Scott Adamson, Author at Adamsonmedia.com

Trusting yourself

Reggie had just finished his final wind sprint of the day when he noticed a man pacing back and forth on the edge of the practice field. He looked familiar – extremely so – but the youngster wasn’t in the habit of talking to strangers.

Now 15, he had been taught to be wary of people he didn’t know, especially when he was alone. So, he took off his cleats, wiped his face with his towel, snatched the football off the ground and prepared to walk back to his house around the corner.

**Scott Adamson writes stuff. Follow him on Bluesky @scottadamson1960.bsky.social**

“Hey, Reggie,” said the man, giving a quick wave. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Reggie was wary but hardly scared; the man appeared to be in his mid- 60s and walked with a slight limp. Still, he ignored the hail and continued his journey.

“Reggie, please,” said the man. “You know who I am.”

This time the young athlete was compelled to approach the person. He wasn’t sure why … it just felt like there was no reason not to.

“Can I help you with something, sir?”

“Sir?” said the man. “Sir’s what we call our dad. It’s me, Reggie. I’m you … you 50 years from now.”

Reggie fixed his eyes on the man’s face and could tell that he did, indeed, look like a much older version of himself. He had a broad nasal bridge, oversized ears and a small mouth compared to the rest of his face. The resemblance was remarkable, as though his yearbook photo had been run through an online age changer program.

“What do you mean you’re me?”

“I’m from 2075,” said the man. “I’m part of the Chinese Academy of Sciences Time Travel Project … CASTP is what it’s more commonly known as. They created the first time travel wormhole in 2068 and they’ve been perfecting it ever since. I volunteered to be a part of it.”

Reggie shook his head.

“That’s a cool story, bro, but you should probably find your DeLorean and head back to the future. I need to get home.”

“Wait,” said the man. “I know you don’t believe me, but let me prove it to you. Last year, you asked Cindy Stackhouse to the fall dance. You really wanted to ask Marie Houser, but you knew your best friend Jacob – Jacob Simms – had a crush on her and had been talking about asking her since school started. Because of that, you backed off. You ended up double-dating at the dance and had a terrible time because you couldn’t stop thinking about Marie. And afterwards, when everybody wanted to go to Grace Marquette’s party afterwards, you pretended to get sick so you could go home. You just couldn’t stop thinking about Marie. And then when you walked into the house, Ferdinand, your cat – our cat – had barfed in the hallway and you stepped in it.”

Reggie’s eyes widened. The man’s details were spot on.

“How … how do you know all that?” Reggie asked.

“Because I’m you, my dude. I lived it. We lived it. You’re gonna get home today and mom’s gonna have fresh oatmeal cookies for you because she always makes cookies on Wednesday. And she calls you ‘Regirito,’ which you kinda like unless she calls you that in front of your friends, then it embarrasses you.”

The man went on to describe events and thoughts that no one could possibly know, and Reggie was astonished at the accuracy of it all.

“This has got to be some kind of trick,” Reggie said. “I don’t know how you know all this stuff and it’s creepy, man. But there’s no such thing as time travel.”

The man sighed.

“There is and there isn’t. There wasn’t in 2025, but there was in 2068, which means – now – time travel has always existed. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but that’s not why I’m here.”

“Why are you here?”

“Next Monday morning you plan to walk into Peabo Tolliver’s music store and tell him you’re quitting your guitar lessons so you can concentrate on football. Don’t do it. I know you don’t wanna hear this, but you’re gonna blow out your knee in the season opener against Markham High. And then you’re gonna end up having surgery, and you’ll blow out the same knee again your senior year. And it’s gonna be really, really bad. You’ll never play football again. Not in high school, not in college, and certainly not the NFL. But if you give it up now – and stick with guitar – maybe when you see me again, I won’t be limping. Maybe we’ll be talking about music.”

Reggie tried to speak but words wouldn’t come. Instead, all he could muster was a weird moan that seemed to grow longer – and louder.

“Regirito! Son! Wake up!”

Reggie opened his eyes and saw his mother hovering over him. He was soaked in sweat and felt his heart racing.

“Are you OK, buddy?” she asked. “I heard you moaning all the way in the kitchen. Must’ve been a heckuva nightmare.”

Reggie looked around his room and – after a few seconds –realized he was awake.

“It was crazy, mom,” he said. “It was strange, but it seemed so real. I had time traveled back to warn myself about … it’s stupid.”

