While summer comes to a close and students return to their dorms, Jim Dodson reminisces about his own ill-fated start to college.
By Jim Dodson | Illustration by Gerry O’Neill

During the years we lived on the coast of Maine, I was always amused by the visible relief and joy locals expressed over the arrival of September.

Every year like clockwork, it marks the departure of summer tourists, when tens of thousands of vacationers pack up and head home to the lower 48, leaving Maine bank accounts flush and the pockets of local merchants brimming with cash. 

With Labor Day weekend done and dusted, the annual sight of the Maine Turnpike backed up for 25 miles — folks “from away” creeping through the southbound tolls in vehicles loaded down with suitcases, bicycles and
kayaks —  is a sign of liberation to many Mainers. 

Within days of the annual exodus, the price of the average shore dinner drops by at least 30%, town traffic returns to its sleepy pace and locals begin to venture out from their hiding places to shop and greet neighbors and friends they haven’t seen since Memorial Day. 

Up on our forested hill, I had my own way of welcoming September.

Afternoons were shorter and the abundant wildlife around us — like its counterparts in town — became much more visible and active. A herd of white-tailed deer and a lady porcupine that terrified our dogs never failed to waddle into my garden, finishing off my daylilies, hostas and ostrich ferns. And almost every time I walked down our long, gravel lane to pick up the mail, a gorgeous ring-necked pheasant or a congregation of wild turkeys would cross my path, unconcerned by my presence in our peaceable kingdom.

Down here in North Carolina, the autumnal equinox that arrives around September 22 is a far more subtle affair, as white bucks and seersucker are put away even before the intense heat of summer begins to fade. Swimming pools close for the year, and the young ones — to mom’s delight — go back to school while the older kids trek off to college. 

Last September, a former university suite-mate passing through town invited me for coffee. His grandson was headed off to college. With a smile, he reminded me of my chaotic start as a freshman at East Carolina in 1971. It briefly became something of a freshman dorm legend.

My folks dropped me off at my College Hill dorm with a window fan, my bicycle and 50 bucks for the student dining program. The first thing I did was hop on my bike and follow a winding country road to New Bern, mesmerized by the flat green landscape of eastern North Carolina. I had no idea that it was a 40-mile trip each way, however, and it wore me out like an old shoe. As a result, I slept through the first day of mandatory freshman orientation.

A few days later, I foolishly allowed new friends in the dorm to convince me to try out for the school’s club football team. There was a rumor that incoming football coach Sonny Randle was looking to find a handful of walk-ons to use as practice squad dummies. In a galaxy long ago and far away (junior high days), I’d been the starting cornerback on a city-league championship team. Foolish sports dreams die hard.

Not 10 minutes into tryouts, I stepped on a rubber kicking tee and tore the cartilage in my right knee. One of Randle’s highly regarded recruits on an adjacent practice field helped me hobble to the fieldhouse. His name was Danny Kepley. The coaches were already taking notice of him. We chatted a bit and he wished me well.

I returned to school on crutches after Labor Day, just in time to commit my third stupid act. A pair of friends from back home and I met a trio of cute girls at Greenville’s (in)famous Elbo Room that Friday night, and they invited us to a party down the road in Little Washington. Freshmen couldn’t have cars at school in those days, but these girls were sophomores, and one of them had a new VW Bug.  

On the way to Little Washington, our “dates” demanded beer. So we purchased a couple six-packs and wound up at a gorgeous house overlooking the Pamlico River. My date’s name was Trisha. Suspiciously, her parents, who owned the home, were away. As my buddies and their dates wandered off to other parts of the house, Trisha and I settled on the couch, my sore leg propped up, to watch the Miss America Pageant. Suddenly, Trisha’s annoying little brother appeared, announcing, “Trisha, Jerry is outside. And he’s really mad!”

Jerry turned out to be Trisha’s boyfriend. And it quickly became cleard that she was indeed a sophomore — in high school. Jerry had brought along half a dozen beer-buzzed pals to defend his girlfriend’s blemished honor. Having realized our horrible mistake, I hobbled out on crutches, hoping to smooth things over. The negotiations did not go well, and took a worrying turn when Jerry snapped the antenna of Trisha’s VW Bug and waved it at me. At that point, my college buddies appeared, and Trisha burst into tears, wailing that her daddy was going to murder her when he got home.    

Mercifully, a police car rolled up. When the officer learned that we were just a trio of stupid college freshmen, he ordered us into his car, probably saving us from getting murdered.

He drove us to the edge of town and let us out. It was a nice September night and only 23 miles back to campus. We walked for several hours until the sun began to come up. Sometime after sunrise, a weaving Cadillac picked us up and dropped us at the bottom of College Hill. I got back to my dorm as my new roommate was heading out for breakfast. He wondered where I’d been all night.

“Learning I’m not a good party guy,” I said. A few days later, I swore off beer, joined the school newspaper and soon became The Fountainhead’s columnist and features editor. 

Forty years later, on another memorable September Southern evening, I was about to give a fundraising speech at Wayne Community College in Goldsboro, when my host said, “There’s a guy who wants to say hello to you.” 

It was Danny Kepley. During his playing years at ECU, Danny became an All-American linebacker known for crushing tackles, earning the nickname “Captain Crunch.” Drafted by the Dallas Cowboys, Danny chose to join the Edmonton Eskimos of the Canadian Football League and went on to lead them to six Grey Bowl championships as MVP of the league.

I asked him if he remembered helping a foolish fellow freshman off the practice field way back when.

“I think so,” he replied, pointing out that his memory was a bit foggy from a career of issuing hits. “What I remember most is your stories in the school paper. I liked them. And now, you are a famous sportswriter about golf.” 

And then Captain Crunch added with a smile, “So, we both did kinda OK, I guess.”

“Yes, we did,” I agreed.  

This article was originally published in the September 2026 issue of WALTER Magazine.