“Hope is everything to the man who has nothing, and nothing to the man who has everything. We will all find ourselves somewhere between those two extremes.”
--John Gilbert, Sr. Pastor FUMC Austin
College football has been in the news lately, most of it negative. A tragic scandal brought down a legendary coach, and conference realignment threatens to shake the foundation of college football and its traditions. One team has its own network; and another has a new conference. Each school says they are “Doing what is best for the future." Each school thinks the other is greedy. College football has many problems. But instead I choose to focus on what is good and right in college football. This is a story about college football as hope.
College football has always been big in my family, specifically, Texas Longhorn football. My D ad graduated from the University of Texas after World War II, and brought up his two sons on stories of Bobby Lane, Tom Landry, and Tommy Nobis. The first game I remember attending in person was Texas vs. Arkansas in 1968. I was 6 years old. The Horns won 35-29. After a slow start to the season, Texas unveiled their new wishbone offense lead by quarterback James Street. This was their third consescutive win.
The modest win streak continued to grow. By season's end it stood at eight games, and Texas would represent the Southwest Conference in the Cotton Bowl against Tennessee. My Dad got tickets to the game, but only two. I had to stay home as he took Andy, my older brother. I cried. It would be the last time Dad would go to a game without me.
The 1969 season was full of hope and promise. Coming off an impressive Bowl win, riding a nine game winning streak, and with an experienced leader at quarterback; big things were expected from the Horns. This was the 100th year of College Football, and this seven-year old was determined not to miss a minute of the action. TV games were rare back then, so most Saturday afternoons found me sitting next to the radio. Dad took us to see the SMU game, and the winning streak continued to grow.
By the final game of the season, Texas had climbed to Number 1 in the polls. But that last game was in Fayetteville, Arkansas against the Number 2 Razorbacks. A Cotton Bowl berth and a shot at the National Championship were on the line. A national television audience would watch the country’s best offense against the country’s best defense in what was billed as “The Game of the Century.” President Nixon would attend in person and present the winner with a “National Championship” trophy.
The cold grey day in Fayetteville matched the way the Longhorns played. At the start of the fourth quarter, Texas trailed 14-0. It was too much for my Dad; he couldn’t bear to watch. (Believe me; I come by this obsession honestly!) He had to go to the back of the house, as Mom, Andy, and I stared silently at the TV hoping against all hope.
On the first play of the fourth quarter, James Street dropped back to pass, finding no open receivers, he tucked the ball and ran, straight up the middle of the field, 42 yards for a touchdown. The screams from the living room brought my Dad running back down the hall. (Apparently, he was feeling much better now!) After the two-point conversion, the Horns trailed 14-8. Hope came running back as fast as my Dad running down the hall.
But it wouldn’t be easy. With less than 4 minutes to play, the score was still 14-8, and Texas faced a 4th down and 3 from its own end of the field. With everyone expecting a run, James Street dropped back to pass. In the defining moment of his career, he threw a long pass to Randy Peschel streaking down the left sideline. He caught it at the Arkansas 13-yard line. Two plays later, Jim Berterlson scored, and the extra point gave the Horns a 15-14 win. They had gambled it all, and won.
A couple of weeks later, on Christmas morning, I found that Santa had left a Cotton Bowl ticket in my stocking. (Santa was able to pull off 4 tickets this time.) On New Year’s Day I sat in the stands as James Street lead another come back, with yet another 4th down pass. Texas scored the winning touchdown with less than 2 minutes to play, and beat Notre Dame 21-17 to win the National Championship. I was certain that my presence had made all the difference.
The 1970 season started out the same way. We were at Memorial Stadium when a new Texas quarterback, Eddie Phillips, threw a 45-yard touchdown pass to Cotton Speyer with 20 seconds left to beat UCLA 20-17. There was now no doubt that I was the good luck charm!
As the winning streak continued, Dad kept saying; “You know that they are going to lose one day.” What did he know? Surely he was delusional, because in my vast experience we had never lost. NEVER! No matter how bleak things appeared, the Longhorns always found a way. ALWAYS!
For the rest of the season, nothing happened to challenge my 8-year old beliefs. Texas steamrolled through the regular season 10-0, ranked Number 1 in the nation, and with another New Year’s Cotton Bowl date with Notre Dame. The winning streak was now 30 games.
