The word 'legend' gets thrown around so much it's lost much of its meaning.
But Rod Wotton was a legend. As a high school football coach at South Berwick (Maine), Marshwood (Eliot, Maine) and St. Thomas Aquinas (Dover, N.H.), Wotton compiled an eye-popping record of 342-81-3.
He won 21 state championships, 17 at Marshwood and four at St. Thomas.
But the numbers don't tell the whole story. Wotton was the best high school coach I've ever been around - and I saw my fair share as a sports editor at newspapers in New Hampshire, Maine and Massachusetts over more than 30 years.
Wotton, 82, died Wednesday after a long battle with Parkinson's disease. The news hit me like a gut punch. I covered more than 30 of his Marshwood games, a young reporter out of Northeastern University. He was great to me. We became friends. I got to know his wife, Norma, and their three wonderful kids.
We golfed several times at his club, Rochester Country Club, not far from his Rochester, N.H., home. I admired him and learned to get past his gruff exterior. Like when he would bark at me, "Jesus, Scanlon. We talked for 10 minutes after the game and you quoted me two sentences. Why should I talk to you?"
The more he barked at me, the more I liked him. Marshwood didn't operate a fancy offense. The Hawks ran the ball 98 percent of the time. But they were a well-oiled machine. I remember covering one game in which they used 11 different ballcarriers. No fumbles. No offsides penalties.
He won Maine titles at Class D, C, B and A. In 1989, the Hawks moved up to Class A to play the big boys despite only having 600 students. Their first meeting against Biddeford drew an estimated crowd of 5,000 - I believe Eliot had a population of 4,000 at the time. Marshwood went undefeated that year en route to the state title.
Minutes after I learned of his death, I made the 75-minute drive from my Massachusetts home to my in-laws in Berwick, Maine. As luck would have it, I drove past the old Marshwood High field. I made a quick stop, walked onto the field, and closed my eyes.
I could still see him. The way he would lean over and put his hands on his knees, surveying the field. And I could still hear him yelling, "Too much!" when an opposing runner gained five yards.
Rod Wotton was a legend. And my friend.
Rod Wotton, his wife, Norma, right, and their three children after another victory
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