Remembering Price "Butch" Keller
LHS Class of 1977
Butch Kellar (1959-2026)
Butch Kellar, despite moving to Missouri, remained one of Logan football's biggest fans. He was always there to encourage the football team, coaches, and the community to push our Chieftains toward success. He will be missed.
Butch wrote the following story, recalling his senior football season.
RIP, Butch
Butch wrote the following story, recalling his senior football season.
RIP, Butch
Champions!
Training camp senior year began with my name on top at offensive center and defensive tackle. Ten years of peewee ball and scout team sacrifice paid my dues. Nobody would keep me from being on the field every minute of every game.
Coach Richardson pulled me aside after two weeks. Through a grimace he explained that the coaches fancied a sophomore named Jerry Crothers. Jerry bench pressed more than me, and outweighed me by 20 pounds. He merited a shot at one of my positions.
Coach asked, “Do you want to play offense or defense?”
I looked him in the eye, “Both.”
"That won't work."
"Defense," I muttered, "it’s always better to hit than to receive."
“I thought you liked hitting.”
As Coach turned away, I resolved to win back my spot. Coach Biggers held the final say. He’d play me at center if I made the choice obvious. Jerry’s days were about to become difficult.
When the offense practiced, I played scout team noseguard over Jerry. Each time he snapped the ball, I cracked him. Being faster, quicker, and meaner than him put me inside his helmet before he could think. Jerry lost his wind when I found his ribs. I zipped by him without a touch. He listened to me jeer when I broke up a play.
I heard the whispers of our younger teammates. They didn’t appreciate my attempts to dismember their buddy. The one time during camp Jerry came out shaken up, I stepped in to snap center. After a few plays, he nodded at Coach to rejoin the fray. The punishment only increased when I thought he backed down, but quitting and Jerry didn’t go together. He refused to engage my glare. After each whistle, he got up -- workman like -- and trotted back to the huddle. He aimed to keep the center’s job.
Jerry worked on his game. He snapped the ball faster to neutralize my rush. He shot up on pass blocks, and used chop blocks to drop my hands. It stopped being easy to beat him as summer wore on.
One day, I upended him to scramble the offense and make the tackle. As the guys rolled off the pile, I started to gloat. Jerry stood over me with an outstretched hand.
"Good job," he said, as he pulled me to my feet.
I found myself popping up to give him a tug more regularly as camp closed. Jerry got in his licks. He earned his spot as a starter. We wanted to be a great team. Our roster held fine individual players. Something went missing? We lost twice in our first three games, by a total of seven points. We weren’t impassioned enough to win. Turmoil brewed in the locker room.
League play opened at home against Ironton. The Tigers owned five successive league championships. They demoralized us the year before. Monday’s film session showed them loaded with speed and power on both sides of the ball. Doubts crept in. What were our coaches doing? Why couldn’t we have a quarterback change? How could we get more from each other? We gave each other long faces as we passed in the hallways. Ironton scared us!
Tuesday before Ironton, Jerry developed a goose egg over his eye. If it came from my pounding, he wouldn't say. Coach sat him so he’d be ready Friday night. He stormed around, angry about sitting, even though his helmet wouldn’t go back on. The seniors whooped it up when Coach sent me in.
Wednesday before Ironton, I dressed early to enjoy a few minutes alone in the stadium. The cheerleaders practiced before the team took the field, and I owned the place to be. The moment glowed as the low sun warmed the air just enough for football weather.
The cheerleaders came around the corner in tears.
"Is it true?"
One of the girls, a friend, leaned into me and cried.
"Somebody on the team died," she sobbed.
My mind raced across the faces on our team picture.
"Who?" I asked.
They didn't know.
Coach Boynton came up. When I saw his red eyes, I surrendered all hopes that the girls were wrong.
"Who, Coach?"
Coach put a big arm around me, and said, "We need to be inside with the team, Butch."
Coach Biggers walked to the front of the locker room. On his eye contact the whispers stopped:
“Men, we don't get to call all the plays in life. A few minutes ago, the good Lord took Jerry Crothers to be by his side.
