Pickle won’t be the only one who will miss it
As far as I’ve known, Buffalo Gap running back Pickle Nuckols has never lied to me. Never made any watch-me predictions of his yards. Never told me he planned to score five touchdowns in a game twice. Those things just kind of happened.
And it’s not like Pickle and I would talk about heated subjects after football games. I mean, all I wanted to do was get a few quotes, find the story and hustle back to the office to make sure my story was filed before deadline. So, why would he lie during any of that? Exactly. He didn’t.
But when I headed over to his father’s house Friday evening and entered the spacious family room/kitchen, I was surprised what Pickle told me when I poked and prodded his mind in an attempt to find out what he was going to miss about playing football in high school.
Of course, he’s going to miss the community. A community that loved him as a regular-old kid as much as they loved him as a football players. I’ve been covering high school sports for almost 10 years now at three different stops and I’ve never seen a community sporting T-shirts with a single athlete’s name written on it. At Gap, “It’s Pickle Time” hoodies were the UGG boots of Swoope. Except, I’m pretty sure people actually felt cool wearing these sweaters.
He was going to miss his pals and lamented, though he seemed to accept it long ago, that his childhood football buddies weren’t all going to play at the same college and, eventually, the same pro team. Like dried up dandelion petals, once they graduate high school, players tend to spread out into the wind.
But when he said he was going to miss this interview stuff, I had to stop him and ask what he meant. Could he be genuine?
Talking to Pickle Nuckols was a frustrating treat. A treat because he was just so darned nice to talk to. And, to be honest, I usually didn’t talk to Pickle after games for quotes, I talked to him more for observances because, and I’m being kind here, it was tough talking to Pickle. He was quiet and humble. Two great qualities if the kid shares your last name and calls you “Mom” or “Dad.“ Not so much if you’re a sports columnist looking for something good to print.
Instead, I had to rely on what he did on the field and his interaction with adults and kids alike after games.
When I tried to talk to him (and, for the record, most of his answers consisted of “Yes, sir,“ and “No, sir” no matter how many times I’ve told him and countless other local athletes not to call me “sir.“) I was interrupted by adults from both sides of the bleachers who wanted to meet him, or just thrust out their hands in hopes he would see them, turn and shake it.
“It was a pleasure watching you,“ they would say.
The kids, eyes as wide and saucers, would cautiously approach him wondering if this running back that could break through a brick wall would be kind enough to get down on one knee, look them in the eyes, and say, “Hello.“
He always did. He never disappointed.
He never seemed like he enjoyed the interviews. With his job done, all he wanted to do was get off the field and move on to his non-football life which, to him, meant just being Pickle. Not No. 30 his junior year and No. 27 his senior campaign. And most certainly not the running back.
“Really?“ I asked as he sat on his father’s loveseat. “You’re going to miss this.“
He looked at me and nodded.
I never got the chance to talk to Pickle much his junior year. At least not until the playoffs. Back then, I was sports editor and at a paper where being short of staff is a way of life and not front-page news and certainly never used as a woe-is-me crutch about not having time in a blog about something that happened two weeks ago. And most sports editors spend their time running the desk. That was me during regular-season of Gap’s championship run.
When I sat in his father’s man room in December 2007 to talk to Pickle when he was our Player of the Year that season, it was the first time I really had a chance to chat with him.
Months later, when I was made the jump to sports columnist and was out finding stories every night on the football fields, my first game covering Gap was against Wilson Memorial. As I dragged by briefcase and notebook along the sidelines, Pickle and I made eye contact. From behind his facemask, he smiled and gave a little wave.
After the game, I introduced myself to him (force of habit, I always do it no matter how many times I talk to a coach or kid) and we shook hands.
“Do you know how good you are?“ I asked him.
He smiled.
On Friday, I asked him if he knew how many kids in the Augusta Quarterback Club had asked me if I could introduce them to Pickle. Heck, I got six e-mails this past Quarterback Club season from parents asking me if I could ask Pickle if he would mind meeting their sons.
“My kid plays for Draft,“ one parent wrote. “And all he talks about is Pickle.“ I never played mediator, asking those parents to instead contact Buffalo Gap High School.
Pickle said he had no clue that football players of all ages looked up to him.
Over the weekend when I told people that a paper which claims it doesn’t learn anything new in print was going to learn something new when they read our paper Sunday (you know, like where Nuckols was going to play college ball) he asked me why were making such a big deal about it, saying that Pickle was only going Division III and not heading to James Madison University like Dae’Quan Scott.
I informed this person that it’s not about where a kid is going to play, it’s about what the kid had done on the local field of play and his impact on the community.
If there was a more recognizable name in Augusta County football the past two years, someone let me know.
If there was a kid who shunned the press for the community as much as Pickle did, someone e-mail me.
I’ll believe him when he says he’s going to miss these interviews.
And as I put my tape recorder into my glove box and pulled out of his father’s driveway, I realized he wasn’t going to be the only one.
