On the evening of Dec. 12, 1983, Larry Taft entered the Lawrence County High auditorium in Lawrenceburg, Tenn., radiating the joy that comes with rare positive journalistic recognition.

Most of the time in this business, we’re noted when we screw up. Or offend. Misspell a word, your existence is a pox on literacy. Dare pick the wrong team to win a game, you’re a moron, a buffoon, a hack, a crumb.

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So, again, Larry Taft was giddy that the Lawrenceburg Quarterback Club had selected him—a 33-year-old reporter for The (Nashville) Tennessean—as its Prep Sportswriter of the Year. That’s why he arrived at the annual banquet, wife Charlotte by his side, in a jovial mood. On this night, he would need neither pen nor notepad. Nope. It was his time in the spotlight.

According to schedule and ritual, there would be the presentation of a plaque, there would be applause, there would be chicken and sponge cake, there would be the keynote speech delivered by Rex Dockery, the Memphis State football coach, there would be …

Wait. Hold on.

Approximately 6 p.m.

A tap on the shoulder.

“Larry,” someone said, “phone call for you.”

Thirty four years have passed, and Taft—long retired from journalism—still remembers those words; still feels those words. He retreated to the principal’s office, picked up the receiver and heard the voice of John Pitts, a Tennessean sports writer working the desk that night.

“Hey Larry,” Pitts said, “what’s the deal on the plane crash?”

“What plane crash?” Taft replied.

“There has been a plane reported down in the Lawrenceburg area,” Pitts said. “Our state desk says Coach Dockery may have been on it …”

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In case you’re wondering, this is not a column marking the upcoming 34^th anniversary of one of the great tragedies in college football history. It’s not about the twin-engine plane crash that killed a 41-year-old on-the-rise football coach, as well as freshman running back Charles Greenhill, offensive coordinator Chris Faros, and Glenn Jones, the pilot and Memphis State booster.

No.

This is a column about the greatest piece of on-the-spot tragic sports journalism ever written

“It’s the story,” Taft says, “that I’ll never forget.”

As soon as he hung up with Pitts, Taft took a deep breath, gathered himself and shifted from shocked participant to journalist. The first thing he did was rush back to the banquet hall and look toward the head table, where Dockery was supposed to be seated. He hoped to see the young coach’s familiar smile; hoped to hear his laugh; to see him sipping from a beer or spinning yarns from his days coaching Texas Tech.

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Taft spotted Fred Pancoast, the former Vanderbilt football coach, who now served as the Lawrenceburg Quarterback Club president. The reporter had questions to ask, but one glance at Pancoast’s glum expression answered all. “As I approached,” Taft wrote, “he simply shook his head, indicating he already knew the grim news.”

On his walk back to the principal’s office, Taft ran into Bobby Moore of the Lawrence County News. Any journalistic rivalry or competitiveness was set aside. This wasn’t about a scoop. It was about getting details right. Moore told Taft that four bodies—Dockery’s included—had allegedly been discovered. When Taft returned to the banquet he was cornered by a state sports official. “You must have something big,” the man said, “since you’ve been gone so long.”

Taft pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled the following words: Dockery plane crash. Some bodies found.

The banquet continued because, well, sometimes banquets continue. Nobody knew what to do or say. There was no declarative confirmation of Dockery’s death, though word of the crash seemed to spread, poison ivy-like, through the room. The master of ceremony, a local attorney named Paul Plant, clumsily stood and uttered, “Coach Dockery has not arrived. The weather is bad but we hope he will be with us shortly.”

Silence.

Wrote Taft: “Every time I saw someone enter the back of the room, my heart jumped. Maybe they were wrong. Perhaps it wasn’t Dockery’s plane that crashed. Maybe it was Rex coming in the door. Perhaps his plane had gone to Mount Pleasant—they have a bigger airport there—and that had delayed his arrival.”

Alas, moments later Taft met several businessmen with Memphis State ties who were huddled in the rear. He hoped, just maybe, they had something positive to share, and he reached for his pad and pen.

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“I can’t tell you anything until notification of the next-of-kin,” one of the men said. “That ought to tell you what you need to know.”

“Dockery?” Taft asked.

“He didn’t answer,” wrote Taft. “There was no need. His eyes, his face and his entire expression shouted yes.”

What promised to be one of the great nights of his career was now the worst. Taft accepted his award, mumbled a few words (“What are you supposed to say?” he notes), then sat down. He saw Pancoast, a few spots to the right, crying. He saw blank faces and downcast eyes. It was the worst of the worst of the worst.

So, as soon as the event concluded, Larry Taft wrote.

He found a typewriter in the assistant principal’s office, pulled up a seat and pecked away. The words flowed as they rarely flowed. Taft never considered himself much of a wordsmith; “a far better reporter than writer,” he says. Yet, like athletes, we scribes occasionally have these in-the-zone moments where everything fades, and it’s just you and your mind and your language. You don’t think. You don’t ponder. You just type.

In hindsight, there’s nothing overly fancy about the piece. The adjectives are sparse. The flowery prose doesn’t exist. Taft’s lede reads, simply, “The guest speaker’s chair at the head table was vacant when the dining began last night.” He did not try to stir emotions; to make you sob; to move readers to great heights.

“I just wanted to tell the story,” he says. “That’s it.”

The entire 832 words took 30 minutes to write. When he was done, Taft called The Tennessean office and dictated the article to Pitts. It was simultaneously electrifying and gut-wrenching, and no final paragraph I will ever devise can match the anguished thud of Taft’s from that night: “I knew, of course, he wasn’t coming. His chair would never be filled.”

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The next morning, subscribers to the newspaper were greeted by a headline that read, simply, “There Was an Empty Chair…” All these years later, it continues to cause the small hairs on my arm to stand at attention.

On the evening of Dec. 12, 1983, Larry Taft entered the Lawrence County High auditorium to receive a journalism award.

It was deserved.

(Top photo courtesy of newspapers.com)