‘The Boys They Called JAWS’ on sale now

By MATT SPARKS, The Daily Independent

Writers write about what they know.

One of the area’s best storytellers has penned another informative tale about 11 players who have stood the test of time, and one of the most cherished rosters in the rich Ashland football history.

Mark Maynard, former editor and longtime sportswriter for The Daily Independent and current managing editor of Kentucky Today, releases a new book next month titled “The Boys They Called JAWS.”

It’s a deeper, more detailed story about a beloved Tomcats team, a fierce defense and an unforgettable season.

Maynard believes a book can offer more than a well-crafted article or feature. The pages offer a rousing chance to reminisce and relive memories still talked about today.

“It’s not news, it’s reacting to something that’s happened,” Maynard said. “I think it’s important to give some of the background that people don’t know. I’ve only written one fiction book. Everything else has been about things people may already know, and generally they know that Ashland’s 1975 team was called JAWS. Why were they called JAWS? Not everybody knows that, and it has some other neat things that happened during that time.”

Maynard graduated from Ashland in 1975 and became great friends with many on the vaunted Ashland defense that dominated the gridiron the following fall. The Tomcats would win 14 games that season, tied for the most with the 1990 state champions.

The 1975 Cats earned the at-large state championship. Due to unfortunate timing, a thrilling road playoff win at Paducah did not come with a Class 3A title. In February of that year, the Board of Control for the Kentucky High School Athletic Association met and implemented a four-class system for football. The champion from the Louisville area would meet the at-large champion in a winner-take-all scenario.

It was the first season in which any Louisville school played a team from outside Jefferson County for a state title.

St. Xavier, a private school, wore down the Tomcats in the second half on its home field, using a massive roster and constant substitutions on both offense and defense. Ashland gave the Tigers their toughest test of the season. The Tomcats only trailed 6-0 at halftime before falling for the only time that year, 20-0.

“I grew up with those guys,” Maynard said. “I knew many of them very well. I have written a ton about them throughout my time at The Daily Independent. I interviewed (former coach) Herb Conley in podcasts, and I have a lot of fresh quotes from him that people have never heard. I went back and got more information from the newspapers and writers who covered them at the time.

“They know what happened, but people may not know everything about them,” he added. “I hope that they will pick this book up and go through it and see what an amazing season that was and how good they were.”

The JAWS nickname originated after Conley and family attended the famous JAWS movie over a summer vacation. Ashland was enjoying one of its most successful stretches during Conley’s tenure, and a defining description of his defense could add extra motivation and reignite the physicality of a team that didn’t make the playoffs the previous year.

“Herb knew they could be really good,” Maynard recalled. “The other coaches were into it. They talked to the team and told them they were thinking about it. The team wanted to do it. Of course, 18-year-olds would want that nickname. Herb told them that they need to live up to it. If you do this, you need to live up to it. They proved it early in the season. They didn’t give them the name until they upset No. 1 Bryan Station in the second week of the season. They did it with defense. After that, it took off. They just annihilated people. The offense was good too. It wasn’t solely built on defense.”

Maynard said the personal connection to the team was the main reason he wrote the book. He also knew the team’s connection to the community. The players bleed maroon. They grew up on their streets. They were friends with their kids. They called Ashland home.

“The team holds special memories for me,” Maynard said. “They were a bunch of fun guys. They weren’t prima donnas or anything like that at all. They were respected. They were all Ashland kids. There were no recruits or transfers that came in to help them. They were Ashland kids, and that made it more special. It’s why the community wrapped their arms around them. They loved them. They had the band play the JAWS theme when the defense came on the field. The place was packed every Friday night.”

The postseason included a long cross-state trip to Paducah for the at-large state championship. It would be a six-hour bus ride, but the town had other plans. The community raised money for a Southern Airways flight so they could arrive for the biggest game of the season in just 60 minutes.

Maynard has many of these stories inside the new book. It speaks highly of a group and a team that people are still talking about them a half century later.

“This team did a lot of firsts,” Maynard said. “It was a fun book to write, and it was fun to revisit those games again. I had been planning to write this book for 10 years. The team was adored in Ashland.

“I have thought so much about this book for so many years that the words just came out,” he added. “ I knew the games, and I knew what had happened. We have stats in the back of the book. The cover has the iconic picture of that team. I really enjoyed writing it. I have written so many stories, but books have a different excitement. You try to make it as perfect as can be.”

“The Boys They Call JAWS” will be released in late September. Readers can preorder a softback or hardback edition of the book.

Preorder your copy at the following link: https://www.paypal.com/ncp/payment/TU53F77YFGW5Y

Rannie Cooper was much more than the Bluegrass boss

To most people in Ashland, Rannie Cooper was the man behind the legendary Bluegrass Grill, the hometown restaurant where great food and great memories were served side by side.

