George had a cat named Jimmy Carl Black, after the drummer in the Mothers of Invention. He came up with a pinball 'move,' called the 'Death Drop.' He lived in a house in Denton without electricity. He once had an exclusive jail interview with an accused killer and began it this way: 'Why'd you do it, Billy?' From NT to Houston to San Diego, I was on the George Train. What a huge personality. What an immense life.
One thing stands out, and that is, he was a fantastic friend. He always told great stories. Everyone knows that. And when he wrote as a reporter, his was always the best writing in the entire paper. But also, he helped his friends. He watched my back more than once. And he was fun. And funny. I remember one time (one time out of many) that we were discussing doing one of our favorite things, which was to go to a corner bar and have a few drinks. This time, I was afraid I couldn't come; I had charge of my seven-year old. George said, no problem, bring her along, we'll make her feel welcome. And besides, as he put it, "We'll all be acting like seven year olds too!"
It's hard sorting through all the memories of George and coming up with something eloquent to say about him. His life seemed made up of those funny/poignant stories that we've all been hearing, but of course, it was a lot more than that. I guess I still haven't accepted the idea that he's really crossed over and that I can't give him a call and meet him at the golf course this weekend. Overall, what I'll remember about George is his gregarious spirit, his ability to put even total strangers at ease and his gentle, soft-spoken manner that made you want to hurry up and find another time soon when you could get together again. If there's any solace to be found, it's that Sarah and I -- and all of his friends -- could see that he was happy in his final years, having joined his life with Cindy's and being with someone he truly loved.
I've known George since he was the night police reporter and I was the night city editor at The Houston Post in 1971. Distance prevented me for enjoying his friendship as much as the Postie colleagues who remained in Houston, but we kept in touch and saw each other when I would visit him in Houston and in San Diego. He was a really good guy and great journalist just as the obit points out. I'm really sad that we lost him at the age of 65.
It was early in the game, Post v Chronk grudge match, Memorial Park, flags all in place even on the offensive line persons. The quarterback's brow furrowed, as it was want to do when he was in deep thought. "You," he said to a wide receiver, go over there (left flats) and you (another WR) go right there kinda in the middle. Then he said to me (yeah; another WR), "Get in the coffin." I knew his code and knew what to do.
The defense lined up, puzzled as usual (there were assistant Chronk city editors in the defensive backfield). Our quarterback BARKED the signal (after he took a puff on his cigarette, of course), dodged two rushers (slow feature writers) and threw a precise 30-yarder which I caught in the COFFIN CORNER of the end zone.
We went on to beat the Houston Chronicle that fateful Memorial day, what was it, 64-16 or something like that?
Actually it wasn't that bad but the memory of quarterback George Flynn leading the charge down field still gives me a buzz. After all, we were in our 20s at the time (well, early 30s) and them were the good old days!!
George had fun, whether on the beat, furrowing his brow over a story, hitting a softball or spiraling the pigskin. What a funlover! What a competitor!
I will never forget you, George! Rest in peace, my friend!!
(FORMER Wide Receiver/Fellow Post Toastie)