When the Men Were Gone

by Marjorie Herrera Lewis

“There is no problem. I just don’t want my boys playing against a team coached by a lady. That ain’t football.”

  “So let me see if I’ve got this straight. Twenty-two boys line up. Eleven versus eleven. Toe to toe. They battle each other for four quarters. They hit, they run, they block. And you think a lady standing on the sideline changes all that?”

  “What about the attention?” Coach Black asked. “The place will be a circus. I hear newsmen are coming from San Angelo. Radio fellas, too.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I asked. “If your team’s so good, you’ll get an opportunity to showcase it to the whole state.”

  “It’s nothing special when the game’s a-whoopin’,” he said.

  “We’ll go easy on you.”

  That time, Coach Black did not laugh.

  “I know you’ve got a speedy halfback, and most of your defense returned from last season,” I continued. “We’ll be ready. I don’t want to give away my game plan, but if your line splits are too wide, your big boys better have quick feet, because we’re stunting. We run a triple option, too, so we’ve been practicing against your offense every day, and I’d put my twenty-two against anyone in the state. I guarantee, by the time the game gets under way, even you will forget about the lady on the opposite sideline.”

  I could tell I’d hit a nerve. Coach Black’s eyebrows shot up.

  “I need to think about this,” he said.

  “I’ll be in the office tomorrow morning by seven thirty. Call me at home before I leave.”

  I had grabbed my purse and stood up when Coach Black said, “We’ll play. Most dang fool thing I’ll ever do, but we could use the practice to prepare for Midland in two weeks.”

  I extended my hand. “In Texas, as you well know, a handshake is as good as your word.” We shook hands, and I set out on my sixty-mile trek back to Brownwood, straight to the hospital to stay the night with my mother. I drove through a countryside permeated by the smell of longhorns, smiling over a trip gone well.

  Chapter 8

  Wednesday

  After a restless night, I woke up in the hospital chair beside my mother’s bed. I was stiff and a little slow to my feet. It was nearly six o’clock, and I had to get home to clean up, get ready for work, and get John’s breakfast on the table. I kissed my mother, told her she had a great night, and reminded her that I’d be back around lunchtime.

  A couple hours later, I was sitting in my office when I heard a knock on my open door.

  I looked up to see my lifelong friend Alex Munroe dressed in a spiffy coat and tie, the first time in years I had seen him in something other than black slacks and a black-and-white-striped shirt.

  “Seems to me this is highly unorthodox.” I gestured for him to have a seat.

  “So you know I’ll be officiating your game Friday night,” he said.

  “I’ve heard. I haven’t seen you since Daniel Baker College played at Howard Payne last season. How long has it been since you officiated a high school game?”

  “I never have.”

  “This whole thing is new to me, but I can’t say a ref visiting a coach must be common. What brings you here?”

  “Look, Tylene, I’ve been put in an awkward position. The district asked me to handle this game because of my experience. They’re worried it might get out of hand.”

  “Any game can get out of hand at any time. Be frank with me, Alex.”

  He hesitated.

  “What is it?” I asked again.

  “No high school refs would take on the game.”

  “Let me see here. The whole state of Texas, and they can’t find a single crew to work our game? I didn’t realize there were so many yellowbellies.”

  “It’s not that, Tylene. It’s just not a good career move, if you know what I mean.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “I want to know one thing.” He paused as if to gather his thoughts, to decide how to most diplomatically ask me his question. “Can you coach?”

  Can I coach?

  “I should be accustomed to this question, but you know what? I’m pretty tired and insulted by it. And I had expected more from you. You know me, Alex. You know my story.”

  “I don’t mean to be disparaging. I just want to know how to prepare my crew. I have a responsibility to my men, too. And if your boys aren’t well coached, there could be so many dang penalties, the game will last all night. I just need to know what to expect.”

  I stood up, signaling the end of the visit.

  “Expect a high school football game,” I said. I extended my hand. “Give my best to Judith,” I added as Alex walked from my office. I had remained cordial, but I was seething and wanted nothing more than a little time to myself.