But to generations of boys growing up in Ashland, he was simply Coach Cooper.

He spent years coaching Little League baseball and elementary basketball, pouring his heart into young athletes. He taught them fundamentals, expected them to compete, and celebrated their victories with Bluegrass milkshakes. For a lot of kids, those milkshakes tasted even sweeter after a win.

He was also one of the Ashland Tomcats’ biggest supporters. Rannie often made sure players had meal tickets after big games—maybe before that was officially allowed. His son, Randy, was a dynamic receiver for the Tomcats, and few things made Rannie prouder than seeing him cross the goal line at Putnam Stadium.

Rannie Cooper in a 2006 photo from The Daily Independent photographer John Flavell as he was preparing to close the famous Bluegrass Grill in Ashland. Cooper died early Friday, June 19,2026

The relationships didn’t end when the seasons did. Rannie stayed connected with many of the boys he coached as they grew into high school athletes and adults. They remembered not only what he taught them about sports, but how he treated them.

Scott Walter, who played for Cooper’s Tigers in Ashland American Little League, summed him up perfectly in a Facebook tribute Saturday.

“He loved to win as much as anyone, and he certainly helped prepare us to compete by instructing us and teaching us the fundamentals of the game,” Walter wrote.

Rannie passed away Friday morning. With his passing, Ashland lost not only a legendary businessman but also a mentor whose influence reached far beyond a ball field.

As a businessman, Rannie did something remarkable. He didn’t just survive the fast-food explosion of the 1960s and 1970s — he thrived through it.

The Bluegrass Grill remained the place to eat in Ashland. At lunchtime, regulars packed the booths. After dark, teenagers filled the parking lot. Countless first dates began there. More than a few marriage proposals happened there. It was one of those rare places where good food became part of life’s biggest moments.

When Rannie closed the restaurant in 2006, it wasn’t because business had slowed. Quite the opposite.

After nearly 50 years of working 12- to 14-hour days, the 65-year-old was simply ready to retire. Customers were still lining up for Flying Saucers, Twinburgers, chili, spaghetti, onion rings, fresh pies and all the other favorites that made the Bluegrass famous throughout the Tri-State.

For many of us, the Bluegrass was also the headquarters of cruising culture. We’d circle through the restaurant, head down Winchester Avenue, then turn around and do it all over again. Long before social media, that’s where you saw your friends on a Friday or Saturday night.

Rannie had earned every bit of that success.

He started at the Bluegrass in 1956 as a 15-year-old carhop. After graduating from Ashland High School in 1959, he went to work there full time. In 1971, he purchased the restaurant from Michael Riggal, grandson of founders Arch and Frances Riggal, who opened the Bluegrass in 1946.

Along with the business came its treasured recipes. Rannie often said he promised the Riggal family those recipes would remain with him until his death. His son, Randy, and daughter, Annette Ryan, who both worked in the restaurant for years, never made that same promise.

This menu stand from the Bluegrass could just make your mouth water. Rannie Cooper, who operated the Bluegrass from 1971 to its closing in 2006, died on Friday, June 19, 2026.

Even today, it’s common to see people on social media reminiscing about the Bluegrass and wishing they could have one more meal there. Everyone had a favorite.

Mine was a Twinburger with onion rings and a slice of strawberry pie.

My connection to the Bluegrass started before I was born. My father worked there as a carhop in the late 1940s and often brought home a box of hot dogs for him and my mother to enjoy after work. Maybe that’s why the Bluegrass always felt like home to me.

I came to know Rannie well during my years at the newspaper. He was always straightforward, deeply rooted in his faith, and never shy about sharing an opinion —especially when it came to the Ashland Tomcats. It didn’t matter whether it was football, basketball or baseball. He cared about those teams because he cared about the young people wearing the uniforms.

Ashland has been blessed through the years with men who invested their time in coaching boys. Rannie Cooper was one of the very best.

The Bluegrass Grill remains one of those places that lives on in conversations, family stories and hometown nostalgia.

And Coach Cooper lives on in the countless boys who became better athletes — and better men — because he took the time to coach them.

My deepest condolences go to the Cooper family, especially to Charlene, his wife of 67 years.

FLASHBACK: Love and devotion

This was written back in 2014 following the death of Herb Conley’s wife, Janice. It is a tribute to her but also to every coach’s wife. They go through more than you think. Herb called Janice his “inspiration” and the thought of them reuniting made the sting of his death easier to bear.

Here is the column:

Nobody ever pushed around Herb Conley. Nobody ever dared.

He was tough as nails. As a kid growing up. As a blossoming athlete. As a coach. As a father. Always, tough as nails.

He was a Beast, and this Beast had a Beauty.

Her name was Janice.

Janice was the love of his life, the one person who could tame this Tough Guy who would become a football coaching legend in his hometown.

She could melt him with the batting of her eyes.

