Fourth and Forever

by Bert Carson

  I looked at Brent and said, “Coach, this might be good place to wrap the first session up.”

  He said, “That feels right to me, Daddy.”

  I turned to the group and said, “Well, we didn’t make it Vietnam, but if this is what you want to hear, be back next Monday and I’ll get you there.”

  No one moved or said anything. Finally, I looked at Wright, “Charles, you called this meeting. Is it what you had in mind?”

  “It’s exactly what I had in mind and I have a hunch that everybody feels the same.” A few “yeses” and other words of agreement came from the group as Wright continued, “Frankly, I don’t want you to stop.” At that, there were many “yeses.”

  Brent stood and said, “I feel the same as Charles, but I also want you young men in bed at a decent hour, however, only after you’ve spent some time studying. So, get on home and I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon at the field house.”

  Inside two minutes everyone was gone except Brent, Bobby and Flexible. Brent hadn’t moved from his spot on the sofa and I was still perched on the stool. Bobby and Flexible were in kitchen searching for food. I didn’t say anything; because I had an idea that Brent wanted to talk. I was right.

  “Daddy, I don’t know where these meetings are going to take us but I think it’s a trip that will benefit everyone, and I’m including myself in that. I’m not a Vietnam veteran. When the war was building up, I was in school so I had an educational deferment. Then in my senior year, I blew out my knee playing football and my draft status became 4F. Two of my friends from high school went to Vietnam and they won’t talk about it, not even to me. My college roommate died there in 1972. In the back of my mind I’ve always had it wired up that I should have gone.”

  He paused and I said, “No, Coach. You shouldn’t have gone. You did exactly what was yours to do. I don’t know how much time I’ll spend talking about the politics of the war, but I’ll tell you this, and you can be sure I’m not pulling any punches, you didn’t miss anything, and if you had gone, it wouldn’t have changed a thing. Trust me.”

  He brightened some and said, “I do trust you, Josh, and I can’t thank you enough for talking about this. I don’t know what it means to anyone else but it sure means a lot to me.”

  **********

  The following evening we made our second trip to the hospital. This time our group had expanded to eight, the maximum size that Mary Lyons had authorized. In addition to Hunk, Coach Jenkins, Patty and myself, there was Bobby, Janet, Denby and Samuelson.

  We stayed with the kids from six until eight, their bedtime. A number of them went to sleep as we read to them. It was amazing how many of them knew us by name. Brent brought a case of team caps and every kid and every nurse got one. Janet said that she would bring a box of real Grizzly pom poms the following week.

  I was sitting in a tiny chair in the playroom, reading to three girls and two boys, all about six years old, when one of the little girls raised her hand. I stopped reading and said, “I’ll bet you have a question.”

  She giggled and said, “That’s right.”

  “Well, before you ask your question will you tell me your name?”

  She looked at her feet, twisted self-consciously and very softly said, “Amanda. My name is Amanda.”

  “What a beautiful name. And what is your question, Amanda.”

  She continued to look at her feet until she remembered her question and her entire demeanor changed. Her head snapped up and she looked right in my eyes and asked, “Mr. Daddy is Flexible really your dog.”

  “Amanda, that’s a good question. I think the right answer is that Flexible belongs to my son, Bobby.”

  “But does he live with you, Mr. Daddy.”

  “He sure does, Amanda.”

  “Well if he lives with you Mr. Daddy, will you bring him to the hospital to see us?”

  Nurse Lyons, who was seated in the circle of children, said “We’ll see about it, Amanda.”

  Instantly all of the kids booed.

  Mary knew why and said. “I don’t mean we’ll see about it and forget it. I mean we’ll really see about it and I’ll let you know what we decide.”

  As we were leaving, Mary stopped me at the nurse’s station. “Josh, I just called the administrator. Apparently he knows Flexible.” She laughed and continued, “I think he is one of Flexible’s fans. He said you could bring him but asked that you use the service elevator.”

  I said, “I can do that.”

  “Oh yes, she said. I almost forgot. He asked that you let Flexible wear his Grizzly sweater.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “I’ll mention that to him, and we’ll see you next Tuesday.”

  Chapter 20

  “Good afternoon, Grizzly fans, and welcome to Reno, Nevada. We are at Mackay Stadium. This is Jim Snow and Charlie Jamerson on the Grizzly Football Network. Today the undefeated University of Montana Grizzlies will face the undefeated Nevada-Reno Wolf Pack. It looks like this will be the Grizzlies first major challenge of the season, and it’s also our first road game. Charlie, how do you see today’s game?”

  “Jim, I talked with Coach Jenkins just before the Grizzlies left Missoula yesterday. He told me the team looked good at practice all week, but he’s concerned that maybe last week’s game has taken some of the edge off. We’ll know in a minute. I see the UM cheerleaders, led by Janet Middleton and the ever-popular Flexible coming out of the tunnel now. The team will be about a minute behind them.”

