you could say could tear me away from my guy /Nothing you could do 'cause I'm stuck like glue to my guy /I'm sticking to my guy like a stamp to a letter / Like birds of a feather we stick together.
As a matter of opinion I think he's tops / My opinion is he's the cream of the crop.
He may not be a movie star, but when it comes to bein' happy / we are / There's not a man today, who can take me away, from my guy."
"My Guy", written by Smokey Robinson, #1 on Billboard in 1964. As sung by Mary Wells. As lived by John and Patty Casey.
John Presley
Straight from the heart Mike, and, very powerful.
Michael Cobb
Thanks, John. We all have a wealth of memories. Glad I could get this one out,and on paper....or silicone.
Judy Jackson
I did not get to know John except from afar. He sounds like a wonderful guy to know and Pat was a lucky girl and he a lucky guy. Mike, everyone time that you put words to paper, you give me chill bumps. I don't whether to get out a hanky just be jealous of your adventures. Judy JacksonJudy Jackson
Oops for the typos. Judy jacksonDonald (Don) Morgan
I actually envy you your memories, Mike. I have no recall of all those details you share with us so easily. I remember John warmly, but without the specific instances to relate. John and I shared intellectual interests -- usually with the equal involvement of Eddie Brunson. Math and science provided us an arena of mutual admiration, cooperation and friendly competition. The opposing girls' team was usually Gwin Parker, Mary Ann Oliver and Sarah Peyton. And, they were equally admirable, cooperative and formidable. I treasure those remembrances and absolutely detest the lack of detail accompanying them.
I was on the golf team with John, Mickey Hartsfield, John Presley, Teddy Russell, Jerry Hankins. We had to bond because we had no coach or school sponsorship for that matter. We were authorized and recognized enough to earn Scrapper jackets but nothing else. We had to get ourselves to matches, pay our own greens fees, use our own equipment, golf balls, etc. Even so, most of the spcifics evade me. Except I know that I was obsessed with it and it was great fun. I guess I've been too long, loo far separated from those times and those folks.
Bottom line . . . please keep posting these musings you have of those times. I find it quite easy to wallow in your memories and pretend mine are just as strong and heartwarming. In my head right now I hear Little River Band -- 'Reminiscing' . And, yeah, I'm smiling.
Tbanks, Mike.
Sandra Lee (Sandy) Young (Higginbotham)
I met John in the first grade at Mallory Heights Elementary school. He was always such a nice guy. He was quiet, but not shy, and always a perfect gentleman all the way through South Side. He was one of those kinds of guys that you were comfortable being around. I'll never forget John. He was one of the BEST. Thank you for your beautiful tribute to our friend, Mike.
Rosemary Rider (Parsley)
Mike, Thank You again for Sharing your Memories of our Classmate John.You are a Great Storyteller and I Love to read about your adventures with our Fellow Scrapper's! Looking forward to the next time that We can All Be Together! Stay Safe. 🌹😊🦋
Patty Swain (Casey)
Today is the 4th anniversary of John's home going to Heaven. I miss him terribly but the memories just get sweeter. Thank you all for being so sweet and thoughtful and coming when we had the memorial. We are downsizing to our new home and all would be welcome. Our address is 115 Old Pastures Lane, Piperton, TN 38017. We are about 10 minutes from our old house.
Our grandson, Jack, is graduating and he is valedictorian. He chose Ole Miss majoring in Computer Engineering. Busy packing and graduation festivities. I am tired! Hope to here from you all
Much love
Patty