Remember this Titan (7 page)

His fans said something else. He came to earth on a lightning bolt. He was a master
motivator—disciplined, determined, smart, and cool. His shoes had wings. Some said
he taught Zeus how to punt and Louis Armstrong which end
of the trumpet to stick in his mouth. The word was that HB was a Renaissance man.
They said Herman had the plan.

This went on for weeks. One day a headline appeared,
GOD AND BOONE SIGN PERFORMANCE PACT
. Next day,
HERMAN SLEEPS WITH A TEDDY
. Things had gotten crazy. I knew the truth lay somewhere in between. There was no
reason to like Herman Boone. He’d taken my job.

A week later Boone and I met. He introduced himself and I shook his hand. It had a
good feel. It was strong and warm. The smile was genuine. The teeth were real. We
sat down to talk.

I knew Boone saw me as a threat. There was no way he couldn’t. I’d been picked as
“The Guy” and circumstances turned it around. He probably wished I’d quit and taken
a job elsewhere. No one likes to be compared with his or her predecessor. I hadn’t
been in the T.C. Williams job for long but I had a history. Herman Boone was a smart
guy. He knew for every Boone lover, there was a Herman hater. Comparisons would be
made and issues distorted. He understood he was on a short leash and having Yoast
around wouldn’t help.

Initially, it was like two bull moose in rutting season. We
were staring each other down before we went on the offensive. The rumor mill never
called him a shrinking violet. I’d heard Boone was Delta Force, had hands of stone,
and was bad to the bone. I didn’t care. I was just a little pissed. I was my own man,
I had my own opinions and if he didn’t like them, I was ready to rumble.

Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, let me be less macho. In my life, for
a long time, I’ve relished the challenge that comes with helping people excel. I’ve
found nothing more rewarding than seeing individuals start low and end high. And that
will happen when group enterprise invades the environment. Individual is about you.
Leader is about them. If I was leader I also had to be a follower. For years, I preached
it and now was the time to live it. So I put my ego in check and opened my arms. Whether
I opened my heart was up to him.

At that moment in time the stakes were high. Life and death is serious business. People
were being killed in the neighborhood. Our situation was very visible. Race relations
aren’t a joke. Or football either. Black Coach. White Coach. Will they work together?
Can they put their issues aside? Can they set an example for others? To be candid,
I’m not sure the school board initially understood the scope and implications of what
they had done but I know the community did. It was a pressure cooker. Not only were
we charged to win football games but the Hermanator and Honkie were supposed to get
along.

The inquisition started gently enough. “So what do you think we need Bill?” I don’t
think he cared. I say that without malice. Herman Boone was an excellent coach. He’d
won the big one. He still had a wife. He knew how to get into the end zone and keep
others out. Given his personality he wasn’t looking for solutions from me. He had
them.

He was thoughtful enough to ask.

There was my opening. My response wouldn’t be off the cuff. I had thought about this
stuff forever. My mouth was cocked, my lips were greased and the trigger was about
to be pulled. It was a long time ago so I can’t remember exactly how I unleashed my
fury. I do remember it was a monologue.

I wanted him to know that the guy he’d replaced knew as much about coaching as anyone
in that room. On many issues my feelings haven’t changed. I worshipped integrity at
twelve and I worship it today. Experience and age has a way of softening edges but
if you really believe in something, it escorts you to the grave. I think my dissertation
went something like this—give or take.

I believe that too many coaches or anyone for that matter, involved with the development
of people never question what it is that they are charged to do. In the absence of
understanding they focus on the superficial. To some, parenting is about food, clothing,
and frivolity. To others, coaching involves plays, playmakers and press clippings.

Somewhere, I’d figured out that my job as a coach transcended nothing beyond being
the custodian of a person’s welfare. Their self-image, happiness, health, prosperity,
success, fulfillment and accomplishment were my responsibility. During the time that
they were under my supervision if they grew bigger, faster, stronger, and smarter
I could take some credit. If the opposite happened, shame on me.

