Roy Exum
There is no way that anyone can ever understand this without some background but just yesterday I got the sad word that one of the greatest human beings who God ever placed on earth – I’m talking about of all Homo sapiens who have ever walked -- has just died after giving his life and soul to countless thousands of athletes – and many others – for over 40 years before his actual death occurred on Sunday.
Frank McCue, III, for whom the entire athletic complex is already named at the University of Virginia, passed away in Charlottesville’s University Hospital and the funeral rites for easily one of the most beloved gentleman in the entire state’s history will most likely be the largest funeral gathering ever held in the city.
He was simply called “Doc” by countless professional athletes as well and also – get this – a few extremely lucky sports writers from across the country.
“Frank McCue represented the values that make the University of Virginia great,” said UVa president Teresa A. Sullivan. “He was selfless, dedicated, professional and always ready to serve the University he so loved. His presence will be greatly missed and his contributions simply cannot be overstated.”
Trust me that I can testify to Dr. Sullivan’s belief with first-hand knowledge because after “Doc” got his grip on me in the early ‘90s, he has held me close ever since. Quite simply, he was the team doctor for UVa, VMI, Richmond, the College of William & Mary, and about half the high schools in the Commonwealth. He was also a father, a friend, a teacher and a bonafide medical genius whose specialty was – of all things -- people.
One memorable Sunday afternoon Bill Millsaps, the nationally-acclaimed sports editor out of Richmond, darn near cut his left hand off with a power saw, Doc told his wife to get a bottle of whiskey, to keep the arm elevated as high as possible and to rush Bill to Charlottesville.
“Saps,” whose father, Hobart, you may recall, was a legendary educator in Chattanooga for years, later told me he watched Doc sew his hand back on and – braced by the highway whiskey – claimed it never once hurt. First-hand experience assures me that was a lie because my deal was a little deeper. Numerous attempts to save my right arm had gotten pretty dicey back in the ‘90s and, with one operation after another, I was going squirrely. Really -- I’d walk into a hospital and have horrible “panic attacks.” Bones were falling out, surgical rods kept snapping, the nerve pain was awful and I was indeed a basket case.
So we quickly learned “the world’s best hand surgeon” (honest to God) was Frank McCue at UVa. Other hand specialists all over the country agreed, but, as any fool can figure, he was back-logged for about six months. Everybody wanted him. Are you kidding me? For years he kept the big toe of major league’s Alvin Dark in a jar of formaldehyde in his office and I never went there that I wasn’t among several pro players also being treated.
Here is what happened. Doc got a personal nudge that I was really struggling so he hatched a plan that had me flying to Charlottesville within about six hours. What hotel should I stay in? Where’s your office? How long will I be there? “Oh, hell, calm down, son … I’ll handle all that. There will be two big, ugly football players picking you up at the plane and you let me handle it from there. Now, c’mon, you just get on the plane and don’t worry about anything else ….”
With Dr. McCue, you immediately trusted him. All of his “fellows” understood it, and every UVa athlete understood it, and half the New York Yankees and San Diego Padres … but I was still leery when – sure enough – some basketball guy who was driving and some fullback who was handling the luggage took me straight to Dr. McCue’s house on Old Farm Road. I’ve never seen anything to equal it. His wife Nancy was the den mother and nurse. There were about five recovering athletes lying on sofas, sprawled across wingchairs, and watching movies on the huge TV in the den. Other televisions and recliners were everywhere, not to mention his own children, teammates coming to visit, and dogs running loose everywhere.
Mrs. McCue quickly gave me a “calm down” pill so I slept until after the university’s athletes had quit practicing that day. Doc soon got home, everybody ate dinner and then – one by one – the tireless Frank McCue would check on each one’s medical progress. I asked him did he think I needed another surgery and he shook his head like an old coach, “I told you I was going to handle all the worrying.”
About 10 that night he told me it was my bedtime, took me upstairs and gave me a dose of some medicine so strong that the next thing I know Doc and the fullback (who was also a patient at the house) carried me to his car about 4 a.m. He silently drove to the back of the University Hospital and tooted the horn.
This really pretty nurse came out, gave me a shot until my eyes rolled back and – so help me this is the truth – the next thing I know it’s about 5 o’clock in the afternoon and I’m watching TV in the den back at the McCue’s house. I didn’t remember a thing so I couldn’t get scared. Oh, I was wearing a huge bandage alright but my feet felt funny. “I had to borrow the tendons from the third toe on each foot to help rebuild your tricep. Don’t worry, you’ll never miss ‘em.”
I guess I was in Charlottesville so much in the next couple of years I could have earned a varsity letter. He demanded I always stay at his house, fed me countless meals and took me to practice when I could go. The stories are countless and the time he took a van load of his “special patients” down to a Southeast Virginia hospital (“I don’t want to be interrupted”) was the funniest trip I ever made. After everybody’s surgery, we bought 24 feet of hot dogs and 48 beers on the trip home.
When the bones started to disintegrate and the infections soon got going, he sent me to Mayo Clinic, where the real odyssey began, but he’d call me all the time, check on me, and keep me encouraged. Not a day went by until this past Sunday did Doc not worry and care about me. That is the greatest healing technique that there is and, because of his singular skill at it, I will be eternally grateful.
“No one loved the University of Virginia more, nor has anyone done more to contribute to the welfare of citizens across the Commonwealth than Frank McCue,” said Virginia athletics director Craig Littlepage. “When I think about people that truly made a difference in the welfare of others, Dr. McCue will be at the top of my list. It is hard to estimate the number of patients he served, the number of aspiring doctors and trainers he mentored or the number of hours he volunteered during his career.“
"He’ll be missed and there will never be another like him,” he said. And he is right. Gracious Lord, he is right.
royexum@aol.com