Remember this Titan
Page 1
REMEMBER THIS
TITAN
REMEMBER THIS
TITAN
THE BILL YOAST STORY
LESSONS LEARNED FROM A
CELEBRATED COACH’S JOURNEY
AS TOLD TO
STEVE SULLIVAN
Copyright © 2005 by Steve Sullivan
First Taylor Trade Publishing edition 2005
First paperback edition 2007
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or
by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except
by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.
Published by Taylor Trade Publishing
An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.
4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706
Estover Road, Plymouth PL6 7PY, United Kingdom
Distributed by NATIONAL BOOK NETWORK
The hardback edition of this book was previously
cataloged by the Library of Congress as follows:
Yoast, Bill R.
Remember this Titan : the Bill Yoast story : lessons learned from a
celebrated coach’s journey / as told to Steve Sullivan.—1st Taylor Trade
Pub. ed.
p. cm.
1. Yoast, Bill R. 2. Football coaches—United States—Biography.
3. Football—Coaching. I. Sullivan, Steven D. II. Title.
GV939.Y63A3 2005
796.332’092—dc22
[B]
2005048597
ISBN-13: 978-1-58979-278-4 (cloth: alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 1-58979-278-5 (cloth: alk. paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-58979-336-1 (pbk.: alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 1-58979-336-6 (pbk.: alk. paper)
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements
of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of
Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.
Manufactured in the United States of America.
Dedication
Betty, Angela, Susan Gail, Bonnie, Sheryl, Dee Dee
Special Thanks
Charles Peers
CONTENTS
Foreword by Richard Ardia
Prologue
Preface
Forged by Fire
The Wake-up Call
Navigating the Maze
Black Is Beautiful
No Magic
A Man to Remember
Darkness Descends
Meat and Potatoes
Other Stuff
Where Are They Now?
Afterword by Steve Sullivan
About the Author
FOREWORD
You are about to enter the world of Bill Yoast, so buckle up. This journey is not for the meek. It is filled with heartache, heartbreak, and hairpin turns. From the very beginning Bill Yoast had it tough and as he navigated his environment it got tougher. Thankfully he was up for it.
For most of us, we are not prepared for many of life’s challenges. We learn little about ourselves and others when we are on cruise control. As Bill Yoast points out, the most important lessons are learned when the riding gets rough. Through adversity the best stuff sticks. In hardship, character is built.
The author, Steve Sullivan, has captured the essence of what makes Bill Yoast different. There is not a word wasted. This story is about a man who knew from the very beginning that other people count the most.
We live in a time when heroes are quickly fading from view. Thankfully there are people like Bill Yoast who we can turn to for inspiration.
It was not the record-breaking achievements obtained on the gridiron that made this coach “A Titan to Remember.” It was his ability to see and develop talents in those he touched. He possessed a quiet strength; an invisible power that awakened the spirit in others. Bill Yoast knew how to build people. He knew that success off the field mattered more than what happened between the hash marks.
Steve Sullivan tells it like it was and not the way it should have been. The mistakes, the pain, the doubt is there. Bill Yoast was ahead of his time in racial equality and behind the time in seeking personal glory. Because of Bill Yoast kids became better. Some became great.
We often look to find our heroes from their accomplishments during major world events. What we often fail to recognize is that it was probably a coach, often not even known, who helped shape the character, integrity, and courage of those men and women that went on to achieve so much.
The lessons chronicled in this book should be required reading for everyone that wants to make a contribution. The author will take you to the edge of the cliff, where the view is the best. And from that vantage point, you will see, feel, and remember why Bill Yoast has been called an American hero.
Richard Ardia
PROLOGUE
Gerry is dead. The statement landed like a thunderbolt. As I put the phone down, I reflected on the young man I had known for a decade. From the first moment he walked through my door, I knew he was something special. I wasn’t sure why but deep in my gut I had a feeling that Gerry Bertier and I were cut from the same bolt of cloth. I felt from the beginning that we were going on a journey joined at the hip.
You might think that a forty-five year old man with five kids and a lot of dust behind him would not be so easily captivated by a teenager. I myself was not sure what it was about Gerry that made him so appealing. He was enthusiastic, smart, and funny, but then there are many young men that carry that profile. It had nothing to do with his extroverted persona or his athletic ability. It was much deeper than that. When I looked at Gerry Bertier, I saw a man who was going to accomplish something. You only had to share a little time with him to know that he cared about things that were much greater than himself. When you broke into a conversation with Bertier it wasn’t a frivolous event. The man was large but the things he cared about were even bigger.
He was an original, in every way. He was a man who lived the values he embraced. In the world of Gerry Bertier, integrity was not a word but a lifestyle. In Gerry’s universe, duty, honor, and country were the coins of the realm. Determination, loyalty, and devotion were his breakfast of champions. Gerry believed that kindness was its own reward. In his world, the goal was to give more than you got. He also believed that accountability was for everyone. And that made him tough, with a capital T. It wasn’t his inclination. He just understood no one becomes better by taking the easy way out. If you tried, you and Gerry were going to the mat.
