I wasn’t surprised. After all, Buddy was 72 and had been living in an assisted-care facility since having a stroke six years ago. I knew he was in poor health. But that doesn’t mean the news didn’t send me reeling.
Like many young sportswriters who came through Louisiana Tech’s journalism program, Buddy was a mentor of mine. I wasn’t the first. I wasn’t the last. I was simply the next in a long line of many.
As news of Buddy’s death started to spread on social media, people began sharing stories about how they had been impacted by Buddy, who was raised in Ruston and spent more than five decades writing about all of the many sports heroes that came through Lincoln Parish.
I shared a couple of my thoughts on Facebook, including my all-time favorite Buddy Davis story. Everyone who spent any time around Buddy has more than a handful of great stories about him, but I had one that I felt really summed up who Buddy was as a person.
After I posted it, a friend of mine texted me and said I should turn that story into a column.
The story starts in the summer of 1992 (or ‘93, the memory gets a little more fuzzy every single year), with a young baseball-obsessed boy in Shreveport, Louisiana. This was long before I ever met Buddy Davis. I was either 10 or 11 at the time, depending on the summer, and there was nothing greater in life than baseball.
I only spent a few years in Shreveport-Bossier City, in between stops in Ruston, where I spent most of my childhood, but I spent many nights during those three years at Shreveport’s Fair Grounds Field. Fair Grounds was the home of the Shreveport Captains, then the Double A affiliate of the San Francisco Giants.
Man, I loved watching those teams play. Even though most of those guys would never make it to the big leagues, in the eyes of a star-struck 10-year-old, they could walk on water. It was professional baseball in my backyard, and since my dream was to be a professional baseball player, those guys were my idols.
One fateful night in 1992 or 1993 — again, memory fails me here, as did Google — the Captains hosted the Giants in an exhibition game. I can’t remember if the Giants brought the whole squad, or just a split squad, but they brought their biggest star, Will Clark.
Will the Thrill, the smooth-swinging left-hander from New Orleans, finished fourth in the National League MVP voting in 1991 and made his fifth straight all-star appearance in the summer of 1992. At the time, he was among the top 10 hitters in all of baseball and a bonafide superstar.
Although the Giants weren’t great at the time — my Atlanta Braves had just started their domination of the National League at the time — I remember Fair Grounds Field being packed that night because so many kids like myself came out to get a glimpse of the big leaguers, particularly Will Clark.
Many of us lined up down the fence in right field hoping to get some autographs. I had my program and my pen, and I just knew that Will Clark was going to sign it for me. He walked down the fence line and started to sign autographs, but he didn’t stop and sign for everyone. He’d sign one and then walk past several kids, sign another, keep walking, sign, and so on. I was one of many kids who went home disappointed that night not to get Will Clark’s signature.
Truth be told, I already wasn’t a Giants fan. Sure, I loved the Captains, but the Braves were one of the Giants’ rivals in the NL West and I just wasn’t about that split-loyalty life. That night made me despise the Giants, and particularly Will Clark. It’s a night that stuck with me throughout the rest of my childhood and into college.
Fast forward a dozen or so years. It’s 2004. I’m a journalism student at Louisiana Tech and working at The Ruston Daily Leader, where Buddy Davis worked his entire career. Buddy had given me my start in journalism, hiring me as a stringer to cover prep sports, which led to a part-time office job and eventually my first full-time journalism job. It’s during this time that Buddy became not just a mentor to a young journalist, but a co-worker and a friend.
In the summer of 2004, Will Clark had been elected into the Louisiana Sports Hall of Fame. He was a native of New Orleans who had been a star at Jesuit High School before becoming one of the most feared hitters in the SEC at Mississippi State and a six-time MLB all-star who retired with a .303 batting average and 284 home runs.
At the time, I was still slightly bitter — OK, maybe a little more than slightly — over my autograph snub, and I told Buddy about the story from my childhood. I’m pretty sure I told the entire newsroom, honestly, because I just felt like everyone should know about my dislike of Will the Thrill.
Buddy didn’t argue with me. He just smirked and laughed in his way that could disarm anyone, said OK, and moved on. I thought that was that. Buddy went off to cover the Louisiana Sports Hall of Fame induction ceremony that weekend, while I worked in the office and put together the sports pages that included his tremendous coverage of the event.
When I came into the office on the next Monday morning, Buddy had a gift waiting for me. It was a baseball card. Signed by Will Clark, and addressed, “To Bret.” Buddy had shared my story with Will Clark at the Hall of Fame ceremony, and he more than graciously signed the card to make up for my years of heartbreak and pain.
Buddy didn’t have to do that. Will Clark certainly didn’t have to oblige. But that’s just who Buddy was. He didn’t meet a stranger, and he made everyone his buddy, so you wanted to do things for him. The autographed card was just one of several generous gifts that Buddy gave me over the years, including a Louisiana Tech mini-helmet signed by Terry Bradshaw.
There are so many amazing things about O.K. “Buddy” Davis.
His longevity. He wrote for more than five decades at the same newspaper, passing up numerous opportunities to move on to greener pastures but choosing to stay at his hometown paper.