I looked into Herman’s face and his expression hadn’t changed. I continued.

While I’m pretty sure most people would endorse that statement, talk means nothing.
If you, as a coach do not engage in behaviors that turn expectation into reality,
you are deficient. If you don’t do right by the people you are asking to do right
by you, you are a hypocrite.

I was looking for a reaction and there was none. I didn’t know why. The words were
sliding off my tongue like they had been sprayed with Crisco. When I didn’t see crocodile
tears erupt from Boone’s eyes I started to wonder if he was my kind of guy. I had
made a decision to give him my loyalty. Getting my respect would determine whether
I remained a Titan or a coach without a team.

It’s said wisdom comes with age. Some people get it young and for others it takes
a while. In 1971 I guess I wasn’t as wise as I thought. Had I been, I would have had
a much greater grasp of what the man sitting across from me was thinking.

Herman Boone was a black man. He grew up in the south. Only he can fill in the blanks
as to what that life entailed. If I were a pie-in-the-sky guy I might suggest that
life was B-E-A-U-T-I-F-U-L. If I were Pollyanna I would tell you Boone could swim,
run, and jump wherever he pleased. He ate three meals a day and took vitamin supplements.
I would suggest opportunity existed everywhere. I would tell you all men and women
are created equal and Herman had an equal chance to succeed.

If I told you that I would be dumb and if you believed it you might be dumber. The
smarter side of my brain knows it wasn’t like that. Books are filled with a history
of facts. In Herman Boone’s world, you could get hung for saying hello.

At that time I had knowledge about racism, fear, and distrust. I understood how quickly
a perception could be created. But I didn’t employ it and knowledge without application
is like practicing for a game that will never be played. Experience is a wonderful
teacher but only if you use the lessons learned.

I don’t know why I wasn’t teleported back to that cotton field where fifty-eight eyes
watched my every move. Two of those eyes could have been Boone’s. Bad times have a
way of making you suspicious. No wonder he wasn’t listening to what I had to say.
He was trying to figure out who I was, what I was, and what I might do to him.

I didn’t help the situation. In the cotton field I grabbed the dipper and took a sip.
But at that moment I was into me. As a result my gums were flapping and all Herman
could see was another white guy telling him what to do.

In retrospect I’m surprised he took it as well as he did. Herman asked a lot questions
and I responded. When I finished I felt exhausted and energized. I had gotten out
those things that were important. If there was a question in Herman’s mind about what
I believed in, then he couldn’t be the guy that taught Einstein how to formulate.

I looked at Boone. There wasn’t much of a change but there was enough. I knew that
every journey started with a
step and I had taken my first with him. His response. “Let’s get to work.”

A week later the practice season began. The Titans arrived in force. When your high
school is as large as a country it takes a day to count. There were big Titans, small
Titans, tall Titans, and off-the-wall Titans. The largest guy on the field was in
a dress. Another wore bedroom slippers.

The temperature was 98 degrees. For an Alabama cotton picker it was just right. I
was up on the field with the assistant coaches. We were getting things organized.
It was easy to see who came from where. The GW players were pretty much black and
the Hammond players looked like marshmallows. At that point they hadn’t become “The
Titans.” They were just a bunch of young men with attitude problems. They had been
exposed to the same rumor mill as everyone else. As a result, the white guys didn’t
like the black guys and the black guys didn’t like the white guys. Herman had not
yet arrived. When he finally showed up, I was happy with my decision to stay with
him. He was an equal opportunity coach. Boone didn’t like anybody.

He had a new whistle and sparkling shoes. Beautiful cap. His shorts were starched
and his frown was too. He appeared to be a nine feet tall but if you cut the afro
that had grown wild on his head, Boone was around six feet. He wasn’t a dominant physical
force but what he lacked in size he made up for in personality. When Herman was Hermanizing
he got your attention.

I’ve been asked to describe Boone. My response—prickly pear with a turbo charger on
his lips. That was okay.
If you could navigate the thorns to get to the meat, it was pretty sweet.