  “Listen close folks and you’ll hear the UM fans. That’s more Grizzly fans than I’ve seen at a road game in years. And here they come…the University of Montana Grizzlies. Listen to the fans…” The sound of 5,000 visiting fans went out over the radio network until it was drowned out by the sound of the Reno fans as the Wolf Pack ran onto the field.

  ********

  The first quarter was a defensive struggle, most of which took place in the center of the field. We couldn’t get across their thirty-yard line and they couldn’t cross ours. Late in the second quarter, Reno moved down the field in a relentless display of running, and scored just as the first half ended.

  ********

  At halftime Jim said, “I hate to say this, Charlie, but I’m not sure we are up for this game. The offense wasn’t able to move at all in the first half and even the defense seemed flat on that last scoring drive.”

  “You’re right, Jim. I know that Coach Jenkins has to pump some life back into them now or the second half could be a horror story.”

  *******

  The offensive and defensive assistant coaches outlined play adjustments for their respective player as Jimbo and his assistants tended injuries. With ten minutes left in the halftime break, Coach Jenkins moved to the center of the dressing room and held up both hands, without saying a word. Immediately all conversation and movement stopped. He stood there for at least thirty seconds. Then he pointed to his watch and in a voice so soft we had to strain to hear, said, “Right now it is 3:03 and this,” he made a gesture that took in the entire dressing room, “is Reno, Nevada. Our bodies are here, but the rest of our team is somewhere else. I don’t know where, maybe in Missoula playing the PortlandState game again, or maybe it’s still playing Northern Arizona. That doesn’t matter. What matters is, the Grizzlies aren’t here, and they haven’t been here since the game started. I haven’t been here and…” he scanned the room, stopping on Rice, “Tom you haven’t been here,” he shifted his gaze to Wright and said, “Charles you haven’t been here. None of us have been here.”

  He looked at his watch again, and then scanned the room, “The game is half over. In four minutes, that door is going to open and we have to make a choice. The choice is simple. Are we going to be here for the second half?”

  He paused, making eye contact with each one once again. “All week we’ve talked about playing the best that we can play. So far, we haven’t done that because we haven’t been to the game yet. I think it’s time for the Grizzlies show up in Reno. I th
ink it’s time to play football the way we know how to play. What do you think?”

  A resounding “YES” rolled through the locker room.

  Coach Jenkins smiled for the first time since the game began. “Good. When Jimbo opens that door, and we hit the field, we are going to be in Reno for the first time. We’re going to show the Wolf Pack how the Grizzlies play football.”

  As if on cue, Jimbo opened the door and we rushed for it. We ran down the tunnel toward the light of the playing field with shouts of “Yes,” echoing around us.

  ********

  The Sunday issue of The Missoulian, Missoula’s daily newspaper, reported the second half this way:

  A different team took the field for the second half in Reno. From the opening kick of the third quarter, it was obvious that UM was in charge. Their first possession turned into an eighty yard scoring drive that tied the score at 7 all. A different defense faced the Wolf Pack in the second half. They stopped Reno cold on its first possession of the second half. When UM got the ball back, they scored again making the score 14 to 7 less than two minutes into the second half. Reno made some defensive adjustments and held the Grizzlies. However, they couldn’t score, not in the third quarter or the fourth. The final tally was University of Montana 14, Reno 7.”

  Josh Edwards, better known to both teammates and fans as Daddy, had a heck of a game in the second half, as did the entire Grizzly team. It looks like our boys are for real, folks.

  Chapter 21

  We had an easy workout Monday, followed by an hour or so of watching game films of Northern Iowa, next Saturday’s opponent. I could sense a different feel to the team, a feeling of confidence. We knew we could win, regardless of whom or where we played. All we had to do was show up and play our best.

  That night every one that had been at the house a week earlier attended the second session, and they were there on time. There was little horsing around, as they found a place to sit and settled down.

  I sat on the bar stool, surveyed the unusually serious faces and began, “What happened Saturday in Reno is what happened to every man and every woman who served in Vietnam. Every moment of every day in Vietnam, we had to be present, totally present. That’s what we did in the second half against Reno and that’s what every person in Vietnam did every minute. Now, here’s the difference. We didn’t have Coach Jenkins there to tell us to get in the game. We knew we had to it, even though we didn’t know what ‘it’ was. One of the first things that we heard when we arrived in Vietnam was, ‘there are two kind of soldier’s here, the quick and the dead.’ That’s the Army’s version of what Coach Jenkins told us at halftime.” They laughed, and I took a sip of water.

  “Now, just for a minute I want you to remember how you felt in the second half at Reno.” I gave them thirty seconds or so to work on it, and then I asked, “Do you remember?” There were a few affirmative replies but for the most part they just smiled and nodded their heads.

  “Good, now imagine spending twelve months in that state of consciousness without understanding what you were doing. What I mean is, imagine being present day and night for a year. Not just during a game, but every minute of every day for a year. Can you imagine what an amazing experience that would be?”

  I could tell from the looks on their faces that they had an idea what I was talking about. “Now you’re beginning to get an idea of what a tour in Vietnam was like. It was intense, just like the second half of Saturday’s game. But it was more than that, it was magical. It was like nothing we had ever experienced.”

