When the Men Were Gone

by Marjorie Herrera Lewis

  “So you’re going to let her do this?” Vern said. “You know how bad that’ll make you look? I mean, what kind of a man allows his wife to coach football? Not to mention the toll it’ll take on you. Someone’s got to wear the dress in the house. So what’s your color, John? Soft pink?” Vern laughed.

  “Please, Vern,” Mavis said. “John, Tylene, I’m so—”

  “I’ve been doing some thinking,” Vern interrupted her before she could finish. Then he bit down on his cigar. “This whole thing puts me in a predicament. I know you need my fleet, but if I keep sending work your way, it’ll look like I support this nonsense. I know work has been slow for you, but I’ve got to think about my business, and it’ll hurt my operations if I have any association with such foolishness. It’s just smart business.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Our longtime friend, owner of a ten-truck fleet that shipped milk throughout Texas, was about to pull the rug out from under John because he didn’t like the idea of me coaching? And it’s just “business”?

  “Vern, no one else in town can maintain the trucks as well as we do,” John said. “And half the other quality shops have already gone under. You can’t be serious.”

  “Damn straight, I’m serious. This is nonsense, and your plan is to stand by and support your wife? What does that mean, anyway? And what kind of a man does that make you?”

  “What kind of a friend does this make you?” I asked.

  “As I said, it’s just business,” Vern said, looking into my eyes.

  The men stood up, walked away from the playing table, and continued arguing. For a moment, I was afraid they might begin throwing punches. Mavis and I looked at each other, and I could tell she was as stunned as I was by the turn of events.

  “John, let me tell you something about wives,” Vern said.

  “No, let me tell you something,” John shouted. “I know my wife doesn’t fit some mold you may be comfortable with, but I got no trouble with any of this. She’s putting herself on the line for those boys, and I like it. I got no need for you or for your business, so just get the hell out of my house!”

  Trying to defuse the situation, I walked over to John.

  “John,” I said softly, “let’s just sit down and talk rationally about this.”

  John looked at me.

  “Tylene, there’s nothing to discuss,” he said. “I don’t want his business.” He then stood beside me with his arm around my shoulders.

  Vern and Mavis picked up their belongings and headed for the door.

  “You’re a damn fool,” Vern said, pointing his fedora at John while holding open the living room screen door for Mavis. “A damn fool!”

  Sunday

  John and I had read the morning paper before we made our way along Main Street to attend church services at the downtown First Baptist. The roadside newsie, who shouted, “Lady to coach the Lions! Read all about it!” was nearly out of papers.

  “Must feel like Christmas at the Bulletin,” John said. “Appears they’re making a small fortune on newspaper sales today.”

  I laughed, but it defied my mood. Mr. Redwine and I had yet to make the official announcement, so I was certain our two automobiles had been spotted parked at the school Saturday morning, and gossip spread to a mole who had taken the story to the newspaper. I considered Moonshiner, but Mac Winslow made more sense. I knew that during Mac’s rodeo stint he had developed a friendship with a local reporter. Mac was always looking for trouble, and I figured this story, if not handled properly, was certain to create plenty of it.

  We made our way to our seats in the large four-hundred-seat redbrick church. I felt the eyes of everyone on me, yet when I’d turn to make eye contact, everyone turned away.

  I had convinced myself that if the congregation had turned against me, certainly all fifteen thousand people in town must have as well. But what I found most awkward in that moment was sitting next to Vern and Mavis, whom we’d sat beside in church for at least the past fifteen years. To sit elsewhere would spark the worst kind of gossip; after all, if our best friends had turned on us, why would anyone else care about loyalty? Still, I was not angry with Mavis, and I figured John and Vern would patch things up before sunset. We sat next to them as we always had, but I came to find out I was wrong. Vern was unrelenting.

  Once the preacher began, I relaxed. The theme for the day was Samuel 1:17: “Life is too short to allow fear to stop you from your destiny,” the preacher said.

  Destiny.

