That was the last time the Aggies had an undefeated football season. It was the year my father passed away unexpectedly, and my second son was born. A&M has had another special season, just like three decades ago. My son is now grown, with kids of his own, and I know my father is still cheering for the Aggies from the best seat in the house.
(This is an excerpt from my book, Mockingbird Moments: A Memoir)
As I walked into the kitchen, the familiar holiday smells surrounded me. The turkey and pies were supplied by Butcher Boys, and Mom made her special cornbread dressing using Mrs. Hathcock’s recipe, a true Southern treat. I set the plates and silverware in front of each chair and helped Mom carry the food to the table, while Brian and Greg dealt with disassembling the turkey. When everything was ready, a wave of nausea came over me, and I knew it was contagious. All this delectable food was waiting to be eaten, yet no one was hungry. Our appetites had been suppressed by our broken hearts. What occurred next was possibly the most heart-wrenching scene I had experienced since Dad died. When we gathered around the table, we realized we didn’t even know where we’d sit without Dad. It was like a backward version of musical chairs. After several awkward, hesitant seconds, what needed to happen did, and my brother pulled out my dad’s chair at the head of the table and sat down. He began leading us in the blessing. “Dear Heavenly Father. Thank you for all … our … blessings.” They were the only words he could muster. With our heads bowed and hands joined, we cried and eventually simply mumbled in unison, “Amen.”
The meal
continued, mostly in silence, until someone finally asked, “Will you please
pass the sweet potatoes?” or stated, “The dressing sure is good, Mom,” to which
everyone echoed and reaffirmed the sentiments by adding, “It is really good.
Really good.” I think we should have at least added some, “Yes, Lords,” to the
mix and a couple of “Amens,” to try to make our comments even more over-the-top
and believable, as we were way too enthusiastic about the turkey’s counterpart.
Our forced conversation was exhausting, but we were nothing if not mannerly.
The silverware continued to clank against the plates, and ice rattled around in
the glasses, filling in the blank space where words were forbidden. It was a
pleasant relief when lunch finally ended and we began the process of cleaning
up the kitchen. Somehow, asking for Tupperware containers and the idle chatter
about divvying up the leftovers was preferable to addressing the elephant in
the room.
For most
families who have been in our situation, stumbling through the meal would be
the hardest hurdle to jump, but for our clan, it was the football game we would
watch that afternoon—the traditional rivalry game between the Aggies and the
Longhorns. This family tradition without Dad would be the most difficult to
endure. To say my dad was a huge A&M fan would be equivalent to saying
water is wet. He passed down this love for his university to both Greg and me.
As far as I knew, I was born an Aggie, and at eight years old, my friend Paula
Peacock and I declared we were going to go to college at Texas A&M. We even
had a secret Aggie handshake! I remember sitting with my dad on Saturday afternoons, searching
for the A&M game through all the static on his transistor radio. As we
listened to the commentators, Dad relived stories about his college days in the
mid- to late 1950s, during the era of “the Junction Boys,” led by Bear Bryant
and players like John David Crow and Gene Stallings. While he spoke about
days of old, I sat in my white A&M sweatshirt with the maroon Sarge and
Block T on it, hanging on his every word. I learned very early that
Thanksgiving was not only about the Pilgrims and Indians but also about the
Aggies and Longhorns. This day meant celebrating (or grieving) the holiday with
the A&M-UT game.
As a young child, this rivalry game
was usually watched at my grandparents’ home in Gonzales. My grandmother despised
the fact that the TV blared during our meal, and she chided my grandfather with
her standard line: “You’re going to burn, Brown.” In the end, her
objections were overruled, and we watched the game while we ate because God
understands about football. I must confess we weren’t above praying and
asking the good Lord for an Aggie victory before we said, “Amen.” The
Thanksgiving game when the Longhorns scored three touchdowns in the first two
minutes is forever burned in my mind. After the third touchdown, my
grandfather jumped up from the table, muttered a few colorful words, and announced
he was going to retrieve his hatchet so he could chop up the large wooden
console TV. I waited with bated breath, imagining we were going to have our own
personal version of an Aggie bonfire in the middle of Nana and Papa’s living
room.
It is imperative that I give my father full credit for my
love of both Texas A&M and football—two sacred things that for our family
go together like peas and carrots or, better yet, chips and salsa. I first fell
in love with the game of football as a somewhat tomboyish four-year-old. On any
given Sunday, when the Dallas Cowboys played, I could be found in the family
room with Greg, under our makeshift fort, a card table with a sheet hanging
over it, slit open ever so slightly so we could view the game from our secure
location. My dad sat in his recliner, and my mom usually used this time to
catch up on things around the house, or in rare instances, to relax. At first,
I was there for the adventure and playtime with my brother, but before I knew
it, I was a football savant, full of knowledge and a love for the game. My dad
and brother taught me the gridiron basics, and I quickly caught on to the
signals the officials gave when assessing penalties.
The early 1960s was an exciting time
to be a Cowboy fan. Their roster was full of legends in the making. From Roger
Staubach to Bob Lilly to Bob Hayes, I loved them all. Tom Landry was my hero,
and every week I gave my heart to the Dallas Cowboys. In no time at all, I
learned all the names and numbers of the starters on both sides of the ball, a
feat that made my parents proud. Because of this unique talent, each time I
accompanied my mom to the beauty shop, I was asked to recite this information
to Bob Davis, her beauty operator. Among the thick film of hair spray and
clouds of cigarette smoke, I stood at attention and named the players one by
one, adding any exciting anecdotes that might enhance the performance. I think
a time or two I ended with a quick curtsy to add to the theatrics. Looking
back, I was like a one-trick pony and may have been a tad bit obnoxious, but I
did leave a lasting impression. I was, after all, a rare breed—a young girl who
would rather watch football than play with Barbies.
