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.
THE STORM BEFORE THE CALM
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.
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.
DARKNESS DESCENDS
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.
THE ROAD BACK
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 s
eal 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.
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