I liked college football better when Squab Jones was in charge of UGA’s NIL money.
I get it. I do. Schools are making millions and millions of dollars. Coaches are being paid millions and millions of dollars. Somehow in that environment, room, board, tuition and books for the players that we fanatics are paying to watch just doesn’t seem like a very fair deal.
But I can still be a little sad that the game I have loved for so long is being ripped apart by Name — Image -- License, the transfer portal and the ever-increasing demand for dollars. May it rest in peace. And, no, I am not advocating that fans, such as myself, quit watching or attending, or giving our hard-earned dollars. I am certain that as long as my tired old bones can carry me up Ag Hill I will be on hand when Brook Whitmire declares it to be “Saturday in Athens and time to tee it up between the hedges.” I will continue to get a little misty-eyed when the solo trumpeter in the southwest corner of Sanford Stadium plays those 14 glorious notes that remind me that I have cheated death long enough to give glory to old Georgia one more time.
But can’t I at least wax nostalgic for the way things used to be, back when we could at least pretend that we were watching amateur athletes compete?
I say pretend. That’s where Squab Jones comes in.
“Squab” Jones, given name Harry, called himself the Georgia water boy. He was so much more than that. He was a gatekeeper, of sorts, at UGA athletic events, and even an advisor to Coach Vince Dooley, particularly on racial matters in the early days of integration.
I remember Squab fondly, dressed in his white pants, sweatshirt, and ever-present red baseball cap. He was a fixture around the UGA coliseum when I was a student in the early ‘70s and he could always be found near the main gate at Sanford Stadium on football Saturdays, a wad of greenbacks in his pocket and a fistful of tickets in his left hand.
Former Georgia hoopster and current Vermont radio superstar Tom Brennan explained to me early on in my freshman year, “You can always get a ticket from Squabbie, but you’d better be prepared to cross his palm with silver.”
If a large portion of those proceeds found their way into the pockets of Georgia players, well, that’s how things were done in those days. It was sort of like the fifty-dollar handshakes some players got.
I don’t know anything about any Trans Am.
But I was talking about Squab Jones. Squab’s friend and predecessor as water boy and equipment manager was Clegg Starks, who was probably the first black man ever to be associated with University of Georgia football. A tremendous athlete in his own right, my daddy swore that Clegg could throw a football 100 yards. Squab told me the same thing. Clegg worked with the Bulldogs until his death in 1964.
Squab served many of the same services as Clegg from the time in was a small boy in the early 20th century. When we say early, we mean really early, like 1910 or so. Squab was a US army veteran and served with the 10th Calvary before returning home to Athens and working for the post office. His work with UGA athletics was always in an unofficial capacity, but his passion for the teams was not.
I spent many hours conversing with Squab when I was a manger of the Georgia varsity basketball team. Integration was in its infancy in the SEC and Squab was very proud of the African American players that were finally being given the opportunity to participate. He told me many times that black players would change college sports forever. He was absolutely right. Squab and I would maintain a deep-seated affection for one another for as long as he lived, and if I ever needed a ticket, I could see Squab. I usually didn’t have to cross his palm with silver, either. He would shake his head and smile and say, “Oh, manager. I can’t take your money.” But he would also deal me a ticket off the bottom of his deck, too. The good seats were on top.
Squab passed away in January 1990. It’s hard to believe his smiling face has been gone for more than thirty years. I wonder what he would think about the landscape of college football in 2022. Considering all the change he saw in his nine decades, I’m sure he would take it all in stride. I wish I could.
Enough nostalgia. We tee it up in six days. I aim to be thankful for what we have —including my memories of Harry Squab Jones — and get ready to run it back.
