Once I heard the whistle of a train approaching. I dashed onto the platform. Although I knew it would take my family some time to exit the train—being that my parents were up in years and my mother was slowed by health issues—I couldn’t contain my enthusiasm. I stretched my neck with every disembarking passenger. Finally, I spotted my father. I ran to the train to help.
“Dad, grab on to my arm,” I said as I took hold of his cane. He tightly clutched my right arm, and I guided him slowly down the steps. The exit was narrow, so I stepped down in front of him just enough so he could hang on and I could keep him from falling forward. Once we stepped onto the platform, we hugged.
“I’ve missed you, Dad,” I said with my arms around his shoulders. I looked back and saw Bessie Lee leading Mom down the steps, so I handed Dad his cane and ran to them. Bessie Lee held on to Mom’s right arm. I grabbed Mom’s left arm and together we helped keep our mother steady as she exited the train.
By the time we had made our way to retrieve the luggage, Mom was exhausted, although Bessie Lee said Mom had slept most of the eight-hour ride. Mom had trembles, and we’d feared, without confirmation, that she had the kind of illness that had taken her mother’s life many years before. Neither Bessie Lee nor I would utter the name of the illness, but we both knew what each other had been thinking.
I handed my keys to Bessie Lee and told her to take Mom and wait for us in the car.
“Dad will point out the bags to me,” I told her.
Not long after, with the help of a porter, we loaded the luggage into John’s jet-black Packard and climbed in. No one had yet mentioned why they had cut short their south Texas trip, until Mom prompted Bessie Lee to fill me in on their train ride’s most memorable moment.
“So, Bessie Lee, are you going to tell your sister what happened in the dining car this morning?” Mom asked.
Bessie Lee laughed but remained silent.
“Come on,” I said. “What happened in the dining car?”
“Turns out there were several newsmen from south Texas on the train heading up to nose around and cover your game,” Bessie Lee said.
“Seriously?” I asked, stunned that anyone from that far away would care.
“Come to find out they’re traveling up from Corpus Christi, Kingsville, Victoria, and a couple other places. And they happened to be sitting next to us at breakfast. Of course, they didn’t know who we were. Probably hadn’t even noticed us. And then we hear them start talking about the game. They made comments about how hilarious it would be to see a lady football coach. They were laughing and talking about how they felt badly for Coach Black and the Stephenville boys.
“So Mom looks at me and says, ‘Pay them no mind.’ But Dad says, ‘Fannie, Bessie Lee is a grown woman.’ Yeah, I’m grown all right, but I’m thinking that means permission.”
“Oh my,” I said, and laughed in anticipation of where the story might be heading.
“I get up from my seat and walk over to them, and I interrupt the newsmen and introduce myself. Of course, it means nothing to them until I say, ‘I hear y’all have heard of my sister.’ They look at me and one of them says, ‘Excuse me, but who is your sister?’ And I say, ‘Tylene Wilson.’”
“You should have seen their faces!” Dad said. “Would have thought they’d just seen the Four Horsemen.”
“Imagine that, Tylene, I mention your name, and these newsmen think the world is on the brink of the apocalypse. It was hilarious. So I tell them, ‘I think you’re in for a surprise. If I were you, I’d keep my yapper shut until I knew what I was talking about.’”
“The wrath of Bessie Lee!” I said. I laughed, but I felt a slight discomfort in my stomach. Were newsmen really coming in from towns as far as Kingsville? Was this a much bigger deal than I had imagined?
“I think you’re nuts, but honestly, I’m tickled pink,” Bessie Lee said. “How many people can say, ‘My sister is a football coach’?”
“What’s it been like?” Dad asked. He was sitting in the front seat holding a newspaper he had picked up at the station. He had not yet glanced at it, and I was hoping he wouldn’t, at least not until after I had taken him home.
“It’s been fine, Dad,” I said. “A little out of the ordinary.”
“Do they have any idea how lucky they are to have you?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t worry about those things.”