His prolificacy. For most of his career, Buddy was a one-man show at a small newspaper covering two universities that produced an abundance of professional athletes as well as local high schools that also produced college and professional stars. And he kept up with everyone. His byline was everywhere, and his “O.K.’s Corral” Sunday column was a must read.
His generosity. Buddy truly was your buddy. Not only to me and numerous other journalists, but also to so many athletes and people in the community. He couldn’t go anywhere in Ruston without running into someone who wanted to talk shop, and he never turned down an opportunity to reminisce about the greatness of Lincoln Parish sports.
Buddy Davis was one of a kind and a true treasure, not only as a sportswriter but as a person. There will never be another one like him.
Man, I loved watching those teams play. Even though most of those guys would never make it to the big leagues, in the eyes of a star-struck 10-year-old, they could walk on water. It was professional baseball in my backyard, and since my dream was to be a professional baseball player, those guys were my idols.
One fateful night in 1992 or 1993 — again, memory fails me here, as did Google — the Captains hosted the Giants in an exhibition game. I can’t remember if the Giants brought the whole squad, or just a split squad, but they brought their biggest star, Will Clark.
Will the Thrill, the smooth-swinging left-hander from New Orleans, finished fourth in the National League MVP voting in 1991 and made his fifth straight all-star appearance in the summer of 1992. At the time, he was among the top 10 hitters in all of baseball and a bonafide superstar.
Although the Giants weren’t great at the time — my Atlanta Braves had just started their domination of the National League at the time — I remember Fair Grounds Field being packed that night because so many kids like myself came out to get a glimpse of the big leaguers, particularly Will Clark.
Many of us lined up down the fence in right field hoping to get some autographs. I had my program and my pen, and I just knew that Will Clark was going to sign it for me. He walked down the fence line and started to sign autographs, but he didn’t stop and sign for everyone. He’d sign one and then walk past several kids, sign another, keep walking, sign, and so on. I was one of many kids who went home disappointed that night not to get Will Clark’s signature.
Truth be told, I already wasn’t a Giants fan. Sure, I loved the Captains, but the Braves were one of the Giants’ rivals in the NL West and I just wasn’t about that split-loyalty life. That night made me despise the Giants, and particularly Will Clark. It’s a night that stuck with me throughout the rest of my childhood and into college.
Fast forward a dozen or so years. It’s 2004. I’m a journalism student at Louisiana Tech and working at The Ruston Daily Leader, where Buddy Davis worked his entire career. Buddy had given me my start in journalism, hiring me as a stringer to cover prep sports, which led to a part-time office job and eventually my first full-time journalism job. It’s during this time that Buddy became not just a mentor to a young journalist, but a co-worker and a friend.
In the summer of 2004, Will Clark had been elected into the Louisiana Sports Hall of Fame. He was a native of New Orleans who had been a star at Jesuit High School before becoming one of the most feared hitters in the SEC at Mississippi State and a six-time MLB all-star who retired with a .303 batting average and 284 home runs.
At the time, I was still slightly bitter — OK, maybe a little more than slightly — over my autograph snub, and I told Buddy about the story from my childhood. I’m pretty sure I told the entire newsroom, honestly, because I just felt like everyone should know about my dislike of Will the Thrill.
Buddy didn’t argue with me. He just smirked and laughed in his way that could disarm anyone, said OK, and moved on. I thought that was that. Buddy went off to cover the Louisiana Sports Hall of Fame induction ceremony that weekend, while I worked in the office and put together the sports pages that included his tremendous coverage of the event.
When I came into the office on the next Monday morning, Buddy had a gift waiting for me. It was a baseball card. Signed by Will Clark, and addressed, “To Bret.” Buddy had shared my story with Will Clark at the Hall of Fame ceremony, and he more than graciously signed the card to make up for my years of heartbreak and pain.
Buddy didn’t have to do that. Will Clark certainly didn’t have to oblige. But that’s just who Buddy was. He didn’t meet a stranger, and he made everyone his buddy, so you wanted to do things for him. The autographed card was just one of several generous gifts that Buddy gave me over the years, including a Louisiana Tech mini-helmet signed by Terry Bradshaw.
There are so many amazing things about O.K. “Buddy” Davis.
His longevity. He wrote for more than five decades at the same newspaper, passing up numerous opportunities to move on to greener pastures but choosing to stay at his hometown paper.
His prolificacy. For most of his career, Buddy was a one-man show at a small newspaper covering two universities that produced an abundance of professional athletes as well as local high schools that also produced college and professional stars. And he kept up with everyone. His byline was everywhere, and his “O.K.’s Corral” Sunday column was a must read.
His generosity. Buddy truly was your buddy. Not only to me and numerous other journalists, but also to so many athletes and people in the community. He couldn’t go anywhere in Ruston without running into someone who wanted to talk shop, and he never turned down an opportunity to reminisce about the greatness of Lincoln Parish sports.
Buddy Davis was one of a kind and a true treasure, not only as a sportswriter but as a person. There will never be another one like him.