From a hospital bed he energized a community. We can thank him for his leadership, his commitment, and his caring. It was at the heart of everything he did. I miss Gerry Bertier. I regret that our friendship ended in an instant. I’m not sad though. Gerry may be gone, but his spirit is as alive as the day we met.
Over the years I’ve been queried about Gerry Bertier. I’ve been asked about the Titans. Each time a question is posed I’m teleported to another place. Sometimes the Titans appear but more often than not I find myself in an unknown zone looking for answers. The visions are not as vivid as they used to be but they are clear enough. In the distance I see a dirt road splitting into a fragmented maze. I hesitate not knowing which path is right for me. I make a choice. The journey continues. Another maze appears. Suddenly I’m on a freeway. Things are speeding up. A world I didn’t know existed appears in the windshield. The image vanishes. I’m brought back to reality when someone hollers, “Hey Coach.”
Forty-seven years they called me Coach. For more than four decades young men and women walked through my door. Looking back on it,
I have a sense of pride in what I’ve accomplished. I attempted to do my best with whatever was thrown my way. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. I’ve been given credit when credit wasn’t due and I’ve been the fall guy when I was ready for a pat on the back. On balance, I have no complaints. And now that I have reached the twilight of this life and reflected back on how I got here, one thing becomes apparent. Of the thousands of kids that came into my life, seldom did I ever give more than I got.
PREFACE
It was a lifetime ago but I remember the conversation as if it took place yesterday. I was watching an interview that showcased a weathered football coach recounting his career. In the course of the conversation numerous questions were posed, covering a variety of topics. Everything he said had an impact. I could picture his locker room sermons. I could see his team hanging on every word. His energy jumped through my television.
It was apparent why the coaching icon had a remarkable record of achievement. And while I was impressed by his analysis of all that football stuff, the response he gave to a query unrelated to football impacted me the most. The question had to do with life. He answered:
I’ve always learned more from failure than success. For me, failure has been a teacher. On occasions it has been a friend. And like a friend, it gave me the straight scoop. It was failure that exposed my shortcomings. Failure that told me I wasn’t ready. And because there was nothing I hated worse than a “know it all,” failure became the catalyst to succeed. No I don’t fear failure; I embrace it because in the end, failure will make me better.
Intriguing thoughts coming from a man whose name was synonymous with success. Was he kidding? At that stage in my coaching career I didn’t have the answers. I wasn’t secure enough to want anything other than success. I didn’t understand that defeat was the price of admission. Without defeat there would be no victory.
As a thirty-five-year-old math teacher with a limited record of accomplishments, failure was a punch in the nose. It was a kick in the butt. Failure sapped my energy and made me feel diminished. Failure caused my shoulders to sag and my eyes to gaze south. I walked a little unsteadily after failure.
Embrace failure? Who was he kidding? Maybe the coach wasn’t as smart as I thought. I came to the conclusion that anyone who would befriend losing was a masochist and probably a fool. Fifty years later I have a different opinion. It didn’t come overnight. It’s come as a result of getting roughed up more times than I can count. But, as I look back on it, I realize failure has never been fatal. And in virtually every situation failure was a temporary event.
Here I am. The bruises are gone. The scrapes have healed and I’m on a roll. Did you hear? They put me in a movie. And now someone has asked me to write a book. I’ve decided I will. Well that’s not exactly correct. I’ve employed a surrogate to put the words on paper. The thoughts will be mine.
I have a long history with the man that will help me crystallize what I want to say. My association with him was interrupted for thirty-five years but, like all relationships founded on substance, it remains intact. He came back into my life after seeing the movie Remember the Titans. His reappearance occurred suddenly one morning after I returned from a walk on Bethany Beach. I heard the phone ring but tried to ignore it. I then realized it probably was a call from the long lost quarterback and captain of the Hammond High School football team. I hadn’t seen or heard from him in thirty years. An image flashed. The pain returned. I had to answer the phone because I wanted an explanation.
I put the receiver to my ear and the voice that posed the question sounded no differently. “Hey Bill,” he said. “How come you never let me throw the bomb?” I couldn’t believe it. In keeping with what I remembered, Steve Sullivan was still on the attack. Experience had taught me how to deal with a guy like Steve. “How come you fumbled on the one inch line?”
Since that call our friendship has grown. And so when I decided to accommodate a publisher’s request, I turned to him. He wasn’t particularly gracious. It didn’t bother me because I’ve come to recognize Steve is a straight-talking guy. He stated that everything important has already been said. He told me a million books are written each year. He warned me that writing is hard. He explained the frustration that comes with searching for answers that may not exist. He told me that rejection was the name of the game. He said that the peanut gallery was waiting to eat my lunch.