  I was about five years old, playing in the backyard of our old Zephyr home, when I first heard the word. It was spoken by my father: “Embrace your destiny, Tylene.”

  Those words might have been forgotten long ago had it not been a typical day changed on its head when I saw my mother crying. My father and I were standing just beyond the back porch on a stretch of grass near the clothesline. He had positioned me about three feet from him so he could toss a football to me. He had me rest my elbows on my sides with my arms extended forward and my palms facing the sky. My father would then flip the football, its tips pointing outward, into my arms. Each time, I’d clutch it as tightly as I had a tiny stray mutt—black, with a trace of Scottish terrier—I’d found a month earlier on our property and asked Mom if we could keep him.

  That evening had been unusually pleasant for a Texas summer, perhaps in the mideighties. At one point, I asked my father if I could play football as we had a few days earlier, and not just toss the football. He reminded me of my end-zone destination, and then he tossed the ball into my waiting arms and watched as I’d dash away from him, headed for a touchdown. I could hear my new little dog scampering behind me, and I was certain that if I slowed down, Frisky would tackle me, just not as Dad had days earlier when he’d grab me and circle the air with me in his arms.

  “She’s to the twenty, fifteen, ten, five . . . touchdown!” His voice became louder as I’d close in on the end zone marked by the clothesline, which we also used as our crossbar—although I didn’t start kicking field goals until I was about eight.

  It seemed a typical evening until my mother came to call us to supper. I looked up at the sound of her voice and saw that she had been crying. She turned quickly and returned to the kitchen. I can still hear the sound of the screen door slamming behind her. She had never before let it slam. She’d scold me when I would do that. I ran to my father.

  “Why is Mom crying?” I asked. I’d never seen my mother cry. I was scared. “What’s wrong, Daddy? Why is Mom sad?”

  My dad smiled, and he answered me so quickly, I had no time to wonder why he’d smile while knowing Mom was crying.

  “Ever hear of happy tears?” he asked me.

  “Happy tears?”

  “Yes, Petunia, sometimes when people are so happy, they cry.”

  I was confused. Happy tears? What happened that brought on her so-called happy tears? My father handed me the football and together we walked up to the porch, Frisky trailing us.

  “Wait here,” he said to me. He walked into the house and returned to the porch in a matter of seconds.

  “Sit down, Petunia,” he said. He pulled up a chair and scooted it up close so the two of us were face-to-face.

  “You’re a big girl now, Tylene, so your mom and I agree it’s time to explain her happy tears.”

  I listened intently.

  “Your mother and I were afraid you might never walk, and especially never run,” he said.

  I was horrified, and apparently, he could see it in my eyes.

  “Probably not the best way to begin,” he said. “Let me start over.”

  My father went on to tell me that he and Mom first began to notice a deformation in my legs while I was still an infant. It had become most pronounced in my early toddler years. They were so scared, they took me to Fort Worth to see a specialist.

  “A pediatrician,” my father said. “He gave us the diagnosis. Something called rickets. It affects the bones—makes them soft, if they’re no
t taken care of. But there was a cure.”

  Sunshine. The same light that gave life to our favorite flowers—our petunias.

  “Bessie Lee was born with strong bones,” he said of my sister, who was seventeen years old at the time and in the house helping Mom with supper. “She wasn’t premature, born early like you were. So she’s fine inside. But you, Petunia, you’re our outside girl.”

  Outside girl. I had a role and a reason for it, so over the years, I grew more determined to be as good an outside girl as Bessie Lee had been an inside girl. Bessie Lee could cook, sew, knit, crochet, and keep a house fit for royalty. Although I eventually learned the basics of all five of those things, my burning desire at an early age was to become proficient—a specialist—in everything outside, especially football and baseball, my two favorites and the lures my father had used to keep me in the sunshine.

  In my mind, I replayed with heightened emotion the words of the preacher: “Life is too short to allow fear to stop you from your destiny.” Those words gave me great strength.

