First of all, a brief biography of Dick “Night Train” Lane. He was born on the east side of Austin, Texas in 1928, the son of a prostitute and her pimp. Abandoned three months later, he was taken in by a woman who initially thought she heard the faint sounds of a cat. Suffice it to say, Lane’s life was not easy. Nevertheless, he became a star football player, leading Anderson High School to the 1944 state championship—at least the black version since this predated integration by 20 years or so. Lane joined the U.S. military at the end of World War II and re-enlisted when the Korean War broke out.
In 1952, he was working in a factory in Los Angeles when he decided to see whether he could still make it on the gridiron. He tried out for the LA Rams, defending champions of the National Football League. Coach Joe Stydahar was impressed with his size, speed and ability to dish out punishment. Lane made the team; as a rookie, he intercepted 14 passes in a 12-game season and may have been the first defensive back to blitz the quarterback. He was known most of all for rough tactics that were later made illegal: grabbing an opponent’s facemask and the “clothesline” tackle. He put together a 14-year career with the Rams, Chicago Cardinals and Detroit Lions that saw him inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame in 1974. Lane was the league’s first truly great DB, followed in short order by players such as Herb Adderly, Lem Barney, Mel Blount, Kenny Easley and Deion Sanders.
Thrice married and divorced, suffering from diabetes and other ailments, Night Train Lane died in an Austin nursing home in 2002. As a sports historian and advocate of social justice, I decided to attend his funeral on a Saturday morning at Greater Mount Zion Baptist Church. Of the 200 or so people in attendance, nearly all were black with perhaps 10 European Americans sprinkled in. The great man was there in an open casket, and he looked pretty good. The Lions—the team with which he is most associated—had sent a shiny helmet and blue-and-white No. 81 jersey. They were tastefully displayed.
So far, so good. But the proceedings were marred, in my opinion, when the pastor of the church, Gaylon Clark, got his motor going. He evidently realized that he had a captive audience and proceeded to take full advantage. Clark launched into a loud sermon with heavy emphasis on hellfire and brimstone. He ranted, raved and gesticulated wildly. A man sitting on the front pew seemed pleased with the performance and offered periodic words of encouragement. This must have gone on for 20 minutes.
I was wondering how the other attendees felt. Was I the only one who thought Clark was behaving inappropriately? We had come, after all, to pay our respects to the deceased Night Train Lane. Although we were in a church, we were not “in church,” if you see the distinction. In fact, I had been to funerals in black churches before and had never seen such a high-decibel show. To be blunt, I felt that Clark was an ego-tripping fool. If I could have left without making a scene, I would have done so. Finally, mercifully, he came to a thunderous conclusion and it was over. I was out the door quickly, grumbling to myself. I happened to be walking next to one of the other few European American attendees. I asked, in what I hoped was a neutral way, whether she had enjoyed the service. She minced no words, putting the blast on Clark.
Now, in all likelihood, this lady and I were accustomed to somewhat more sedate church services than would be found in predominantly black east Austin. But, as mentioned earlier, it was not a Sunday church service—it was a funeral! Not wanting Clark’s one-man show to have a completely negative effect, I could only say "Rest in peace, Night Train."
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