ANGOLA, La. — The prison dentist walks slowly down the gravel road past the warden’s house. He is stooped, with a big belly, two white tufts of hair and a bald spot. He’s got a bulbous nose and a creak in his step. But look closer. There are still pieces of the man he used to be. He moves with a subtle feline grace. He’s got the deepest blue eyes, familiar somehow, like an old photograph. They seem to only absorb information, never giving anything away. He’s alone, carefully making his way from the party to his white Ford truck. He’s been on display long enough.
“I’m going to play with my horses,” Dr. Billy Cannon says.
Even in his 72nd year, people can’t help looking at him. They see only the broadest strokes: the LSU football hero who fell unimaginably far. Almost no one is allowed to see deeper. He doesn’t like to be inspected — once he saw me taking notes in a hotel lobby and barked, “Put that damn book up” — because his life then becomes the property of the observer.
ESPN.com
10/30/9
