'Count your blessings': Cancer bout offers R.C. Slocum a new outlook on life

R.C. Slocum shot the round of his life on Tuesday.

The winningest football coach in Texas A&M history completed 18 holes of golf at Traditions in 106 strokes.

True, that’s not typically recognized as a great score. Slocum usually shoots in the mid-80s. On a good day, he might card a 79.

But the 106 marked a great day.

It was great because Slocum played 18 holes. It was great because he was with good friends. It was great because it was his first round since completing treatment for Hodgkin's lymphoma three months ago.

Andrew Kilzer, TexAgs.com

Slocum, Texas A&M’s all-time winningest football coach, was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma in June.

“Before I got sick, I was disappointed if I wasn’t in the mid-to-low-80s,” Slocum said on Wednesday. “Ninety-one was a really bad day. Occasionally, I’d shoot 79 to 80.

“There will be better days. I was out there on a pretty day with good guys. Just to be there…I was thankful to be out there.”

Slocum, 77, is just as thankful to those who reached out.

Chemotherapy treatment is never easy. Patients often experience several side effects including extreme fatigue, hair loss, nausea, kidney problems, sores in the throat and mouth, dramatic weight loss and chronic physical pain among others.

Those tribulations were eased to an extent by friends, former players and colleagues that frequently reached out to check on Slocum.

Former A&M defensive end Jacob Green phoned daily. College football legend Archie Manning called every week. Former Oklahoma coach Gary Gibbs and former A&M assistant coach Greg Mattison had endured cancer treatments too. They’d call just so Slocum could talk with someone who fully understood what he was going through.

Former Virginia Tech coach Frank Beamer and his wife, Cheryl, sent get-well cards weekly.

South Carolina coach Shane Beamer, Frank’s son, sent an uplifting message when the Gamecocks visited Kyle Field to play the Aggies.

Former Dallas Cowboys coaches Norv Turner and Hudson Houk called. So did former USC coach John Robinson and former Georgia coach Jim Donnan.

Slocum’s friend James Davidson, an ultra-successful businessman in Ruston, Louisiana, delivered a crate full of fresh peaches that had been picked from his orchard.

A group of ladies from the First Baptist Church of Poteet, Texas made a quilt that featured a big cross in the middle, and on the edges were blue bows in squares. Those bows represented each lady praying for him.

“I got so many calls, letters and texts,” Slocum said. “It was very meaningful to me. Uplifting.”

Former A&M players Greg Hill, Bucky Richardson, Richmond Webb, Tank Marshall, Dat Nguyen and Jeffery Fuller frequently phoned. So many more did, too.

Some relayed words of encouragement. Some just wanted to express what Slocum meant to them.

“The lesson that comes out of this is every day to appreciate the little things,” Slocum said. “If you and those around you are healthy, everything else is a distant second.”

Loneliness was another part of the ordeal.

Phone calls, text messages and cards were treasured. But there is also a need for human interaction.

Chemotherapy patients are also vulnerable to infection. That put Slocum at high risk of contracting COVID-19. Therefore, he was largely isolated during most of his treatment.

So, he’d stay in his house, which looks out on the 17th hole Traditions, and watch the foursomes go by.

However, when friends Butch Kamp, Don West, Scott Taylor and Jack Willoughby were playing, they would text Slocum when they were approaching the 17th hole so they could stop by his back fence for a brief visit.

“I told them when they would stop by if I could be out there on a day like this, those double bogeys wouldn’t be as bad,” Slocum said.

Displays of kindness seemed to arrive as consistently as his friends on the 17th fairway.

One day, the Slocums found a note on their door. It said an angel is going to arrive.

Soon after, a man in the neighborhood brought a ceramic statue of an angel that his special needs daughter had made.

Jamie Maury, TexAgs

In true Slocum fashion, the Aggies suffocated Auburn on Nov. 6 with a dominant defensive showing.

That angel had been presented to two other cancer patients who did well in treatment. They wanted Slocum to have it next.

“It’s a beautiful angel on a pedestal,” Slocum said. “We have it on the mantle of our house.”

By Nov. 6, Slocum had progressed enough that he was able to attend the 30th anniversary of the 1991 Southwest Conference championship team during A&M’s 20-3 victory over Auburn.

But he was still weak and walked with a cane.

“I told Bucky (Richardson) if I fell down before 110,000 people, you better pick me up,” Slocum said. “He said ‘Coach, I’ll pick you up.’”

Though Slocum made that appearance, he was unable to go to Houston on Jan. 4 to be inducted in the Texas Bowl’s Gridiron Legends.

A few weeks ago, Jacob Green — who starred for the NFL’s Seattle Seahawks — phoned Slocum to set up a lunch. Green said he had a friend from Seattle who really wanted to meet the coach.

Of course, Slocum accepted. He didn’t even question when Green suggested they wear sports coats.

Two weeks ago, Green picked up Slocum and drove him to 1860 Italia, the restaurant owned by Slocum’s son, John Harvey.

When Slocum walked in, he saw Texas A&M Sports Information Director Alan Cannon. Then, he saw Dat Nguyen. Then Richmond Webb. And Dave Elmendorf. And several other A&M former players.

“They had set up luncheon to officially give me the Gridiron Legends belt buckle,” Slocum said. “The Texas Bowl people came to induct me. Things like that are really meaningful.”

Such meaningful acts won’t necessarily change a life. The copious amount of love shown indicates Slocum’s life doesn’t need changing, but perhaps those acts can change an outlook and perspective to some degree.

With that, Slocum offered advice perhaps based on a new outlook.

“Count each day as a blessing,” he said. “Don’t let your worries about the future take away your joy of today.”

Words to live by. Even on a day when you’re shooting 106.

Especially on a day when you’re shooting 106.