Editor’s note: This column was first published Feb. 22, 2018

Best I can remember, I didn’t have an actual conversation with a Black person until I was in the sixth grade.

I’m not proud of that conversation, which went something like this:

Black person: We’re about to stomp your dumb, white hillbilly (butts) into the mud.

Me: Bring it on, (N-word).

About two hours later, I had this conversation with that same person.

Black person: Good game, man. You guys are OK.

Me: Thanks man. I’d take you on my team anytime.

Two hours on a muddy football field in East Tennessee changed me forever.

I grew up in Erwin, a beautiful, small town nestled in the mountains. The town offered everything a young boy could possibly want out of life.

Mountains to climb. Creeks to dam. Rivers and lakes full of fish. Never-ending backyard baseball, football or basketball games depending on the time of year, and pretty mountain girls who would make you hurt your neck trying to get a look at them when they walked by.

One thing missing from Erwin was people of color.

I’ve heard stories about why there were no Black people in Erwin, but I honestly don’t know the entire story and — at least for this column — it’s not important.

When I was in the sixth grade, my elementary school football team was a beast. We allowed two points and one first down — total — in a five-game season against the other elementary schools in the county.

At the end of the year, an all-star team was put together from those five teams. That all-star team faced my Evans Elementary Patriots at a packed Gentry Stadium — home of the county’s only high school team — and my Patriots won by 30.

A week later, a game was arranged between my Patriots and a Boy’s Club team from nearby Johnson City. The majority of the kids on that team were Black, and I feel safe in saying the only contact me or any of my teammates previously had with a Black person before that day came on the rare occasion when we visited the mall in Johnson City.

By “contact” I mean we saw them. There were never actual words spoken.

The game against the Boy’s Club was played in a driving rainstorm, and the field was already sloppy by the time the captains met at midfield for the coin toss.

You already know the conversation that took place as I grudgingly shook hands with one of the other team’s captains, a large kid (like myself) that I would be blocking or be blocked by for the next two hours.

During that two-hour span, we bit, clawed, cussed, banged heads, threw mud at each other and did everything (some of it legal) we could to help our respective teams win.

When the game ended, we were bloody, sore and tired like any other game. But something else happened to both of us.

We realized we were just two kids who loved playing football and were willing to give every ounce of blood, sweat and tears we had to the game and for our teammates.

The only difference was the color of our skin.

More than 40 years later, I see that kid’s face. I remember the sting I felt when he called me a big, dumb hillbilly, and I remember the hurt in his eyes when I retaliated with a horrific racial slur.

I don’t know what might have happened if we had met at midfield after the game and let hatred turn into another verbal or physical confrontation.

I do know this, though.

Because two captains of opposing teams (and colors) showed mutual respect to one another, the remaining players on both teams did the same.

Sixth grade. Lesson taught. Lesson learned.

Will someone please tell me why some adults can’t understand this simple concept?