Too Proud To Fail

The little country church was packed. So was the red dirt yard and parking lot outside the church. A motley crowd of various ages, races and occupations milled about in the July heat of the middle Georgia summer. Crude loudspeakers had been hastily attached to the light poles and haggard trees that surrounded the little A.M.E. worship center. Surely something important was happening. Shaking heads and moistened cheeks signaled the dismay of the various groups who hugged and patted the backs of ladies with brightly-adorned dresses and men with three-piece suits that each of them wore.

What all these people had assembled for was the funeral of a young man of the community who had tragically died at the age of sixteen. I was the head football coach at a large rural high school in Covington, Georgia, some forty miles east of downtown Atlanta. The urban sprawl had not quite reached this area in the early 1980’s, so the large high school served the entire county of Newton. So it was that the young man who had died lived in a very poor area made up of many black families whose ancestors were slaves who worked the cotton fields until Emancipation in the middle 1800’s.

The young man’s name was Leroy Lackey. He was a rising Junior who played fullback on my team. He had had a very impressive spring practice performance and was slated to be our starting fullback in the coming fall season. He was a very stout young man with excellent speed and toughness who was very hard to tackle when he exploded through the line. As part of building a successful football program at Newton County High, I required the boys to participate in off-season workouts, including weightlifting. Leroy excelled in all phases of the workouts: he gained in strength and speed at an unusually productive rate.

Although he was very quiet young man—almost shy—he was very popular with his teammates. The other boys always included him in their off-campus activities. I wish they hadn’t...

You see, it was hot. The boys were tired and sweaty. Come on, y’all, let’s go swimming. Come on, Leroy. You’ll love it! The water is so cold. It’ll feel great! Well...

I’m sure Leroy was hesitant. You see, he didn’t have a YMCA or community pool or country club to teach him how to swim. Like many rural black children, he didn’t know how to swim. And, many black parents did not want their children in the water. There were too many stories in their folklore of drownings and snakebites and other disasters associated with water.

But, Leroy was a team player, so he went along...

The rock quarry was a restricted area. NO TRESPASSING. DANGER. NO ONE ADMITTED. Many young people had drowned there in the past. The water was very deep and its bottom was filled with broken glass bottles and sharp abandoned metal machinery. It was a very dangerous place. The local citizens had unsuccessfully tried to have it filled in for many years. But, alas...

Young men are foolish: brave, but often foolhardy. They love adventure—taking risks, pushing the limits—a band of brothers. Proud daredevils.

“Come on, Leroy, jump! “The other boys had already left the lofty rock cliff at the edge of the pool, yelling “Geronimo,” and kerplunking huge cannonballs as they plummeted into the frigid depths.

What was going through Leroy’s mind? He had to be terrified. He had never been swimming, much less diving, and this cliff was so high. But... “Come on, Leroy! Jump!”

Too proud to fail, Leroy closed his eyes and left the cliff. The shock of the water? The instant cold? The dis-orientation? The gulp of too much water? I don’t know...it is terrifying to imagine.

The boys dove and tried to find him when didn’t surface. Over and over they tried. “Do you see him?”

“No. The water’s too deep. And it’s dark. I can’t see anything. But let’s keep trying. Jim, drive over to the nearest house and call the EMT’s!”

The divers finally found him. Nineteen feet down. Too late to resuscitate.

I was in my office when one of the players rushed in to tell me. I made all the necessary calls to my principal and the superintendent and then what? Have the parents been informed? A call to the fire chief confirmed that they had been told. Okay, into my truck...what to say to his parents. What’s the address? Where is that? Out off Dixie Road. Near Mansfield. Okay.

The house was neat. Jesus’ picture on the wall. Four single beds in the living room. Rugs over the rough board floor. A table already covered with neighborly grief food—fried chicken, biscuits, greens....

“Won’t you have something, Coach?”

“No, but thank you. He was a fine boy. And, I‘m so sorry.”

“Thank you, Coach. He loved you and all the boys.