Reggie’s mom leaned over and gave him a kiss on top of his head.

“Well, you’ve had a lot on your mind,” she said. “Sometimes when you get stressed out you get nightmares. So, have you decided … you know, whether you’re gonna give up guitar?

Reggie smiled.

“You know, if it’s OK with you, I think I might just give up football,” he said. “I really like playing guitar. You can’t play football forever, but you can play guitar forever, right?”

“Very true kiddo … very true. And I’d rather you make hits than get hit. Anyway, your dad’s making pancakes. Why don’t you come down and get a stack.”

Reggie sat up in bed, stretched, and eyed the Stratocaster placed on the guitar stand. Even though the dream wasn’t real, it still offered good advice.

“Oh, by the way,” his mom said, leaning in the doorway of his bedroom, “there was a package on the steps this morning addressed to you. It’s from something called the Chinese Academy of Sciences. Any idea what that’s all about?”

Wood, WFL made history 50 years ago

When asked what was most notable about the 1975 World Football League (aside from its collapse after 12 weeks of the regular season), many people will tell you it was the debut of Super Bowl champions Larry Csonka, Paul Warfield and Jim Kiick with the Memphis Southmen.

Fair enough.

But if you’re looking for the most historically significant moment for the WFL – as well as professional football – it was the elevation of Willie Wood to head coach of the Philadelphia Bell.

When Wood was named to the post on July 29, 1975, it marked the first time an African-American had been head coach of a professional football team since Fritz Pollard in the early days of the NFL.

Pollard coached the Akron Pros in 1921 and his last stint was with the Chicago Black Hawks traveling team in 1928, meaning Woods knocked down a wall that had stood for 47 years.

“My original idea was to play (the race angle) down,” Wood told the Associated Press. “But obviously, the mere fact that I’m black means I feel I have to do a good job. If I can put forth all the energy I feel I have in store, if we can develop a winning team here, maybe somewhere down the road they’ll think of the Philadelphia Bell as a winning team and not me as a black coach.”

Wood was no stranger to breaking barriers.

As quarterback for the Southern California Trojans, he was the first black quarterback to play in what was then the Pacific 8 Conference. He went undrafted, but Green Bay coach Vince Lombardi signed him as a free agent and converted him to safety. In 12 seasons with the Packers, the future Pro Football Hall of Famer was part of five NFL championship teams, earning All-NFL honors six times and making eight Pro Bowl appearances.

But his first shot at being a head coach was unexpected.

Wood, 39, was hired as the Bell’s defensive coordinator for the 1975 season. However, head coach Ron Waller abruptly resigned on July 23. Wood was named Waller’s replacement just four days before Philadelphia opened the regular season against The Hawaiians.

“There are others in line for the job, but virtually everybody – from the players through the front office – thinks Willie is the best qualified man for the job,” Bell assistant publicity director John Waldeyer said.

With such a short turnaround, Wood realized the opener would be a challenge.

“Whenever you have a change of administrations, there are problems,” he said. “I do anticipate problems, but of what kind and degree I don’t know. We have the finest bunch of players I know, and I don’t anticipate any problems with them.”

Although the 1975 WFL was actually a different entity than its 1974 predecessor, the Bell and Hawaiians had many of the same players from the year before when both teams finished with 9-11 regular season records.

When they met again on August 2, 1975 – before a grand total of 3,266 fans at Franklin Field – Philadelphia escaped with a 21-15 victory, making Wood a winner in his debut.

“Frankly, I haven’t been able to answer all the calls, letters and telegrams I’ve received,” Wood told the Philadelphia Daily News for an August 6, 1975, story. “I’ve been asked over and over what it all means, so I attach a sense of importance to it. I don’t know exactly how to answer.

“It’d be erroneous to say it means nothing, but it’d also be wrong to say it’s the most important thing. It’s most important to have the job.”

Yet, while Wood had a happy beginning to his coaching career, there was no happy ending. Philadelphia was 4-7 when the WFL folded on October 22, 1975.

Wood became the first black head coach in Canadian Football League history when he was hired by the Toronto Argonauts in 1980, but they finished 6-10 that year (the franchise’s seventh consecutive losing season) and he was fired in 1981 after an 0-10 start.

As for the rest of professional football, the drought for black head coaches continued until Art Shell was hired by the NFL Los Angeles Raiders in 1989.

