Remember this Titan (14 page)

It was December 11, 1971, and Gerry Bertier was on top of the world. The high school
heartthrob and hometown hero had just been called the best defensive player in the
country. Two hundred schools waited to offer him a scholarship. He was a unanimous
All-Metro linebacker and was receiving the
Titans Most Valuable Player award. I was his coach and had the honor of presenting
him his trophy.

The audience rose in a standing ovation. As I handed it to him I was surprised by
the look on his face. On a night that should have been filled with happiness there
was sadness in his eyes. His comment to me was, “Coach, I feel like it’s all over.”
Five hours later Gerry lay crushed in the front seat of his 1969 Camaro after it slammed
into a tree a mile from his home. When the doctors finished putting the pieces back
together the prognosis was unanimous. Gerry had a 5 percent chance of living. A few
weeks later Bertier was alive and getting stronger. The prognosis was unanimous. It
would take two years in the hospital before he would be well enough to leave. Six
months later he was out. They were right about his never walking again.

In an instant his life had been turned upside down. In the hospital Bertier was given
an almost lethal dose of negativity. It was the best thing that could have happened.
Gerry was stubborn and he loved proving people wrong. He viewed bad news as a challenge.
That’s what allowed him to make a remarkable recovery.

But once he got out and realized the struggle that comes with being paralyzed he began
to have doubts. A short time later he came to see me. Tears flooded his eyes. I tried
to hold mine back. He told me he was going to commit suicide. When I heard the word
I became enraged. “Gerry,” I yelled, “You were a great football player. You were a
great athlete. And you were great not because you had the most talent. You were great
because of what was in here.” I
touched my heart. “And here.” I touched his temple. “It was your perseverance, your
competitiveness, your never-give-up attitude that made you a champion. What happened
to that? Was that killed in the accident?”

He said nothing. I continued, “You’re letting what you can’t do stop you from doing
what you can do.” He asked for an explanation. I told him about the Wheelchair Olympics.
When I saw a spark in his eyes I knew the pilot light had ignited a flame.

He laughed as he stated he’d have to give up the high jump but then asked if I would
coach him in the shot, discus, and javelin. I didn’t know my answer would connect
us for the rest of his life. I had always accepted my responsibility as his coach
and I would again. It would just be on a different playing field.

I’m no different than anyone else when it comes to being clueless. I’d never spent
any real time with someone who was handicapped and certainly not at Gerry’s level.
Nothing worked from the nipples on down. I had suffered with Gerry after the accident
as he tried to cope with his new circumstances. I was there to give him a shoulder
if he needed it. I attempted to provide some encouraging words. But I never understood
what he had to go through until I made that commitment.

Gerry taught me everything I knew about working with a disabled person. It wasn’t
an easy education. Gerry was known to speak his mind. In the politically correct world
we now live in, he would have been a pariah. If a thought found its way into his brain
it wasn’t long before it cascaded off his
tongue. He never ever attempted to sugar coat anything. He was after everybody all
the time but only if there was a reason. On occasion he put the “attack mode” part
of his personality in neutral and became a reasonable guy.

That happened early on in our quest to win him a medal. It was the first day that
we were going to practice throwing the discus. Bertier had worked out in the weight
room exhaustively to build his shoulder and arm strength. He was in terrific condition.
Remarkably, in that he had no stomach muscles to help him leverage the weights.

Much of what he accomplished was through sheer willpower. He took that same willpower
to the practice field. I had positioned myself in front of him and awaited the discus
throw. Looking at him you could see the intensity on his face. The frown turned into
a grimace and then a maniacal sneer. His shoulders began to rotate as he lifted the
saucer into position.

I figured I’d give him some words of encouragement but before I had gotten them out
the discus was on its way. What we hadn’t factored in was the momentum that allowed
the discus to fly also threw his wheelchair over. He landed on his face. I ran over
to pick him up and expected a tongue-lashing. With a smile he just said, “Coach, I
think you need to hold the chair.” From that day on I did. We had great times. Like
all competitive people he wanted to win. Frequently he would challenge me. I would
climb in his chair and take him on. I always lost, even with stomach muscles.

