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Coach Robinson passed away at age 88 after suffering from Alzheimer’s disease for ten years. One of our Swampers, bobpentfs11 recalls the time they met. Here are his words:

We used to go to a QB/WR camp that was held down in Arkansas. Great camp (and a big part in the development of every QB that played for my pa), and fun for us Wyoming kids because we got to show our stuff against kids who were going to big southern schools and such. One year, before we left on the trip, dad sent a letter to coach Robinson wishing him luck on getting his 400th win, and asking him if he’d be interested in coming up and speaking at the camp (three hours north of Grambling). A couple of days later, Dad got back a long letter which deflected all the praise that dad gave him to his wife. He also said that he wouldn’t be able to speak at the camp, but he’d be more than happy to say hi to us if we stopped in on our trip.

We went to the camp, had a blast (my roommate went on to play at Arkansas – I was not impressed), and then piled in the van to detour south before heading home.

For those that have never seen it, Northern Louisiana is rough. A really high poverty rate and you can see that just by driving through. Grambling itself is rough. Really rough. On that day it was hot as hell, and the air was so thick you had to chew each breath. We rolled into the campus and stopped the first person we saw to ask for directions. It was Coach’s son. He laughed and chatted with us, showing a glimpse of the same warmth his father was legendary for. He took us over to the athletic offices, where he said his father was making calls to his players for summer progress checks, and that he’d come and get us when he was off the phone.

I’ll say it now because I think it is relevant to the memory of the man – we were the only white people around. Growing up in WY, I only went to school with one black kid, and he was there for just one semester. To be there, and see the way the college kids looked at us was a unique experience. The south is no-longer segregated, but it still kind of is. There are places where blacks and whites live together, and there are places where they don’t. I had never seen this, and it was both an eye-opener and nerve wracking. I’ll freely admit that my naive ass was a little bit nervous. Not that I thought something bad would ever happen, but that was the first time in my life that every face I saw looked at me in that way. They didn’t trust me. I’m sure my nervousness was plainly visible on my face, which only made it worse.

Coach’s son came back out, and said his Dad was just finishing up a call and would be glad to see us.

We walked in and the first thing he said was “Coach Pentland, it’s wonderful to meet you.” He shook all of our hands, even gave my mom a hug and a kiss on the cheek, told her she had a warm smile. We sat down in his office and proceeded to chat for well over an hour. He told us a number of stories. He smiled and laughed, and asked us about our careers and our hopes for playing in college. All around his office were pictures of his old players, gifts of course, they covered every spot of the wall they could. He had little stories about almost all of them, and beamed like a proud father while sharing them. He reused to answer when Dad asked him who was the best player he’d ever coached – said they were all special in their way. He lamented the kids he couldn’t reach, and the players he’d lost. He lamented the kids who never got a chance and the kids he missed. He was honest, honest and to the point. He was critical of the culture of black youth. He was critical of the unwillingness of many black men to step up and be accountable. He said that the biggest problem he saw with the young men coming into his program is that few of them had a father to tell them no. The one thing he preached to us over and over, was that a man had certain responsibilities and that if he didn’t live up to them, he was no man at all. You could see why he was who he was. He wore it on his face. He shared some of the stories of the hard times, and the bad things he’d experienced. He made it plain to us that he never would have been able to do any of it without his wife. Every bit of praise we offered him, he in turn offered up to her.

I started looking around his office some more. This man was a legend, a guy who had received every honor that a coach can get. Countless awards and plaques and magazine covers. He had to have them right? They had to be in there somewhere. Not on the wall – all that space was for his kids. Not on his desk – the only pictures there were of he and his wife. To my right was a box full of copies of a recent SI with him on the cover, but it was obvious that they had been brought in there by someone else. He could care less. Then I saw other boxes, filled with similar things. He was too nice to put them away, after all, someone felt it was important he received these accolades so it wouldn’t be fair to that person to put them away. But he was much too humble to hang them on his wall.

The time flew. It was evident from the start that this was a special person. I knew then that I would be lucky to meet another in my life like him. He finally kicked us out because it was lunch time – not because he was hungry, but instead that he had to walk back to his house to give his wife a kiss, and that was a date he never missed. He said thanks to us! That he’d never met people from Wyoming before, and that if we were representative of the folks there it must be a heck of a place. The twinkle in his eye made it clear he was fibbing. We didn’t mind, he made us feel good. The drive out, things looked much different. A man like that was one who had made a difference. Had made the world around him a better place. The heat didn’t feel so heavy. The air not so thick. That distrust in peoples faces quickly switched to a smile when you smiled and said hi.

When we got home, 2,000 miles and a week of vacation later, there was a letter waiting. He thanked us again! Wished my brother and I luck in our careers, and my dad luck in his next season. It was a pleasure, watching him get that 400th win. To hear the people talk about him, and the stories they shared was wonderful. We knew they were true. That love people shared for him was real, but insignificant to the love he shared for them.