“Is there anything I can help you with concerning the funeral?”

“Well, Coach, can we bury Leroy in his uniform?”

“Well, I think we might be able to let him wear his jersey. Would that be all right? “

“No, we want his whole uniform...like he was playin’”.

“You mean his helmet and shoulder pads?”

“ Yes, sir, and pants and shoes.”

I looked over at his three younger siblings sitting shoulder to shoulder on one of the beds,

hands folded primly, staring wide-eyed at me, anticipating my answer.

“Well, sir, I’ll have to ask my principal, but we’ll do it, if there’s any way at all. Anything else?”

“Yes, sir. Could the coaches talk about him at the service?”

“Sure. I’ll get Coach George to say something.”

“We want ALL the coaches to say something. He loved all y’all.”

“Okay, Mr. Lackey.”

I cleared the uniform business with my principal, but the funeral director said he had to order an extra wide coffin to accommodate the shoulder pads. I told him not to charge the family. The booster club would cover the cost. I took the whole uniform over to Lester Lackey’s Funeral Home. I never found out if Leroy was related to Mr. Lester Lackey.

I told the coaches to prepare something to say at the funeral. There were six coaches plus me, so there would plenty of speeches.

The day of the funeral, I made sure that everyone was prepared and ready for the service. Then I sat down to catch my breath. Whew, I guess we’re ready to leave for the little church.

WAIT A MINUTE. What are you going to say, Mr. Head Coach? Where’s your speech? What are you going to say about Leroy?

I panicked. I had not prepared anything to say. Lord, help me!

From an early age I have been blessed with the ability to make rhymes. My Dad was a preacher and I knew the words of lots of hymns. I guess that helped. I grabbed a pen and just started jotting down a simple Sunday school type of idea. Jesus called Leroy to come play ball for Him in Heaven. I hoped it would work. I scribbled a few verses on a scrap of paper, and with God’s help, I got a decent tribute to my lost player.

When we got to the church, I thought we would never get in. I nosed my truck through the crowd standing outside. It looked like everybody in Newton County was standing in the bare dirt parking lot of the church. Much of the crowd were high school kids— hundreds of them, and there were many older folks too. They recognized me, and patted me on the back, saying things like “Sorry, Coach” and “he was a good one one, Coach” and “we’re gonna miss him, Coach.” I nodded and thanked each voice and inched along. The church probably seated less than a hundred people, so most of the crowd would have to rely on the hastily-rigged loudspeakers. Sweating profusely in my navy blue suit, I wound my way to the pulpit past the designated lady mourners in their white dresses. They were gathered on the front two rows. I then made my way to the casket to see Leroy for the last time. There he was with his blue helmet, blue jersey, grey pants and football cleats, wearing No. 34, peacefully asleep, awaiting the Big Game.

There was no hurry to begin the service. The choir members began to assemble in the choir loft behind the pulpit, resplendent in their gold and maroon robes. Soon the parade of flowers took place. Each arrangement was brought in by an attendant and held high over his head, while another official in a black robe announced out loud who had donated the flowers. After this, the choir began to hum “Rock of Ages.” Swaying slowly, they hummed a verse or two and then one of the ladies began to sing in a rich, low voice. The mourning ladies began to sob and moan and raise their hands. This went on for several minutes. Then the preacher opened the service with a brief prayer. He then turned to me and I gestured to the first assistant coach, telling him to come up and speak. Each of the coaches told wonderful little stories about what a great young man Leroy was. I was proud of them, but then the last one folded up his notes and sat down. It was now my turn. I just stood at the podium and looked at the sea of faces— young, old, black, white, students, teachers, sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents. The windows were wide open and the back doors were also. I saw hundreds of pairs of eyes focused on me. Slowly, and with as much emotion as I dared to show, I began to read my verse.

 When Jesus called to Leroy
To climb the golden stair,
He didn't know the glory
Waiting for him there.

 The football team in heaven
Is the best you've ever seen,
Every lineman and every back
Is big and fast and lean.

