Tresolini: Simpson's legacy goes beyond wins, titles

The Newark High quarterback took the snap, turned to his right and quickly threw the football to a receiver flanked behind the line of scrimmage.

That receiver, in turn, floated a pass that one of his Yellowjackets teammate caught downfield for a long gain.

It was Sept. 12, 1981. I was covering my first high school football game for The News Journal at Newark’s Hoffman Memorial Stadium, a place I had never visited before that morning.

“I like the way this coach thinks,” I said to myself.

That sentiment would strike often in the ensuing decades.

The coach was Butch Simpson.

Newark won 19-13 that day over St. Mark’s. It was his 25th regular-season win as Newark coach, a nice milestone.

Now Simpson has won 283, more than anyone except Wilmington Friends’ Bob Tattersall, and nine state titles, which is unmatched.

But winning is not what I’ll remember most about Butch Simpson, who’ll coach his final game Friday, even though I had the pleasure of chronicling many of those victories and dropping off early newspaper editions at a couple state championship celebrations. (Too bad iPhones and Twitter weren’t around when assistant coaches were dancing with sports sections, you know, for marketing purposes).

To me, Simpson’s depth of thinking and heartfelt approach singled him out even more.

'Ball coach' Butch Simpson at peace with retirement

I’ve never known a coach more adored by his players or one more creative, as he showed that day against St. Mark’s. In subsequent years, Simpson would revamp his offense before a game at Delcastle because the field was soaked, spread everyone across the line of scrimmage, including guards and tackles, to overcome William Penn’s physical superiority (he still lost, but it was fun trying), and qualify for the state tournament using an offense without a quarterback. He had a running back take direct snaps.

As much as he treasured plays, Simpson mostly loved his players, especially overachievers. Guys like 4-foot-10 Vinnie Miller, the Hodgkin’s Lymphoma survivor who was the heart of his 1986 team, or Chris Rutter, the 5-foot-4 noseguard who stood his ground against Salesianum in a 1988 state semifinal loss.

Around Newark, Simpson became renowned for how long the team’s postseason banquets would last. That’s because he’d deliver a glowing review of every player, down to the third-string left tackle, leaving kids beaming and their mothers in tears as they left the Aetna Fire Hall with midnight approaching.

After games, even difficult losses — he’s had plenty of those, too — Simpson would seek out opposing players who had stellar games to congratulate them.

“I’m sure I said ‘You’re the kind of player I wish played for me,’ ” Simpson told me last week as we sat in his office inside “The Hive,” the cinder-block sanctum at the north end of Hoffman Memorial Stadium. “I think it’s important to pay tribute to a high school player when he plays the game well.”

It was fitting that, before this year’s game at Newark against archrival William Penn, Colonials coach Marvin Dooley and several players presented Simpson with a gift in a touching pregame ceremony.

In postgame interviews, there was nobody better than Simpson, who always had proper perspective and perfect words, which he expressed in notebook-filling clarity. Yet, his cerebral manner couldn’t conceal his fiery competitiveness.

“All I ever knew was competing,” said Simpson, 67, who grew up in western Pennsylvania. “I’m from the generation that you were upset if you woke up and you heard the other kids already outside playing ball.”

We, in this business, are frequently asked what interviews we treasure most. They often reflect the prominence of the person to whom we spoke.

In those cases, I’ll mention sitting at a Wilmington boardroom table to quiz John Wooden, the legendary UCLA basketball coach here for a Blue Hen Basketball Club function; The one-on-one with Duke coach Mike Krzyzewski before his Blue Devils played Delaware in 1995; Being the last person in the American League locker room speaking with Cal Ripken after the 1996 All-Star Game at Veterans Stadium, where a pregame picture-shoot tumble from risers threatened his consecutive games streak; Interviewing Hank Aaron at the 2009 World Series at Citizens Bank Park, where Derek Jeter received an award named for him.

“Thank you, Mr. Aaron,” I said afterward as I shook his hand, delighting — as I frequently do — in my good professional fortune.

Just about every discussion I had with Simpson brought that same feeling of appreciation, because of what he said and how he said it, his balanced perception, invaluable insight, humility, honesty, humor and tendency to cast a positive glow — or attempt to — upon any situation.

For this community journalist, that’s why interviews with Simpson will always rank No. 1 ahead of any of those celebrity run-ins, which were just perks.

As we sat in the Hive last week, Simpson uttered a confession.

“I didn’t know if I could do this,” he said.

He was 29, had been an assistant at Newark for seven years under three head coaches, and taught special education. Coach Rocky Rees left for a job at Bucknell in March of 1977. In May, nobody had been hired. Simpson had belatedly applied for the job, only because so many parents and players urged him to.

With that long hair tied in a ponytail and beard, he knew there were higher-ups who felt he didn’t look the part. Finally, he was summoned into the office of then-Newark principal William Stockebrand, who, without looking at Simpson, dialed his rotary phone, called someone in the district office and said he had the new football coach sitting there.

“Then he looked at me and shook my hand,” Simpson said. “I thought what in the hell have I gotten myself into. I was scared to death.”

When Newark hosts A.I. du Pont on Friday night, former players from around the country will come to bid Simpson farewell.

I know how they feel, having also become something better from my association with Butch.

Contact Kevin Tresolini at ktresolini@delawareonline.com. Follow on Twitter @kevintresolini.