ALFRED J. BARRAN
He was an aggressive 220-pounder, lugging the scraps off the dinner table for his teammates, but that was fine with Al Barran, who had paid his own way since he was 8, when his father died. Barran has been doubly successful, first on the Coast, where he began selling space in the Yellow Pages with such energy that it took him just 12 years to become a telephone-company president. He was named "Mr. Private Enterprise" and was urged to run for governor of Washington (he said no). Now president of the General Telephone Co. of Indiana, he thinks back on the governor who might have been and says, "A tackle knows his limitations."
RAYMOND A. CHARLES
When Ray Charles hops on the 5:20 each night from Newark's Broad Street Station, his briefcase is bulging with data concerning the billion dollars' worth of securities he manages each year as the senior vice-president of Prudential Insurance's bond department. Such responsibility was not what he had in mind when he was playing tackle. "I was thinking in terms of a $10,000-a-year job, a nice family and some security. I wonder how I ever could have set my sights so low." Others do, too. In two years Charles missed just 20 minutes of football, all on a brutally hot day when the coach suddenly sent in a whole new team, shocking those who did not believe Knox had 11 more men. "The reserves promptly scored two touchdowns," Charles recalls ruefully.
Not all the lessons on a football field are active. There was that game back in 1938, for instance, when Tennessee upset Alabama and Ed Cifers' major contribution was to yell like mad from the bench. "I remembered that one," said Cifers, who has all kinds of memories of more active roles with Tennessee and the professional Washington Redskins, "because nobody thought we could do it." Now Cifers is president of the Charles H. Bacon Company, a firm that make ladies' seamless nylons. He prepped for the job by successfully running a construction company. Both are ruggedly competitive businesses, the kind of businesses for which football might prepare a man, thinks Cifers, who learned his toughness under General Bob Neyland.
LOUIS DE GOES
COLORADO SCHOOL OF MINES
The day was not long enough for Louis De Goes. Aside from learning how to be a geological engineer, he found a way to become his school's heavyweight boxing champion three times, win three basketball letters and play end on the undefeated, untied football team in 1939. He joined the Air Force after Pearl Harbor and made a career of it, eventually trudging around Arctic ice floes (a routine business, he says, although he is considered one of the world's authorities on ice islands). In two years Colonel De Goes will retire as a director in aerospace technology at Wright-Patterson AFB, but first he wants to sail the Pacific in a trimaran, then begin a new career, possibly in volcanology. "I have so much to do," he says. "I would like to live to be 200."
HOWARD S. DUNBAR
Howard Dunbar has the tall, athletic good looks of a well-adjusted company man who will barrage you with old fight songs at the sniff of a martini. Do not be misled. Dunbar was end on a Cornell team that went around beating the likes of Ohio State, but to him football was merely a game. "Oh, it didn't hurt me," he says, "but no one has ever hired me because of it. Medicine would be crazy if it did." Dr. Dunbar hired himself and has not been unemployed since, what with his absorbing duties as a brain surgeon and teacher. But he dislikes committees. "A surgeon gets used to responsibility," he says. "And gets annoyed with administrators whose main job seems to be avoiding it."