 And angels lead the cheers up there,
Waving their golden wings,
And there's always great team spirit,
The victory praises ring.

 The crowd will welcome Leroy
With a hallelujah roar,
As he checks into the game,
Wearing No. 34.

 And the coach that gives the signals
Is undoubtedly the best,
For Jesus wears the coaching hat
And whistles to the rest.

 The devil's troops won't have a chance
On the day of the big game,
With Leroy bustin' holes
And knockin’ demons lame.

 I know we're sad to think
He won't be playing here,
But the championship that
Leroy wins is good for every year.

 And he'll look down on us
And tell us in his way:
"Y’all fight hard and live for God
And you'll play for us someday."

 When I finished reading the poem, I turned slowly and sat down in one of those high-backed preacher chairs. The preacher made his way to the pulpit, paused, and then in a solemn tone, he said:

“There is no need for any more words. The Coach done said it all.” Then he turned and nodded to the choir, who began to sing slowly and quietly another nice funeral hymn.” But then, the audience began to mourn loudly. Ladies began to cry out and moan and some even fainted. The preacher then stood up, turned to the choir and motioned them to stop singing. Order was slowly restored, and after a brief benediction, the crowd began to file out. I sighed in relief, and thanked the Lord for helping me through this ordeal.

The Great Father and the Hunter

One day a man went out into the bush with his bow and arrow. He was a humble man who worked hard to provide for his family. This day he was trying hard to find game, but was having no luck. Feeling very sad and angry, he sat down on a rock and threw down his bow and arrows.

"Why?" he asked. "Why can I find no game to feed my family? I might as well burn this useless bow and arrows. Can no one help me?"

Behind him a voice said, "Have you asked me for help?"

Surprised, the young man turned around to find the person who spoke to him. But there was no one there.

'Who are you and where are you?" the man asked.

"l am the Great Father," said the voice, "and you cannot see me because I live in the sky. But I know you, and care for you, and if you ask me, I can help you."

'Well, all right, where are some animals that I can kill for food for my family?"

'Well, I will provide for you, but you first must listen to how I have helped you already."

"How do you mean that you helped me?"

'Well, look at your bow."

'Yes, I am looking."

I created the tree from which you made that bow. I made the wood like a spring, so that when you bent it, it was strong and able to throw an arrow very fast. I gave you the skills to be able to shape the wood and make it bend evenly in a shape like the rainbow."

"Okay," the young man said.

"And where did you get the string?" the Great Father asked.

"l wove it from the strong grass I found by the stream."

'Yes," the Great Father replied, "and I created that grass, long and strong, and gave you the skill to weave it into a strong string to stretch your bow."

"Oh, I see," said the man. "And the arrows?"

'Yes, I created the straight reeds and shoots from which you make arrows. I also provided the feathers from the birds so that you could attach the feathers to the shafts to make the arrows fly straight."

"l see," said the man. 'What about the points? Did you make the iron for the points?"

"No," said the Great Father, but I put the iron in the rocks, and taught your great great grandfathers how to melt the rocks to get the iron out, and taught them how to hammer it into sharp points for your arrows."

"l see," said the man. " But what about the animals? Can you make them show up and give themselves up for me?"

"Yes, I can," said the Great Father. In fact, I sent my only Son to earth for you. He sacrificed himself so that you might live forever. Like the animals, he was willing to give up his life so that you might live forever with me in the sky called Heaven."

"l can hardly believe this wonderful news, Great Father. What must I do to deserve this great gift?"

"Simply believe this story and tell everyone else that you believe in Jesus my Son."

"That is all I have to do?"

"Yes, it is. Now, go shoot that antelope over there for your supper."

When the man looked up, there was a fat antelope, standing still, eating some grass.

'What if I miss?" said the young man.

