An utter disaster

Sporting News, The, May 29, 1995 by Michael J. Goodman

Dr. Billy Abb Cannon -- Louisiana football legend, confessed counterfeiter -- waves me into the tiny, cluttered cubicle he calls his orthodontist office. Outside, his waiting room is empty of both staff and clients. As usual.

Cheap green and yellow vinyl chairs hooked together line the walls. One hundred or so magazines are piled on white formica coffee tables. Esquire, People, Family Journal. The magazines on top are dated April and May of 1994. Many are addressed to someone other than Cannon. The toilet and sink in the bathroom are splotched with rust

"If s a very depressing place," says Paul Manasseh, a retired LSU sports information director who lunches and visits with Cannon weekly at Cannon's office in Baton Rouge. "Billy sits in that office all day long, all by himself. He had to get an answering machine because of bill collectors. He never picks up the phone until he knows who it is."

Cannon's two X-ray machines -- one is broken -- have not been used since 1986 when he was released from federal prison in Texarkana, Tex. He served 2 1/2 years as head of a ring that counterfeited $6 million in $100 bills.

Now, Cannon contracts out X-rays because he has been "financially unable" to pay the $55-a-year safety inspection fee for X-ray machines, according to a letter filed September 9, 1993, with the state attorney general. The letter from his attorney was in response to two lawsuits by the attorney general totaling nearly $1,000 in fines and court fees for non-payment of $110 for safety inspections.

Financial desperation, Cannon says, forced him to invite a reporter to sit down with him, probably the first time in more than a decade.

At first, Cannon wanted $1,000 to talk. Through an intermediary, Cannon was told THE SPORTING NEWS does not pay for interviews. The possibility of a book deal resulting from the article was discussed. No argument. Successful books have been written about far less controversial sports figures.

"Billy wants to talk. He's at his office," relayed the intermediary, a close friend.

Cannon offers me a seat. He raises a cola bottle to his lips. It is full. But not with soda. He squirts a stream of tobacco juice dead center through the bottle's small opening.

"Chaw?" he asks, offering a pouch of Red Man tobacco. I don't chew. But chew I do. Cannon tosses over an empty spittin' bottle and the pouch labeled "The Flavor of America ... America's best chew." We talk and spit with tobacco plugs wedged between cheek and gum.

"I'm broke," Cannon says. His voice is matter of fact, almost nonchalant. "I'm busted. I'm going down. I'll probably file bankruptcy." He concedes even his 1959 Heisman Trophy has been bartered to a restaurant owner for display in return for free lunches and to protect the Heisman from creditors.

The people of Baton Rouge still haven't fully recovered from the shame of Cannon's 1983 counterfeiting scandal.

Now this.

Again, it seems, Cannon will embarrass, disappoint and betray the football-obsessed fans of this state capital strung along the Mississippi River. Many, if not most, still cling to the glory Cannon gave them and LSU: the 1958 national championship. The 89-yard punt return for a touchdown to beat hated Ole Miss in 1959.

Physically, Cannon still oozes power. Big, burly, with a meaty face, square jaw, cropped jock haircut. His hatred of the media is clear during the 30 minutes he endures my presence. His eyes glitter with suspicion. His voice is edged with contempt. His smile through pressed, colorless lips is more of a smirk and sneer.

The phone rings. His message machine announces: "This is Dr. Billy Cannon. I am presently with a patient. If you will leave your name ..."

Cannon listens to the message. "Another bill collector," he mutters.

He brightens. "I can tell you stories that would fill a book. I can tell you things you wouldn't believe."

"So," I pose, "tell me. Give me a taste, a sample."

I pull out my notebook. Cannon freezes. His eyes narrow. "How much of a cash advance can I get right now? What's in it for me?" he asks repeatedly.

Cannon is reminded that cash advances for books are unpredictable. Perhaps something. Perhaps nothing. First, the article.

Cannon's face mottles with anger and frustration.

"I need money now," he snaps. "No cash advance for a book, no article! What's in it for me, now?" Cannon is told an article is forthcoming, regardless.

"I'm gonna punch you out and throw you out," Cannon snarls.

I stand, take out two false teeth, hoping Cannon has no stomach for beating up a reporter he invited into his office.

Cannon sighs. "Just leave," he grumbles. I pause at the door and ask for the third time: "Why, Billy, did you print the phony one hundreds?"

He responds with the same answer. "I took a shot." Then adds, "It didn't work."

Why Cannon turned counterfeiter is, in the words of Smiley Anders, local newspaper columnist and Cannon's high school classmate: "One of the great unsolved mysteries in Louisiana."

For 12 years, the people who know, or think they know Cannon best, have tried, in their disappointment and bewilderment, to solve the mystery. Simplistic, pat answers for human behavior -- Cannon's behavior -- have been as hotly disputed among psychiatrists as they are in Baton Rouge.