  Unfortunately, soon thereafter, John and I were reminded that not everyone in town had heard what the preacher had to say—or, if some perhaps did, they didn’t care. While the gas attendant filled up our car a block from the church, I heard a male voice from a passing car shout, “Hey, lady! Stay the hell away from football!” I never looked up.

  THAT NIGHT, I let the comment get to me, and I finally had to admit to myself that I was scared, but I knew I couldn’t let it show. I didn’t share my insecurities with John, because I didn’t want to bring fear into our household conversation. Plus, with the way things had turned with Mavis and Vern, I knew he was preparing for the loss of Vern’s business. So I lay awake in bed for hours, second-guessing myself. Jimmy had agreed to meet me at the field house in the morning, but how was Jimmy feeling about a lady coach? Had I put the boys in a situation even worse than not playing? Would they respect me, or mock me behind my back? I’d built a career as an educator. Would this undermine everything I had worked for? Would I still be an effective administrator if I was a failure on the sideline? My mind wouldn’t stop. I tried to block it out. I even tried to replace my thoughts with one of my favorite Andrews Sisters songs, “Bei Mir Bist du Schön,” but I never made it to the chorus. I was consumed.

  Chapter 6

  Monday

  Rain had stopped falling by seven o’clock. The temperature had dropped, but the humidity had risen. It left for a muggy morning, though it was probably no hotter than eighty degrees. I walked out to the field—eerily empty and quiet at that early morning hour—to meet with Jimmy well before the 8:00 A.M. school bell. Our objective was to put in place a plan to get the field in shape for the season opener, just days away. We also planned to make a list of fathers who might be willing to arrive at the school by daybreak Thursday to get the grass cut and the field chalked.

  “Morning, Miss Tylene,” Jimmy said as he walked toward me. I had butterflies in my stomach, and I instinctively began to analyze his tone and his movements. Was he comfortable? Was he hesitant? Did I detect any regret in his presence? My inner fears dissipated quickly, most likely because I had noticed no hesitation in Jimmy. There was no time to focus on any inner fears or insecurities I may have been harboring. There was work to be done.

  We walked along a field of weed patches, dirt spots, rocks, and some tall, dead grass that had not yet been removed from the turf. The only area fit for playing was between the twenties, a sixty-yard stretch Moose and Wendell had cleared a week earlier. Although Moose had taken the team through a few practices, it was evident that Mr. Redwine had yet to believe the season would actually be played. During the short time that Moose served as head coach, Mr. Redwine had given Wendell a list of facility priorities, and the football field had not made the list.

  “Looks like the team will be busy this week before putting on the pads,” I said. Jimmy nodded. We jotted notes as we walked the field together, devising a plan for the team and some local volunteers to get the field in shape by Friday night. As we concluded our observations, I turned to Jimmy.

  “Are you okay with this?” I asked. I knew Jimmy would catch on to what I was asking.

  “Miss Tylene, Stanley says you know football as well as any coach. He told me that the two of you liked to talk football in the lunch line. He was pretty impressed.”

  “But are you okay?” I asked again.

  “Please, Miss Tylene.” I sensed he had no intention of expressing any potential reservations. “I respect you, and I want to play football.”

  I understood what he was trying not to say. It had to be difficult for a boy going into his senior season to be suddenly coached by a woman. How could he know what to expect? I wrapped things up by telling Jimmy that I was pleased to have him serve as team captain.

  I left the field confident that we had a satisfactory plan in place and that the field would be ready for kickoff, just four days away, but I was still out of sorts by the time I reached my office. As much as I had tried to put the taunting from the previous afternoon behind me, as well as Jimmy’s apparent reluctance to level with me, I found it difficult to focus on my administrative responsibilities. I was certain my conflicted emotions were not outwardly apparent until Mr. Redwine called me into his office shortly before lunch.

  “Go home, Tylene. Take the remainder of the day off,” he said.

  I assured him that I was fine, but he insisted.