Wood’s Hall of Fame achievements came as a player, and he’ll forever be known as one of the all-time great Packers. But even though his coaching career was brief and there were far more losses than wins, he made an indelible mark 50 years ago today.

Remembering Ryno

When you reach my age, you start to realize that you’re much closer to the finish line than you are the starting block. And sadly, that means people you know – and some you wish you’d known – finish the race before you want it to end.

That’s what happened on Monday when the great Ryne Sandberg died.

Prostate cancer took the Baseball Hall of Famer at age 65, and I feel like I lost a friend … a friend who was just a year older than me.

Dammit.

See, Sandberg is responsible for me morphing from a mostly casual baseball fan into a baseball fanatic.

By way of background, it’s important to note that I’m not a lifelong baseball fan. When I was a young kid, all I cared about was football. Then I discovered basketball. And before I was 10, soccer entered the picture.

My only memory of baseball then was seeing my dad sit in front of the ol’ RCA Victor, watching Curt Gowdy and Joe Garagiola call the NBC Game of the Week on Saturday afternoons.

But by the time I reached my tweens, I figured it was past time that I gave a little attention to the National Pastime.

Pop had been a Yankees fan until the Braves moved from Milwaukee to Atlanta in 1966, but I liked to pretend I was a New Yorker, so they were my favorite American League team.

In the National League, however, I cast my lot with the Chicago Cubs. There was a book in my grammar school library called Mr. Cub by Jim Enright, and the story of Ernie Banks compelled me to cheer on his team.

Before long, I was soaking up every bit of knowledge I could about the game, with baseball’s Mr. Sunshine serving as my guiding light.

Now, let’s jump to the 1980s.

Most of the Braves’ games were on WTBS and the Cubs were a staple of WGN, and one of my favorite things was to watch a Cubs-Braves series with my dad. He’d root for guys like Dale Murphy, Bob Horner and Chris Chambliss, and I was rocking a blue cap with a baby bear on it and supporting Leon Durham, Jody Davis – and especially No. 23.

It was a friendly competition between us – as well as quality time – so no matter which team lost, I always felt like I won.

And while I usually cringe when I hear the words “athlete” and “hero” lumped together in the same sentence, Ryno seemed heroic to me. He was a great player, certainly – a magnet-gloved second baseman who always seemed destined for Cooperstown.

Beyond that, though, he seemed like a really good dude. He wasn’t just one of the best in baseball, he was the best of us.

Once when we were watching together, Pop turned to me and said, “I don’t care who your team is – you gotta like Ryne Sandberg.”

Even though I never played organized baseball a day in my life, Ryno made me wish I had.

Yet, as much as I enjoyed watching him ply his trade at Wrigley Field, it was old Fulton County Stadium where I got to see him play in person.

I still remember it.

The first time came on August 31, 1984, when the Cubs and Braves met on a Friday night in Atlanta. The Braves won, 3-2, with Murphy (another one of my favorite players) driving in the game-winning run with a one-out single in the ninth.

But I got my money’s worth in the top of the first inning.

After Bob Dernier flied out to open the game, Sandberg stepped up to the plate against Tony Brizzolara and blasted his 18^th home run of the season, a dinger to deep left field that sent my voice soaring and my beer splashing.

I had long wanted to be in the stands for a Sandberg game, and the fact that I got to witness him knock one out of the park made the evening perfect – even if the Cubs were on the short end of the scoreboard.

When he was done that year, the man who ultimately claimed National League MVP honors had a .314 batting average with 19 homers, 36 doubles, 19 triples, 84 RBI and 32 stolen bases.

Over the years, I was on hand for several other visits Sandberg made to Atlanta. I saw more crucial hits, more good fielding plays – more of the best he had to offer.

And his best was better than most.

His last year as a player was 1997, and by then I was already 10 years into my newspaper career. At that point, most of the baseball games I saw were through the lens of a writer instead of a fan.

Sandberg hit .285 with 282 home runs, 1,061 runs batted in and 344 steals in 15 seasons with Chicago.

He was elected to the Hall of Fame in 2005, and at the time held the record for most Gold Glove Awards by a second baseman (nine), most consecutive errorless games by a second sacker (123), and the most home runs hit from that position (277 of his 282 homers came while playing second).

Despite being a sports writer who strived to be objective, I never stopped being a fan of Ryne Sandberg, both as a player and as a person.

I never got to know him personally, but I miss him as though I did.

We should all be so lucky to leave that kind of legacy.