I asked him what I should do. He responded, “When do we start?”
FORGED BY FIRE
I’m no different than anyone. I’d like to believe I came from “royal stock,” that blue is the color of blood in my veins. I can picture the ship anchored at a London dock. Paperboys shout the news. Carriages pull up. Women are carrying parasols and men are looking dandy. The purser reads the manifest. “Yoast,” he calls. No reply. “Yoast,” he hollers. No answer. “Yoast!” he bellows. Silence. Someone grabs his arm. “Check Germany.”
Poof. The fantasy is gone. There are no Yoasts that sailed with the Mayflower. As best as I can discern, the Yoasts embarked from somewhere else and I suspect their accommodations were anything but accommodating. They probably slept on a hay pile somewhere between the cow manure and goat droppings. They woke up every morning with feathers in their ears.
FAST FORWARD
My ancestors landed in America, and I showed up later in Florence, Alabama. Nineteen twenty-four to be exact. They called the place Tin Can Hollow. I don’t know if the name related to the architectural design of the tenements or the debris lying in the street. I guess it didn’t matter. It was my home.
At the time I was too young to reflect on the pedigree of my gene pool. As far as I knew, the Yoasts were as good as anyone. A few years later, my impression began to change when my dad invited me to accompany him to the train station. He was going on a trip and wanted me to see him off. I said sure. I loved my dad.
An hour later as we approached the rail yard I could see a locomotive chugging down the track spitting a spray of steam. Behind it was a line of cars that seemed to stretch forever. I looked at my dad and could see the excitement in his eyes. He commanded me to stay put. I always did what he told me so I froze in place. Momentarily, he was sprinting toward the train. As it drew closer he threw his carpetbag through an opening and dove into the boxcar. He didn’t look back. Tears filled my eyes as I realized hobo Yoast was on his way.
A few months later I was playing in the street and when I turned around there was my pop. A smile decorated his face. His arms opened and I ran into them. It was good to have him home. A couple weeks went by and a circus came to town. My dad scrounged a couple tickets and took me into a different world. I had the time of my life.
The next day we went back to meet some of the performers. As we walked around the tents we stumbled into a group of tumblers practicing a pyramid. My dad asked if he could play. They put him on the bottom and stepped all over him. I remember him laughing and joking. He held his own. I could see he was having the time of his life. Two days later when the circus left town my father did too. It was a turning point for me. I realized then that my dad believed responsibility was for others. Each time he departed I seemed to care less. So did my mom and my sister. I guess Bobbie and I understood having a hobo for a role model could be detrimental.
I got to a point where I didn’t care that my dad was gone. Part of it had to do with the fact that I had a surrogate on the other side of the county. Incidentally, she was black. Mary was her name and cotton was her game. I met her in a field on a blistering morning. I’ll never forget those southern summer days. There was no escape; even the shade burned.
As you go through life it’s interesting what images remain fresh in your mind. For me, meeting Mary has remained a vivid encounter. If you know anything about cotton then you know you gotta get pickin’ before the sun slaps you silly. It’s an early morning thing that means you rise a few hours after the moon showed its face. At least I did because the cotton field where I was going lived in
the boonies.
The only way to get there was walking. As I trudged along I wondered what I was going to encounter. I stopped and looked around. I determined I was five miles from the middle of nowhere. The blackness and sounds of animals scurrying about didn’t bother me. The fact that I was about to meet a bunch of people I didn’t know made me a little nervous. I knew my social skills had grown slower than my feet.
I wondered if I was lost. I continued to walk. I turned a corner and could see the glow of small fire. I heard some laughing in the distance. It surprised me. Why would anyone be laughing at that hour, in that place?
I figured I’d find out.
I was glad that my journey had ended in success. As the first rays of morning light broke the horizon, the pinkish hue illuminated a group of pickers standing in a circle. I walked up with a smile on my face and gave them my name. Given the look on the twenty-nine faces that stared back I detected that they weren’t as happy to see me as I was to see them. A second later a small woman erupted from the huddle. “Morning Bill, I’m Mary. Some call me Aunt Mary,” she said and then extended her hand. As I grabbed it she showed me a smile with four hundred teeth.
The conversation quickly got around to business. I told her I had never picked cotton but I was a quick study. I’m not sure it was the truth but I was in desperate need of a job. Circumstances had made me a breadwinner. She smiled again. “There isn’t much to it Bill,” she said. Pointing to the puffs of white she explained the objective was to get as many in the bag as fast as you could. It was all about speed she stated. Speed made the difference between a full stomach or an empty cupboard. Handing me my burlap sack she wished me luck. It didn’t come to me until a long time later: There was only so much cotton in that field. My getting more might mean that she would get less. I guess she didn’t care.