About the Man Who Taught Me to Love the Dawgs
Richard Palmer, and his legacy in my life
I’ve often said that the Georgia Bulldogs are my second-favorite college football team.
I didn’t like them much last December, truth be told, but in a world where I only like LSU, they actually are my second-favorite. A little tier above everyone else.
I adopted them as my second-favorite because of one man, to share with someone who meant a lot to me.
I would text him “HOW BOUT DEM DAWGS” after a big win. I sent “❤️🖤🙏” on January 9th in the moments before the national championship against TCU.
For years, I would do the Georgia “woof woof woof” following a kickoff, regardless of the game, in a personal, almost invisible tribute to the man who had shaped my life.
When I was in high school, I dealt with a lot. My home life was pretty uneven, and emotionally, I was a sensitive mess. I was depressed, and angry. I didn’t have a lot of steady male figures as a daily presence in my life. My dad was away, and my stepdad at the time was dealing with things.
I’m not sure how I started hanging out with Richard, or rather, when he started letting me hang around, but at some point hanging we did. We went to church together, we served together. Before long, Richard would come by the house and pick me up, before I could drive, and let me tag along. We’d talk about our shared love of college football. I learned about the Dawgs, his team, and I spouted off LSU history. Once I could drive, I would go to his apartment and play video games or watch sports. We played NCAA Football a lot. I can’t remember if he actually liked it or he just played it to appease me, but I think he liked it.
Really, I imagine from the outside-in I was doing a lot of just being there. Probably being a little obnoxious. Messing with his computer, or playing on his TV. But I always loved spending time with him. Richard was 32 when I was 16, but Richard’s friendship felt unconditional.
After I graduated from high school and he moved away in quick succession, we would text, and talk on the phone every so often. But we didn’t spend much time together— we only hung out in person 1-2 times in a 15 year stretch. But BDP (“Buff David Palmer”) was a huge person in my life.
The fingerprints of his time, his investment, have shaped the man I am today. I cannot imagine where I would be without those years in close relationship, or the years since staying in touch.
On November 5, 2022, in the moments following LSU’s historic win over Alabama, after we cleared the field and made our way to our cars, and after we commenced the long slog through the traffic and otherworldly mist that had fallen on campus, I got a call.
Richard was calling me, wanting to talk about the game. As always, college football was the thing we could always talk about.
That was the last time I spoke to him on the phone.
On Friday, I was talking to someone who goes to the same large church as Richard. I asked them if they knew him. I said aloud that I hadn’t talked to him since his birthday in June, and I needed to give him a call.
A few minutes later, still talking to this person, I got a text that Richard Palmer had passed away. He was 53 years old.
I had planned on writing about BDP on this blog this upcoming season. It’s the sort of thing I’d love to explore; life in the context of college football. (Not the other way around.) I had hoped to perhaps interview him about his background, about Georgia, about our relationship. It looks a little different than I had hoped, but I hope it memorializes him, and what he meant.
Of course, memories flood my mind as I write this.
It’s 2002. We’re riding in the car to go set up for a youth camp in Alexandria. He teaches me to not put the AC on full blast until you’re not getting out of the car for a while, to prevent a sneezing fit. We listen to Maroon 5’s Songs About Jane.
It’s 2003. LSU is on a magical run to the national championship, and we’re a win away from locking up the West. It’s a crisp Saturday in Baton Rouge, and Richard and I end up watching the LSU-Arkansas game together. I can’t remember the details— did we end up at Buffalo Wild Wings?
It’s the late 2000s. I’m sitting in a Jimmy Johns, and I remember Richard told me how much he liked them. I call him, and we catch up. He tells me about life, and that he and his wife Stephanie have interns from their church that they’re mentoring.
It’s 2004. I have the new NCAA Football game for Xbox. I bring it to his apartment off of Picardy in Baton Rouge.
Honestly, time has passed since we spent regular time together. Many of the details are hazy now, other than these finer ones that remain in focus.
But the feelings— the joy, the peace— from spending time with Richard, that’s crystal clear. His joy, his laugh.
I will never forget the legacy of Richard Palmer. You could never, ever forget how he made you feel.
