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And what "The Bear" had to say...  
"How many people watch you give a final exam? [About fifty is the reply.] Well, I have 50,000 watch me give mine - every Saturday!" To English Professor Tommy Mayo (at Texas A&M) when questioned about his emphasis on winning and his salary.
 Coach Bryant Six National Championships By Artist D.L. Taylor. Click To Buy Now "I left Texas A&M because my school called me. Mama called, and when Mama calls, then you just have to come running." On why he had to leave A&M with six years left on his contract.
 "Leaders Of The Legacy" By Artist Doug Shinholster. Click To Buy Now "What matters...is not the size of the dog in the fight, but of the fight in the dog."
As long as we're talking about great ones, I should tell you a story about Paul "Bear" Bryant, whom many consider the best college coach ever. It's hard to argue. Bear was one of a kind. A mans man. An old-fashioned, knock-em-down, drag-em-out football coach. Everyone knows how he won more games than any coach in Division I college football. And everyone knows about those great Alabama teams he had. And everyone knows about the national championships he won, and players like George Blanda, Joe Namath, and Ken Stabler, who grew up under his wing. But I got to know Bear in a different way. They say you never forget your first kiss or your first car? Well, you surely never forget the first time you coach alongside Bear Bryant. It was a hell of a thing. The year was 1972, The Coaches All-America Game, an all-star game which doesn't exist anymore. We played it in Lubbock, Texas, in July. Have you ever been to Lubbock, Texas, in July? You play at night just to avoid heat stroke. Anyhow, Bear was head coach of the East, and I was his assistant, along with Tubby Raymond, from Delaware. We flew in about a week early. Now, as you can imagine, it's tough to get players in July. Who wants to risk injury and sunburn? But somehow the West team-coached by Chuck Fairbanks, then of Oklahoma-was loaded. They had all these great players from Southern Cal and Nebraska, including Jerry Tagge, the Huskers quarterback. And we were at least ten men short. "What are we going to do?" I asked Bear, who by this time was in his late fifties, a little wrinkled, but still the toughest looking son of a gun you'd ever see. "Well, Bo," he said, in that deep, gravelly voice, "we got to get us some players. How many you got up there at Michigan that can play?" "Plenty. But we're only supposed to have three guys from any one team." "The heck with that," he said. "Get all you can." We ended up with five Michigan guys. Bear brought Johnny Musso, his great running back, and a few others from Alabama. It was all last minute, none of which seemed to faze Bear. He told me, "Bo, coach the offense." He told Tubby, "You coach the defense." "And me," he said, "I'm gonna play golf." And that's exactly what he did. Every day. Tubby and I would start practice and sooner or later, Bear would roll in, wearing some fancy plaid golf shirt and golf shoes. But there was never a question who was head man. One afternoon, I called a meeting for the offense, and right in the middle, Joe Gilliam, the quarterback from Tennessee State (and later the Pittsburgh Steelers) lit up a cigarette. Now, if one of my Michigan players did that, he'd be kicked out the door. But these weren't my guys. So I went out in the hall where Bear was just wandering around. "Hey," I said, "I want to tell you something. I'm not teaching football to any son of a gun smoking a cigarette." He looked at me and waved his hand. Without saying a word, he walked into that meeting. "Hello, men," he said. They all straightened up. "I want to tell you something: we're here to play football. I don't care what you do when we're not playing football, but when you're in a meeting, or practicing, we'll do things the way they're supposed to be." He paused for effect. "And there ain't going to be no ... smoking.....in...... here. Now, Gilliam, you get that cigarette out!" That was the end of the smoking problem. As the game drew closer, everyone figured we'd get killed. We still didn't have enough players. We were trying to get Lionel Antoine, the outstanding tackle from Southern Illinois. He was supposed to play, but he was married, and his baby was in the hospital at the time. I called him every day in Chicago, hoping maybe he could make it down. Finally, on the morning of the game, I tried one last time. "How's it going, Lionel?" I asked. "Everything is fine, now," he