Quiet Strength (33 page)

“I followed Vencie Glenn around all day and kept calling, ‘Vencie, Vencie,’ but he wouldn’t even turn around. He wouldn’t look at me, Dad.” In light of his earnest, hurt little face, I tried not to laugh.

“Jamie, that’s not Vencie Glenn. That’s Alfred Jackson.”

“No, Dad. It was number 25—Vencie Glenn. It’s Vencie Glenn.”

I explained to Jamie that 25 had been Vencie’s uniform number but that now Alfred was wearing that jersey. Vencie wasn’t there any longer, but he would always be Jamie’s friend.

“No matter what jersey or uniform Vencie is wearing,” I said, “the person inside that uniform will always love you.”

Over the years we had continued to talk about changing uniforms and teams and cities and making sure that it didn’t change the person inside, and I think he got it. As he got older, he was searching, as all teenagers do, for who he was and the kind of man he was becoming. And as he was making that journey, I knew he would never leave his compassionate, loyal, friendly, heartfelt roots. But like a lot of teenage boys, I think he was hit with messages from the world that maybe that’s not the way boys are supposed to be. Like most of us, I think he went through a time as a teenager when he wasn’t sure that his parents always had the best advice. He wasn’t sure that we always had his best interests at heart. Tiara had said it best: “I just wish he could have made it until he was twenty, because when you’re seventeen or eighteen, sometimes the things that you guys say to us just don’t make sense. But when I got to twenty, those things started making sense again. I just wish he would have made it to twenty.”

The memories continued to flood my mind as I looked out over the crowd of people gathered in the sanctuary.

“When Jamie needed to hear the right message, so many of you seated here today were there for him to reinforce that message and encourage him, and Lauren and I want to thank you for that,” I said. “What’s kept our family going these last couple of days is what we believe, and we believe God when He says that He works all things for His good for those who love the Lord. It’s hard to accept because we can’t always see it, but we have to believe it. I know that Jamie loved the Lord, and our hope is that God will be glorified today as we remember Jamie.”

I urged those in attendance not to take their relationships for granted. Sitting there in front of me were parents and children, husbands and wives, friends and coworkers.

“Parents, hug your kids—every chance you get. Tell them that you love them every chance you get. You don’t know when it’s going to be the last time.” I gathered myself and shared how I hadn’t been able to give Jamie a hug at Thanksgiving. Although we had talked on the phone a good deal since then—including one call when he told me that he was sure we were going to the Super Bowl and that when we did, he wanted to be on the field with me—I was never going to get that hug.

“Hug them every chance you get. And for you kids—I know there are a number of you here today who are thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—maybe your parents are starting to seem a little old-fashioned, and maybe they won’t let you do some of the things you want to do. Just know, when that happens, that they still love you and care about you very much. And those old-fashioned things will start making sense pretty soon.”

I turned toward the Colts and addressed them again, as well as the other players who had attended.

“You are some great guys; you really are. Our guys don’t always get great publicity for the tremendous things they do, while one negative thing will be replayed over and over and over. But I want to tell everybody here that these guys are the greatest role models we have in our country today. Continue being who you are, because our young people need to hear from you. If anything, be bolder in who you are, because our boys are getting a lot of wrong messages today about what it means to be a man in this world, about how they should act and talk and dress and treat people. They aren’t always getting the right message, but you guys have the right message, and you live it, and we need you to continue to do that.”

I finished my words with one final thought. “The last and most important thing I want to leave you with is this. Despite my having shed a few tears here, this is really a celebration in the midst of tragedy. When Jamie was five years old, he accepted Christ as his Savior. When Lauren and I would talk to him about his identity, about who he was and who he wanted to become, that was one thing that we could tell him for sure, for certain—that his identity was in Christ. The apostle Paul wrote that nothing can ever separate us from the love of God that’s in Christ Jesus.”

Just as Jamie and I had talked about that day in training camp in 1995 when he thought he saw Vencie Glenn, what’s important is not the uniform or the number, and it’s not what team you play for or whether anyone else sees your value; it’s who you are inside. And when you’re in Christ, that’s never going to change.

“That’s why we have joy today,” I said. “We know that while we had him for eighteen short years, God has him now. And He will have Jamie forever.”

It meant so much to us to have so many attend that day, role models such as Jeff Saturday and Reggie Wayne and Marvin Harrison from the Colts. And Tampa’s Warrick Dunn, who buys homes for single mothers, and Derrick Brooks, who had asked Lauren and me to accompany him to Africa with a group of kids from the Boys & Girls Clubs. These guys all get it. They had all had a positive effect on my boys, and I thanked them for it.

Lovie Smith, Denny Green, and Herm Edwards were also there, leaving their teams’ preparation to their assistants. I still don’t know how Herm was able to get there on Tuesday morning after the Jets played on Monday night. But I knew that somehow my dear friend would be there for me, and he was.

The Buccaneers had chartered a bus for people who came from One Buc—people I’d worked with, as well as staff members and coaches I’d never met.

We rode on the Colts buses as we left the celebration and headed to the cemetery. All along the way, cars had pulled to the sides of the road. People stood beside their cars, waving and holding up signs about Jamie and us. I was stunned. It was as if someone had made an announcement letting the entire city know which route we would be taking.

My players marveled over it too. Edgerrin James turned to me and grinned. “Coach, you’re big time to this city.”

“No, Edge. Tampa is big time to
me
.”

The next decision for me was when I should return to Indianapolis and go back to work. Jim Irsay and Bill Polian both told me to feel free to take the rest of the season off. They wanted me to make sure that Lauren and the kids would be okay. Lauren and I were grateful for this support from the Colts management. We talked it over, and we decided I should go back to work.