.
Jerry visited the doctor for that bump on his head. The Doc cleared him to play, but Jerry couldn’t practice because he missed school. He washed his motorcycle and took it for a spin to dry. A pickup turned in front of him. The accident killed him instantly.
Pray about this. Answers won't come easily. You will make sense of the pain in time. Go home to your families. They need your strength.”
Nobody breathed as the silence mounted. Then a sniff, a sob, and a torrent of emotion flowed. Coach Boynton stayed by me. As the Center and Guard Coach, he applauded my great plays, but he did the same exasperating thing when Jerry stuck me. Coach's arm around me felt good as I tried to rebound.
Part of me felt gone. Jerry pushed me on the field. He stood strong and quiet in the face of my rage -- more mature, even dignified -- about the game I loved. When I pushed him -- he fought with heart and learned from me. I held my breath; afraid to wail when I exhaled. After a minute, Coach Boynton let go of me to check on other guys. We milled around until quiet replaced the sobs. The coaches left us alone.
I crossed the room on numb feet to collapse on the bench by my locker. My helmet sat in my lap. If you play football fearlessly, your helmet shows contact. Most of the purple paint came from collisions with Jerry. Teammates dressed and filtered out while I sat dazed until the room thinned.
When Coach Boynton stuck his head in the locker room, the guys who waited around for me took off. I must have looked pitiful slumped in a practice uniform I never washed wearing a heavy heart. Coach gently pulled up a stool.
We sat a long time, saying nothing. I didn’t want to break down. It felt like Coach knew to be still. After a long time, he stood and helped me find the energy to pull my jersey over my head. He popped the clinch on my shoulder pads and gave them a tug. We didn't talk while I dressed into street clothes. Easy words didn’t matter. I’m glad he stayed for me.
Coach Boynton finally allowed, "Someday, you will know how many lives you two touched. Competition like you and Jerry shared is a rare thing."
My eyes burned. Coach cried, too.
The administration decided to play Ironton as scheduled, so we practiced in full pads Thursday. When Coach called for the offense, I looked his way, "Who is snapping center?"
"You are, Butch!" Coach Boynton grinned, "You're ready!"
Our defense didn’t buckle, but our offense couldn’t answer Ironton’s thugs. The kid that played over me, confident in his ability to whip a second stringer, pounded my head. We ran out of time and got dumped, 8-0.
The Logan Daily News credited Ironton's noseguard with "getting in on the lion's share of the hits." I wasn’t ready. We weren't ready as a team, either. We lost three times in four games, looked heartbroken, and sailed without a rudder in a season nearly half over.
They buried Jerry Saturday. I couldn’t bring myself to go. I spent the day riding a horse deep in the Wayne National Forrest. None of my teammates asked why. Missing let me keep an image of Jerry pulling me up with a "you’re next" look on his face.
Jerry's equipment sat in his open-faced locker when we came back on Monday. We didn’t want it collected. I picked up his headgear to admire its battle scars. Jerry's number, "52" sat where he placed it to start the season. I wondered what gave me the right to do it, and then I peeled the numbers and stuck them on the back of my helmet.
As I sat in the stadium waiting for the team, I ran my thumb over Jerry’s numbers. I committed to play the rest of the season as if Jerry and I played together.
Coach Biggers gathered us on Tuesday to ask each of us in turn to pledge to be the last man standing. We adopted the new work ethic. Our season turned on immediate outcomes, beginning with 3 and 1 Jackson, and we knew it.
Jackson let us score early before our offense sputtered. Our defense shut them down. Momentum favored neither team as we headed to the halftime locker room, ahead 6-0. We needed to want to win.
The Jackson quarterback we dominated in the first half returned the second half kickoff for a touchdown. We staggered through three plays and a punt with our opening possession.
Coach Biggers replaced our senior quarterback with junior Scott Gasser. Scotty could throw a football through a rolling tire forty yards away. We liked Scott’s confidence because he used it in a humble way. The huddle sizzled as he ran out and ducked in to call a play. Excitement surged as I bent over the ball for the center snap.