said. "The baby's all right. But it's too late to play in the game, right?" "Not really. We need you. We don't even have a tackle." He was flattered. "Well, I don't see how I could" "Look, hold on there a minute." And I went to Bear. I told him the kid could play, but he was up north. "Tell him to get ready," Bear said. "I'll send a jet for him." "What jet?" "The university jet." "Well, gee, can you get the jet at this late notice?" "For God's sake, Bo. I bought the @#%$ thing for them! I guess I can get it if I want it!" Believe me when I tell you, Lionel was down there in a matter of hours. I scribbled a few plays on a piece of paper-"You block here, then you block here"-and we stuck him on the bus. The weather was hot and sticky. Riding to the game, we saw one of those temperature signs at a bank: it read 101 degrees. Bear was wearing his traditional button-down shirt and checkered hat. We got to the field, and the first thing he said was, "Well, @#%$! Look at that! Their bench is over there in the shade and we're in the sun!" He looked at me. "Bo, I want you to get some guys and carry all our benches to the other side. In the shade." "OK, Bear," I said. And we moved our whole team. Carried the benches across the playing field, to the same sideline as the West. Set up right next to them. And you know what? Nobody asked us a single question. That was the power of Bear Bryant. The game started. Early on, the West had to punt, and Ron Curl-remember him? from Michigan State?-broke through and blocked it. We got the ball and quickly scored a touchdown. It was 7-0. We kicked off. They didn't move. We got the ball. Went eighty yards and scored again. Now it was 14-0. Less than seven minutes had passed. O. J. Simpson was on the sideline for ABC. He found Bear, who was just standing there, watching all this, not calling any plays. And O. J. said, "Coach, that was a great drive! You sure are moving that ball." Bear said: "Uh, yeah, absolutely. We figure we can, uh, run on these guys. We are well prepared." "Thanks, coach." "Sure." O. J. walked away. I glanced over at Bear and we both laughed and shook our heads. At halftime, Tubby and I went over some plays. This was Bear's only suggestion: "Bo. The sun is down. You tell them to bring those benches over to the other side now." "OK, Bear." And we moved back across the field. And nobody said a word. By the fourth quarter, we had rolled up a big score, 35-20, and time was running out. All of a sudden, Bear was standing next to me. I looked up. "Well, come on, Bo," he said, "what are you waiting for? Ain't you gonna run my play?" "His" play-the only one he suggested all week-was a trick play in which you toss the ball to the running back out of the I formation, and he runs left, then throws it back across field to the quarterback, who takes off down the sideline. If it works, it makes the defense look bad. "Gee, coach," I said, "You run that play, you're really going to rub it in." He glared at me with those thin, steel eyes. "So what?" he snarled. "It's only the @#%$ All-Star game. What the hell. I want my play run!" "OK, Bear," I said. I called the play. Sure enough, it worked to perfection. Our quarterback, Paul Miller, from North Carolina, was wide open and scampered all the way to the two-yard line. And Fairbanks was over there, across the field, screaming at me: "You son of a bitch, Bo! You no-account son of a bitch!" So I opened my arms and said, "Wait a minute! I'm not the head coach! I didn't call that play." He couldn't hear me. I hope by now he's forgiven me. We punched it in for a touchdown and that was it. 42-20. After the game, Bear gave all the credit to Tubby and me. "These guys did all the coaching," he told the press. "And they did great. Bo, I'd like to take you back to Alabama with that offense. You did a job, man." That night they had a buffet dinner for everyone. Tubby and I were standing in line, and all of a sudden, over in the corner, we heard that voice, as thick as mud: "Hey, Bo! Tubby! Come on over here! We're not gonna eat that crap! We won the game!" Bear: "Men, I had a few steaks flown in. Sit down. We're gonna eat like champions." And they brought out these porterhouses that were the biggest things I ever saw. We sat there and ate until way after midnight with the old coach, just talking and laughing about the game. What a week. I wish every young coach could get a chance like that. One happened when we were coaching the East-West Shrine game together up in Palo Alto, California. Jackie Sherrill was with us that time. We were getting killed. The