Kevin Sherrington

Archive | Blog | Bio | E-mail

AMARILLO – Mike Zoffuto answers the knock on the door of Room 240 holding a sock, apparently meant for his bare right foot.

He looks tired and a little lost and older than I remember, but not old enough to be living here, in an assisted living center, his home for the last 16 months.

He is 62. Only four years ago, he was still the head coach at W.T. White. Before that, he coached Lake Highlands to the state quarterfinals, and before that, there were good teams at Red Oak and Mount Pleasant as well as jobs as an assistant at Kansas and West Texas A&M, his alma mater, where he played with Mercury Morris and Duane Thomas.

From the tight quarters of his one-bedroom apartment, where reminders of his career decorate walls and swamp bookcases and flow unchecked from closets, he can outline his résumé. He can tell you that he won Bronze Stars and Purple Hearts as a Marine in Vietnam. He can even tell you that Wade Phillips got him hooked on golf.

But he can't answer the day's most pressing question, which is this:

"Why are you here?"

"They're worried about my mental attitude," he says at last, slightly irritated.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Because of your memory?"

"No," he says, softly, turning away. "I remember everything."

No, not everything. Not even the game that made him and his broadcast partners famous.

Zoffuto, or Z, as his friends call him, used to tease Eddy Clinton and Denny Garver that it was the coach in the pressbox who caused a national sensation in 1994. The way Zoffuto told it, if it hadn't been for his comment at the end of the improbable Plano East-Tyler John Tyler playoff game, when Plano East's wild comeback was wiped out by a kickoff return for a touchdown, no one outside their tiny cable world would have known who they were. There would have been no YouTube hit, no market for the DVD, which has sold 27,000 copies worldwide, no appearance on Jay Leno.

Hoping to spark a flickering memory of those days, Clinton conceded the point on his last visit.

"Z," he said, "I'm gonna give you credit for what you said at the end of that game."

"What'd I say?" Zoffuto asked.

Clinton fed him the lines slowly, pausing between each, searching for a sign of recognition.

God bless those kids. . . .

I'm sick. . . .

I think I'm gonna throw up.

Zoffuto laughed at the last as if it were the punchline of a joke he'd never heard.

The signs started at least three years ago, says Kristen Sharp, the oldest of Zoffuto's four children. Kristen's mother, Marcie, noticed that he'd forget significant events. Friends noticed odd behavior. On the way to a wake, he pulled over on 635, got out and saluted a flag billowing above a car dealership.

Last year, the family's greatest fears came to pass. Living in Amarillo to be close to his daughters, Zoffuto was diagnosed with dementia in the spring. In June, they moved him into the center. Two months later, Marcie died of cancer.

Since the original diagnosis, doctors have suggested that Zoffuto is a rare victim of early-onset Alzheimer's, which afflicts patients under 65 and as young as their 30s. Nearly all early-onset cases are hereditary, but Kristen says she knows of no family history. Doctors gave the family no indication that dementia might have been brought on by a head injury suffered in football or Vietnam. The family gets no answers, only consequences.

In his heyday, Zoffuto had been "a hoot in every way," Kristen said. Charismatic, imposing, larger-than-life, he charmed boosters with his direct style and inspired players before games with tales of foxholes and the theme song from Patton.

Kristen called life around him "exciting. It took a lot to get him down. He was light-hearted and hopeful. The greatest thing about him was that he loved unconditionally."

Except when provoked, it seems. Once, just as a game at Midlothian was about to start, Jim Ledford got a message on his pressbox headset: Kicker can't find his tee. Before Ledford could scramble to join the frantic search, Zoffuto had already fired him.

"Hired me back at halftime," Ledford says, chuckling.

Ledford coached under Zoffuto at Red Oak and Lake Highlands, until his boss's tenure ended badly, with Zoffuto resigning amid accusations of misuse of funds. He sued the Richardson school district and settled out of court. Still, Ledford learned much from Zoffuto, as did his peers. Now head coach at Richardson Berkner, Ledford figures as many as 15 of Zoffuto's former Lake Highlands assistants went on to become head coaches.

"One of the neat things about him was he let us coach," Ledford says. "He pushed us and let us come into our own. I wouldn't say he was a great Xs and Os guy, but he knew how to work the system.

"And he was great with the players. He really loved them. Talked about 'em all the time."

Some players he recalls easily and quickly. When he does so, the veil of confusion lifts, and he smiles at the victory.

He remembers blocking for Mercury Morris and Duane Thomas back at West Texas.

"We went to the Junior Rose Bowl," he says. "We tore those guys apart. Wasn't even close."

"Who'd you beat?"

"What the heck was their names?" he asks, studying the carpet for five seconds.

"San Fernando Valley, maybe?"

He remembers Beckie Sweatman, the swim coach at W.T. White when he was athletic director.

"She was awesome," he says. "Best swim coach I ever saw. She died of cancer."

"Do you remember what you did for her before she died?"

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye, hoping for a hint. I tell him that he went to a meeting of DISD coaches asking if they'd help Beckie, who had no sick leave. Based on Zoffuto's request, Beckie received more than 400 sick days from her peers.

"Everybody loved that lady," he says, nodding. "She was a great person."

Beckie's story would be one of the last that Zoffuto could affect. He gets out now only for trips to the doctor or meals or to lift weights. Maybe to go bowling.

Ledford says it's hard to see his old boss and friend these days. "I struggle with it," he says.

Fortunately, Zoffuto doesn't seem to mind his lot.

"I like it here," he says. "Everybody here's really nice. They couldn't have found a better place.

"Everybody here calls me, 'Coach.' "

Before leaving after more than an hour's visit, I ask if he got the video that Clinton sent, and if he remembers the Plano East-Tyler John Tyler game.

"Guy was running down the sideline," he says. "I remember that. I remember that for sure."

"Do you remember what you said?"

Long pause.

"Not really. Do you know?"

I tell him the famous line, and he smiles.

"Yeah, that's it," he says, still holding the sock as I turn to go.

On the way back down the lime-green hallway, through the lobby and past the white-haired women pushing walkers and old men staring nowhere, past the sign-in desk and the double doors and flush into a shock of bracing Panhandle wind, I can't get the question out of my head. So I go home and look it up.

Sure enough. On Dec. 2, 1967, West Texas State beat San Fernando Valley State in the Junior Rose Bowl, 35-13. Wasn't even close.

Anyone interested in writing Mike Zoffuto can reach him at 7404 Wallace Blvd., Room 240, Amarillo, 79106.