I sometimes tell my Korean friends that one of the biggest differences between living here and in the USA is that it’s just so much safer. In Seoul, home to far more people than New York, Chicago or Los Angeles, you can go virtually anywhere at any time of the day or night without fear of being robbed or killed (which is not to deny the existence of crime here). I tell them that even in smaller American cities, you best be careful. A case in point is Austin, Texas, where I spent more than three decades. On the east side of town, danger is always a real possibility. I will now flatly contradict myself by saying that there are plenty of honest, peaceable folks of all colors in east Austin. Nevertheless, poverty, drugs and violence are endemic in that part of town.
The heart of east Austin is the intersection of Chicon and 12th Streets, just a block from Sam’s Barbecue, where I ate numerous times. Try their beef brisket; it’s delicious if a bit greasy. I apologize for that little digression. Chicon and 12th has long been known as “the Cut” because a lot of people got cut there when knives were the primary weapons of self-defense. On those mean streets, Thomas Henderson was born and raised. A poor black kid, he later moved to Oklahoma City where he would be taken care of by his grandmother and—it was hoped—have a less rambunctious life.
Henderson and I are about the same age, graduating from high school and college simultaneously. Although he had been an excellent football player in OKC, he got no interest from any of the major schools and ended up at little Langston University. Unhindered—the pun is by no means accidental—he became a star linebacker. My hometown Dallas Cowboys chose him in the first round of the 1975 NFL draft. Henderson could run the 40-yard dash in 4.6 seconds, was a vicious hitter and just seemed to be a natural. He was a starter for the Cowboys by 1977 when they won Super Bowl 12.
Nicknamed “Hollywood” due to his flamboyant ways on and off the field, he tested coach Tom Landry’s patience numerous times. He was indulging in booze and drugs, and his performance began to slip. Landry suspended him in 1979 and finally cut him. Henderson had short, unimpressive stints with the San Francisco 49ers and Houston Oilers in 1980, and suddenly his pro football career was over. His life unraveled before hitting rock bottom in 1983 when he was arrested for possession of cocaine and forcing a pair of teenage girls—one of whom was disabled and wheelchair-bound—to have sex with him. Henderson spent two years in prison before cleaning up his act.
In 1987, he wrote (with copious help from a ghostwriter) an autobiography entitled Out of Control/Confessions of an NFL Casualty. In that book, Henderson asserted that knowledgeable football men had called him one of the best linebackers in the history of the game.
When I came across that line in Henderson’s book, I laughed out loud. But I did more than laugh. I wrote him a letter which I thought it was tactfully worded. I merely said that his claim was preposterous. Off the top of my head, I listed numerous truly great linebackers up to that time—Dick Butkus, Willie Lanier, Jack Lambert, Bobby Bell, Chuck Bednarik, Tommy Nobis and others. Never had I heard Henderson's name mentioned among such luminaries. (Since then, of course, we have the likes of Lawrence Taylor, Mike Singletary, Derrick Johnson and Ray Lewis.)
Hollywood received the letter and wrote back, but he was not pleased to have been refuted. I remember his words well: “Richard Pennington doesn’t know [expletive deleted] about football!” Other than that bit of typical black braggadocio, he spoke as one who knew he had thrown away a precious career. Henderson was from the streets, but he was also a very smart guy.
He was in the news in 2000 after winning the Texas Lottery—$28 million before taxes and other deductions. The odds, if you wonder, were 16 million to 1. Henderson used some of that money to make a significant contribution to refurbish the football field and track at Anderson High School, just a few blocks from “the Cut.” After publicly vowing to go on a hunger strike of sorts, he set up a tent on the field and asked for donations. I went there and talked to him, calling him Thomas rather than Hollywood. I gave some money for that worthy cause before heading on. I made no reference to our little disagreement about where he ranks on the list of the greatest pro linebackers. But I will say this: If Henderson had maintained his high level of play for about a dozen years—like Butkus, Lanier, et al.—he might have been so regarded.
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