| | | I remember Nov. 22, 1963, as if it were last week. Over the next few days, we sat in the lettermen's club at Georgia Tech and watched in horror as Camelot rode off on a gurney behind a riderless horse. My life of academic and football grind faded in the universal concern over the fate of the free world.
|  | | Bill Curry says he received a death threat immediately after being hired as Alabama's head football coach. |
Theories of plots and subterfuge were promulgated. Worst-case scenarios of foreign complicity were conjured almost hourly. Pictures of people cheering the assassination of our president were riveted in the heart and mind forever. I feared for my young wife and for the children we hoped to bring into the world. I simmered in the helpless rage that is another deadly weapon of faceless cowards who kill, then disappear. I drew strength from the heroics of the president's young widow and her children. I was heartened by the unity of our nation's diverse ethnic sub-cultures. I agonized over what I could do to help. I wept, prayed, then wept some more.
On Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001, the nightmare recurred. The only difference is that there are many more innocent victims this time, and that it is my grandchildren for whom I fear.
I was horrified by the maniacal faces of West Bank revelers. How could women and children be so happy about the death of thousands? Where had I recently seen anything like that? Then it hit me ...
When I was hired at Alabama, an anonymous phone caller stated that if I took the podium for the press conference, I would not live to speak a word.
My wife, Dr. Carolyn Curry, took an active role in a spouse-abuse fund-raising drive in Kentucky while I was the coach there. When a rabid fan called my number to rave about a bad football decision I had made, he added a threat to Carolyn's life. A few weeks earlier, one of my players had been murdered in cold blood. For weeks we had around-the-clock armed guards.
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When I was hired at Alabama, an anonymous phone caller stated that if I took the podium for the press conference, I would not live to speak a word. |
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As my team and I waited to take the field at Baton Rouge in 1989 for a game that would determine the SEC Championship, a lady dressed in purple and gold confronted me. I moved to go past her onto the field, and she began to scream hysterically, "Tigermeat, Tigermeat, Tigermeat!" When I merely smiled and nodded, she doubled her intensity, shrilly screaming the same word over and over. I honestly feared for her, sure that she would pass out.
Once, speaking to a third grade class in Birmingham, I noticed a little boy sitting in the corner, crying. When I asked about him, the response was, "Aw, that's Jason. He's an Auburn fan, and we shut him up." I had to go get Jason, sit him in my lap, and convince everyone that it was important for Jason to be allowed to pull for whomever he wished.
Another time, I received a phone call from a Birmingham attorney, who said, "You need to know about my little sister, and what I told her. She actually said she
intended to go to Auburn to college, and I told her that if she did, I would never speak to her again as long as she lives."
Please do not misunderstand. I am not insinuating that football fans are the equivalent of those who celebrate death and mayhem. What I am suggesting is
that sometimes we take our loyalty to our "tribe" too seriously, and that we conjure up images of something far more sinister than we intend.
Our children watch, then emulate. When they see and hear us do and say the things we do, what must they think? When we elevate the winning of games to idolatry what is it that we worship?
In 1992, Carolyn and I heard the distinguished historian Arthur Schlesinger speak. I have never forgotten his message, which was essentially the following:
"The virus of tribalism threatens to become the equivalent of the HIV/AIDS virus for the next generation." Sept. 11, 2001 bears witness to the wisdom of his thoughts.
When the tribalism stems from race, ethnicity, religion or nationality, the potential hatred can spawn the horrific and unspeakable. While our sports tribes are clearly more benign, perhaps the perspective gained from our national tragedy can offer wisdom.
Maybe the nightmares have a message for us: "Lighten up. Keep it sane. It really is a game. Don't let your zeal alter your values. The football
huddle is about embracing diversity, about loving one another. College is about education."
The kids are watching. How do you wish them to remember you?
Bill Curry played for 10 years in the NFL and coached in the college ranks for 17 years. He is currently a college football analyst for ESPN.
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