Then I saw my father unfold the newspaper as if opening to the center of a book, and I realized what I did worry about was how my father might react to the news. I could feel a nervous tension overcome me, and in that instant, I was reminded of what set my love of football in motion.
It wasn’t until I was in my twenties that I discovered my own father had known nothing about football until he and my mother discovered my childhood illness and subsequent need for sunshine. Because I was far too young to work the ranch, my father asked the Fort Worth pediatrician for advice on how to best keep a toddler engaged outside.
“If she were a boy, I’d start her on football. It’s never too early to start boys on football in Texas,” my father had told me the doctor said. He also said the doctor told him it would be more difficult to keep a girl in the sunshine because “girls don’t much like to be outside.”
That doctor’s attitude irritated my father. “I wasn’t asking him if you should go twelve rounds with the Galveston Giant,” he said, referring to a budding boxing champion from Texas. “I was asking him how to improve your health. Didn’t seem the right time to make distinctions between boys and girls.”
He also said that the doctor’s distinction between boys and girls made him think of the sons—three delivered stillborn within the twelve years between Bessie Lee and me—he and my mother were still mourning. Had his sons been born with rickets, he told me, “I’d have learned football just to keep them outside, too. Why would it have been different for you? You needed sunshine, and your mother and I needed you.”
It was during that conversation with my father that I also discovered how he had come to learn football. With Enrique Montano, his ranch hand and a godsend, taking care of the farm, my father managed to slip away some fall afternoons to meet with local coaches and to watch practices. Many also shared their plays with my father, giving him sketches of how the plays were drawn up and how they’d be executed. He’d even purchased a book on how to coach football. He was a student of the game in every sense of the word, and he passed all that knowledge on to me.
Then I heard the ruffle of the newspaper, and my stomach suddenly ached. The Bulletin’s sports editor had watched practice from the stands a day earlier, and I’d read his account that morning. But I wasn’t eager for my father to see it, though it was nothing we hadn’t anticipated. From the corner of my eye, I looked on as my father read the headline: “Football or Foolhardy?”
I ARRIVED AT the field house shortly after three o’clock, allowing for the boys to have gathered inside to prep for our first meeting and field-cleaning chores. I was overcome with anticipation, eager to get the field cleared and the boys in practice mode. I burned excess energy by pacing outside the field house entrance, practicing my introductory speech while waiting for the boys to emerge, but I couldn’t help but notice it was eerily quiet. Several minutes later, I knocked on the field house door. No response. I pounded harder to make sure my knock was heard. Again, no response. I pushed the door open a crack and, without looking in, I shouted out to Jimmy. I got no response. The room was just as quiet, so I flung the door open and found the field house empty. At that moment, all the joy and energy was sucked out of me. I hightailed it to my pickup, digging my heels deeper into the gravel with each angry stomp.
Once there, I grabbed my apron, gloves, and gardening shears and marched back to the field. I found a weed patch at the nearside twenty-yard line. I slipped the apron over my head, tied it in back, pulled the bottom over my knees, and then knelt down and began pulling and shearing. I knew we were going to eventually mow the weeds down, but some were so uns
ightly, I just wanted them gone.
Once my emotions settled, I began to wonder if I was wasting my time. If only I had tried even harder to find a man to coach the boys. Had my attempt to help only hurt?
My thoughts were interrupted when I heard the shout of Mac Winslow from the parking lot.
“Why you leaving, Palmer?” Mac shouted. “Going to make your mommy work alone?”
I heard no response from Jimmy.
Leaving? I figured Jimmy must have stood somewhere behind me, had second thoughts, and left. The exchange I overheard only reinforced my fears. If the captain of the football team was not in support of my coaching, who would be? I fought the temptation to turn back and watch Jimmy walk away. Instead, I got back to business. A few minutes later, it was quiet enough for me to discern that the parking lot had emptied and I was free to work without the threat of hecklers or curiosity seekers.