“Hut!” he yelled.
I hiked it, and then the crowd screamed. I blew the snap. Jackson red recovered the fumble. Three plays later we were down 14-6, to a lesser team. With five minutes to go in the third-quarter, our history threatened to interfere with our destiny.
After we received the kickoff, Scotty barked at me about the snap, told his receivers the exact routes he wanted, and led us down the field to score. The quarter ended with us behind two points.
As we changed end zones for the last quarter, our place-kicker, Jeff Smith, stepped onto the field and stuck four fingers in the air. Our players on the sideline figured it out and joined him. Little Smitty peered at the Jackson Coach. He meant: “This is the fourth quarter, now you play our game.”
Our hands went up on the field to join our teammates. We stared at the Jackson bench. We closed with two unanswered touchdowns.
Jocks tend to remember being a little better than they were. Accepting that, I was all over Jackson. The coaches passed out hustle stickers at Monday's Kangaroo Court. They called me up front 10 times. The next guy back earned six stickers.
Coach asked me to speak to end recognition. My face flushed as tears welled up. I declined with a headshake. Coach bailed me out with a, "Let's go, men!"
Telling teammates that I’d earned five stickers, and Jerry the other five, would’ve been too hard.
Confidence described us after Jackson. When the other team sucked air as the third quarter ended, we waved four fingers and hit harder in the fourth. We swamped Waverly, Meigs, and Athens by a combined 128 to 10. Our attitudes said, "You don't have a chance!" to the guys in the wrong colored jerseys.
Then we watched Gallia’s game films.
Like us, they absorbed an early league loss and ran the table after. Unlike us, they handled Ironton.
Gallia built a power game around a man named Brian Mink. He weighed 69 pounds more than me, and he would be in my face all night as noseguard and fullback for the Blue Devils. Coach Boynton said the Ohio High School Athletic Association engraved Mink’s All-State plaque after his Ironton game.
I wanted Mink badly! Saying so and convincing myself I believed it; let me bear up to the abuse I saw the animal hand out on game film.
Scotty defrosted 65 yards of field to start the game by making a quarterback draw go for a touchdown. Before we celebrated, Gallia manhandled us. We sulked and they capitalized. The halftime scoreboard said 16-12, them. We came out of the locker room flat. Gallia smacked us again to put us behind 22-12. We looked like quitters.
Mink toyed with me during the first part of the contest. Between squeals and grunts, he detailed the hurt he promised to deliver. If I blocked him at all, I used my speed to cut him, or his inertia to ride him out of the pocket. It made him furious. He didn't help me up after a good play; he stepped on me.
Midway through the third quarter, Gallia threatened deep in our territory. We would be down 17 points -- too many to overcome, even in our fourth quarter. Something needed to happen.
Mink took the ball on a fullback dive. I brought all 154 pounds to the line of scrimmage to meet him. He pancaked me. As he rumbled over, I reached up and grabbed his jersey. It stretched and I bobbed along for six yards before a planted foot wheeled the brute down.
The hometown announcer blurted, "Brian Mink for a six yard pick up… tackled by the entire Logan defense!"
Rage overwhelmed me. Tears streamed down my cheeks as we tried to collect ourselves in the defensive huddle to face Gallia’s 4th down and 1. Right before we broke, a hush went over the place. A teammate whispered: “Jerry.”
We stopped Gallia.
Our offense took over on the 25-yard line. Scotty fired off a pass, then another, then a long run by our halfback, and the heavens opened to a touchdown. Gallia limped through three plays and a fumbled punt snap. We scored again.
Mink tried to rally his team, but they were done. He folded, exhausted and humiliated. I remembered to help him up. We scored every time we touched the ball, and won 43-22.
One last game ended our season as we dismantled Wellston to be co-champions with Ironton. At our very lowest point, Ironton escaped with a one-touchdown victory. We crushed the team that beat them. We’re still willing to play Ironton again to split our co-champions’ title. I hope they feel the same way.
