A record book for S.C. all-stars

Taking the top off the defense: DeAndre "Nuk" Hopkins, pictured at Daniel High, has scored more NFL TDs than any other South Carolinian (GreenvilleOnline photo).

 Back in 1992 when Sports Illustrated was an institution, the magazine ranked the 50 greatest athletes from each state. The South Carolina list was headlined by heayweight boxing champion Joe Frazier, who grew up in Beaufort as the son of a sharecropper.

 I never met Frazier but was surprised how many of the South Carolinians that I had encountered in my sportswriting career. No. 2 was Shoeless Joe Jackson, who died before I was born, so I wrote columns contending that his "lifetime ban" from baseball was no longer valid.
 No. 3 Pete Maravich I saw play in 1968 at Clemson (see Memoirs, 1968).
 No. 7 David Pearson and No. 14 Cale Yarborough drove in the first NASCAR race I ever saw, at Darlington.
 At T.L. Hanna, I was the scorekeeper for No. 9 Jim Rice's senior season, and saw No. 8 Alex English play for Dreher and No. 25 Stanley Morgan for Easley. We called him Ed Rice, and Ed, if you see this, I owe you an apology for a misquote 50 years ago.

 As a kid going to Clemson games, I watched an All-ACC receiver named Charlie Waters. SI ranked him No. 21 for his career as a two-time Super Bown champion with the Dallas Cowboys, making all-pro at a position he rarely played at Clemson.

 As a sportswriter for The Anderson Independent, I covered the emergence of No. 18 Larry Nance at McDuffie High School and No. 43 Willie Mays Aikens at Seneca, plus No. 33 Steve Fuller in the demise of his Spartanburg High School juggernaut.
 On my first road trip for the paper, I met No. 19 Bobby Richardson when I covered the 1975 College World Series. (Our paths crossed again in Boone, when Richardson shared his testimony at Deerfield United Methodist Church, and I won an autographed baseball by answering the trivia question of who replaced him at second base for the Yankees. Answer: Horace Clarke).
 At The Greenville News, I crossed paths with No. 15 Kevin Garnett during the 1999 NBA lockout and No. 24 Xavier McDaniel. I presented No. 31 William Perry with his all-state plaque at the Easley Football Jamboree, and followed the career of No. 41 Tony Rice from Woodruff High School to Notre Dame to the Fiesta Bowl. Before No. 47 Anthuan Maybank was an Olympic Gold Medalist, I saw him run for Georgetown High School, and his name inspired the Antwan Index (see my memoirs for 1991).

 I'm sorry I never met No. 48 George Webster—the story of his underground-railroad recruitment from Anderson to Michigan State would have been an enlightening peek behind the curtain of segregation.
 If SI had asked me, I would have told them they overlooked Camden's Larry Doby, a 1998 Hall of Famer who was the Jackie Robinson of the American League. Neither SI nor I were aware of Anderson's Ben Taylor, a Negro League baseball star who was inducted into Cooperstown in 2006. 

 Other worthy nominees might have been Greenville basketballer Clyde Mayes (another barrier-breaker from Jim Rice's generation); Fountain Inn golfer Chris Patton; and Textile Leaguer Earl Wooten of Pelzer. 

 If SI had survived, this list eventually might have included Stephen Davis of Spartanburg (who had three times more NFL yardage than his Auburn predecessor, Bo Jackson); DeAndre Hopkins (who has surpassed Morgan for the most TD catches by a South Carolinian), golfers Dustin Johnson and Lucas Glover; and baseball's Preston Wilson. I saw Wilson homer for Bamberg-Ehrhardt in a 1992 playoff game at Walhalla, shortly before he became a Top 10 draftee in the same class as Derek Jeter. 

  I'm reminded of the Names in the News column in The Greenville News, where we compiled accomplishments of South Carolinians. 

 As I reflected on South Carolina's favorite sons, Google and I compiled the big-league records of athletes born or schooled in my home state. These names are off the top of my head, so these lists may not be all-inclusive. Let me know anyone I've overlooked. Stats updated through 2025. I've included Negro League stats, which have been counted since 2024 by Major League Baseball. #borninsouthcarolina:

(Listed with birthplace and high school)

MLB HOME RUNS
382 Jim Rice, Anderson Westside/T.L. Hanna
305 Reggie Sanders, Florence Wilson

294 Larry Doby, Camden
268 Gorman Thomas, Charleston James Island
196 Justin Smoak, Goose Creek Stratford
192 Al Rosen, born Spartanburg (raised in Miami) 

189 Preston Wilson, Bamberg-Ehrhardt
153 Dan Driessen, Hilton Head Hardeeville
146 Matt Weiters, Goose Creek
139 Brett Gardner, Holly Hill Academy