My love for the Cowboys continued
through the years, and as a young adult, I was still a die-hard fan—that is,
until Jerry Jones, an oil tycoon from Arkansas, bought the Cowboys and fired
Tom Landry. I have never forgiven him for the way he handled the situation, and
because of that, my support of the Cowboys has waned over the years. “The only
oilman I’ve ever heard of coming out of Arkansas is Jed Clampett,” was my
father’s response to the Cowboy takeover. I have often thought of his retort
and wholeheartedly believe that Uncle Jed, along with his dimwitted nephew
Jethro Bodine, at times may have been better caretakers of the Cowboy
franchise. The one thing I do know without a doubt as I look back on my
formative years is the love of sports my father instilled in me was in
preparation for the life I would lead as a coach’s wife and mother of two boys.
I clearly see the Lord’s plan in this and am so lucky that God gave me two men
who not only shared with me their love of the game but also the life lessons that
abound in the world of sports.
With thoughts of Thanksgivings past
and memories of Dad cheering for his teams, we clicked on the television to
watch the ball game. The showdown was played in Austin that year, so the
environment seemed extra hostile. Sounds of the band playing “The Aggie War
Hymn” filled the living room as we watched the teams run onto the field. As if
he were sitting in the room beside me, I heard my father boldly proclaiming,
“If the Longhorns played the Soviets in Red Square, I would cheer for the
Soviets every time.”
It goes without saying that in the
South, football is a religious experience, and I knew with the added emotional
baggage attached to this day and this game, we would be “having church” like
never before. Going into the game, the Aggies were undefeated and embarking on
one of the best seasons in A&M football history. There was so much riding
on this contest, and of course, we bundled all our hopes and dreams and burdens
into a victory, as well. Somehow, we fully believed if we beat Texas, it would
be a tribute to my dad. In a month full of losses, a win for our family was
monumentally important. Football that day became more than just a game. It
represented life itself. We whooped and cheered and high-fived and quietly mumbled
ugly words throughout the four quarters. We yelled louder and stronger and
prayed harder than ever before during a football game. We simply had to win. We
couldn’t take another letdown or loss. When the final whistle blew, the Aggies
had resoundingly defeated the Longhorns 34–13. We firmly believed Dad was
waving his 12th Man Towel and whooping it up in heaven. It was the first time
in over a month that we felt alive. Deep down in my soul, I know God doesn’t
choose sides, but that day, he was an Aggie.
As much joy as this victory brought
us all, it was still laced in sorrow, and nothing could take away the sting we
felt by Dad’s absence. After the game, the time had come for us to go. We
loaded the car to return home, and along with the leftovers, I packed a great
big helping of guilt, something I always felt whenever we left Mom alone in
that big, empty house. Since the cemetery was on our way out of town, Brian, Christopher, and
I decided to stop by. We knew Dad’s grave site would still be a mound of dirt
with only a temporary marker identifying him. His headstone had been ordered
but wouldn’t be in for a month or so. Even though we dreaded it, we knew
stopping by to pay our respects was the proper, grown-up thing to do.
The sun was setting on an autumn sky, and shadows were starting to dance across the monuments and stones. I wasn’t exactly sure if I could find Dad’s resting place as we weaved in and around the winding pathways that coursed through Sunset Memorial Park. I was grateful that his plot was newly made and would help us narrow down the options. From a distance, I could see the dirt covering my father. It seemed to have settled since I was last there, and in a temporary flash of madness, I wondered if he was cold. Snapping out of the crazy thought, I admired several floral arrangements that had withstood the weather over the past month or so.
As I continued to survey the area, something white caught my eye. It was almost like a white flag of surrender, which I thought was a little harsh, even for a cemetery. The closer we moved to the object, the more familiar it became. It was a 12th Man Towel attached to a stake. During Jackie Sherrill’s tenure as the head football coach at A&M, he introduced the tradition of waving white towels imprinted with 12th Man. This was a rally cry for the team and reminded us that all Aggies stand ready to go in the game and help our boys if ever needed. To a die-hard Aggie fan, the 12th Man Towel is a mandatory wardrobe accessory for game-day attire.
As the November wind blew gently that afternoon, the flag
proudly waved like the one planted at Iwo Jima. It, too, represented
pride, tradition, and camaraderie. We stepped out of the car and clumsily
searched for a note or something that might reveal the thoughtful giver of this
random act of kindness. After investigating the area for a few moments, there
was not a trace of anything but the towel. I never knew who put the flag there,
but know whoever it was understood my father’s deep love of his alma mater. I
can think of no greater honor or tribute to one of the most loyal Aggies I’ve ever
known. “There’s a spirit can ne’er be told, it’s the Spirit of Aggieland.”
As we drove away from the cemetery
that autumn night, the last few stanzas of a poem entitled “The Last Corp Trip”
echoed in my head. I will always regret that I didn’t think to have this poem
read at my father’s funeral. This is how I envisioned Dad’s entrance into heaven:
And the band poured forth the anthem in notes both
bright and clear.
And ten thousand Aggie voices sang the song they hold so dear.
And when the
band had finished, St. Peter wiped his eyes
And said, “It’s not so hard to see they’re meant for Paradise.”
And the colonel of the Cadet Corps said as he stiffly took his stand,
“It’s just another Corps Trip, boys, we’ll march in behind the band.”
—P. H. DuVal
Jr., ’51
