I would have been more concerned but I had been dealing with racial issues all my life. I’d gotten pretty skilled at getting people together. I was ready. One morning the phone rang. “Bill,” the caller said. “It’s yours.” I was thrilled. Another dream had been realized.
Shortly thereafter a number of catastrophic racial events took place. Some were local and others were far away. It didn’t matter. When you have too many cooks, cooking a plan, things can happen. A few days later I got another call. The voice was a friend. He hemmed and hawed, took me in circles and then apologized and then took me in some more circles and then apologized again. I asked, “Do you have something to tell me?” “Bill,” the caller said “you’ve been replaced by another.” Already? I thought. The season hadn’t started. Practice was a week away. I was o for o and getting the boot. “It’s only temporary,” he added. “Don’t worry Bill, you’ll get it back.” At the time I didn’t know what that meant. I asked who the new coach was. He told me. “He’s the guy from North Carolina. He’s got a good record. He’s also black, Bill, and that might be helpful for the situation.”
Black, white, pink, or green I didn’t give a hoot. All I knew was a guy named H-E-R-M-A-N was taking my job.
A few years later, a reporter asked me how it felt to have the brass ring in my hand and then have it taken away. I thought about the question. I decided I would use a fishing analogy. “It’s like pulling in a fifty pound salmon after a two-hour fight. You get it to the bank. You picture it on the grill and taste it in your mouth. All of a sudden . . . it’s gone.” His face remained blank. So I continued, “as you stumble back to camp, you get mugged, tarred and feathered, tied to a cactus, and flogged.” I detected a tear in his eye. He was feeling my pain. I went for the dunk. “And then I got to go home and tell my daughters their Head Coach Dad had been demoted from a tuba to a second fiddle.
Did that decision by the school board hurt? You bet. And disappointment that great can make you want to blame. I thought I had the right. Over the next few weeks I watched the images of the hatred that was tearing America apart. At some point it dawned on me. Bill Yoast was a minnow in a big sea. What I wanted was irrelevant. It didn’t matter. On the world stage far greater people had been treated worse. Maybe the board was right. The answer to our city’s problem was a guy named Boone.
I had a number of perceptions about the man who was going to replace me. Most of it came from the grapevine. Detractors said one thing and supporters said another. The air was filled with lies. I heard Herman got results with a gun. They said he was mean and nasty. Wore spurs. Carried a blade. It got worse. They said his teeth were false.
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.
BLACK IS BEAUTIFUL
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.
HERE’S THE SCOOP
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 gr
eater grasp of what the man sitting across from me was thinking.
SOME FACTS
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 happ
en. A few days later it did.
Hatred is ubiquitous and it’s not about hugs and kisses. Three troublemakers decided they could build a reputation by taking Bertier out. One afternoon as Gerry crossed the school parking lot he was jumped. I’m not sure what they were thinking but they greatly underestimated their prey. Within moments Bertier had pounded them into submission. As he was wiping their jive off his knuckles, Julius Campbell stumbled upon the scene. Julius knew the guys were bad dudes. He was impressed. He might not like Bertier but he had to respect his punching power.
The next day Julius arrived at practice and announced he had a story to tell. The team assembled around him. This story was about Superman. As he said the word, he pointed to Bertier. At least fifty-eight eyes turned in Bertier’s direction.
One act by one man had changed a perception. He might not be black but he was okay. The team had found its leader and he was no rhinestone cowboy. The logic followed. With Superman at the helm, the Titans had a future.
They were right. We went undefeated and won the state championship. We not only took home the trophy, we dominated virtually every team we played. Seven of the ten regular season games were shutouts. Our competition averaged 113 yards per game during the season.
The Titans averaged 319. We scored 266 points to our competitor’s 31. In the playoffs we scored 91 points to the competition’s 14. Our excellence was underscored in the State Championship game against Andrew Lewis High School. They didn’t score and their offense was held to minus five yards.
Remember this Titan Page 5