131 Ken Harrelson, born Woodruff (raised in Savannah)

110 Willie Mays Aikens, Seneca

  94 Whit Merrifield, born Florence (raised in N.C.) 

  67 Mookie Wilson, Bamberg-Ehrhardt
  60 Matthew LeCroy, Belton-Honea Path
  54 Shoeless Joe Jackson, Greenville
  54 Willie Randolph, Holly Hill

  44 Pokey Reese, Columbia Lower Richland

  43 Del Pratt, Walhalla (raised in Alabama)

  41 Don Buddin, Olanta

  37 Bill Spiers, Orangeburg Wade Hampton

  36 Marty Marion, Richburg (raised in Atlanta)

  34 Bobby Richardson, Sumter Edmunds

  32 Chino Smith, Greenwood 

  31 Doug Strange, Greenville Wade Hampton

  31 Dewayne Wise, Chapin

  27 Red Smith, Greenville 

  26 Ben Taylor, Anderson

  26 Gene Richards, Monticello McCrorey-Liston

  26 Candy Jim Taylor, Anderson

  20 Eli White, Piedmont Wren 

  19 Herm Winningham, Orangeburg-Wilkinson

  17 Chick Galloway, Clinton

  16 Neil Chrisley, Calhoun Falls

  16, Billy McMillon, Bishopville Lee County

  14 Steven Duggar, Spartanburg Byrnes

  14 Reggie Taylor, Newberry

  12 Tripp Cromer, Lake City

  10 Mike Sharperson, Orangburg-Wilkinson

NFL TOUCHDOWNS

85 DeAndre Hopkins, Daniel 
73 Stanley Morgan, Easley
70 A.J. Green, Summerville 
69 Stephen Davis, Spartanburg
66 Jimmy Orr, Seneca

63 Roddy White, Charleston James Island  
57 Freddie Solomon, Sumter

50 Ben Coates, Greenwood

47 Alshon Jeffery, St. Matthews Calhoun County

35 Bobby Engram, Camden
34 Duce Staley, Columbia Airport
32 Robert Brooks, Greenwood

32 Mike Williams, Holly Hill Lake Marion

31 Troy Brown, Barnwell Blackville-Hilda

30 Sidney Rice, Gaffney

29 Jerry Butler, Ware Shoals

28 Steve Fuller, Spartanburg (born in Enid, Okla.)

27 David Meggett, Charleston Bonds-Wilson

27 Deebo Samuel, Inman Chapman 

25 Charlie Brown, John's Island St. John's

25 Kevin Long, Clinton

22 Cordarrelle Patterson, Rock Hill Northwestern

20 Bennie Cunningham, Laurens Seneca

20 Stanford Jennings, Summerville

19 Clarence Williams, Moncks Corner Berkeley

16 Rico Dowdle, Gaffney (raised in Asheville, N.C.)

15 Andre Roberts, Columbia Spring Valley

13 Harold Green, Stratford

13 Maurice Morris, Chester

13 Greg Jones, Columbia Battery Creek

10 Brian Quick, Columbia Ridge View   

10 Keith Jennings, Summerville 

10 Andre Ellington, Moncks Corner Berkeley

Memoirs: Three-Score and 10 Blessed Years

I found this viewpoint on my 11th climb on Mount Le Conte in 2024. 
Daredevils sometimes pose on the ledge behind me.

My daring friends,
Bernie and Dewey

 Having completed my 70th year, I'm dwelling on the 90th Psalm, a prayer of Moses, where the 10th verse declares, "The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their boast is only labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away."
 Moses finished strong, and at age 120 he climbed Mount Pisgah, where the Lord showed him the Promised Land and then laid him to rest.
 At 70, I haven't had much toil or trouble—never a headache nor a heartache, even my heart attacks were painless—but the years are rolling up on my odometer. After 25 years in the newspaper business and 26 years at Samaritan's Purse, I'm contemplating retirement at the end of 2025.

 Lest all my lessons, adventures, puns, and Dad jokes pass away with me, I've jotted down these memories, on the chance that someone someday might wish they had asked me.

 Before we get into the chronology, I should deal with eternity and share my Christian testimony. When I was growing up, I wasn't sure where I stood with God. I knew that some of my friends had been baptized as babies, and I didn't know if that applied to me, and I was too terribly shy to ask.
 When I was about 11 years old, my Sunday School class made a field trip to the Anderson County jail. While we were there, in a stark chapel with wooden benches, a preacher gave a scared-straight sermon, and I remember being terrified by the prospect of hell. I remember that someone led me in the sinner's prayer, then told me to tell my parents when I got home. I assume my Sunday School teacher told them, but shy Tommy never did.
 Our family regularly attended Sunday School, though we didn't often stay for "big church." One night in November 1972, we went to a revival service at Concord Baptist Church, where the evangelist warned us that this might be our last chance. He used the illustration of a mountain climber who had reached an overhanging ledge, only to see his rope swing away from him. As it swung back, he knew he would have to make the leap, because the lifeline would never get any closer. (Of course it took a mountain-climbing example to move my heart.)
 I didn't have a load of sins to confess, but on the last stanza of Just As I Am (No. 240 in the Baptist Hymnal) I walked the aisle to "join the church," as we described it back then. Nov. 15, 1972, was my born-again birthday. My little sister Martha Ann also came forward at that revival, and we were baptized on the same day.