As painful as it was, we needed to move forward—getting back into our routine was important. Lauren knew me well. Work would help take my mind off my own pain. But I wanted to make sure that Lauren and the kids were as emotionally stable as possible under the circumstances.

We talked about the way this situation had forced us to practice what we preach. I had counseled so many players and others throughout the years, and now it was time to follow my own advice. These were certainly tough times, but our family couldn’t quit living just because times were tough. Lauren and I knew our only option was to trust God and let Him lead us through the pain. Even though we didn’t understand why Jamie had taken his life, our job was to persevere and continue to follow the Lord no matter what.

The Colts were surviving without me; Jim Caldwell had been running the team in my absence. They didn’t need me, but I needed them. I thought back to the messages I had been giving for years. Times will get tough. God doesn’t promise that once we accept Jesus as Lord and Savior we’ll be protected from harm and pain and stress. But He does promise that He’ll be there to lean on during those times. I thought it critical that, during this time of my own staggering loss, everyone watching our team see me live out those lessons rather than quit when times were tough.

I returned to work that Thursday. Jim Caldwell called a team meeting to announce that he was handing the reins back to me. Emotions ran high—the guys were extremely warm and welcoming, and I was overwhelmed by their love and support. As a group, we had always leaned on each other in difficult times; I needed them now more than ever.

Two days later, we played Arizona in the last game of the season. We were now 13–2, and like that Tampa-Philadelphia game at the end of the 2001 season, the game didn’t mean anything in the standings. Our playoff position had already been decided three weeks earlier.

As we prepared for the pregame introductions, I was concerned. Unlike that night in Tampa in 2003, when I worried how the fans would respond, this time I was worried about how
I
would hold up. When I was introduced, the sound in the stadium was deafening. It was all I could do to keep from crying. I found the fans’ outpouring of support and love to be extremely healing for me.

As we had in the previous game, we rested most of our starters, and our young players gave a tremendous effort. The game came down to the final play. We were leading by four points with the Cardinals at our one yard line on fourth down. They tried a quarterback sneak, and the official signaled a touchdown. Our players thought the quarterback had fumbled before he crossed the goal line—and that we had recovered the ball. Since there was no time left, it would be up to instant replay to decide the game.

The referee, Ron Winter, returned to the field after looking at the video monitor. He began to explain that the ball had come loose, and—

The crowd erupted as the referee overturned the touchdown. We had won the most meaningless—yet at that particular moment in my life, the most incredibly meaningful—game of the season. One of our defensive players, Mike Doss, handed me the game ball, and we exited the field to a very emotional locker room. Even though we hadn’t needed to win the game, the players had wanted to win it for me and my family. It was great for me to be back with them.

We didn’t play the next week because we had a first-round bye in the playoffs. I tried to stay busy, but it was tough. I gave the coaches some time off, but that left me with more time to think about Jamie.

How ironic,
I thought.
Here I am, a spokesman for the All Pro Dad program, helping others be better parents, and my child took his own life.
I figured this would wipe out any credibility I might have had.

But then cards and letters started to roll in again. Many who wrote were parents who had been there, who had felt the same pain, loss, grief, and hopelessness I was feeling. Parents who, like us, were retracing their every step, trying to figure out what went wrong and what they could have done differently. I could tell their letters had been written from the deepest parts of very scarred hearts.

I used to think that teenage suicide was rare because it hadn’t touched many people close to me. The fact is, teenage suicide is all too common. Sadly, those cards and letters we received were just the tip of an iceberg of grieving families who have lived through this. I realized that our young people are hurting—some so deeply that they’re dying.

According to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, over the last four decades suicide rates have tripled for young men and doubled for young women. In 2005, 17 percent of high school kids seriously considered suicide. These kids don’t necessarily have bad parents. Their thoughts of suicide can’t all be explained. Bad things happen in life. Depression happens. All kids are susceptible. African Americans and whites. Hispanics and Native Americans. Kids living with two parents, one parent, or no parents. Those who have turned their lives over to Christ and those who haven’t. No one is immune.

Jamie’s death will never make sense to me, and the pain of losing him will never go away. But in the midst of it all, I truly believe that hope is available to
all
of us—for joy in today and peace in the certainty that heaven’s glory awaits us.

People often ask Lauren and me how we made it through something like the death of our son. Everyone is different, but for me, focusing on the things I knew to be true helped me find the path to recovery. First, I focused on my faith. Two years earlier, former Tampa Bay quarterback Trent Dilfer’s five-year-old son, Trevin, had died. I clearly remember calling Trent and telling him that we were praying for him and that I appreciated his witness and the strength of his faith. Trent and I had been through a lot of ups and downs together, and when Trevin died, Trent was such an encouragement to me. I told him I was certain I wouldn’t be able to handle the death of a child with the kind of grace and courage Trent had shown. His answer was immediate and direct.

“You could, Coach, if you had to. The Lord will give you the strength
at that time
to go through it, because you can’t do it alone.”

When Jamie died, I realized that Trent had been right. God’s strength
is
sufficient. I would need to continue to rely on God’s strength in the days, weeks, and months to follow. As Trent had done for me, I wanted to pass this encouragement on to someone else who might need it someday.

Moreover, I had always said that football was my job but that it was not the most important thing in my life. Jamie’s death had reinforced that. Now I would learn if my faith and my ideals would hold up when put to the test. Over the years, many of my players had faced tragedies—their parents or siblings had died, or they were grieving over miscarriages or caring for sick children.