Lost + Found

Stick to the facts. Golden Richards. Dallas Cowboys receiver from 1973 to 78. Here he comes toward me. Bigger than I thought. The file says he played at 180; this guy cracks two bills with plenty of change. That hair is full-out gray, not gold. But these NFL guys live hard and age harder.

Let's back up. It's high noon, Wednesday, June 13. I'm at a Metro bus depot in Houston. Got a tip that Golden Richards is driving a city bus. Now he's joined me in a depot break room. Turns out Golden loves to talk, and not all of it makes sense. Typical football player, I'm thinking; one too many shots to the noggin. Still, good stuff here. Detailed stories about Landry, Staubach, Bullet Bob Hayes, Golden's game-clinching touchdown catch in Super Bowl XII. Tells me he loves the bus gig, loves "hearing the people on the bus just like I did with 70,000 fans cheering." Then, "I'm very blessed. I love being Golden Richards the bus driver, as well as being Golden Richards the football player." Print it. We swing by his supervisor's office. "The football industry definitely lost a great player," she gushes, "but I know the transit industry gained a great operator."

Now I'm waiting with Golden and the supervisor for my ride to the airport. He keeps talking, something about how he got his nickname. His real name is Gordon, he says, but when he said it as a kid it came out "Golden." Never heard that one. I notice his name tag reads GORDON RICHARDS JR. I mention that an SI item from '73 said Golden was his given middle name. Golden hems. Golden haws. "Yep, right, right," he says. "My real name is Gordon Golden Richards." Huh? Warning bells ring.

I stumble out into the Houston haze. Things don't add up. The guy says he's 51; Golden shouldn't be 51 until December. Next day, I call the supervisor, sweet-talk her into giving me the driver's date of birth. "Is it the same as the football player's?" she asks. No, ma'am.

I do some digging, make a few calls. That night I reach one John Golden Richards, 50, of Salt Lake City. He's been in Utah for 21 years. Divorced from his third wife, he mostly takes care of his two sons, ages 4 and 7. Sure, he says, guys used to pretend they were him back when he played, trying to make time with the ladies. But now? This Golden is still blond, still lean. He's had his struggles since leaving pro football—he was addicted to painkillers through the mid-'90s, and in 1992 he pleaded guilty to forging his dad's checks to buy pills—but he's fine now. And he's most definitely not a bus driver in Houston.

Back at Metro, word of the d.o.b. discrepancy reaches Tom Lambert, chief of the Metropolitan Transit Authority Police. Turns out that Gordon Marley Richards Jr. had been convicted on three counts of burglary in Freeport, Texas, in 1996. Worse, he's in violation of his parole. MTA police slap on the cuffs on June 19. For 24 hours, though, the news that goes out is, EX-COWBOY CHARGED WITH PAROLE VIOLATION. Gordon is sticking to his story.

By now I have just one more question. Why did Gordon do it? I call to ask. Machine picks up: "This is Golden's place. Leave a message after the beep. I'll get back with you in a Super Bowl moment."

Watt Tkaczuk
In his 14 seasons as an NHL center Walt Tkaczuk knew the effectiveness of a good hook. So when he needed to lure golfers to the nine-hole course he co-owns in St. Marys, Ont., he came up with a doozy: For $52 a round, patrons at the River Valley Golf and Country Club can have a lama carry their bags. Along with their rope-tugging handlers, the four caddies—including the popular Lorenzo Llama—have to be booked a week in advance. The llamas get weekends off lest they slow down play, and because they balance bags one each side of their saddles, golfers who use them must play in pairs. "They're very tame animals, but they can be a little nervous," says Tkaczuk, 53, a former New York Rangers captain who retired in 1981. "They make perfect partners because they never tease you about your shots."

[This article contains a table. Please see hardcopy of magazine or PDF.]