 If you are like I was, and not sure where you stand with God, I want you to know how dearly He loves you (John 3:16), and how you can know Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior. Here is how Billy Graham explained it. 

How about that Olde English typewriter font?

1955: I was expected in 1954 but tarried until Jan. 18—costing my parents a tax deduction. I was 20 inches long, although Grandmama Essie (who worked at the hospital) proudly told everyone I measured 20 feet. The Layton kids were among 10,509 babies delivered by Dr. Anne Young, who was one of the first female doctors in South Carolina. Mama's baby book says I was adventurous: "Walked out the back door at 9½ months, received bad bump, skinned place, and a scare!" At age four, I fell and knocked out my two front teeth. I'm told my first words were "Mama" at 7½ months, followed by "Da-Da," "Bye-bye," and "Patty-cake." 

The postman rings 100!

Tom Griffin carrying his RFD route

 Dec. 27, 2022, marks the 100th anniversary of my grandparents' wedding. Thomas Jackson Griffin and Macie Sherard were married Wednesday, Dec. 27, 1922, at the parsonage of the First Baptist Church in Anderson.
 He was 37 and she was 35. They were late to the courtship, because they were both busy taking care of elderly parents. They were married 29 years before he died of a heart attack.
 Tom and Macie met when he delivered mail to the office of Dr. J.O. Sanders, where she worked. Dr. Sanders delivered my mom on Sept. 8, 1925.
 Mom and Dad also had a Christmas wedding at First Baptist on Saturday, Dec. 26, 1953. Dr. Anne Young expected me to be born around Christmas 1954, but I tarried until Jan. 18, 1955. Mom and Dad were married 63 years before his death in 2017.

William Sherard was my
 third great grandfather

 I come from a long line of postmen. Macie's uncle, great-uncle, and great-grandfather were postmasters of the Moffettsville Post Office near Iva in southern Anderson County. Tom Griffin's dad, Pierce Butler Griffin, also served as the postmaster of the Crayton post office in the Craytonville community. Tom Griffin carried one of Anderson's early RFD routes in the Hopewell community north of Anderson.

 William Bratton, my fourth great-uncle, was postmaster at Brattonsville, S.C. His father, my fifth great-grandfather, Col. William Bratton, was a hero in the American Revolution. 

 Warren Harding was serving as the 29th president when Macie and Tom were married.

My grandfather's pocket watch, monogrammed TGJ on the back (Thomas Jackson Griffin). It still runs!

Anderson's Dr. Anne welcomed 10,509 of us

     Dr. Anne Young of Anderson, S.C., delivered 10,509 babies in her 71-year medical career.
     In the pre-dawn hours 62 years ago today, I became one of them.
     Reminiscing with my mama about the blessed event, she reminded me that I arrived later than expected (setting a lifelong pattern), that Daddy delayed checking into the hospital until after midnight (to avoid an extra day's charges) and that Grandmama Essie was so overwhelmed that she told everyone I was 21 feet (rather than inches).
     When I was born, Dr. Anne was 62 years old—the same age I am today. When she retired in 1983, she was 91—the same age as my mom today.
     On the occasion of Dr. Anne's final delivery, my friend Deb Richardson-Moore did a wonderful job putting her life into perspective: "A girl who will graduate from high school in the 21st century delivered by a woman pioneer of the 19th century."
     If you can't read the clipping below, try this link.

I'm proud of you, Daddy

Two days after I wrote this, my dear old Daddy died at the age of 88.

Son of a gun: My dad Robert Dwight Layton bequeaths his rifle to my son Robert Holcombe Layton. I'm Robert Thomas Layton, my granddaddy was Robert Dewey Layton, and his daddy was Robert Herman Layton. We're proud of our name.

