In the small mill town of Lindale,
Coach Jones begins his day.
His breakfast ham gives off a smell,
So great, he cannot say.
He leaves his house to walk the dog,
Walks all the way through town.
He'll even walk straight through the fog,
And talk to men around.
He'll walk the dog across the bridge,
And to the railroad tracks.
Stop right at the old pepperidge ,
And picture old setbacks.
He walks the dog back to the house,
And goes inside to rest.
To take a nap, the lights are doused,
Darker than you could guess.
He wakes up, it's now time for lunch,
He goes to feed the dog.
He comes back in, he eats a brunch,
And drinks up some eggnog.
Now he's full, and ready to go,
He gets the dog again.
Takes another walk, this time slow,
And talks to few more men.
By this time now, it has gotten cool,
So he goes to football practice.
He drives his car straight to the school,
He never distracts us.
Time to fill the water mules,
And put out the numbers.
Hope the golf cart has some fuel,
If it doesn't, he'll cumber.
He's been a coach for 30 years,
Seen many, many plays.
He's seen it all, blood, sweat, and tears,
In his abounding days.
Practice goes well and then it ends,
With rounding up footballs.
Cleaning up the field depends,
If players help at all.
The football game is on tonight,
He likes to watch the pros.
He eats a sandwich and drinks a sprite,
And off to sleep he goes.
YOU ARE READING
A Local Legend
Non-FictionA poem about Legendary football coach, David Jones. He's very dear to many of us. Not just in Lindale, but all over the state of Georgia.