  I let them think about it for a few seconds and asked, “Did you tell anyone about Saturday’s game.”

  Someone on the staircase called out, “I told everyone.”

  We laughed. Looking toward the staircase I asked, “Did you tell people that you were present or that you played great?”

  “I told them I played great.”

  There were a few moans.

  “That’s right. Most people don’t understand being present, so we don’t talk about it, at least not in those terms. Now imagine that you were totally present doing a job that was scary, sometimes horrible, and that you never felt like you won.” I paused letting them think about it.

  “It’s easier to imagine me as a twelve year old, isn’t it?”

  That observation eased the intensity level.

  “That’s the paradox of war. And that’s why I believe that Vietnam vets don’t talk about Vietnam except to other Vietnam vets. On the one hand, it was a time of being totally present, and that’s the most rewarding state of consciousness a person can experience. On the other hand, we were totally present doing a job that scared us, often threatened our life, and one we wished we weren’t doing at all. That’s the paradox that everyone who served in Vietnam lived with and is still living with. They don’t understand it, and they don’t have the words to describe it. And that, in a nutshell, is why they won’t tell you about it.”

  “I learned a lot in Vietnam, and everything I learned has served me well. The most important thing I learned is that most of us are seldom in the moment more than a second or two at a time. In Vietnam, with our lives on the line, we had to be in the moment to live. Flying prompts the same choice. Get in the moment or die. When I was in flight school I realized that being in the moment was a choice, a personal choice. By that I mean, I discovered that I didn’t have to have someone shooting at me to get in the moment. I didn’t have to have the engine go out, or a flight instructors tell me to get in the moment, for it to happen. I could choose to be in the moment, and so can you. That’s what you did Saturday; it’s what each of us did. Think about that and next week we’ll talk about it some more and if you have any questions about what I’ve talked about so far, I’ll answer them then.”

  Everyone began heading for the door. Bobby said, “Daddy, I’m going to take Flex for a walk.” They left, leaving Brent and me alone in the house.

  “Can I get you something to drink, Coach?”

  “A coke would be good,” he said, as we walked into the kitchen.

  I filled the glasses with ice and started pouring the coke when he said, “What you just said explains a lot about Vietnam vets, and it explains a lot about life. Being present is a choice and not one that someone or something outside us dictates. That sure puts a different twist on things.”

  I handed him the coke and said, “Well, don’t start thinking that means we don’t need you to keep us focused.”

  He smiled, “I understand. But I’m beginning to see that the picture is a whole lot bigger than I thought it was.”

  The door opened and we heard Flexible and Bobby come into the house. Bobby called out, “Flex said he didn’t need a long walk.”

  In seconds, Flexible was in the kitchen. He went to his empty food bowl in the corner, picked it up, brought it to me and dropped it at my feet.

  Brent said, “Thanks, Flexible. You made me realize that it’s time for me to go home and eat.”

  I walked him to the door and he said, “Thanks for taking the time to have these sessions, Daddy. I think they’re going to pay off in more ways than we can imagine.”

  *********

  Tuesday morning Patty called Mary Lyons and got permission to add two more to our party of visitors. She told me later that she had been clear the two didn’t include Flexible.

  Ten of us met in the hospital parking lot where we planned Flexible’s entrance for the kids. Janet and Flexible, wearing their team sweaters, and Bobby, stationed themselves at the service elevator. In five minutes, they would make their entrance into the children’s ward.

  The rest of us went to the ward where we found all the kids eagerly waiting. Those who could leave their rooms were assembled in the playroom. We quickly gave out Janet’s box of pom-poms to all the children, both the ones in the playroom and those confined to their beds. I was in the playroom with Amanda, the little girl who had asked me to bring Flexible, when Patty handed the last pom-pom to a young boy sitting on his
mother’s lap just outside the center circle of small chairs. I heard the doors of the service elevator open. Amanda looked wide-eyed at me and with wonder in her voice asked, “Mr. Daddy is Flexible coming now?”

  I couldn’t talk. I just smiled and nodded.

  She clapped her hands and said, “Good.”

  At that moment I heard Janet shout, “Flexible is here. Where is everybody?” In two seconds, she and Flexible ran into the playroom.

  Flexible stopped for a moment, surveyed the room and the children and though it may sound crazy, I knew that he understood who they were and why he was there. Janet unsnapped his leash and Flexible went straight to Amanda, sat down and barked softly. She giggled and tentatively petted his head. Flex wagged his tail, then licked her hand and moved to the little boy sitting beside her.

  We had known since the day Flexible found us that he knew some basic commands like, sit, speak, and stay. He quickly made it clear to us that he only performed those actions when he felt like it. That night at the hospital was different. Whatever a child asked him to do, he did. He barked, rolled over, stood on his hind legs and even jumped. The children, the nurses, and all ten of us were transported to another world by a little dog who loved unconditionally.

  I had been reading to Amanda, the last to nod off, when I heard her breathing change and I knew she too was asleep. I heard a soft snore that I recognized. I stopped reading and saw Flexible asleep under Amanda’s bed.