Remember this Titan (15 page)

The journey is a see-saw. It’s up and
down. It ebbs and flows. For every high there is a low and every dark cloud is followed
by a ray of sunshine. This particular Ray was a black coach named Leathers.

While in the hospital I met his family. He had just received a kidney and pancreas
transplant. He recovered from the operation but was having a hard time recovering
from the bills that followed. Pat Lovell, the head of transplants at Duke University,
called me and asked if I could help in any way. I said sure. The Titans were still
in the news so I figured maybe a fundraiser would work. I grabbed a bunch of Titans
and headed south. We paid our own expenses. We figured that was the least we could
do for a guy who was recovering in the land of Boone. The silent auction was a hit
and Ray’s bills were paid.

The date was May 4, 1996, and for me it was an evil day. I hate that day and always
will. I despise that day because on that day fate punched a hole in my heart. I knew
I would never be the same and I’m not. I never will be.

Death is not an easy thing to accept. When it comes to someone you cherish, and so
unexpectedly, it can kill your desire to live.

Just two weeks earlier Sheryl had shown up at my house with her son. She had left
her five month old with her husband, Marc. She told me she just wanted to spend some
time. That was her way. You never knew what Sheryl might do. Right from the beginning
she was the most upbeat kid around. Everyone knew that when Sheryl arrived the happy
times would too.

That day was no different. We decided to play a little golf. After eight holes, my
grandson Grayson determined he’d had enough. He wanted to go home and selected his
mom to be the horse. I protested but Sheryl overrode my decision. She carried Grayson
back. I could see by the time
we’d arrived she was exhausted. Sitting in the great room she said she felt tired
all the time. I figured, like a lot of moms, she was doing too much.

A week later I got a call from Marc. I knew something was wrong because good news
seldom comes early. In an instant I was awake. Marc told me Sheryl had just been taken
to the hospital. She wasn’t breathing. My mind recoiled. I collapsed into a chair.
As I sat there, tears flooded my eyes. I could feel my life being sucked out of me
one breath at a time. I had to do something but I didn’t know what. I got in my car
and headed to the hospital. I don’t remember anything about that drive. Everything
was a blur.

When I arrived, the doctor told me Sheryl was on life support. The look on his face
told me her life was over. I couldn’t understand it, she had never been sick. It turned
out she wasn’t. A valve in her heart had collapsed. No history, just a freak accident.
I had to see her.

For the next six nights I stayed on a cot near Sheryl’s bed. I didn’t sleep. At night
I walked the halls like a zombie. I was in so much pain. I’d sit by her and look at
her face for hours. I’d caress her hand. I’d put it to my lips. God, I was in pain.
I was teleported to other places and the memories exploded. I remembered my little
girl and the Titans. I could hear her voice shouting for victory. I remembered walks
on the beach and days in the park. I remembered wrestling around and throwing the
ball. I remembered her senior year when her classmates thanked her for being Sheryl
by voting her Homecoming Queen. I had been on football fields all my life but I had
never been as proud as the night I watched her crowned.

I remembered our trips to the Kentucky Derby and the one when I talked Sheryl out
of placing a large bet on Strike The Gold. He won but she never held it against me.
There were so many things to remember. I remembered every moment in Sheryl’s presence
I was taken to a better place.

The emptiness I was feeling made me sick. I cried and cried and cried some more. I
asked myself a thousand times why it happened. I knew the answer. It was time for
Sheryl to go. She died that day.

As the funeral procession rode down King Street we passed T.C. Williams. I looked
at the stadium stands and I could faintly see the image of a little girl looking back.
I knew it was my Sheryl because she had a smile on her face. I wept. An hour later
I had buried my pal, my buddy, my love, and my best friend. It was Derby Day.

When you experience such grief, your energy and enthusiasm are destroyed. I decided
it was time for me to quit coaching. I spent a year walking the beach in search of
answers. I was alone most of the time. My despair was profound. I couldn’t shake it.
Depression is an awful thing because no matter how much your mind tells you there
are others things worth living for, your heart doesn’t care.

One day I picked up the phone and the voice at the other end identified himself as
Gregory Allen Howard, a screenwriter. The former Titans were in town to celebrate
a twenty-five-year reunion. The papers were filled with stories
and that generated chatter. As Greg told me, he had stumbled into a barbershop to
get a clip. The room was filled with conversation. A man was talking about the 1971
Titans. He mentioned it was the team that Richard Nixon said helped save a city. Now
the difference between people that read the news and those that make it often lies
in their ability to see an opportunity. I guess this one slapped him in the face.
He began to ask questions and compiled some names. I was on the list. He asked me
if I wanted to be a star. He might not have put it exactly that way but when he said
Hollywood, I took it from there.

If you’ve been paying attention, you might have come to the conclusion that I wasn’t
swinging in the Age of Aquarius. I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. I don’t cuss. Never
did drugs. (I’ll remind you that I married three beautiful women so I must do something.)
I will admit that I’m a low-key guy but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to be a celebrity.
I’m not talking Tony-Bennett-singing-at-my-birthday-type celebrity. Don’t want to
paint my nails. I just thought it would be nice to have some of the perks that came
with people knowing your name—newspaper in my own yard, mail off the ground, and a
seat at my favorite coffee shop. Nothing grand.

At seventy-five I had accepted it was never going to happen. Greg proved me wrong.
He invited me to dinner. He told me what he wanted to do. I got excited. I could see
my paper landing on my porch.

“Not yet, Bill,” he said. Writing the story is easy. Getting someone to make the movie
is another issue. He then
handed me a contract and
100 to seal the deal. He picked up dinner.