"You won't, if you follow my Word. Listen, you must have faith. You must believe in your aim. Grip the bow firmly, point it at the animal, draw slowly, come to full draw, anchor the string at the same place on your cheek. Slowly let go of the string and hold the bow still until the arrow is well on its way to the antelope. You must believe in your aim. You must focus on a small spot on your target. That is like the simple, small truth of everlasting life through my Son Jesus Christ. The bow is like my strength that enables you to do all things. The arrow is the straight Truth of my word. The string is the Power of my Promise to you. Your anchor point is your Faith in what I tell you. If you hold still and believe in my promise to you, and focus on that small True spot, you will not miss."

The man crept slowly toward the antelope, gripped his bow, pointed it at a small spot behind the front leg of the antelope, drew it fully tight, anchored it on his cheek, slowly let go of the string and kept his arm still. The arrow went straight to the spot where he was aiming, and entered the antelope right behind the front leg. It ran a short distance and collapsed. The man approached the fallen beast, knelt down on the ground and said, "Great Father, I believe in you. I thank you for your gift of this fine antelope and I believe that you also sent your Son to us here on Earth to give us eternal life. I thank you for this day."

This is my own...

     The air was clean that morning.  The spit of showers that always accompanied the polar air when it headed south had left its faint dampness on the dry September dust.  The air was so clean and clear that distant objects stood out in stark relief against the background with an acuity that almost eliminated any depth perception:  everything appeared to be equidistant.  There was no atmosphere. We Southerners were used to blue, hazy backgrounds that rendered distant objects mysterious and vague.  But here, this morning, each object was stark, definite, independent, and dazzlingly bright.  It was as if the tired old summer day had taken a bath, and stood bright and naked and clean. Even the usual smog that soiled the bright blue of the sky with a dirty, gray band across the horizon was gone this morning, and the skyline of the biggest city in the South poked its brilliant glass and steel towers into the pristine ether with pride.

     The only sound the boy heard as he walked down the driveway was the faint, deep rumble of a diesel locomotive from the tracks far to the north.  It was funny, the boy thought, how one could always hear the trains early in the fall when the first cool, clear air came down from Canada.  That was the only time he heard them, too, when the wind was from the north.  The boy loved the sound.  He didn’t know why, especially, but it seemed that no matter where he had lived, the sound of trains always came from the north.  And with the sounds of the trains came the cool, clear air. As he scuffed along the rain-spattered dust of the driveway, he thought about why he loved cool weather so much more than warm weather.  He guessed it was because of football.  Football was the boy’s first love, and the cool air reminded him of it.  No, that wasn’t it exactly.  It was more of a negative sort of thing.  He hated heat and humidity.  He hated heat and humidity because that was what so much of football was—at least in the South.  In late summer for the past four years he had suffered on the hard, parched Bermuda grass of a football practice field.  The memories of the dust and cotton-mouth and flies and sweat and sore legs and blisters made him sick even now as he thought about it.  But once more—like magic—the cool air had come, and with it had come the shorter practices, the rousing marches of the band, the excitement of a new school year, the pretty girls, and the games!  The games, he thought. That was it. That is what it was all about.  That’s what kept him from quitting the thousand times he had thought about quitting.  That is what made all of discomfort worth it—the games. The stadium sits on a plain in the still sparsely-populated area near the community college and a mental hospital.  The nearby expressway has carried the suburb-hungry nouveau riche to new and greater monuments to conspicuous consumption, farther and farther away from the old prison farm and its abandoned acres that lie adjacent to the stadium.  An occasional deer is to be seen here, and there are still some quail and lots of doves that call this area home.   But the resident sentinel of this tranquil flat is the stadium.  Through its hollow, eye-like portals it peers over the college and the mental hospital and the old prison farm barns and sheds   The bond issue that funded it could only support the construction of a one-sided stadium, so it has only one side, which is much taller than it should be.

     Perched against the hill as it is, it resembles an ancient Aztec throne pyramid, resplendent in its imperious serenity.  Deserted, though, it looks kind of ridiculous with its gawky long light poles leaning and stretching into the sky.

