Editor's note: This story from my writing days at the Greensboro News & Record, about ACC Commissioner John Swofford and his older brother Bill, is 20 years old now. Seems perfect to remember it as we approach the 50th anniversary of Woodstock, where Oliver did not actually perform but was a familiar voice during of the second summer of love.
It hit me the other day when I turned 54 that it was the same age that Bill Swofford died, on Feb. 11, 2000, barely six months after this story was published. The bone-marrow transplant discussed in this piece gave Oliver a few more months with his family, but could not save his life.
When my kids were younger, we did a lot of fundraising for the North Carolina Chapter of the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society through its annual Light the Night walks in Raleigh and Durham. The people there do great work for families of those who have been diagnosed and are worthy of your support.
Finally, I've tried for nearly two decades, but I'm not sure I've ever matched this sentence: "His 'gliddy, gloop, gloppies' had gotten a little too sloppy." Amazingly, the Pulitzer people were not moved.
BY TIM PEELER
Landmark Communications
Aug. 14, 1999
The most important top 100 countdown of Bill Swofford's life is almost over.
It has nothing to do with the list published by Billboard, though as a late 1960s pop star with the stage name Oliver, Swofford spent time at the top of that chart with "Good Morning Starshine" and "Jean."
For about two years, the North Wilkesboro native has been fighting Sjogren's Syndrome and, during the last 10 months, lymphoma, or cancer of the lymphatic system. With the help of a bone marrow transplant from his younger brother, Atlantic Coast Conference commissioner John Swofford, the former entertainer is coming up on an important milestone in his recovery.
"Fifty days is a good milestone to hit," Bill Swofford said. ``One hundred days is an even better one to hit.'
Today is No. 89 after the May 14 transplant at Louisiana State University Medical Center in Shreveport, La. It may take two years to find out whether the cancer cells in his lymphatic system are gone, but the question for the last three months has been whether the bone marrow he received from his brother would be rejected by his body.
So far, all is well.
"There is still a lot of watching and waiting to do," Bill Swofford said.
For John Swofford, who became the ACC's top administrator in 1996, there is also a lot of worrying about a brother who survived nearly two decades of touring in the pothole-filled world of the entertainment business, only to face his most serious threat after finally settling down to a new life in Louisiana.
"I told him immediately after he found out he might need a transplant that all he ever needed was to say so,' said John, who followed Bill to Chapel Hill, where they were Morehead Scholars at the University of North Carolina in the 1960s. "I did what anybody would do for their brother or someone they loved.
"The opportunity to help was good, though I wish it wasn't necessary. You just hope and pray that it works.'
ROADIE'S REWARD
When classes at UNC let out 30 years ago, teens and college students were ready to live it up one more time. Two years before, San Francisco had the Summer of Love. The next summer, the rest of the country experienced similar outbursts of, uh, affection. In '69, all sights were set on Max Yasgur's farm in Bethel, N.Y., where a three-day festival of love, music and hedonism called Woodstock was planned for August.
John Swofford, a young football player at UNC, decided to spend his two-month vacation working as the sole roadie for his brother's touring band. It just happened to be the height of Oliver's fame.
"Good Morning Starshine," a schmaltzy, mellow tune from the hippie musical "Hair," reached Billboard's No. 1 spot in July.
Oliver, an instant success on the musical scene, played venues from Carnegie Hall to the Montana State Fair that summer. (His Donovan-esque style didn't earn him a Woodstock invitation.) John provided the setup on stage, lugging around guitars, drum sets and microphones all summer.
"There was no love for Johnny that summer," Bill said with a laugh. "We worked him too much."
Maybe the extra lifting helped John become a better football player, because on Oct. 4, the sophomore quarterback tied a 30-year-old school record with three touchdown passes in a 38-22 victory over Vanderbilt. With Oliver scheduled to appear on "The Ed Sullivan Show" the next night to sing his love ballad ``Jean,' it was a publicist's dream.
After convincing John to ask permission to leave Chapel Hill and fly to New York, the publicist planted the young player in the audience and he was recognized by Sullivan during Oliver's introduction.
"To be honest, I first said no, because I didn't want to ask Coach (Bill) Dooley," John Swofford said. "I didn't think he would react well to me leaving campus during the week. I thought he would throw me out of his office."
Instead, Dooley wanted his player in the spotlight.