I suspect he was born with a high-octane personality and circumstances elevated it.
Boone had clawed his way to the top by being tough and there aren’t many people who
discard what got them to the party. I had no problem with that.

I even thought maybe I could learn something from Herman. I knew I’d have to ignore
the delivery and pay attention to the content. I figured I could put my stuff with
his stuff and create a little synergy.

On the first day of practice there was so much organizing going on I wasn’t paying
any attention to Herman. I had my own problems. But on the second day, I heard Boone
on his bullhorn trying to get a player’s attention. The
Guinness Book of World Records
should have been there. I’d never heard anything like it. In one sentence Herman
Boone put fifty-three words together and fifty-two of them were profane. The reaction
was astonishing. In three seconds, the player that had been muddling around fell into
ranks and stood at attention. I was impressed. I was amazed.

That night I went home and tried to adopt Boone’s technique. There was no question
I was an amateur. I couldn’t remember ever having used a swear word. I’m sure I did
but the memory was lost. I stood in front of the mirror and took a deep breath. My
face contorted. I clenched my fist and raised it in the air. My foot twitched. I was
ready and I would start with the lord’s name in vain. Timing had to be perfect. It
was all in the technique.

I had butterflies in my stomach. Here we go. My arm
crashed down as the words erupted from my mouth. “Gosh darn it,” I screamed. I decided
to try the F-word. “Fiddlesticks,” broke the silence. Maybe the S-word would get me
going. “Shucks,” I yelled. “Son of a beeswax. Dadnabbit, go to heck.”

Yeah, Herman and I had differences and some of them would remain.

As time went on I had a feeling that the team was getting better even though the atmosphere
was getting worse. There were lots of reasons and one was that Herman was a hard man
to be around. He was an in your face rock-’em sock-’em coach and no different in personality
than Vince Lombardi, Bill Parcels, or Bull Halsey—three leaders among many that got
results and never won a personality contest. I didn’t hold that against him. A few
assistant coaches did. Some quit and the ones that remained had an attitude that you
could cut with a knife. In search of answers Herman identified me as the problem.
He knew many of the coaches had worked for me and he figured I had poisoned them against
him. He reported me to the athletic director and assistant superintendent.

I don’t know exactly what he said but they called me in to explain what was going
on. I was hot. I was insulted at the suggestion that I would conspire against him.
I told them if I had a problem with Herman I would address it with him. They suggested
I should. I did and behind many closed doors Herman and I talked it out. We came to
the conclusion that our coaching styles were different. I explained I was more
like Tom Landry. Herman responded that having an emotional telephone pole for an assistant
would be okay. It wasn’t his way but he was willing to accept it. I asked him who
he thought his style mirrored. He gave it some thought. I think he said, “I’m a cross
between Martin Luther King and Godzilla.” The smile I expected to see never came.
This journey was going to be interesting. What we both knew was that we wanted the
Titans to win and that was reason enough to change.

He compromised. I compromised. Things got better. The Titans got better but there
were still real issues. Racism and hatred don’t disappear with a touchdown pass. At
that point, the team was not a team. It was collection of talented cliques. Not surprising,
each had its own color. Herman coached the offense and I coached the defense. Gerry
Bertier was my anchor and also the captain of the team. I was always looking for Bertier
to provide some leadership. Unfortunately, his dominant presence and porcupine disposition
did not make others want to cuddle.

One day it seemed that every player was going after every other player. The whistle
would blow indicating that the action should stop and guys were still blocking, tackling,
and throwing elbows. Two players had taken it to a higher level. Surprising in that
they were on the same side. Both played defense. When practice ended I called Gerry
Bertier and Julius Campbell over and marched them into the bleachers. I exploded with
a tirade that would have made Boone proud. I told them I thought they both might be
racists. I then added that I couldn’t do anything about how they
felt but I could do something about how they acted and if they didn’t cut out the
BS something was going to happen. A few days later it did.