We didn’t have tickets this time, so we watched on TV as Texas fumbled 9 times and lost 24-11. Even on the last play of the game, with 6 seconds left, I somehow still believed that we could and would win. I cried for 3 days. If only I had been there!
Much to my surprise, the sun did come up on January 2, 1971, and life and years moved on. My brother and I grew up, and both went to school at UT. After graduation, I stayed in Austin and married Francie, a beautiful girl who understands all my obsessions, and loves me anyway. Eventually we had two boys of our own; Will and Clay.
Each year I bought season football tickets, and my Dad and brother joined me for many great games, and later, my sons would join me. Five times after 1970, Texas would end the season with only one loss. Twice they had undefeated regular seasons, only to lose the National Championship in the Cotton Bowl. The big game stayed just out of reach, but there was always hope.
In 2001 we had moved back to our home town, to be closer to family, but we still kept our season tickets. That year, Texas had only to beat Colorado in the Big XII Championship Game to play for another National Championship. We were there in Dallas as Texas fell 39-37 to a team they had beaten 41-7 earlier in the year.
The 2005 season was full of hope and promise. Coming off an impressive Bowl win, riding a seven game winning streak, and with an experienced leader at quarterback; big things were expected from the Horns. In early November, they were a perfect 9-0. Francie and I took an anniversary trip to Austin to see the Kansas game. (Yes, it was her idea. And yes, she is amazing!) The Horns cruised to a 66-14 win.
On the way back home, we stopped at Collin Street Bakery and picked up some of my Dad’s favorite egg bread. It was late when we got into town, but Francie insisted that we stop by and see my folks on the way in, so that they could have toast for breakfast in the morning. Dad seemed happy to see us. We talked about the trip and the game, and how this just might be the year. We made plans for the Big XII Championship Game in Houston. We had three tickets. Just like old times, Dad, and his two sons were hoping to be there when the Horns punched their ticket to the National Championship Game. But it was not to be. This would be the last time that I ever saw my father standing.
Two days later I got a call from my brother; “Come to the Emergency Room. Dad has had some sort of attack.” When I got there, Dad was conscious, and alert. He was calm, but in obvious pain. The doctors were running tests under the assumption that this was a heart attack. But he kept saying, “I can’t move my feet.”
It was late that night before they ruled out a heart attack. Apparently there was something wrong with his spinal cord, but no one could say what it was. Over the next few days Dad endured more tests. It was determined that he had been bleeding into his spinal column. The bleeding had stopped, but the paralysis was permanent. He took the news as calmly as if we were discussing the weather.
But it was also becoming obvious that something was wrong with Mom. We had noticed for several months that she had been forgetful, and would often repeat herself, but the stress of Dad’s illness hit her hard, she seemed disoriented, and confused. Dad finally told us what we had suspected--Mom had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. It was a double shock, and it was also clear that the disease was further along than anyone realized.
But the bad news was not over yet. As a follow up to a routine physical, Francie’s doctor informed us that tests indicated she had a rare and usually fatal heart condition known as ARVD. Pace makers could control it, but there was no cure. She would need to do more tests, and we should also consider testing the boys since a parent has a 50% chance of passing the defect on to their children. Since this disease has no symptoms, and since nothing could be done until further testing was complete, we chose not to further burden the rest of the family.
Dad remained in the Intensive Care Unit. We would take Mom to see him every day. He would ask her how she was doing, and tell her that he was feeling better--anything to reassure her. He would tell her little things to make her smile. His focus was on her. He stayed upbeat. I never heard him complain.
The time came for the Big XII Championship Game, the game we had planed as a father/son outing. My brother and I didn’t feel that we could or should go. But Dad wouldn’t hear of it. “I’ll be fine.” he said; “Besides there’s nothing you can do here anyway.” So we found a friend with a spare ticket, and Andy, Will, Clay, and I rode with him to Houston to see Texas play Colorado. This one was never in doubt. Texas rolled to a 70-3 win, setting up the much anticipated match up with USC in the Rose Bowl. But for me it was a hollow victory.
The next day I went to check on Dad and tell him about the game. He managed a brief smile, and a quick “Hook ‘Em”, but not much more. It was clear that he was getting tired.