She had him at hello and, boy, was he ever glad she did.

Whenever things were tough, and they weren’t always easy for Herb Conley, he had Janice.

Always there to lift him up.

Always there to tell him how proud she was of him.

Always there to keep him in line.

Whenever Herb Conley needed a boost, she was there for him. She could pick up his spirit like he picked up weights. Effortlessly.

They lived a storybook life, these high school sweethearts did. That’s because anything they did together, they did well. They were soulmates who raised three boys in their hometown. Grew old together, yet still loved each other like school kids.

She had one of the toughest jobs on earth, that of being the wife of a high school football coach, in a town that expected a lot from its team. Every week. Every game. Every minute.

We’re with you win or tie, they would say.

Conley was no newcomer when he became Ashland’s head coach in 1968. He was a former star player for the Tomcats, a member of their last undefeated team in 1958, and had been an assistant the prior two years under Jake Hallum. The ’67 Tomcats won a state championship and Herbie was a big reason why.

But when you step into that head coaching position, the pressure intensifies. Ask anyone who has coached here where your fate is determined every Friday night.

When the Tomcats weren’t winning like the fans thought they should be winning, the fingers started pointing and they were pointing in Herb’s direction in 1970.

Legend or not, they were ready to run him out of town.

Ashland had lost to Russell for the first time in school history and angry fans trashed Conley’s yard and home with garbage.

“Herb wasn’t always the legend he is now,” said longtime friend Bill Tom Ross. “Early in a coach’s career, you have difficulties. I had the same thing at Boyd County (his first head coaching assignment).

“Imagine being Herb Conley’s wife? The toughness, the mental toughness, raising three sons. That house was overflowing with testosterone.”

But Ross remembers Janice as being upbeat in the face of adversity. She was that to the end.

“I remember back in those days she was never down, never depressed,” said Ross, who credits his wife Brenda with his coaching success.

The life of the high school coach’s wife is never easy. The divorce rate is high. The criticism you hear from fans can be cruel.

“Not only in the stands but, when you’re coaching at a high-profile place like Ashland, you can’t go to the grocery store or the bank without hearing something,” Ross said. “Somebody is always talking about the game.”

But the wife must bite her tongue, smile and take it. They must be there for their husband and their family. They better be strong.

“I’m not sure in that household that Janice wasn’t the toughest one of the bunch,” Ross said.

Back in 1970, when things were tough, a letter came to the Conley’s house. Inside it had a cartoon drawn of a man with a noose around his neck with another man leading him out of town.

Janice never showed it to Herb, but he found it rummaging through a drawer a couple of years later.

“What’s this?” he asked her.

“Oh, where do you find that?” she said. “I thought I threw that away. It was nothing.”

She told Herb it had come a few years ago, but she didn’t want to bother him with it. Truth is, Janice was protecting her man from one more dart being thrown in his direction.

The rest of the story went well for Herb Conley after he survived that 1970 season. The Tomcats took off on a six-year run that produced 56 victories, a state runner-up finish in 1972 and the 1975 state at-large championship.

Guess who was there cheering him all the way?

She loved her Tomcats. Always. Even in her last days of a losing battle with cancer, when she was mostly unresponsive, when Herb was wearing a Tomcat shirt she would look down at it and then up to his face. Down again and up to his face.

It’s been a difficult 19 months for the Conleys, who were set to enjoy a long retirement together with long walks on the beach. They loved their stretch of paradise on Myrtle Beach.

They enjoyed life together, right to the end. It was a never-ending love story like you wouldn’t believe.

Coaches’ wives are given something special inside. They are patient and thick-skinned. They know the importance of supporting their man through the good times and bad.

Janice Conley was like that for Herb.

“They were the ultimate team,” said Ross. “He didn’t lose her. He knows exactly where she is. He’s got that peace that passes all understanding.”

And he’ll never stop loving her.

Dicky Martin’s passing leaves an irreplaceable void in Tomcat sports

The sound coming from the radio was more static than voice — unrecognizable, unfamiliar. It wasn’t what it should have been.

Driving home to northern Kentucky after watching the first quarter of Ashland’s game with Rowan County two weeks ago — on the night the famous JAWS team was being honored — I searched the dial for the Tomcats’ broadcast and finally landed on it.

Or did I?

The announcers were doing a fine job, especially considering Ashland was up 48-0 by halftime. But it wasn’t the same. Because it wasn’t Dicky Martin — the unmistakable voice of the Tomcats — calling the game from the Putnam Stadium press box that bears his and his father’s name.

Dicky Martin provided Ashland with 50 years of radio broadcasting. He passed away Oct. 15.

Dicky wasn’t there because he was in the hospital, locked in the fight of his life — a fight he sadly lost to cancer Wednesday night. Even knowing he wouldn’t be on the air, instinctively turning the dial to find him felt like something that should still work. For half a century, it always had. Entering his 50th season as Ashland’s play-by-play man, he had missed only two games.