At the end of practice he would drag himself into his gadget filled car. He’d roll
down the window and give me a
big grin. “Thanks coach,” he’d shout. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I can’t remember ever
looking at him drive away and not feel sad about what had happened.

Bertier could be funny. Gerry never lacked for companionship before or after the accident.
His personality was so strong people were attracted to it like a magnet. Many of them
seemed to be beautiful. One day Gerry informed me an assistant was coming to help
us keep track of his javelin throws. Momentarily, a beautiful blond appeared. We had
a tape measure laid out and I told her where to stand. After each throw she would
read us the number. Gerry started throwing and she began calling out numbers. I knew
they were wrong. I asked Bertier where he had gotten her because she couldn’t count.
He said he couldn’t care less if she could count. He then informed her that I was
the math teacher and if it upset me that much, when we finished maybe I should give
her a class.

Bertier was an opportunist. At a rally honoring the Titans shortly after the movie
came out, I noticed three beautiful women wearing number 42. I went up to talk to
one after the ceremony. She told me that Gerry had given her the jersey because she
was special. I hoped the other two women left before she found out she wasn’t quite
as special as she thought.

Above all else Bertier was committed. Until Gerry’s accident and my involvement in
the aftermath, I never appreciated what many disabled people go through just to live
a tolerable life. I never thought about what it would be like to relieve yourself
in a sack, take a bath, get dressed, prepare a meal, get around, do a job, find a
lover, or have a family.
These thoughts escaped me and I know I am not alone. If you are not disabled you seldom
think, “there I go were it not for the grace of God.” Thank heaven there are people
like Gerry Bertier with a broader perspective.

Gerry was outraged at the lack of consideration for handicapped people in Alexandria.
Some have suggested his interest in helping them was self-serving. I can tell you
they’re wrong. Bertier’s wheelchair had become an extension of himself. On a dance
floor he could make John Travolta envious. He could do the Twist, Mashed Potato, the
Jerk, and all at the same time. Getting around town he could hop up stairs like a
kangaroo. No, his interest in bringing help to the disabled in Alexandria transcended
nothing beyond doing something right for people in need. Bertier approached that challenge
with the same determination that he showed in everything else. He was smart enough
to know he needed help and he recruited State Representative David Speck. He took
Speck on a tour of the city and showed just how tough it was to get from here to there
if you were Gerry Bertier. He didn’t let the issue drop. A few years later every restaurant
and government office building in Alexandria had handicapped access. The Virginia
General Assembly passed a resolution honoring his achievements. As it was read, the
entire delegation rose in unison for a standing ovation. No one spoke but everyone
knew that they were honoring greatness that ended too soon.

I could go on for a long time telling you stories about Gerry Bertier but I figure
you have the picture. People like Gerry are that way because the flame in them burns
a little hotter
than most of us. And because it does, they find it impossible to live anywhere but
on the edge. If they are not walking the wire they feel as if they are missing something.
Gerry, more than anyone I had ever met, lived life like there was no tomorrow. On
March 10, 1981, at the age of twenty-nine there was no tomorrow. He died in Charlottesville,
Virginia, after a head-on collision with a drunken driver.

No, I never had son but I had the next best thing.

Nineteen seventy-one was the worst year of my life. Surprising in that the Titans
had won the title. More surprising was that Herman and I had survived each other.
We weren’t hanging around together and on Valentine’s Day he never sent a card. But
we had achieved what we set out to accomplish and in the process had developed a mutual
respect.

No, the bad year had nothing to do with coaching. Whoever said misfortune comes in
a three-pack knew what they were talking about. It started with Gerry Bertier’s accident
and then was quickly followed by my discovering Bonnie was an addict. The slide into
the abyss had started years before.