********************
Nine months after high school football ended, I broke my neck in a car crash. I didn’t wear seatbelts in 1977. The Logan Chieftains 1976 season is the movie I ran in my head to carry me through quadriplegia. I knew if I worked hard enough and refused to quit, I could win. Blessings, including college, law school, career, and family have added to the reel, but the picture always starts with the faces of my teammates, as kids, back when everybody called me Butch.
Coach Richardson pulled me aside after two weeks. Through a grimace he explained that the coaches fancied a sophomore named Jerry Crothers. Jerry bench pressed more than me, and outweighed me by 20 pounds. He merited a shot at one of my positions.
Coach asked, “Do you want to play offense or defense?”
I looked him in the eye, “Both.”
"That won't work."
"Defense," I muttered, "it’s always better to hit than to receive."
“I thought you liked hitting.”
As Coach turned away, I resolved to win back my spot. Coach Biggers held the final say. He’d play me at center if I made the choice obvious. Jerry’s days were about to become difficult.
When the offense practiced, I played scout team noseguard over Jerry. Each time he snapped the ball, I cracked him. Being faster, quicker, and meaner than him put me inside his helmet before he could think. Jerry lost his wind when I found his ribs. I zipped by him without a touch. He listened to me jeer when I broke up a play.
I heard the whispers of our younger teammates. They didn’t appreciate my attempts to dismember their buddy. The one time during camp Jerry came out shaken up, I stepped in to snap center. After a few plays, he nodded at Coach to rejoin the fray. The punishment only increased when I thought he backed down, but quitting and Jerry didn’t go together. He refused to engage my glare. After each whistle, he got up -- workman like -- and trotted back to the huddle. He aimed to keep the center’s job.
Jerry worked on his game. He snapped the ball faster to neutralize my rush. He shot up on pass blocks, and used chop blocks to drop my hands. It stopped being easy to beat him as summer wore on.
One day, I upended him to scramble the offense and make the tackle. As the guys rolled off the pile, I started to gloat. Jerry stood over me with an outstretched hand.
"Good job," he said, as he pulled me to my feet.
I found myself popping up to give him a tug more regularly as camp closed. Jerry got in his licks. He earned his spot as a starter. We wanted to be a great team. Our roster held fine individual players. Something went missing? We lost twice in our first three games, by a total of seven points. We weren’t impassioned enough to win. Turmoil brewed in the locker room.
League play opened at home against Ironton. The Tigers owned five successive league championships. They demoralized us the year before. Monday’s film session showed them loaded with speed and power on both sides of the ball. Doubts crept in. What were our coaches doing? Why couldn’t we have a quarterback change? How could we get more from each other? We gave each other long faces as we passed in the hallways. Ironton scared us!
Tuesday before Ironton, Jerry developed a goose egg over his eye. If it came from my pounding, he wouldn't say. Coach sat him so he’d be ready Friday night. He stormed around, angry about sitting, even though his helmet wouldn’t go back on. The seniors whooped it up when Coach sent me in.
Wednesday before Ironton, I dressed early to enjoy a few minutes alone in the stadium. The cheerleaders practiced before the team took the field, and I owned the place to be. The moment glowed as the low sun warmed the air just enough for football weather.
The cheerleaders came around the corner in tears.
"Is it true?"
One of the girls, a friend, leaned into me and cried.
"Somebody on the team died," she sobbed.
My mind raced across the faces on our team picture.
"Who?" I asked.
They didn't know.
Coach Boynton came up. When I saw his red eyes, I surrendered all hopes that the girls were wrong.
"Who, Coach?"
Coach put a big arm around me, and said, "We need to be inside with the team, Butch."
Coach Biggers walked to the front of the locker room. On his eye contact the whispers stopped:
“Men, we don't get to call all the plays in life. A few minutes ago, the good Lord took Jerry Crothers to be by his side.
.
Jerry visited the doctor for that bump on his head. The Doc cleared him to play, but Jerry couldn’t practice because he missed school. He washed his motorcycle and took it for a spin to dry. A pickup turned in front of him. The accident killed him instantly.
Pray about this. Answers won't come easily. You will make sense of the pain in time. Go home to your families. They need your strength.”