Months passed. I got a call telling me Disney was interested but they would do nothing
unless Denzel Washington played Boone. More months went by. Denzel didn’t become Denzel
by not knowing a good part when he saw it. He said “yes.” Will Patton said he would
play me. Disney said “go” and Jerry Bruckheimer was asked to bring the magic back.

Right before the movie started to shoot I got a copy of the screenplay. It had one
daughter in it. They decided to go with Sheryl because she had been such a Titan fan.
Now any parent who has children knows equal treatment is a must. Snub one child, even
if it’s not your fault, and you will hear about it forever. I saw the script and sweat
broke out on my brow. I was a Hollywood newcomer and I didn’t know what to do. When
I thought about, facing the wrath of three girls that had been raised by Betty Watson,
the choice was easy. I told Jerry Bruckheimer a mistake had been made. He explained
why the script had been written the way is was and then apologized. Jerry Bruckheimer
is a nice man. He said he would have the director Boaz Yakin call my other daughters
and explain it to them. He did and everything was fine.

I’ll have to admit, the filming of
Remember the Titans
was pretty exciting for me. It took me into a different world. I got to see how movies
were made. Boone and I were flown to Atlanta. We were put up in the five-star Henry
Grady Hotel. We were given an expense account and told to give it some exercise. I
ran mine around the block to a yogurt shop.

Every day a limo picked us up. We were treated like royalty. It made sense. We were
“consultants.” Herman believed it and took the job seriously. One day during a take
Boone noticed that the director had it wrong.

He never carried his playbook in his right hand. He wore his cap at an angle. He noticed
other things. The chinstrap was loose. The socks were the wrong color. He began to
huff and puff. I could see the agitation. So did Boaz Yakin. He turned to Boone and
gave him a smile. “Herman,” he said, “it’s just a movie.” Boone felt better.

I also got to experience what happens when people know your story is coming to the
cinema. When you don’t have any money, you spend a lot of time listening to the radio.
I got hooked when I was in the service. Hour after hour I would listen to anything
that took me away to parts unknown. I especially liked music. Porter Wagoner, Patsy
Cline, Hank Williams. One day as I was changing the channel I heard a song titled
“Diana” by Paul Anka. I soon became a fan. Over the years I’d heard him referred to
as a giant among singers, as big as they get. One DJ said Paul Anka was huge. I had
images that when he wasn’t singing he was dunking for the Harlem Globetrotters. I
could see him patting John Wayne on the head.

Fifty years later I was sitting in a restaurant after a TV appearance. Paul Anka walked
up. At five feet two inches I didn’t recognize him. He introduced himself and as we
talked his personality filled the room. He was big, just in a different way. The subject
of kids came up. He told me he had five daughters. I told him I had five daughters.
We both
agreed it takes a real man to make women. We couldn’t believe it; between the two
of us we had fathered ten girls.

It gets better when the movie is done. It was 2000 and the premier of
Remember the Titans
was front-page news—at least in LA. Disney had spent a lot of money promoting the
film and this was going to be a night for the history books. You know the drill. It
started by filling up the Rose Bowl with 55,000 groovy dudes. They added five hundred
trumpets to the USC marching band. Hot dogs were four feet long and two feet wide.
It was a cosmic event. The instructions to the supporting cast were simple. Cheer,
stomp, yell, and shout. When the Titans and the stars that played them arrive, you
must go insane. The objective was obvious. We want people to think that without the
Titans, America was a third-world country. As the producer broadcast what he wanted
done, the crowd understood the game. They began to shake, rattle, and roll. The insurance
policy was in place. Do what we tell you and you get a party favor. If nothing else,
those Hollywood promoters knew something about motivation.

The signal was given and the production kicked off right on schedule. The night became
day as a billion watts lit the sky. The limousines that were queued to the Canadian
border began to arrive. The stars, starlets, dignitaries, and VIPs exited cars as
long as Long Island. They smiled, waved, and strutted their stuff.

As we were introduced the crowd went bananas. People were foaming at the mouth. It’s
amazing to see what free Milk Duds can generate. I looked over at Herman Boone
and his eyes were glazed over. His smile told me everything. It was his moment in
time and I knew what he thought. On Samson’s best day he couldn’t carry his playbook.
What Herman didn’t understand was people in LA would give a standing ovation to a
Pet Rock if it meant a free coloring book.

After a couple hours the fanfare moved to a theater to preview the movie. I stepped
out of my limo and the light bulbs flashed. I heard someone shout my name. My chest
swelled with pride. I began to fantasize. On Herman Boone’s best day, he couldn’t
carry my playbook. It’s dangerous to believe your press clippings. We moved into the
theater.

I watched in awe as Will Patton brought me to life. The hayseed had come a long way.
The movie concluded to arousing applause. The party moved on. It was a famous shiny
place with lots of mirrors. The shrimp were as large as my fist and the caviar was
bigger than the shrimp. “Champagne, Coach?” a waiter asked. “No, thank you,” I replied.
“I’d like one of those pink things with the feather in it.” “On its way,” he responded.
As I looked around the room I couldn’t believe the people in attendance. Mickey Mouse
was connected. A while later a reporter approached. She wanted some insight. I was
feeling a little full of myself. I was going to give her the best stuff I knew. “Fire
away,” I responded. She popped a question. “Are you and Denzel lovers?”

I’d heard that Hollywood was a different place.

I guess it was.

There was a second premier in Washington, D.C. Sitting in the front row it appeared
even the President of the United
States wanted a piece of the action. It was the first time a President had ever gone
to a premier. Someone said it was because the movie had cheerleaders. It didn’t matter.
It was nice to have him on board.