"That's national television," Dooley told his player. "It'll be great for recruiting."
The Vanderbilt game was the high point of John Swofford's playing career. He started six games that season, but it was cut short when he suffered an injury. He didn't throw another touchdown pass the rest of his career because he moved to defensive back as a junior and senior.
But he found a career in sports, spending the next 25 years working at Virginia and North Carolina in athletics administration. He spent his last 18 years in Chapel Hill as one of the country's most influential athletics directors, before being named the ACC's fourth commissioner in the summer of 1997.
For Oliver, 1969 was the top of his musical career. He hit No. 24 the next year and continued to open for acts such as Stevie Wonder, Kenny Rogers and the First Edition, Elton John, Steve Martin and guitarist Mason Williams.
But in nearly two decades of playing and touring, he never matched the success of the first two recordings.
By 1984, Oliver's 'gliddy gloop gloppies' had gotten a little too sloppy. He had suffered permanent damage to his vocal chords.
"That took the joy out of singing for me," he said. "I could still sing, but I couldn't do the things that I had been able to do before. I knew I better learn a new trade."
He started looking for other jobs and returned to being Bill Swofford, a sales representative for a residential builder in Dallas. He remarried, to a choirmaster and organist at his church.
He eventually went to work for pharmaceutical manufacturer Merck & Co. and moved to Pennsylvania. In 1995, he moved to Shreveport to be closer to his wife Becky's family in Texas.
PAINFUL PAYBACK
Last November, about the same time Burger King was using ``Good Morning Starshine,' as a jingle to sell Whoppers, Bill Swofford was diagnosed with lymphoma, the same form of cancer that recently claimed UNC chancellor Michael Hooker. It was discovered after a full year of testing and treatment for Sjogren's Syndrome, a rare, incurable disorder of the body's moisture-producing glands that caused Swofford's face to swell to twice its size.
"It wasn't painful," he said, "except when I walked by a mirror."
When the lymphoma was discovered, however, his doctors told him he would have to begin chemotherapy and may eventually need a bone marrow transplant. But that wasn't expected for eight to 12 years.
Bill told his three brothers -- Carl, 66, and Jim, 62, both live in North Wilkesboro, where they are in business together -- that they may need to volunteer, since the best chance for a bone marrow match is from a same-sex sibling. They all said fine.
By February, the cancer cells became more aggressive, which called for a stronger chemotherapy treatment. The bone marrow transplant was needed almost immediately.
Since John was the youngest brother, he was the first to be tested and a perfect match. He had all of his blood tests in Greensboro, then traveled to Shreveport for the transplant.
How better to pay back the kindness he had been shown in the summer of 1969?
"Bill has meant a lot to me in many ways," John said. "As you get older, you have a deeper appreciation for that. He didn't really need me that summer that I worked for him. But he let me participate in what he was doing.
"It was a very broadening experience."
The Swoffords lost their father to cancer in 1962. Because John was 13, his older brothers became more important. He spent the rest of his youth using them as role models. Carl went to school at Davidson College. Jim went to Duke University on a football scholarship. And Bill, he became Oliver.
"It seemed like I was always trying to live up to what my brothers did before me," John Swofford said.
A bone marrow transplant is not a comfortable procedure. The donor is put to sleep, while a doctor makes two quarter-inch incisions on each hip. Using four 8-inch needles, the doctor makes about 30 thrusts into the pelvic bone, from which he draws out about one quart of bone marrow and blood.
When the donor awakens, the pain and soreness can be intense.
"It was like having a relatively minor surgery," said John, who traveled to Amelia Island, Fla., two days after the transplant to lead the ACC's annual spring meetings. "As a donor, you feel almost silly even acknowledging any discomfort, relative to what the recipient is going through.
"It's basically nothing."
The recipient receives the marrow, which produces white blood cells, intravenously.
"That was nothing for me," Bill Swofford said. "The discomfort for me is that I have been sick for two years. He's the one that needed the pain medication."
SAYING THANKS
By now, Bill Swofford's doctors are nearly ready to declare the bone marrow transplant a success.
But he still has a long way to go before he will know whether his cancer is gone. The transplant wiped out his immune system, so he has to take preventative measures for various viruses.
