A Reflection on George Hott
By Donald B Pownell
George Hott has passed from this world. From the 1950s through the 1980s, he was a constant presence in the South Branch Valley. He was known as an athlete, sheriff, teacher, and layperson at the Methodist church. Yet, at his core, his favorite title was “Coach.” He remained Coach Hott to us until the day he left.
Coach Hott was my junior high basketball coach, varsity baseball coach, and varsity football coach. To truly understand him as a coach, I want to share two stories that both revolve around football. Before I begin, let me outline the constraints Coach Hott faced.
I played varsity football during the seasons of 1964, 1965, 1966, and 1967. During that time, we played 36 games, winning 19, losing 14, and tying 3. Of all the teams we played, Moorefield High School consistently had the smallest graduating senior classes—even smaller than Ridgley and Franklin. We didn’t have enough players for a proper scrimmage, so Coach Hott would invite alumni to join us for more competitive practices. As an eighth grader, I regularly scrimmaged with the varsity team. I once broke my ankle tackling Steve Townsend, a senior, during a varsity scrimmage.
So, how did we manage to win? In the fall of 1965, our first game was at Kingwood, and it was my first time ever starting. I was absolutely fired up. Standing at 5-foot-9 and weighing 135 pounds, I started at defensive end/outside linebacker. In the first half, I had six unassisted tackles and three quarterback sacks, but I also received three roughing the quarterback penalties. On the last play of the first half, I knocked both the quarterback and myself out cold. When I regained consciousness and started staggering toward the locker room, a large hand landed on my shoulder. It was the referee, who said, “Come here, son,” and led me to Coach Hott. The ref told Coach, “If this young man gets one more penalty in the second half, I’m ejecting him from the game.” Coach Hott—almost as if he had anticipated this moment—pointed at the ref and said, “I don’t know how you play football where you’re from, but we don’t play football in lace panties.” Then he turned to me and said, “Come on, Don, let’s get to the dressing room.” We returned home after an upset win, 26-25, and were thrilled.
Kingwood went 7-3 that year, so we’d beaten a strong team.
At the time, I was only sixteen, with a head full of youthful excitement. It took me a while to fully understand what Coach Hott’s words meant. First, he was really speaking to me, not the ref. Second, he told me, “Don, we’ll never win any games unless you play every game as you played that first half. We’re a small school, and don’t have the manpower to compete, so we must perform beyond expectations.” There were no elaborate offenses or frequent substitutions—we had to play with grit.
That realization helped me piece things together: our team was forged in practice.
Coach Hott led grueling practices, emphasizing three things: hamburger drills, scrimmaging, and wind sprints—always physical, always exhausting. Andy Townsend’s family moved to Martinsburg, where Andy joined the football team. He remarked that Moorefield’s practices were far tougher than those at Martinsburg. We learned to play every down as if it were our last, never to give up, and to hit our opponents with every ounce of energy we had. That was Moorefield football.
This reputation was confirmed after the Keyser game my senior year, when Bill Hunt and I were walking to the dressing room. Three Keyser players approached us and said, “Every year, we know we’re going to beat Moorefield, but we also know we’re going to take a physical whipping. Nobody hits like Moorefield—not Fort Hill, Allegany, or Hampshire. Nobody.” They told us, “We respect you as football players.” That’s how we won our games.
A friend once told me that on the field, I was a “little tater, but hard to peel.” That described our whole team: there weren’t many “taters in the sack,” but you had to fight to peel each one.
The second story is very different. In 1960, Virginia racially integrated their secondary school systems, but residents in Warren County, Front Royal, resisted by creating a private, segregated school—John S. Mosby Academy—with its own football team. In the summer of 1964, they called Coach Hott to see if we would play them, but added a condition: “no Black boys.” At the time, Moorefield had two African American players on the team. Coach Hott wouldn’t accept that. He said, “We all come, or nobody comes.”
That ended the potential game. Coach Hott never made a public statement—we only learned about it as word quietly spread. But his message was clear: “We are a team, one for all and all for one,” and there would be no discussion of race on our team.
Remember, race relations in America were very different then. Coach Hott’s quiet but firm stance had a powerful impact on us. We knew what he expected, and if we wanted to keep his respect, we followed his lead.
So, what did Coach Hott teach us through these stories? First, he showed that football is like life: you must get up every morning and give everything you have. Your family replaces your team, and you play for them with the same commitment. Life is hard, but you must be tougher. Second, there is more to life than winning or losing a game—life is about moral principles, and our choices affect others. Coach Hott rarely spoke of these things, but he lived them, treating everyone with dignity. He didn’t drink or curse. He went to church every Sunday. Though he never talked to us about his faith, it was clear he lived by the Sermon on the Mount, and, by example, expected us to uphold those same values.
Now, as Coach Hott passes the baton to us in the race of life, it’s up to us to lead. We must pass these values that we have learned to the generations that follow.
