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In an excerpt from The Island Remembered, sports columnist Blackie Sherrod reflects on his time spent at Spanish Cay with Tom Landry ...
"Nearly as I can remember, Dorothy Lamour was not there. But she certainly would not have been out of place, with a red print sarong and a white hibiscus blossom in her flowing dark tresses. She could have padded barefoot through the lush grass carpet under the rusty old palms, stepped around the fallen
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coconuts, so long on the ground that they had taken root in the tropical lushness and sent fresh young green shoots through the rotting husks. She could have emerged from the shadows onto the narrow beach, a clean, curving blend of white and beige, with hard coral crests on the jutting flanks.
The Caribbean waters, interrupted by occasional long furl of whitecap, were blue as a baby's eyes. On the horizon, there was a dramatic break to a pale sky. The only signal of man was a sort of primitive umbrella, a thatched bowl atop an upright pole. Underneath, in a lawn chair embedded in sand, was a muscular man in flowery trunks, head bent in hypnotic fascination on an object in his lap. Occasionally, the man would lift his eyes and stare unseeingly at the horizon, then bend again in study.
Dorothy Lamour was missing all right, but had she paraded the beach in slinky seduction, she wouldn't have drawn a flick of notice. The man was Tom Landry of, oh, an eon past, and the object in his lap was a thick, looseleaf binder. It was a Dallas Cowboys' playbook..."
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