Even though he is working again, maintaining his accounts in his home office, he still has to stave off severe bouts of fatigue. He hopes to start plucking out tunes on his guitar and return to the choir of St. James Episcopal Church in Shreveport.
And he's eager to repeat another task, one he doesn't believe he has handled well enough during his recovery.
"You hear the phrase all the time, 'the gift of life,' and that really is what John did for me," Bill Swofford said. "There are people on waiting lists that don't have any siblings that can offer this. I knew there would never be any question in his mind or in the minds of either of my other brothers.
"I probably haven't expressed it as much as I should have, but I have tremendous gratitude for that."
The most important top 100 countdown of Bill Swofford's life is almost over.
It has nothing to do with the list published by Billboard, though as a late 1960s pop star with the stage name Oliver, Swofford spent time at the top of that chart with "Good Morning Starshine" and "Jean."
For about two years, the North Wilkesboro native has been fighting Sjogren's Syndrome and, during the last 10 months, lymphoma, or cancer of the lymphatic system. With the help of a bone marrow transplant from his younger brother, Atlantic Coast Conference commissioner John Swofford, the former entertainer is coming up on an important milestone in his recovery.
"Fifty days is a good milestone to hit," Bill Swofford said. ``One hundred days is an even better one to hit.'
Today is No. 89 after the May 14 transplant at Louisiana State University Medical Center in Shreveport, La. It may take two years to find out whether the cancer cells in his lymphatic system are gone, but the question for the last three months has been whether the bone marrow he received from his brother would be rejected by his body.
So far, all is well.
"There is still a lot of watching and waiting to do," Bill Swofford said.
For John Swofford, who became the ACC's top administrator in 1996, there is also a lot of worrying about a brother who survived nearly two decades of touring in the pothole-filled world of the entertainment business, only to face his most serious threat after finally settling down to a new life in Louisiana.
"I told him immediately after he found out he might need a transplant that all he ever needed was to say so,' said John, who followed Bill to Chapel Hill, where they were Morehead Scholars at the University of North Carolina in the 1960s. "I did what anybody would do for their brother or someone they loved.
"The opportunity to help was good, though I wish it wasn't necessary. You just hope and pray that it works.'
ROADIE'S REWARD
When classes at UNC let out 30 years ago, teens and college students were ready to live it up one more time. Two years before, San Francisco had the Summer of Love. The next summer, the rest of the country experienced similar outbursts of, uh, affection. In '69, all sights were set on Max Yasgur's farm in Bethel, N.Y., where a three-day festival of love, music and hedonism called Woodstock was planned for August.
John Swofford, a young football player at UNC, decided to spend his two-month vacation working as the sole roadie for his brother's touring band. It just happened to be the height of Oliver's fame.
"Good Morning Starshine," a schmaltzy, mellow tune from the hippie musical "Hair," reached Billboard's No. 1 spot in July.
Oliver, an instant success on the musical scene, played venues from Carnegie Hall to the Montana State Fair that summer. (His Donovan-esque style didn't earn him a Woodstock invitation.) John provided the setup on stage, lugging around guitars, drum sets and microphones all summer.
"There was no love for Johnny that summer," Bill said with a laugh. "We worked him too much."
Maybe the extra lifting helped John become a better football player, because on Oct. 4, the sophomore quarterback tied a 30-year-old school record with three touchdown passes in a 38-22 victory over Vanderbilt. With Oliver scheduled to appear on "The Ed Sullivan Show" the next night to sing his love ballad ``Jean,' it was a publicist's dream.
After convincing John to ask permission to leave Chapel Hill and fly to New York, the publicist planted the young player in the audience and he was recognized by Sullivan during Oliver's introduction.
"To be honest, I first said no, because I didn't want to ask Coach (Bill) Dooley," John Swofford said. "I didn't think he would react well to me leaving campus during the week. I thought he would throw me out of his office."
Instead, Dooley wanted his player in the spotlight.
"That's national television," Dooley told his player. "It'll be great for recruiting."
The Vanderbilt game was the high point of John Swofford's playing career. He started six games that season, but it was cut short when he suffered an injury. He didn't throw another touchdown pass the rest of his career because he moved to defensive back as a junior and senior.
But he found a career in sports, spending the next 25 years working at Virginia and North Carolina in athletics administration. He spent his last 18 years in Chapel Hill as one of the country's most influential athletics directors, before being named the ACC's fourth commissioner in the summer of 1997.