     But that was the way the stadium looked when it was empty, as it was when the team bus pulled into the parking lot before the game.  On that night it was a different story.  Slowly the cars from the neighborhood clans came, packed full of whole families fresh from McDonald’s.  They wound in a long slow line across the expressway, turned in at the corner by the college, went by the mental hospital and pulled into the parking lot.  Doors sprang open and pompoms and pennants and blankets and spirit caps bounded forth, announcing the arrival of the fans.  They poured through the portals and began to fill up the steps of the giant pyramid.  They came from their air-conditioned, color TV-d homes to witness mock warfare between their clan and the clan from the other neighborhood.  Their Tigers met the Titans, or the Spartans met the Bears, but no matter the name of the teams, the fans rooted for them with ferocity.  There was something primitive about this, it seemed to the boy.  All of these people who shop together in the shopping centers and go to the same churches with each other, come out and roar and whoop and scream as their representative armies carry on the oldest of Anglo-Saxon battles—the struggle for possession of land.  That was it, the boy thought:  that is why they came to the games.  The football field was, as Matthew Arnold had said, “. . . a darkling plain where ignorant armies clash by night.”  The boy was not so sure about the ignorant part, but football was literally a clashing of armies by night.  But somehow it was still a momentous, thrilling, important event to the boy and to these people who came to the games.  There was something else of importance to these games. He guessed it was pride.  The word itself was used and abused according to who said it, the boy thought.  The coaches used pride to prick your ego when your body absolutely refused to move another inch.  They appealed to your sense of manhood or shame or family name or something to make you mad enough to go some more.  They wanted you to have pride so that you would not quit—ever!  The girls at school, though, they used pride a different way.  They called it conceit when you felt confident and sure of yourself.  They didn’t like that and called you “Mr. Big Shot” and stuff like that.  They seemed to like mild guys who were vulnerable and soft-spoken and self-deprecating.  The two definitions got confused in the boy’s mind often, and it would be many years before he ever learned to have pride but not show it.  But there was still another aspect of pride that seemed more universal and important.  It was a feeling—that was for sure, and it was a feeling about yourself.  It was an awareness of your own existence to the point that it gave you a good feeling.  Not only that; it was a feeling that you knew others were admitting your existence also.  When you first discover this feeling, perhaps the immediate tendency is to feel too good about yourself and to be too aware of who you are.  The boy guessed that that was what the girls thought pride was.  But after a few experiences of recognition, one’s ego began to anticipate recognition and to deny itself gratification, and to work hard to be ready to be successful when it next appeared to the world.  He guessed that was what his coaches meant about pride:  don’t be sloppy, because when it comes time for your moment of exposure, you’ll be sloppy there.  Pride to them was a sort of preparedness that your ego had to maintain.  One had to have the confidence to know that he could perform at any given moment and be ashamed to do anything less than the very best.  That was the hard kind of pride, the boy knew. But what compelled people to come out and see a high school football game, sometimes even if they did not have a son or daughter performing?  Why would they sit up there in the huge concrete stadium and get goose bumps and rant and rave.  The boy thought and thought about this, but it did not make much sense.  Then, as he looked through the cool, clean air into the trees and the grass and dirt and thought about the stadium and football, he suddenly knew.  It was pride, all right, but it was a different sort of pride.  It was based on the ancient, traditional code of possession.  Boiled down into the simplest thing he could think of it was—land.  Land, earth, dirt, nature—call it what you will—it was pride in possession of something tied to the earth, something that one was willing to protect with his life.  That was why people came to these games.  They loved to see a struggle for land that they could participate in.  If their team won, they felt personally victorious in protecting their land, at the same time gaining enemy ground.  They could scream and fight and act like savages for an hour and a half, while their teenaged army wrangled about in armor for supremacy of a one hundred yard field. If their team won, they were personally proud of Murphy High or Panthersville or Northside Warner Robins, and would brag about it for a year until the next annual battle.  Oh, it was foolish all right, as foolish as the empty stadium, but it was honest and it was human and it would not change—it never did. The boy sniffed the air and felt the cool and grinned.  He felt good.