An appreciation: The year Deacon Jones kept me from quitting

Deacon Jones and an old, hand-painted figurine -- two No. 75s that are cherished by the writer.(Associated Press; Chris Dufresne / Los Angeles Times)

By Chris Dufresne

David “Deacon” Jones was, in my mind, one of the 10 best players in NFL history. He was a rich part of Los Angeles and the Rams at the Coliseum in an era of classic blue-and-white uniforms.

They were led by the coolest name for a quarterback ever conceived: Roman Gabriel.

Icons sometimes forget the influence they have over kids, but Deacon Jones literally rescued me from an adolescent year of abject misery.

It was 1969 or '70, and I was playing Pop Warner in La Habra for a coach who doubled as a tyrant. No, seriously. He made former Rutgers basketball coach Mike Rice look like a tree hugger.

This was an era when the brutal training tactics of Bear Bryant, Vince Lombardi and Frank Kush were either ignored or accepted.

Our coach was just back from Vietnam, where he had served in the Marines. I’ll never forget the day he drove to practice in a VW van and pulled a blocking sled out of the back. He built it himself, and stood on it as he beat on our helmets with a stick as we drove it through the oppressive August heat.

We all got Marine haircuts.

Our coach didn’t believe in water. In fact, he’d taunt us by sipping half a megaphone of A&W root beer before pouring the rest out on the ground.

We goofed up a play once and ran it over and over the entire practice. I was the pulling guard.

My hobby back then was throwing up lunch.

I quit every day before camp and “un-quit” right before practice. I don’t know why.

It was near the end of camp when the coach handed out uniforms.

When he tossed jersey “No. 75” at my face, I was filled with an overwhelming rush of adrenaline.

I got to wear “Deacon’s” number, even though I mostly played offensive guard.

That day saved my season. I didn’t quit — how could No. 75 quit!? We won the La Habra city championship.

I earned the best offensive lineman award and coach presented me with a statuette he painted himself. What a swell guy.

The base of the trophy is long gone but I still cherish the figurine, even with its missing right foot.

I played that year for Deacon Jones, not the tyrannical coach who tried to get me to play the next year (“No frigging way!”) and was eventually run out of Pop Warner.

God bless you, David “Deacon” Jones. Rest in peace knowing you left behind legions of grown-up kids who imitated your head slap and admired your unrelenting ferocity.

Of the four Rams of fabled lore, you were, by far, the most inspirational.

And fearsome.

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