Richardson's heart may be weak, but it's still just as big

Richardson's heart may be weak, but it's still just as big
By Tom Sorensen
tsorensen@charlotteobserver.com
Posted: Thursday, Jan. 08, 2009

I drive us to lunch, instead, in his truck, which means I washed my car for nothing.

Richardson, founder and owner of the Carolina Panthers, is 6-foot-4, distinguished and imposing. As big as he is, his presence is bigger.

Thousands of us have encountered him – on his golf cart before home games, in Charlotte's finer restaurants, and in a booth at the hamburger joint, where he has excitedly ordered the daily special.

Many of us took for granted how big Richardson was until Dec. 10, when he was placed on a list for a heart transplant at Carolinas Medical Center. The news shook Charlotte and the region. This is Richardson, 72, we're talking about. He is as sturdy as the NFL. He is as steadfast as the qualities he represents: Respect your co-workers. Surround yourself with good people. Work as a team.

The response to the news has overwhelmed him. Every day fans send cards, gifts and artifacts that have helped them through a crisis and perhaps will help him. A rabbi in Raleigh sent an angel inscribed in Hebrew that has long been part of his family and now is part of Richardson's. They have never met.

When we return from lunch Wednesday, a pair of faxes bring good wishes from New York and Los Angeles. You might recognize the sender of one. You almost certainly would know the sender of the other.

The attention makes Richardson squirm. A man who might lead the Carolinas in handwritten notes now lacks the energy to write all the people who have written him. He does not feel worthy of the outpouring. He says he is not a saint.

But the attention does not mean people think he is a saint. It means they remember all those times he gave 10 minutes to a stranger and how, when the 10 minutes ended, they weren't strangers anymore.

We meet like this occasionally. There are usually more jokes and stories than an exchange of information, and the conversations are always private. That's the deal we cut. His business is public. He is not.

I ask if I can use this column to thank the people he can't, and to write about him.

He says yes.

You should know he looks great. Not a single hair on his head has dared move out of place since the team began playing in 1995, and they're not going to start now.

Richardson was somber, quiet and reflective. Then he would suddenly tell a story that was laugh-out-loud funny.

Other patrons quietly approach our table and tell him how thrilled they are about Saturday's home playoff game against Arizona. Richardson is tired; he will take a nap after lunch. But every time a visitor approaches, he stands.

He's a gentleman. It's what gentlemen do.

Richardson was born in a house that lacked indoor plumbing, on a dirt road outside Spring Hope, 40 miles northeast of Raleigh. And here he is, the Big Cat, beloved owner of a beloved team.

Yet when he talks about his remarkable journey, he doesn't say: Look what I did. He says: Look how lucky I've been.

He played football at the right college, Wofford; he was drafted by the right team, the Baltimore Colts; he married the right woman, Rosalind Sallenger; he chose the right business, selling 15-cent hamburgers; he met the right people, and those people helped him finance a stadium and an NFL team.

And do not doubt whose team it is. Richardson will not abandon the Panthers now.

After the draining overtime loss to the New York Giants three weeks ago, Richardson called 10 employees he knew would be standing on the ledge and talked them down.

After the thrilling victory against New Orleans a week later, he called the same 10 employees and said, don't get too full of yourselves.

Pat Bowlen, owner of the Denver Broncos, visited Richardson before their teams played at Bank of America Stadium on Dec. 14. Richardson was drained; he had little to offer his friend.

Sunday, Bowlen watched from the visiting owner's box, and was thrilled with what he saw. The underdog Broncos roared down the field. This was their time. They could not be stopped.

Then somebody told Bowlen that Richardson was there. What? The same world-weary, energy-lacking Richardson who couldn't get out of bed?

The same one.

Bowlen looked through his binoculars and found Richardson. He knew then that his Broncos didn't have a chance. He was right.