     One thing I will never forget about my high school graduation is my daddy finding me in the crowd outside the new gym at old T.L. Hanna, shaking my hand, and telling me, “I’m proud of you, son.”
     Daddy has never been one to make speeches, so those words have resonated with me.
     Today I cling to every last word as I clutch his hand and sit by his bedside at Anderson's Hospice House, which is just a mile from that gym. It’s 5:30 a.m. and he is curled up in his bed, his breathing labored, and his aching knees numbed by morphine. Occasionally he raises his left hand to his gray eyes as if he could still see the wristwatch on his leathery arm.
     “Is it time to get up?” I hear him say. Most of his words the last few days have been indecipherable, hoarse, snippets of dreams. So these lucid moments are precious.
     “No, Daddy, you don’t have to get up today,” I tell him. “You can sleep in.”
     This is the first time I’ve ever sat through the night with someone who is—hard to say it about my Daddy—dying. A million thoughts and prayers and memories race through my mind. Above all, I have the comfort of knowing that Daddy is about to meet his Lord and Savior and hear that wonderful greeting, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
     Daddy wasn’t showy or preachy in his service, and none of us are perfect, but his heart is as good as gold, and his soul is in the hands of Jesus.
     About his heart: Daddy almost worked it to death back when he was raising our family. I had to stand in for him at my little sister’s graduation because he had suffered a heart attack at age 51. A few weeks later, he had a second heart attack and had to retire from Owens Corning Fiberglas.
     That was also when Daddy retired from smoking. It was important to him that none of his kids fall for that nasty habit, and we didn’t. When I was about 12, he promised that if I made it to 18 without smoking or drinking, he would give me a car. Those vices never tempted me, and I was so content and mobile on my Schwinn 10-speed that I didn’t even bother getting my driver’s license until I was 18. But Daddy was true to his word, and not long after my graduation day, we found a gold '68 Mustang at a used-car lot on South Main, and he gave me the down payment.
     The nurse has just come in to reposition Daddy so he doesn’t get bedsores. We remove the nest of pillows he has assembled and start to lift him, but he cries out, “No! Please don’t!” He dreads the stabbing pain that will come with the slightest movement of his knees. The nurses here are merciful, and repositioning can wait until morning.
     Even in his pain, in a moment most of us would cuss, Daddy still says Please and Thank You. He raised us to say Yes ma'am and no sir.
     Daddy showed us how to live, and now he's showing us how to die. Unselfishly. Humbly. Responsibly. His generation wasn't much for public displays of affection, yet in his later years we saw more and more glimpses of his love for Mama. He instilled in his children simple proverbs that we call Dwightisms, like "You learn more by listening than you do by talking," and "If you're not gonna finish it, don't start it."

     Daddy knew how to fly. He joined the Army Air Corps as World War II was ending and became a flight engineer on a B-25 bomber. For his 80th birthday, we gave him a ride on a T-6 Texan two-seater, the same plane he had trained on more than 60 years earlier. Daddy amazed the pilot with the details and secrets he knew about that aircraft.
     He built model airplanes that are works of mechanical art: shaped by his hands, prized by his friends, and brought to life by radio-controlled servos and glow-fueled engines with propellers that could lop off your finger.
     Daddy also got to experience the cockpit of one of the world’s largest planes, the Soviet-built Antonov 124. Samaritan’s Purse chartered these to deliver shoebox gifts from Operation Christmas Child to children around the world. Mama started the OCC collection center in Anderson, and Daddy gladly helped, so I took them to Atlanta one December to see the jet being loaded. The cockpit is on top of the massive cargo hold, and to get up there you have to climb a two-story ladder. Daddy went right up, bad knees and all, so he could hear the Ukranian crew explain to him how they flew it.
     Speaking of Atlanta, Daddy used to take us down there to see the Braves play, to camp at Stone Mountain, and to eat at The Varsity (but never at Lum’s, because their hot dogs were steamed in beer). One of the first games we saw around 1967 in the old Fulton County Stadium featured Hank Aaron against Willie Mays. The last Braves game we attended together was in 2007 at Turner Field, when Tom Glavine pitched for the Mets against John Smoltz.
     Daddy was never a ballplayer and didn’t push me to be one, which was okay. We enjoyed watching the games, and I was able to make a career out of that.
     Our last game together was just five nights ago, when he sat up way past his bedtime to listen to the Clemson bowl game on the radio. (He can’t see the TV.) As a surprise for Daddy, I asked the Clemson announcer, Don Munson, if he could send out a personal greeting during the game. Don made it happen, and Daddy’s face lit up in a proud grin. “Yeah, I heard it,” he said. Basking in the Tigers' victory, he went to bed that night and since then has not had the strength to get back up.
     Daddy went to Clemson for a couple of years but “turned pro” before he graduated. When Fiberglas opened its new factory in Anderson, he was among the first men they hired. They promised him a pension that he still gets today, 37 years after his last day in the shop. He made the platinum nozzles that produced the glass threads that keep houses insulated, fishing rods limber, and oil flowing through the Alaska pipeline.
     Now he’s resting and breathing a little easier. Dawn is breaking.
     I’m proud of you, Daddy. I love you. I'm going to miss you.

Daddy has been a Clemson man for nearly 70 years. We took this last photo at the end of the Ohio State game on New Year's Eve. The night before his funeral, Mama and the children gathered in the same room to watch Clemson beat Alabama for the national championship, just as he predicted.