worst part was, Bear had to be in Houston that night. And the game was running long. At halftime he said to us, "Now, look, fellas. If this game runs a little late I'm going to have to go. I got a guy with a car waiting on that little road outside the stadium. You guys can handle it, right?" Sure. So right after the start of the second half, Bear left. We wound up losing the game, At the press conference afterwards, we sat down, and all of a sudden, someone came rushing up to me. "Emergency! Emergency!" he yelled. "You've got to come to the phone, Bo! Hurry!" I went to the phone, and I was trying to think what the problem could be. "Hello?" "Bo?" It was the assistant athletic director from Alabama. "For God's sake, Bo, what happened to Bear? The phones are lighting up down here! They saw on television he wasn't there the second half. Is he all right? The whole state of Alabama is up in arms!" "Hey, relax. He had to catch a flight. He's on his way to Houston." "Oh. Thank God. You're sure?" "Yeah. He's on an airplane." "Thank you. Thank you." And he hung up. That should tell you how big Bear Bryant was in Alabama. He was in his sixties and had already coached the Crimson Tide for twenty years. Now, remember, Bear had grown up dirt poor in Arkansas, had run the most brutal football program ever at Texas A & M, had molded young men from dusty Southern towns into hard-hitting, tightly disciplined football players. He made them heroes, stars, champions. He had won all those SEC titles and bowl games and national championships. At the time of this story, he had just broken Amos Alonzo Stagg's record for most victories by a college coach. Let's face it. He was a living legend. And at the time, I was being pursued for the head coaching job at Texas A & M. Bear knew about it, and we were at the East-West Shrine game again, and he came up to me in the morning and said, "What's goin' on?" And I said, "Coach, they seem pretty interested." And he said, "Well, I think we oughta talk." That afternoon, we were back at the hotel. He called my room. "I'm comin' down," he said. He came down and sat at the table. I sat down, too. He stared at me. "Well," he said, "aren't you going to offer me a drink?" "Oh. Sorry. Wait a minute." So I ran to the bar and got a fifth of bourbon and set it on the table. "I'll need some Coke, too," he said. I ran and got him some Coke. He mixed the drink, and he started to talk about Texas A & M. He remembered how small it was when he was there. He said he should have bought land back then; it would be worth a fortune now. He just kept talking and talking, reminiscing, maybe an hour. Finally, he banged the bottle down and said, "All right, Bo. We've talked enough about your @#%$ problems. Now it's time to talk about my problems." I was stunned. Bear had just become the winningest coach in college football history. He was famous, wealthy, they worshipped him in Alabama. What problems could he have? "Bo," he croaked, "I don't wanna go back to the office. I don't wanna recruit one more kid. I don't wanna coach any more. He looked sad and, suddenly, very old. "Well," I said, thinking it over, "I can understand that. You've done everything you can possibly do in the game. If you want out, you should call your president right now and say the time has come for you to retire." I grabbed the phone and put it down in front of him. He glared at me. His words were thick as paste. "Aw...no..you...don't," he said. "You're gonna find this out someday. I hired forty-seven people at the University of Alabama athletic department. If I quit, what happens to them? What happens to those assistant coaches, and office people, and all them that I brought in there?" I never thought about that. "What happens to them?" he repeated. "Here's what. They're out in the cold. The new guy will replace them. Now, how can I do that to them?" I didn't know what to say. "You'll face that someday, Bo," he warned, standing up to leave. "You will. And, damn it, I hope you're smart about it." Bear Bryant went back to Alabama and coached another year. He leaned against the goal posts, doing something he was too sick to do, because of the people he had hired. He was not happy. He did not enjoy his work. He quit after that season. He died a few months later. That was loyalty. You won't find that much anymore. And you certainly won't find anyone like the Bear. I'm just glad I got a chance to know him. I can still hear him saying "Bo, ain't you gonna run my play?" Anytime, Bear. Anytime.
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