For Oliver, 1969 was the top of his musical career. He hit No. 24 the next year and continued to open for acts such as Stevie Wonder, Kenny Rogers and the First Edition, Elton John, Steve Martin and guitarist Mason Williams.
But in nearly two decades of playing and touring, he never matched the success of the first two recordings.
By 1984, Oliver's 'gliddy gloop gloppies' had gotten a little too sloppy. He had suffered permanent damage to his vocal chords.
"That took the joy out of singing for me," he said. "I could still sing, but I couldn't do the things that I had been able to do before. I knew I better learn a new trade."
He started looking for other jobs and returned to being Bill Swofford, a sales representative for a residential builder in Dallas. He remarried, to a choirmaster and organist at his church.
He eventually went to work for pharmaceutical manufacturer Merck & Co. and moved to Pennsylvania. In 1995, he moved to Shreveport to be closer to his wife Becky's family in Texas.
PAINFUL PAYBACK
Last November, about the same time Burger King was using ``Good Morning Starshine,' as a jingle to sell Whoppers, Bill Swofford was diagnosed with lymphoma, the same form of cancer that recently claimed UNC chancellor Michael Hooker. It was discovered after a full year of testing and treatment for Sjogren's Syndrome, a rare, incurable disorder of the body's moisture-producing glands that caused Swofford's face to swell to twice its size.
"It wasn't painful," he said, "except when I walked by a mirror."
When the lymphoma was discovered, however, his doctors told him he would have to begin chemotherapy and may eventually need a bone marrow transplant. But that wasn't expected for eight to 12 years.
Bill told his three brothers -- Carl, 66, and Jim, 62, both live in North Wilkesboro, where they are in business together -- that they may need to volunteer, since the best chance for a bone marrow match is from a same-sex sibling. They all said fine.
By February, the cancer cells became more aggressive, which called for a stronger chemotherapy treatment. The bone marrow transplant was needed almost immediately.
Since John was the youngest brother, he was the first to be tested and a perfect match. He had all of his blood tests in Greensboro, then traveled to Shreveport for the transplant.
How better to pay back the kindness he had been shown in the summer of 1969?
"Bill has meant a lot to me in many ways," John said. "As you get older, you have a deeper appreciation for that. He didn't really need me that summer that I worked for him. But he let me participate in what he was doing.
"It was a very broadening experience."
The Swoffords lost their father to cancer in 1962. Because John was 13, his older brothers became more important. He spent the rest of his youth using them as role models. Carl went to school at Davidson College. Jim went to Duke University on a football scholarship. And Bill, he became Oliver.
"It seemed like I was always trying to live up to what my brothers did before me," John Swofford said.
A bone marrow transplant is not a comfortable procedure. The donor is put to sleep, while a doctor makes two quarter-inch incisions on each hip. Using four 8-inch needles, the doctor makes about 30 thrusts into the pelvic bone, from which he draws out about one quart of bone marrow and blood.
When the donor awakens, the pain and soreness can be intense.
"It was like having a relatively minor surgery," said John, who traveled to Amelia Island, Fla., two days after the transplant to lead the ACC's annual spring meetings. "As a donor, you feel almost silly even acknowledging any discomfort, relative to what the recipient is going through.
"It's basically nothing."
The recipient receives the marrow, which produces white blood cells, intravenously.
"That was nothing for me," Bill Swofford said. "The discomfort for me is that I have been sick for two years. He's the one that needed the pain medication."
SAYING THANKS
By now, Bill Swofford's doctors are nearly ready to declare the bone marrow transplant a success.
But he still has a long way to go before he will know whether his cancer is gone. The transplant wiped out his immune system, so he has to take preventative measures for various viruses.
Even though he is working again, maintaining his accounts in his home office, he still has to stave off severe bouts of fatigue. He hopes to start plucking out tunes on his guitar and return to the choir of St. James Episcopal Church in Shreveport.
And he's eager to repeat another task, one he doesn't believe he has handled well enough during his recovery.
"You hear the phrase all the time, 'the gift of life,' and that really is what John did for me," Bill Swofford said. "There are people on waiting lists that don't have any siblings that can offer this. I knew there would never be any question in his mind or in the minds of either of my other brothers.
"I probably haven't expressed it as much as I should have, but I have tremendous gratitude for that."