As December wore on, the paralysis began to affect Dad’s breathing, and he was placed on a ventilator. He remained calm, and in control, but I was racked with doubts. How were we going to take care of two invalid parents? What if I had to do it without Francie? What if I had to do it without Will or Clay, or both?
After one particularly difficult day, I remember collapsing in bed with a silent prayer; “Lord, thank you for helping me make it through another day.” The next morning started with “Please Lord, give me the strength to make it through this day.” And this became my ritual. Right then, I could not even think about the future, it was beyond my control. It was overwhelming. For the first time in my life, I felt that hope had abandoned me.
As Dad’s condition continued to deteriorate, we spent as much time as possible with him. He told us to “hang on to each other.” Many times he told me how proud he was of me. He described Francie as a “rare jewel” and reminded me to always “treasure her.” Even after the ventilator stole his ability to speak, he filled a spiral notebook with messages: notes for his grandkids; information on insurance and finances; and even instructions on how to prune the rose bushes in the back yard. The man who had spent a lifetime showing me how to live, was now showing me how to die.
My Dad died on December 23, 2005. He remained conscious right up until the last few hours. He squeezed every bit of life out of his final six weeks in the Intensive Care Unit.
Christmas was difficult that year, but after the funeral, we tried to get our life back to normal, back into a routine. Mom was in a daze; she spoke very little, and did not cry much. She was confused, and we were not sure how much she remembered. She was still waiting for Bill to come home.
In times of grief you fall back into a routine; and do what is familiar, and what is comfortable. When it came time for the Rose Bowl, we all gathered at Mom’s house to watch Texas take on USC for the National Championship. My entire family along with my brother’s entire family was there.
The game was a wild back and forth affair. Mom sat quietly through the whole thing. With less than 7 minutes remaining USC scored to take a 12 point lead, I was resigned to the fact that Texas would come up short again. I suppose I felt sorry for myself. It figures! You would think that after the last two months at least something would go right!
But Longhorn quarterback Vince Young was not wasting time feeling sorry for himself. He quickly led the Horns down the field for a touchdown. The Longhorns now trailed by 5, but there was only 4 minutes remaining, and the Longhorn defense had not stopped USC in the entire second half. But facing a 4th down and 2 at the Longhorn 45 yard line, USC went for it. Two yards would win the Championship. But the Longhorn defense held, and with less than 2 minutes left, Vince and the Longhorns had one last chance. In that moment, it felt like hope came running back down the hall. Suddenly, I was a seven year old boy again.
But it wouldn’t be easy. With 26 seconds left, Texas faced a 4th down and 5 from the USC 9-yard line. Texas’ play-by-play announcer Craig Way said it best as the Longhorns approached the line of scrimmage; “All the hopes, all the dreams for the National Championship come down to this play...” Just like 1969, Vince dropped back to pass, and found no one open. In the defining moment of his career, he tucked the ball and ran--untouched into the end zone. As he crossed the goal line and the room erupted, my Mom screamed “Did he score? Did he score?” When she realized he had, she broke down and cried. She remembered.
After that game, we continued to put our lives back together. Francie underwent more tests and it was determined that the initial diagnosis was incorrect—she did not have ARVD. The boys did not have to undergo testing. I felt an enormous burden lift from my shoulders. We learned to cope with Mom’s illness; there were good days and bad. She stayed at her house for a few more years, until we eventually had to place her in assisted living. She is now in the final stages of Alzheimer’s, and even though she no longer recognizes us, we still tell her we love her, and occasionally talk about how the Horns are doing.
I suppose a cynic would say “What if Vince Young had been tackled on that last play? Would you still be writing about college football as hope?” Probably not, but that is missing the point. A football game did not give me hope. Hope never left me. Hope is always with us. St. Paul told us that. That game just reminded me.
In hindsight, I see it all clearly. In my darkest moments, hope whispered: “Don’t worry about the future; just be present here and now.” Hope kept Dad peaceful and calm, and gave us the chance to say what needed to be said, and learn from his example. And only hope is bold enough to prune rose bushes knowing he would never see the blooms.
Hope does not promise that your team will win every game. Hope does not promise that all illness will be cured. Hope does not promise that your loved ones won’t die. But hope does promise a future beyond imagination. Because hope knows the One who holds the future in the palm of His hand.
“But I will hope continually and will yet praise thee more and more.”
--Psalm 71:14
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