Nobody breathed as the silence mounted. Then a sniff, a sob, and a torrent of emotion flowed. Coach Boynton stayed by me. As the Center and Guard Coach, he applauded my great plays, but he did the same exasperating thing when Jerry stuck me. Coach's arm around me felt good as I tried to rebound.
Part of me felt gone. Jerry pushed me on the field. He stood strong and quiet in the face of my rage -- more mature, even dignified -- about the game I loved. When I pushed him -- he fought with heart and learned from me. I held my breath; afraid to wail when I exhaled. After a minute, Coach Boynton let go of me to check on other guys. We milled around until quiet replaced the sobs. The coaches left us alone.
I crossed the room on numb feet to collapse on the bench by my locker. My helmet sat in my lap. If you play football fearlessly, your helmet shows contact. Most of the purple paint came from collisions with Jerry. Teammates dressed and filtered out while I sat dazed until the room thinned.
When Coach Boynton stuck his head in the locker room, the guys who waited around for me took off. I must have looked pitiful slumped in a practice uniform I never washed wearing a heavy heart. Coach gently pulled up a stool.
We sat a long time, saying nothing. I didn’t want to break down. It felt like Coach knew to be still. After a long time, he stood and helped me find the energy to pull my jersey over my head. He popped the clinch on my shoulder pads and gave them a tug. We didn't talk while I dressed into street clothes. Easy words didn’t matter. I’m glad he stayed for me.
Coach Boynton finally allowed, "Someday, you will know how many lives you two touched. Competition like you and Jerry shared is a rare thing."
My eyes burned. Coach cried, too.
The administration decided to play Ironton as scheduled, so we practiced in full pads Thursday. When Coach called for the offense, I looked his way, "Who is snapping center?"
"You are, Butch!" Coach Boynton grinned, "You're ready!"
Our defense didn’t buckle, but our offense couldn’t answer Ironton’s thugs. The kid that played over me, confident in his ability to whip a second stringer, pounded my head. We ran out of time and got dumped, 8-0.
The Logan Daily News credited Ironton's noseguard with "getting in on the lion's share of the hits." I wasn’t ready. We weren't ready as a team, either. We lost three times in four games, looked heartbroken, and sailed without a rudder in a season nearly half over.
They buried Jerry Saturday. I couldn’t bring myself to go. I spent the day riding a horse deep in the Wayne National Forrest. None of my teammates asked why. Missing let me keep an image of Jerry pulling me up with a "you’re next" look on his face.
Jerry's equipment sat in his open-faced locker when we came back on Monday. We didn’t want it collected. I picked up his headgear to admire its battle scars. Jerry's number, "52" sat where he placed it to start the season. I wondered what gave me the right to do it, and then I peeled the numbers and stuck them on the back of my helmet.
As I sat in the stadium waiting for the team, I ran my thumb over Jerry’s numbers. I committed to play the rest of the season as if Jerry and I played together.
Coach Biggers gathered us on Tuesday to ask each of us in turn to pledge to be the last man standing. We adopted the new work ethic. Our season turned on immediate outcomes, beginning with 3 and 1 Jackson, and we knew it.
Jackson let us score early before our offense sputtered. Our defense shut them down. Momentum favored neither team as we headed to the halftime locker room, ahead 6-0. We needed to want to win.
The Jackson quarterback we dominated in the first half returned the second half kickoff for a touchdown. We staggered through three plays and a punt with our opening possession.
Coach Biggers replaced our senior quarterback with junior Scott Gasser. Scotty could throw a football through a rolling tire forty yards away. We liked Scott’s confidence because he used it in a humble way. The huddle sizzled as he ran out and ducked in to call a play. Excitement surged as I bent over the ball for the center snap.
“Hut!” he yelled.
I hiked it, and then the crowd screamed. I blew the snap. Jackson red recovered the fumble. Three plays later we were down 14-6, to a lesser team. With five minutes to go in the third-quarter, our history threatened to interfere with our destiny.