  “Look, Tylene, once I signed off on this, I signed off on any and all of my personal reservations. But I do know this: You need the rest. Besides, you mentioned earlier that your parents are getting back to town this afternoon.”

  My parents had been in Corpus Christi visiting Bessie Lee and her family but decided to cut their two-month trip a week short to attend the game. Bessie Lee was accompanying them on the ride back and planned to stay in town for a few days. Her two sons were grown and on their own, but her youngest and only daughter still lived at home, and she promised to give her father three square meals a day and to keep the home tidy while Bessie Lee was away. I was looking forward to seeing Bessie Lee for the first time since she and her husband had come out for Thanksgiving two years earlier. And I was thrilled that our parents would be home to share the experience with me. Their train was scheduled to roll in at two o’clock.

  I took Mr. Redwine up on his offer and left school. But instead of going home to eat and rest, I made a beeline for the Brownwood Public Library.

  For a week, I’d wanted to prospect the newspaper archives, and finally, I had a couple of free hours to do some research. I found a quiet corner with a large rectangular table near the archives. I set down my purse, a pen, and a notepad and headed for the files.

  Once I found the September editions of the Stephenville Empire-Tribune, I searched for the Sunday issues. Typically, every Texas town large enough to have both a newspaper and a high school was known to publish a full-page football preview. It didn’t take long for me to find the preview. It had been published just a day earlier. The feature photo was of one player: Harold “Red” McNeil. The headline read “Unstoppable.” Beneath his photo, it said, “Lucky to have this Irish.” The black-and-white picture had the diminutive but speedy halfback posing with the football tucked in his right hand, pressed against his chest, and his left arm extended as if preparing to stiff-arm an opponent. He was in full uniform and leather helmet. His full-freckled face surrounded a scowl and pursed lips.

  I copied the names of all team members printed on the roster. Beside their names, I listed their positions, heights, and weights. After reading about the team’s expectations, I next went in search of the previous year’s preview, which I had little trouble finding.

  The 1943 preview photo featured the senior quarterback who led Stephenville for three seasons. He had since graduated and was set to play for the Texas Aggies.

  I kept the preview on the table and went back to the archives to find the 1943 Saturday sections—the news stories
of the games played the previous nights. Beside each player’s name, I listed the stats from each game and made note of game-story descriptions. I pored through the entire season.

  Jeffrey Milton, defensive back, 5'10", 160 pounds: Ball hawk. An interception vs. Abilene.

  Michael Milton (twin brother), wide receiver, 5'10", 163 pounds: 2 catches—17 yards vs. Comanche. Soft hands. Solid route runner.

  Harold “Red” McNeil, running back, 5'9", 165 pounds: 22 carries—115 yards. 5+ yards/carry.

  I put a couple stars beside Harold’s name. He was the player to prepare for.

  I was so engrossed in the research that I nearly lost track of time. Fortunately, the corner of my eye caught the wall clock, and I looked at my wristwatch for confirmation. I was cutting it close. I began to gather the material to return to the archives when, in an unexpected flash, I noticed an announcement about a Stephenville piano recital. I thought I had recognized the name, but in my haste, I had already closed up the paper. For confirmation, I began frantically thumbing through the pages, searching for the announcement. And there it was, the name I had moments earlier scratched out on my sheet of paper: Stephenville quarterback Mitch Mitchell. The article announced that he, among others, was scheduled to play in a piano recital that fall.

  Stunned by my good fortune, I left for the train station.

  “SHOULD ARRIVE IN about seven minutes,” the railroad station’s desk clerk told me. With those words, my excitement grew. For the past several years, my parents had been spending close to two months with Bessie Lee’s family every summer, and I missed them. I also missed Bessie Lee. We were never close as children, being that she is twelve years older than I am and was married and out of the house before I turned six. Our relationship developed as adults, and even then, we’d see each other no more than once every two or three years. But I’ve always admired my sister, and I’ve treasured every moment we spend together.