The Day I Met The Bear

                         

 

Every boy needs a hero. And if he doesn’t, he should. Heroes prove that ordinary people can do extraordinary things. They show what strength and courage look like. Whether real or fictional, a hero gives every boy something essential. Growing up, my hero was the same as thousands of other kids in the South: Alabama football coach Paul “Bear” Bryant.

Bryant was almost as much myth as man. One of his players once said, “This is what God must look like.” And he wasn’t wrong. Standing 6 foot 4 inches, he commanded every room he entered. He got his nickname because he once wrestled a bear. His teams at the University of Alabama terrorized college football like a coyote in a henhouse. I devoured every story I could find about him in newspapers and magazines, feeding my obsession.

I will never forget the one time I met him. Like so many of his players, he nearly scared me to death.

In March 1965, my mom put me on a Greyhound bus in downtown Birmingham. I was headed to Tuscaloosa to spend a few days of spring break with my older brother, a student at the University. At 12, buses were mysterious adult worlds, far beyond school trips to Montgomery or family vacations to Panama City. When my brother Roger picked me up, he took me straight to a new fast-food place, Burger King, where the hamburgers were twice the size of McDonald’s. My world had just gotten bigger.

I stayed in his dorm, Mallet Hall, an older building on the north side of campus. While he attended morning classes, he allowed me I was allowed to explore carefully. My first destination was The Quad, the 22-acre heart of the campus. Students walked to class, studied on blankets, tossed footballs, or rested under the massive oak trees. On the south side, near the President’s Mansion, stood Denny Chimes, a brick bell tower reminiscent of the Washington Monument. My interest was strictly football-related: captains of the team had their handprints and footprints immortalized in concrete at the tower’s base. I wandered, comparing my small hands to theirs, feeling both awe and ambition.

Within minutes, I found the ultimate destination: the football practice field. The gates were chained, but I slipped through a gap with ease. There it lay—hallowed turf with white markings every ten yards, flanked by a long row of hedges. Halfway down, a red metal structure rose twenty feet high. It had a spiral staircase, a covered deck, and a railing. Every Alabama fan knew it: Bear Bryant’s Tower. From this perch, he surveyed practice with a bullhorn. I stood, awestruck, imagining the angels singing the fight song. Fear and reverence gripped me.

“Son, what are you doing here?”

The voice was gravelly, jolting me from my trance. I turned to face the largest man I had ever seen, taller than my dad, who wasn’t small. Wrinkled, intense, in work pants and a plain short-sleeve shirt with a cigarette pack in the pocket, he wore a red-and-white ball cap. I froze. Face-to-face with Coach Bryant, trespassing in his kingdom, I was a peon before a god.

“Something wrong, boy?”

I stammered, “Yes sir… I mean, no sir… just looking around. Didn’t mean any harm.” His face softened.

“You know you’re not supposed to be in here.”

“Yes sir. I’m visiting my brother on spring break. He said I could walk around campus while he was in class, but… the practice field and your tower were what I wanted to see.”

“Well, there ain’t much to it. This is about it.” He stood with me in silence for a few moments. Finally, he said, “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

I relaxed. As we approached the gate, he asked, “What’s your name, son?”

“Joe Hobby, sir.”

“Do you play football, Joe?”

“Yes sir, for the 120-pound Northeast YMCA team in Birmingham. I wear number 25 because I like Dennis Homan.”

Bryant laughed. “That’s a mighty fine number, but you don’t exactly look like a wide receiver to me.”

“No sir. I’m a lineman, but that’s the number I wanted, so they gave it to me.”

“Keep working hard, Joe Hobby. In a few years, I’ll come check you out. We’re always looking for good linemen.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You can call me Coach Bryant, Joe. That’s what my players call me.”

“Yes sir, Coach Bryant!” I was officially a member of his team.

“Can you find your way back to your brother’s dorm?”

“Yes sir, just head that way,” I said, pointing in a general direction, “then look for the tallest building across from Paty Hall.”

“Well, if you get lost, just ask someone. Nice meeting you, Joe.”

“Nice meeting you too, Coach Bryant.”

I ran across The Quad, stopping periodically to get in a football stance, imagining firing into a defensive lineman. I couldn’t wait to tell my brother what happened.

Meeting Bear Bryant taught me something that went far beyond football: heroes show us what’s possible. They inspire us to aim higher than we might dare, to work harder than we think we can, and to believe that even ordinary people can achieve extraordinary things. A hero doesn’t just show strength—they light a path, and if we follow it with courage, determination, and integrity, there’s no telling how far we can go.