Preacher Smith

The Rev. M.B. Smith

PAMPA - The Rev. M.B. Smith, 88, died Saturday, June 14, 2003.

The Rev. Smith was born to Nelson and Ora Sivells Smith on Dec. 28, 1914, in Richland Springs. He attended Richland Springs Schools and graduated from Howard Payne College in 1936. Bro. Smith taught school and coached in several central Texas schools before entering the gospel ministry in 1942.

Following pastorates in Agua Dulce, Calallen and Marble Falls. He married Laura Bentley on Nov. 27, 1936, in Richland Springs. Bro. Smith moved his family to the Texas Panhandle, where he pastored First Baptist Church of Wheeler, Highland Baptist Church of Pampa, Alanreed Baptist Church and College Baptist Church of Big Spring.

For many years, Bro. Smith was interim pastor for many Baptist churches and supplied in Baptist churches in the Pampa area, as well as teaching science at Pampa High School and Clarendon College Pampa Center. According to Bro. Smith's records, he performed 1,191 funerals, 858 weddings and 421 baptisms, most of them during his years in Pampa.

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I stumbled across this obituary while looking for another. I knew the man had passed away but decided I'd like to do a post about him.

Bro. Smith was a football official back when I played the sport in junior high. Over a two year period, we had only a dozen games, but I bet he officiated more than half of them.

"Preacher Smith" was what we called him ... behind his back/in the huddle/after the game. What I remember most about him was his booming voice, it having the aural texture of gravel on a bumpy, hot tarred road. That, and with his worn, craggy face and commanding personality, he looked what I thought God probably looked like. He was a good official, always fair in his calls.

Being a minister, I suppose he couldn't help but preach to us. "Help him up." he'd tell a boy after a tackle. "Here now!" he'd growl and grab your jersey, pull you close to him. "Don't be hittin' late." You didn't, not again. One warning was enough.

He was always impatient for the ball so he could spot it for the next play and would efficiently pry the players off of a pile-up in search of the pigskin. (the referees were paid by the game, not by the hour) He was a big man, tall, and had no trouble untangling the sweaty, fleshy knot of budding testosterone.

At the time, with my juvenile wit, he seemed to me to be a mixture of the stature of Herman Munster and the kind-hearted wit of Andy Devine (no insult intended), good-natured while we boys were playing a clean game, but a towering stern God with glasses when we'd make him angry.

During one of those pile-ups, I had wrested the ball away from the kid who had it, yelling "Ball, Ball!" as though I had recovered a fumble. I don't think Preacher Smith had seen me steal the ball in the tangle of arms, legs and torsos, but a stare at me and seeing - I guess - the guilty look on my face, he silently took the ball from me, ignoring any change of possession, sadly shaking his head at me in rebuke for my attempt to cheat.

Verily, I say, it is written, woe unto the poor boy who was heard blurt out a cuss word. The dreaded "F-word" slipped out from someone after a hard tackle and he stopped the game and threatened to end the contest if he heard more swearing. He preached to us for a good five minutes, complained to both coaches and kept up his criticism of we foul-mouthed heathens throughout the rest of the game.

I ran into his son shortly after the funeral and I told him my memories of his father, the son laughing when I told the part about cursing and getting an official time-out sermon. "Yep, that was dad!"

Ol' Preacher Smith. RIP