For the next forty-five minutes, I pulled weeds from the roots, laying the long stems flat on the grass until I had enough to load up a wheelbarrow and haul them off to the dirt track. I’d made two trips with the wheelbarrow before I moved on to clear the end-zone rocks that had ricocheted onto the field from the parking lot. I positioned the wheelbarrow near the small rocks and started flinging the stones into the wheelbarrow. The sound of stones tapping against the steel of the hauler cut through the silence, and for a moment I felt like I was not alone.
Turned out, I wasn’t. I began to steer the wheelbarrow up the slight incline to the parking lot. I moved slowly, working at balancing the hauler behind the minimal but added weight of the rocks, when I noticed, off to my right, Jimmy and Bobby Ray approaching. Bobby Ray ran up and took the wheelbarrow from me. Without a word, he pushed it to the parking lot, poured out the rocks, and pushed the wheelbarrow back to the field. I stood and watched, taking a moment of respite. Jimmy had remained a distance away when we made eye contact. He then ran down to the field to join Bobby Ray. Once I made my way to the field, I trekked back to the weeds and returned to pulling and shearing. For the next ninety minutes, Jimmy and Bobby Ray tended to the stones, and I pulled weeds. We didn’t speak until I needed the wheelbarrow to haul off the weeds.
“You think I have enough here to fill that thing up?” I asked the boys. They had just returned from dumping stones in the parking lot, so I knew the hauler was empty. Bobby Ray pushed the hauler to me while Jimmy trailed behind. Again, without speaking, we filled the wheelbarrow with the weeds, and as Bobby Ray pushed it to the dirt track, Jimmy turned to me.
“I should have been here sooner,” he said to me.
“I got the impression you were,” I said.
Jimmy looked at me and his face was flush with embarrassment.
“I need you, Jimmy. You know that.”
“With all due respect, Miss Tylene, this is not an easy sell.”
“I get that. But at the end of the day, you fellas have to ask yourselves: Do you want to play football?”
I paused, trying to read Jimmy’s face. I knew if we ever played poker, this was the face I’d see across the table.
“Will you do me a favor?” I asked. We began walking toward the field house.
Jimmy looked at me, but he didn’t answer.
“During lunch tomorrow, pull the boys together. Ask them to give me one day. I know they won’t buy in just one day into this, but maybe they’ll see something there that will allow them to give me one more day after that. Can you do that . . . for us, Jimmy? We can take it one day at a time.”
“Yes, Miss Tylene. I’ll do that,” he said. “We’ll all be here tomorrow. You got my word.”
I smiled and nodded. The boys then told me there was no reason for me to stay any longer, that they’d clean up and put things away, so I headed for the parking lot. From a slight distance, I noticed a piece of paper shoved beneath my windshield wiper. I grabbed the paper and unfolded the note. It read: You don’t belong here. It was unsigned.
EARLIER THAT AFTERNOON, I was reminded that the preseason regional coaches’ meeting would commence that evening at seven o’clock in the cafeteria at Early High School, just a stone’s throw from Brownwood. I’d known about the meeting for some time, but I had since forgotten. I arrived home and began to whip something up for dinner so as not to be late for the meeting. John arrived home soon after, and we ate quickly. For the first time in years, we had egg salad sandwiches for dinner, but he said he didn’t mind, and I believed him.
While I was washing dishes, John sat at the kitchen table and tried to convince me to let him take me to the meeting. He didn’t want me to be late, and he claimed he could get me there quickly.
“I know a couple shortcuts,” he said.
I appreciated the offer, but I had no idea how long the meeting would last, and I knew John could spend his time more wisely than waiting for me outside a meeting on a hot and muggy Texas September night.
I made it to the meeting just a couple minutes late, but a few coaches were still milling in, registering at the table and picking up their name tags. It was apparent when I reached the front of the line that Mr. Redwine had not informed the regional coaches’ association that I would be the Brownwood High School representative.
“This is a meeting for men only,” I was told by the man at the registration desk. I looked at his name tag: Coach Brian Wilcox, Abilene High.
“I was under the impression that it was for football coaches only,” I said.
“Yes, ma’am. That’s correct.”
“I’ll be coaching Brownwood High this season.” I extended my hand to shake his. “I’m Tylene Wilson.” He shook my hand but tepidly, all the while looking around, his face asking: Is this a joke?