  I closed my office door. Once I sat down, I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. In that moment, I was surprisingly relaxed, and I felt as if I could easily doze off, but I was startled when just minutes later, I heard a knock at my door. I was too relaxed to get up, so I shouted, “Come in!”

  It was Mavis, and I hadn’t seen her—not even walking the school’s halls—since we were sitting awkwardly and silently side by side in church.

  “I’m so sorry about Vern,” Mavis said before she had crossed the door’s threshold. “I specifically asked him not to bring it up, but he never listens to me.”

  “Mavis, I’m not worried about Vern.”

  “I hope you know I don’t see things the way he does,” Mavis said once she sat in the guest chair across from my desk.

  “I just don’t get it. After all you two have been through, he still sees it this way?” I asked.

  “When we got that call—Vern’s just never been the same, Tylene. Nothing is ever good enough. Nothing is ever simply right.”

  For the first time in the nearly three years since Vern and Mavis lost their son during the attack on Pearl Harbor, I saw a depth of pain in Mavis’s eyes I had not seen since the day she got the news. I could almost touch the hurt, as fresh as it was when the soldiers bearing the horrific news left Mavis and Vern’s home. Emotions she had hidden so well were raw, and I wondered how she had managed to cope with a husband who had become an angry, isolated man.

  “Tylene, I believe in what you’re doing. A lot of women in town do, too, but we just can’t say it publicly.”

  “I get it. I understand, Mavis.”

  Then I asked her if she’d like to watch football practice after school.

  She hesitated.

  “I can do that,” she said. “Yes, I can do that. I think it’s time. I know Jack would want me back. So, yes, Tylene. I’ll be there.”

  THAT AFTERNOON, I was standing near midfield when the boys emerged from the field house and began to loosen up by jogging around the track. I watched them as they ran in a cluster, and as they rounded the home-side stands, I caught a glimpse of Mavis climbing the bleachers. When the boys rounded a second time and I had swiveled to keep an eye on them, I spotted Mavis sitting about six or seven rows up. I smiled, but I knew she was too far away to see it.

  It was the first time I had seen Mavis sitting in the stands since Jack’s last home game. I remember it vividly. Jack was smothering on defense that night against San Angelo. A middle linebacker, he must have accounted for upward of a dozen solo tackles and a dozen more assisted. He had San Angelo’s running game so disrupted, the team started to pass in desperation. Problem was, the quarterback wasn’t a passer, and Brownwood ended up with a lopsided victory. The final score escaped me.

  Jack was the kind of player who couldn’t catch up to anyone in the open field, but if he caught someone at or near the line of scrimmage—look out. He was small—maybe five feet, nine inches tall—but awfully strong. His senior season had been shaping up to be his best, but with three games to go, he separated his shoulder during a game at Post. Jack’s injury did not require surgery, just a couple months’ rest. The youngest of four children and the only boy, Jack never played football ag
ain. He graduated in 1941 and joined the navy not a week later.

  “Speed it up, fellas!” I shouted to the team. The cluster began to move at a brisker pace, and the larger players dropped behind the pack. I was startled when I heard Mavis shout, “Move!” Her shout was in the direction of the linemen, lagging a good twenty yards behind. I figured Mavis had just been swept away with enthusiasm, but she kept shouting. Louder and louder.

  “Don’t get left behind!” she shouted. “Move it!”

  At that point, I realized I had misinterpreted her enthusiasm. Mavis was angry and the anger intensified with each shout. I was confounded and uncertain how to respond, witnessing a side of Mavis I had never before seen. The boys appeared just as stunned. They had all stopped running. I could sense their eyes on me as I dashed up the stands to Mavis’s side. I noticed she was sweating profusely, more than would even be expected under the humidity and direct sunlight of the ninety-degree central Texas afternoon. It was as if she hadn’t seen me, even though I was at her side with my left hand resting on her right shoulder. She continued to look straight ahead.

