Charle Young Died

A few days ago, Charle Young’s nephew texted me that his uncle Charle died. If you are too young to remember Charle, he played for the 49ers 1980-1982. He was a great blocker and, unlike most tight ends of his generation, he also was a skilled receiver. He was the new breed. He also was a wonderful person, and I would like to tell you about him.

I first met him one weekday evening after the 49ers had finished practicing at their dinky little wonderful facility in Redwood City. That was before the NFL went all Cecil B. DeMille and became an impersonal extravaganza. I had walked to my car in the parking lot and out of nowhere, it seemed to me, emerged this giant man, this handsome man. He raised his arms like Moses on the mountain and said he wanted to convert me to Christianity. I mentioned I was Jewish and wasn’t looking to be converted. He said he knew I was Jewish and he knew he couldn’t convert me, but I should listen anyway because he liked giving his spiel. So, I listened and his speech was an all-timer about Jesus and the afterlife and stuff I can’t remember.

When he was done, he said, “How did I do?” I said he did fine. He smiled. He thanked me for listening. After that, Charle and I would spend time in the dark of the parking lot. I loved listening to him because he had an enormous personality that was funny, generous, full of life. Charle loved life, the sheer spectacle of it, the beauty in the ordinary and I felt honored that he wanted to convert me.

After the 1982 season, it became apparent the 49ers would phase out Charle for Russ Francis, another larger-than-life personality. Charle and I were at training camp in Rocklin and Charle asked me to take a walk with him. Can you imagine a current player asking a writer to take a walk with him? That old world is over and done with.

Charle led me to a little stream, and we sat on the rocks and he said the 49ers would regret moving on from him. I listened. I noticed a crawfish walking on a rock near us and I said, “Charle, there’s a crawfish.” I did not expect this to be a controversial topic. Charle said, “It’s not a crawfish, it’s a lobster.” I said, “Lobsters are saltwater creatures and this is a crawfish.” Charle insisted it was a lobster. When we left the stream Charle said it was a lobster.

Years later we met somewhere and the first thing he said was, “It was a crawfish. I was just pulling your leg.” I asked him why. He said he felt like it. He laughed his big laugh.

After the 49ers, he played for Seattle and settled up there. When I would cover a 49ers-Seahawks game, Charle would be in the pressbox but he wouldn’t chat with me until I had filed my story. He knew how journalism worked. And then he would sit next to me, and we would talk and talk. He would ask questions about me and my life – so rare for a professional athlete. And Charle meant it. He was interested in me.

At the Dwight Clark Memorial Service at Grace Cathedral Charle sat next to Ira Miller and me. He was there with Renaldo Nehemiah, two older players, two lovely men. Charle told me I was a great writer. I blushed and turned toward Ira. Charle said, “Don’t look at Ira. I’m talking to you.”

If I weren’t a sports writer, I could have been friends with Charle, and he would have enriched my life as he enriched so many lives. I also could have been friends with Russ Francis and Brent Jones because tight ends, a hybrid between wide receivers and offensive linemen, are the most fascinating men on any football team. They are individualists and they are intellectuals and they understand life is absurd.

I am so sad Charle died. But I write this not in sadness but in joy. I got to spend time with Charle Young even if he didn’t know the difference between a lobster and a crawfish. And I loved every minute.