Jan/Feb 2010

The Man Behind the Legend W.C. Kirk and Johnny Crockett
by Tom Davis
Editor-at-Large

 take the Archer City blacktop west out of Bowie, and when I find the crossroads and head south on the gravel, a lump begins to rise in my throat. Dust rises, too, great clouds of it billowing up behind the Jeep only to be pushed aside by the desiccating wind. Clumps of prickly pear cactus stud the humped-up shoulders of the road, their spiky paddles the only spots of natural green visible to the eye in these parched northern Texas plains. It’s early February, still winter by the calendar; but under a warm midday sun, the land has the quality of something recently baked.

There’s no name that I can see on the mailbox, nothing to announce that this place or its residents are in any way noteworthy. The fire ID number’s the right one, though, so I make the turn. The lane leads downhill through a park-like grove of oaks before forking at the edge of a small pasture, its grass as white as bone. A low-to-the ground sign with an arrow pointing to the right reads “Barn”; another, with the arrow pointing left, reads “House.” I take the left fork, enter another pleasant grove of oaks, and find an attractive red brick home nestled there.

By now the lump in my throat feels as big as a softball. I walk to the front door, ring the bell, and when the door opens I’m looking at a tall, silver-haired gentleman wearing steel-rimmed glasses; a Western-style, long-sleeved shirt; blue jeans; and boots. But more than that, I’m looking at a person I’ve idolized and longed to meet since I was a kid – and I can’t believe it’s finally happening. He says, “Hello,” his voice a kindly drawl, but I can barely choke out a stammering, “Mr. Kirk…” before the dam bursts. My eyes flood with tears; I have to turn away and, pulling a handkerchief from my pocket, try to compose myself.

The drive from Wisconsin has taken two days. But in a sense this is the culmination of a pilgrimage I’ve been on all my life. I’m 52 years old, and I’m finally shaking the same big, weathered hand that so often tousled the silky ears and felt the living, whipcord muscles of the dog that burns brighter in my imagination than any other: Johnny Crockett, the last English setter, and the only one in my lifetime, to win the National Championship.

The immortal. The legend. The embodiment of a vanished greatness.

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