After we received the kickoff, Scotty barked at me about the snap, told his receivers the exact routes he wanted, and led us down the field to score. The quarter ended with us behind two points.
As we changed end zones for the last quarter, our place-kicker, Jeff Smith, stepped onto the field and stuck four fingers in the air. Our players on the sideline figured it out and joined him. Little Smitty peered at the Jackson Coach. He meant: “This is the fourth quarter, now you play our game.”
Our hands went up on the field to join our teammates. We stared at the Jackson bench. We closed with two unanswered touchdowns.
Jocks tend to remember being a little better than they were. Accepting that, I was all over Jackson. The coaches passed out hustle stickers at Monday's Kangaroo Court. They called me up front 10 times. The next guy back earned six stickers.
Coach asked me to speak to end recognition. My face flushed as tears welled up. I declined with a headshake. Coach bailed me out with a, "Let's go, men!"
Telling teammates that I’d earned five stickers, and Jerry the other five, would’ve been too hard.
Confidence described us after Jackson. When the other team sucked air as the third quarter ended, we waved four fingers and hit harder in the fourth. We swamped Waverly, Meigs, and Athens by a combined 128 to 10. Our attitudes said, "You don't have a chance!" to the guys in the wrong colored jerseys.
Then we watched Gallia’s game films.
Like us, they absorbed an early league loss and ran the table after. Unlike us, they handled Ironton.
Gallia built a power game around a man named Brian Mink. He weighed 69 pounds more than me, and he would be in my face all night as noseguard and fullback for the Blue Devils. Coach Boynton said the Ohio High School Athletic Association engraved Mink’s All-State plaque after his Ironton game.
I wanted Mink badly! Saying so and convincing myself I believed it; let me bear up to the abuse I saw the animal hand out on game film.
Scotty defrosted 65 yards of field to start the game by making a quarterback draw go for a touchdown. Before we celebrated, Gallia manhandled us. We sulked and they capitalized. The halftime scoreboard said 16-12, them. We came out of the locker room flat. Gallia smacked us again to put us behind 22-12. We looked like quitters.
Mink toyed with me during the first part of the contest. Between squeals and grunts, he detailed the hurt he promised to deliver. If I blocked him at all, I used my speed to cut him, or his inertia to ride him out of the pocket. It made him furious. He didn't help me up after a good play; he stepped on me.
Midway through the third quarter, Gallia threatened deep in our territory. We would be down 17 points -- too many to overcome, even in our fourth quarter. Something needed to happen.
Mink took the ball on a fullback dive. I brought all 154 pounds to the line of scrimmage to meet him. He pancaked me. As he rumbled over, I reached up and grabbed his jersey. It stretched and I bobbed along for six yards before a planted foot wheeled the brute down.
The hometown announcer blurted, "Brian Mink for a six yard pick up… tackled by the entire Logan defense!"
Rage overwhelmed me. Tears streamed down my cheeks as we tried to collect ourselves in the defensive huddle to face Gallia’s 4th down and 1. Right before we broke, a hush went over the place. A teammate whispered: “Jerry.”
We stopped Gallia.
Our offense took over on the 25-yard line. Scotty fired off a pass, then another, then a long run by our halfback, and the heavens opened to a touchdown. Gallia limped through three plays and a fumbled punt snap. We scored again.
Mink tried to rally his team, but they were done. He folded, exhausted and humiliated. I remembered to help him up. We scored every time we touched the ball, and won 43-22.
One last game ended our season as we dismantled Wellston to be co-champions with Ironton. At our very lowest point, Ironton escaped with a one-touchdown victory. We crushed the team that beat them. We’re still willing to play Ironton again to split our co-champions’ title. I hope they feel the same way.
********************
Nine months after high school football ended, I broke my neck in a car crash. I didn’t wear seatbelts in 1977. The Logan Chieftains 1976 season is the movie I ran in my head to carry me through quadriplegia. I knew if I worked hard enough and refused to quit, I could win. Blessings, including college, law school, career, and family have added to the reel, but the picture always starts with the faces of my teammates, as kids, back when everybody called me Butch.