“I assure you, sir. I’m the coach.”
“Who do you open against?” he asked.
“Stephenville.”
At that point, Coach Wilcox signaled to a gentleman standing off to the side, encouraging him to approach. He did, and immediately Coach Wilcox whispered to the gentleman, who then walked away. I was asked to move to the side while the two coaches standing in line behind me registered. A short time later, the gentleman returned with Stephenville’s coach, Rowdy Black.
“Coach,” the gentleman said to Rowdy. “You playing against this lady on Friday night?”
“Brownwood’s on our schedule,” he said. Rowdy looked at me unapprovingly. He shook his head and walked away. At that point, Coach Wilcox issued me my meeting credential, and I joined a roomful of men—must have been at least three dozen in attendance.
I sat near the front, only to hear some salty language between the gentlemen around me. After I sat, they all got up and moved away. By the time regional chairman and San Angelo coach Homer Milson called the meeting to order, I was surrounded by a halo of empty seats. I let it pass. I was too focused on the chairman’s reminders of small rules changes, postgame protocol, and new coach introductions.
“It’s with great pleasure that I introduce three new coaches to our region,” Coach Milson said. “When I call out your name, please make your way up to the podium.”
With the call of each name, the room filled with applause. After the third name was called, all three men stood before the room. I could hear laughter coming from behind me and I figured the coaches were enjoying my public shun. I paid them no mind. I knew I was there for my boys, for the town of Brownwood. What they thought of me was of no concern. At least, not until I was about to leave.
I noticed Rowdy Black standing near the exit, so I stopped to introduce myself and to thank him for vouching for me at the registration table.
“Coach Black, Tylene Wilson,” I said. “I’m looking forward to our game Friday night.”
Imposing, with his face lined with wrinkles—but none shaped by a smile—and what I figured was a six-foot, two-inch frame, Coach Black looked at me and laughed. He turned to walk away, glancing at a coach standing nearby, and with a mouthful of chew said, “Hell no.” Then he spit into the small tin cup he’d been holding o
n to all night.
Chapter 7
Tuesday
John and I awoke to news splashed across the top of the Brownwood Bulletin’s front page.
STEPHENVILLE OFFERS FORFEIT TO BROWNWOOD
Stephenville High School has offered to forfeit its season-opening game at Brownwood rather than have its players compete against a team coached by a lady.
“It’s a joke to have my boys play powder-puff after all the work they’ve put in,” Coach Rowdy Black said. “We’d rather take the loss than have to subject our fans and our team to a circus act. With all due respect to Brownwood [High School]’s principal, Ed Redwine, I can’t even believe he plans on parading a lady coach out there in a dress and heels. That ain’t football, and we’ll have nothing to do with it.”
Apparently, several Brownwood Lions feel the same way. Senior safety Roger Duenkler said he’s all for the forfeit.
“I’d rather win than play,” Duenkler said.
The student body shares that sentiment, as three brothers, known on campus as the Winslow brothers, expressed their embarrassment at the thought of cheering for their school team, coached by a lady.
The paper went on to quote Jimmy Palmer as saying he was willing to do what his teammates preferred.
I put the paper down before finishing the story. I’d had enough. A few minutes later, I jumped in my truck to head for work.
As I began backing out of the driveway, I heard John shouting my name. I looked forward and saw him running from the house, straight toward the truck, waving his arms, signaling for me to halt. I stopped and leaned out the window.
“Bessie Lee just called,” he said. “Your mother fell.”
JOHN JUMPED INTO the truck, and I drove us to my parents’ home. When we arrived, Bessie Lee asked John to wait with Dad in the kitchen. She and I walked back to the bedroom, where Mom was lying on her bed. Mom’s eyes were closed, and she did not acknowledge us.
“She’s asleep, right? Not unconscious?” I asked Bessie Lee.
“She’s asleep. I promise, she didn’t hit her head. Doc O’Hara is on the way.”
When the Men Were Gone Page 9