  “What are you stopping for?” she shouted to the boys. “Run!”

  I put my arm around her shoulders, and she finally turned to me.

  “I don’t want to stop screaming,” Mavis said to me between gritted teeth. “I don’t want to be composed anymore. I’m sick of being composed. Ever since Jack died, Vern has shut me out. I’ve catered to all of his needs, but not once has he asked me about mine.”

  Tears began to stream down her face. Mavis pulled a handkerchief from her purse.

  “I miss Jack,” she whispered, her head down yet leaning toward my shoulder. I rubbed her back and said nothing. Together we walked down the stands and onto the track. Once we stopped, she dabbed her eyes and repeated, “I miss Jack. I miss Jack so much.

  “I’m angry with Vern,” she continued. “I’m angry that he’s shut me out, and I’m angry that he’s doing it to you and John now, too.

  “Look at those boys,” she said, pointing at the boys, who had resumed running. “They’re boys, for goodness’ sake! It’s not their time, and it seems like only you know that.” Her voice again began to amplify. “What’s wrong with these people, Tylene? How can they be so narrow-minded? It’s not just football—it’s life! My Jack is gone. I’ll never get him back. But these boys, Tylene, it’s just not their time.”

  “Mavis, not all these boys get it, either,” I said. “I passed two of them—both seniors—in the hallway this afternoon, both former middle-school students of mine, only the three of us in sight, and they pretended not to know me.”

  Mavis put her arms around me. “You need to do this, Tylene,” she whispered. Then she left.

  Just minutes later, I was shouting at the cornerbacks.

  “Stay low!”

  “Your sets are too high!”

  “Keep your body square!”

  “Don’t open your hips!”

  “Keep your feet calm!”

  “Be patient at the line of scrimmage! Don’t give away any advantage we’re trying to create! But get those hands ready to react quickly!”

  My plan was to force Stephenville to throw as much as possible. We had to keep the ball out of the hands of their speedy running back, so our corners had to be ready.

  I spent the next several minutes instructing the cornerbacks, having them take as many repetitions as time would allow.

  “Once the ball is snapped, your hands come up,” I said. “Using the proper hand, jam the receiver and disrupt his timing. You’ve got to make him run laterally. Align outside the shade of the receiver and funnel him inside.”

  I’m not sure if Mavis’s behavior stunned the boys into focus or if they just had a shift in attitude with the game approaching. In any case, it was a spirited and productive practice.

  Afterward, I stopped by the hospital only to discover that my mother had been discharged, so I headed for my folks’ house.

  “I see you were sprung early,” I said to my mother, who was sitting on the living room sofa.

  “I’m feeling so much better now, Tylene,” she said. “I’m so tired of being in a bed, I just might stay out here on the sofa all night!”

  She laughed. It was so good to hear her laugh. Dad was standing nearby, and I looked up at him. He smiled and nodded his head as if to tell me, Yes, Mom’s doing well.

  I then joined Bessie Lee in the kitchen to help her prepare supper.

  “The doctor said she responded well to the treatments,” Bessie Lee said. “At this point, it’s just a matter of balance—rest, activity, rest. We’ll just have to keep an eye on her.”

  “She seems remarkably pleasant for what she’s just been through,” I said.

  “I thought so, too. And Dad’s been Dad. Never a moment’s rest.”

  We both agreed that that was a good sign. Soon after, I headed home to prepare supper for John and myself. I was exhausted. I had not slept well the night before, and the afternoon was especially hot. The sun’s rays had beaten down on all of us like fire batons. Yawning as I peered into the oven, I was suddenly startled when the telephone rang.

  “Miss Tylene?” the caller asked.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m calling from KDUX radio in Dallas, and I have a few questions for you. You weren’t sitting down to supper, were you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was fixin’ to. It’s on the stove, so if I can be of help, I’ve got just a few minutes.”