It was around the time I caught her playing hooky. It turns out that she was burning
incense for a reason. I guess she figured even her clueless dad knew the smell of
marijuana. I knew something wasn’t right. My gut told me to give her the third degree
but I’d gotten tired of locking horns with my teenager. I’d been worn down from years
of
battles and I’d become a little apathetic. I was wishing and hoping she would just
grow up. I guess I forgot I was supposed to participate in the process.

And there lies the fault. My entire coaching career I had confronted transgression.
I knew if you let deviant behavior continue it only got worse. I knew this and yet
on that day a few years earlier, I ignored the obvious and listened to the vanilla
bars that called my name.

I’ve paid a heavy price for that sweet tooth. Smoking a little weed turned into reefer
madness. That allowed the drug demon to search for other highs. Bonnie found pills
and a variety of other narcotics.

The conflicts began. The Yoast house became a war zone. Every night that Bonnie appeared
was a battle. There were lots of nights we thought she might be dead. The lying and
the stealing escalated. Now that I knew there was a problem, I was engaged and that
resulted in an endless series of confrontations.

On one occasion Bonnie told me drugs elevated her self-esteem. I countered that drugs
were stepladders for fools. She said they made her happy. I told her they would kill
her.

One night she came home and told us she had a new boyfriend. She said he was the son
of an admiral. We were excited. I knew if you hung around with the right people you
would adopt their behavior. What I didn’t know was that Frank was a Vietnam vet and
an addict. His addictions became her addictions. Things got worse. Nights gone became
nights in jail.

Through all of it Betty hung in there. I blessed the day I met her. I thanked God
that she was my wife. I also knew
that she deserved better. My daughters deserved better. I made the decision to move
out. I anguished at the thought but I could see no other solution. If Bonnie was going
to destroy herself she would to do it somewhere else. Bonnie and I moved into a small
apartment. I remember the night that Sheryl called and asked when I’d be coming home.
I wept because I knew the answer.

The torment continued. Tough love became the directive. The admiral’s son became a
son-in-law. Their addictions consumed them. One night, a few years later she arrived
on my doorstep. He was abusing her. I told her to spend the night. She said she couldn’t.

A couple hours later she left. A few hours after that her neighbor heard a gunshot.
At 4:00 a.m., the son of the admiral put a bullet through his brain. I got a call
from the police. My heart sunk as I thought about Bonnie. Had he killed her too? I
was relieved to find out she had spent the night at a friend’s house.

Frank died but Bonnie’s addictions soared. She’d been hanging with a rough crowd and
they were happy to have her swimming in their cesspool. It went on for years. Bonnie
got pregnant. Who knows what will turn someone around. The responsibility that comes
with being a mother did it for Bonnie. She got off drugs. Over the years we revived
our relationship. She would bring her daughters over to Bethany Beach and we would
have wonderful times. On November 12, 2003, Bonnie died at the age of 52.

The damage done by years of heroin use had destroyed her liver and taken her life.

There is nothing positive about what happened to Bonnie but some good did come out
of it. One night after a drug fest in San Diego, Bonnie found herself in jail. I didn’t
know what to do. My sister suggested that I call my dad who lived in San Diego. She’d
stayed in touch. She gave me his number. I hadn’t talked to him in forty-five years.
My mom had told me he was a bum and my perceptions were a result of her input. What
did I know? He had deserted us when I was eight.

Circumstance is a powerful motivator. I got a hold of him and laid out what happened.
He said he was on it. He went down to the jail and raised hell. He told the sheriff
that his granddaughter wasn’t like the hippies that she was with and he believed it
was a frame job. Elihu Vaughn Yoast pounded his fist and woke the station. He was
just a little guy but he had a bark. He didn’t want to sue. He said he’d take Bonnie
and get her out of the state. They let her go with the provision she would never return.

That was the start of my dad and me renewing our relationship. It turned out that
he was a respected citizen. He was a responsible member of the community. One day
when the family was together my daughter asked him if he would like a cup of coffee.
When she handed it to him, he handed it back. He politely told her he never drank
coffee out of anything but a white paper cup. I don’t drink coffee out of anything
but a white paper cup. I guess he was my dad and I know Bonnie would be happy that
we found each other again.