I tried to listen. My mind wouldn’t let me. I turned it off.

Ashland is a place steeped in tradition, and Dicky Martin was part of that tradition’s fabric. The Martin family — Dicky and his father, Dick — gave Ashland 73 years of Tomcat broadcasts between them. People like to say no one is irreplaceable. But when it comes to Ashland Tomcat sports, Dicky Martin proved that saying wrong.

Born with a silver microphone

Some people are born with a silver spoon. Dicky was born with a silver microphone.

His father, Dick Martin, moved the family from Huntington to Ashland in 1952 and started broadcasting Tomcat games on WCMI the next year. He was a sharp businessman who understood that community radio needed sports — and that Ashland needed its voice.

Both Martins had a similar style: blunt, passionate, fiercely loyal. They never hesitated to call out poor play or questionable officiating — all through maroon-tinted glasses. Dicky often said, “There’s an on-and-off switch on your radio if you don’t like what you hear.”

He could be hard on the Tomcats, but no one else better be. Criticize his team, and you were taking on family.

Dick Martin became as much an icon as his son would later be. He even served as Ashland’s mayor, but it was his radio work — and his love for the Tomcats — that defined him.

Dicky once laughed recalling a moment from his childhood when his dad waved a handkerchief at a referee. “The ref came over and said, ‘You got something to say?’ Dad said, ‘Here, talk right into the microphone.’”

The referee rolled his eyes and went back to the game. Soon enough, the calls evened out.

That was Dick Martin — unfiltered, bold, and impossible to ignore.

Learning the craft

Dicky learned early that preparation mattered. His parents made him listen to recordings of his voice and work on his diction. “I had that Ashland twang,” he told me once. “They made me pronounce and enunciate until I got it right.”

Few were ever more prepared behind a mic than Dicky Martin. He could deliver a sharp one-liner at just the right moment — often unrehearsed, sometimes regretted, but always memorable.

“It’s humbling,” he said, “that people bring radios to the games just to listen.”

In his early days, his passion sometimes got him in trouble. He was banned once from the Boyd County Middle School gym. Some Tomcat fans didn’t always agree with his takes, but they still listened — often through headsets in the stands, wanting his voice to accompany what they were seeing.

His first broadcast came in 1973 when his father pretended to lose his voice and handed the mic to Dicky during a Raceland–Holy Family game. Dicky had just graduated from Ashland the year before. By 1975, he was the full-time voice of the Tomcats.

The rest, as they say, was history.

A voice shaped by legends

Dicky Martin became emotional when he learned the press box would carry the name of his father and him.

Dicky often said he learned from three of the best: his father, UK legend Cawood Ledford, and Hall of Fame broadcaster Marty Brennaman. “My dad was the best,” he said. “I learned from him, from Cawood, and I love to listen to Marty. He’s the best one living.”

Patterned after greats, yes — but Dicky was one of a kind.

“I’ve mellowed a lot,” he told me a few years ago. “I’m kind of like a fan in a way. When a guy misses a call, the fans go, ‘Oooooooh!’ I just get to do it over the air.”

The “Three D’s” and lasting friendships

This story isn’t complete without mentioning his longtime sidekick, David “Dirk” Payne, who passed away a few years ago. Dicky loved him deeply. “There aren’t many men I love more than him,” he said. “When my dad died, Dirk thought it was me. He had a stroke that day. One day I lost my father and damn near lost Dirk, too.”

Dirk and Dicky on the air were Ashland’s equivalent to Marty and Joe with the Reds. You never wanted to miss a second.

Dicky Martin with some friends from left: Mark Maynard, Greg Jackson, Dicky, Donna Suttle and Steve Conley.

Longtime fan Donna Suttle was another dear friend. She called them the “Three D’s” — Dicky, Dirk and Donna. Her heart is broken now that trio is down to one.

He had many more friends in Ashland. Everybody knew of Dicky Martin and his love for the Tomcats.

Beyond the Tomcats

Dicky’s voice wasn’t confined to Ashland. His career took him to Soldier Field, the Gator Bowl, Ohio State’s “Shoe,” and RFK Stadium while calling games for the semipro West Virginia Rockets. He worked Morehead State basketball games during Wayne Martin’s coaching era, which took him to Madison Square Garden and two NCAA tournaments.

But his heart was always at home.

“My two favorite places are Putnam Stadium and Anderson Gym,” he said. “I love those places.”

He had been to every state basketball tournament since 1976 — and his father took him to his first in 1961, when Ashland won it all. He was just seven years old then, but he never forgot.

Football was his true passion. “I never dreamed I’d be doing this as long as I have,” he said. “But I loved every second of it.”

So did we, Dicky.

So did we.

Share this with others.

Share this with others.

Share this with others.

Share this with others.