  We talked briefly, but I cut the interview short, promising that if the reporter called me during my lunch break at school the next day, I’d give him more time. We hung up, and not a minute passed before the phone rang again. A reporter from San Antonio, requesting another brief interview.

  “Maybe we ought to keep the phone off the hook for a spell,” John said.

  “I would if not for the boys. Never know when they might need me for something.”

  And yet again, the phone rang.

  “Good grief,” John said as I answered.

  “Miss Tylene.” It was Moose on the line. “They’re serious this time.”

  “Stephenville?”

  “No. I heard last Monday, shortly after you called your first practice, that the board had scheduled a secret meeting at the school tonight to officially cancel the season. I didn’t say anything to you, because I was hoping they wouldn’t go through with it. Got wind today that it’s still on.”

  After we hung up, I sat down at the kitchen table with John and told him what I’d just heard.

  “Moose said he had a plan, but he didn’t fill me in about it,” I told John. We then agreed on what we needed to do: attend the meeting. I turned off the stove, pulled off my apron, and grabbed my purse.

  When we arrived at the school, we were surprised to see not only a packed parking lot, but Moose, standing among the sea of trucks and cars. Although he had said he preferred that I not attend, I knew he had been waiting for us to arrive. I could tell he had more to say.

  “Let me have it,” I said as John and I approached Moose.

  “It’s Jimmy,” Moose said. “I’m not sure he’s on board with you as coach. At least, I have reason to believe that he’s not.”

  Taken aback, John asked, “What gives you that impression?”

  “Yesterday morning I overheard a conversation between Jimmy and Bobby Ray. When Jimmy realized I’d heard him, he called me over, handed me a letter he’d gotten from Stanley. I still got it.”

  Moose pulled the letter from his pocket and handed it to me.

  Hey kid,

  They say I might make it home for a game or two, if you have a season, that is. I understand what you mean about a lady coach. I’d feel the same way if I was in your shoes. But I only got one shoe now. When my leg got blowed off, I grew a brain. You want to play, you got someone who wants to coach you. What’s the problem?

  So she wears a dress. She knows the game, and she can kick ass. I’d give anything to be in you
r shoes. Both of them.

  Take care of Ma.

  Love ya, kid,

  Stanley

  “Sounded like Jimmy needed convincing, and I wasn’t sure if it worked, so I dug a little deeper,” Moose said.

  I stared at the letter. It gave me a greater understanding of the depth of Jimmy’s conflict. I didn’t ask Moose what he meant by digging a little deeper. I just said, “Let’s go inside.”

  Moose said he’d be in shortly. He was finishing a Lucky Strike and also wanted to visit the men’s room.

  John took my hand. As we began walking toward the auditorium, we saw a flash of light and heard the poof of a camera’s bulb. We turned in the direction of the sound and were blinded by the flash of yet another photo being taken.

  “This way, fellas!” someone shouted from among the cars in the parking lot. “It’s the Tylene lady!”

  Upon hearing this, I leaned into John. He put his arm around my shoulders, I tucked my head against his chest, and we increased the pace of our walk.

  “Feels like an ambush,” I said.

  “Just keep walking,” John said.

  As we entered the auditorium, I was stunned by the size of the crowd. The auditorium was full—parents, grandparents, teachers, administrators, graduates, local supporters of the school and of the football team.

  “How badly do they want me out?” I whispered to John. “All these people knew about the meeting, and word never made its way to me.”

  John and I slipped into seats in the back of the room. Mr. Redwine was sitting in the last row, about a dozen seats over from us. I wondered why he had distanced himself from the board. Making eye contact, Mr. Redwine nodded at me. I nodded back.

  The room had a capacity of five hundred. The board was made up of twelve members—all men—who would later say they had anticipated a quiet vote. They sat at tables they had carried in from a small room adjacent to the auditorium. The meeting was called to order.

  “We’re here only to vote on the cancellation of the football season,” said Buck Taylor, the school board president. “There will be no input from the crowd. Frankly, I’m not sure how the word got out or why y’all are here, but we’re moving ahead. Voting only.”