One of the most memorable experiences of my youth was a very special trip with my father, Elisha M. Barker. I was a senior in high school and our 1956 football season had just ended. About a week after that, O.U. was scheduled to play Nebraska at Norman, and my father came home from work earlier that week and told me that we were going to that game.
Most people who were alive in that era can remember that team. It’s ranked as one of the greatest of all time by most football experts. Jimmy Harris at quarterback, Clendon Thomas and Tommy McDonald at the halves, and Billy Pricer at fullback. The center was a fellow by the name of Jerry Tubbs, who in the Dallas Cowboys’ infancy years was estimated to be 45% of their defense.
Nebraska was not yet a power, (this was back in the days when the Big 8 was derisively known as “Oklahoma and the Seven Dwarves“) and the fact that Oklahoma would win was a foregone conclusion. But that didn’t matter, because O.U. won every game they played that year anyway. They didn’t participate in a bowl, because at the time the Big Eight had a contract with the Orange Bowl, and that committee decided that no team could appear twice in succession, nor could a Big Eight team participate in another bowl.
Brilliant, huh? So the best team in America (rated no 1 in every poll) sat in front of their TV sets on New Year’s Day.
We didn’t have a really dependable family vehicle at the time, so the trip was going to be made by bus - and that’s the real reason I want to write this article. Alva no longer has bus service, as every person of driving age in town, it seems, now has their own vehicle. But in 1956 three bus lines serviced Alva: Greyhound, Trailways, and a local one called Bickel Bus Lines.
The trip
The bus terminal was the Bell Hotel. You purchased your ticket in the Sweet Shoppe at the northeast corner of the street level. The manager of the Sweet Shoppe at that time was Orville McDermed. I knew nothing of the ins and outs of bus service, but I must say my father handled the whole trip like a pro. He must have checked schedules and arrangements beforehand, for we went downtown Saturday morning, purchased the tickets and within 10 minutes we were on a Trailways bus and rolling toward Oklahoma City. There were short stops at places such as Cherokee, Enid, and Kingfisher to let passengers alight or get on board, but we made pretty good time.
Oklahoma City at that time was really just like a huge “town” with none of the Interstate or toll freeways like they have today. Traffic was heavy, and it seemed to me the driver had to suck in the sides of his bus every now and then to squeeze through, but he knew what he was doing. In no time at all we were alighting at the Union Station bus terminal.
At the terminal, a “special” was waiting to take passengers on to Norman for the football game. We boarded that and began rolling across the countryside toward Norman. Yes . . . , countryside. It was a few miles before we rolled through the little town of Moore and a lot of open pasture land and oil derricks farther before we arrived at Norman.
The bus parked on a dry, grassy field within a block or two of the stadium. We walked there on foot and approached the ticket office. Before we got that far, however, a man approached my dad and asked if he would like to buy tickets at a reduced rate. He had a pair and was not able to attend that day, so they wound up in Barker hands. I was a bit skeptical, being in the big city and all, afraid that my Daddy had been ripped off by a con man. But the tickets were good as gold, and about thirty rows up on the forty yard line. Though it may seem incredible when considering today’s standards, the stadium was only about three quarters full that day.
My father could attend any game at O.U. he wanted for free. He was not only a newspaper writer, but a close friend of Harold Keith, the Sports Publicity Director at the University. All he had to do was make a phone call and he would be sitting in what was at that time the finest press box in the nation. But he chose to sit with me instead.
The game went about as expected. I think O.U. won by about thirty points or so, but the big thrill was watching that team run Bud Wilkinson’s Split-T offense with a precision that I have not seen since, even in the pros. Harris made his pitches without even seeming to look at the pitch man and the line blocked crisply and made sure the holes were there. In those days players went both ways and Oklahoma had two units. You could hardly tell the difference which one was in there and some sports writers of the day placed tongue in cheek and declared the O.U. first unit No. 1 in the nation and the second unit No. 2. I don’t think they were far from wrong.
After the game, we returned to the grassy field, boarded the bus and made the trip back to the terminal in Oklahoma City. I remember two things that amazed this poor old small town hick: the fact that the Daily Oklahoman was already on the terminal’s newsstand with full game coverage and photos; and a walk around the block with my Dad while waiting for the departure time. What made that walk special was that my Dad made a friendly bet with me that he would find someone he knew before we completed the circuit. He did.
An old army buddy
We took the bus as far as El Reno, where my Dad’s brother lived, and spent the night there. The next morning my uncle drove us to a small downtown café that also served as the bus terminal. While we were eating, I noticed my Dad watching a rather cranky-looking old fellow sitting with his hand resting on a cane. The hand had a couple of fingers missing. My dad could stand it no longer, and finally said to the man, “Aren’t you so-and-so?” (I’m sorry, but I can’t remember the old fellow’s name.) The man looked up rather crossly, as if to say, “Yeah, what of it?”
My dad said, “I was in the trench beside you at St. Etienne when you lost those fingers to shell shrapnel.” The two had been members of Company A, 142nd Regiment, 36th Division in WWI France.
The old man immediately rose to his feet in recognition and with tears streaming down his face. My Dad started crying, too, and seconds later they were in a comradely embrace and slapping each other on the back. It was a moving experience for both and also for me. Obviously, I’ve never forgotten it.
I don’t remember much about the bus ride home that Sunday, for I spent most of my time reading and re-reading that Daily Oklahoman and looking again and again at all of the game pictures. I am still amazed today that a hot-lead operation could get all of those football stories and photos out and onto the newsstand in less than forty minutes following that football game.
Later, when I was married and a senior in college, I used the Bickel line to ride up on weekends to visit wife Patty. She had graduated in three years and was teaching at Hudson, Kansas while I finished my degree. I could tell you some great stories about those bus rides and the drivers that the Bickel Line had, but space doesn’t allow.
Maybe some other time.
What I really wish, though, is that Alva still had a good bus service. And boy, do I miss that Sweet Shoppe.
