Author Archives: Jerry Gentry

Take the time to sit and watch

Flickers dance in unpredictable directions

Scoot back if too hot

Forward if cool

Add wood

New wood flares, settles down to a smolder

Small pieces flame up and torch big pieces

They need each other

When big pieces lose touch with flame, we move them around

The fire needs us

Limbs small and large point outward randomly, then settle inward

Adding wood clears the yard faster than waiting on decay

Embers are a steady smoldering presence

Fade to gray overnight while we sleep

In Stockholm, between Nationalmuseum (the Swedish national gallery of fine arts) and the Nybroviken Bay waterfront, where tourists board and exit ferries and sightseeing boats, or sip a beer while enjoying the view, rises a gleaming stainless steel 40-foot tall arch.

Created by Chinese artist and human rights activist Ai Weiwei, the artwork, entitled simply “Arch,” resembles a cage with a curved top, its inner walkway shaped like a silhouette of two people embracing.

Many passersby stroll through that opening, amused by their images distorted by the curved, polished, shiny interior, reminiscent of fun-house mirrors that make us comically thin or wide, or weirdly misshape our heads. Children laugh, pointing at their goofy face—or Mom’s or Dad’s.

So it’s fun, but it also can be seen as two people ruining the purpose of a cage: trap people inside; keep outsiders out. The silhouetted figures didn’t merely escape the cage; they broke all the way through it. The shiny surfaces inspire literal and thoughtful reflection. One commentator referred to the “vulnerable gentleness in the curves of the cut-out figures.”  They went on, “The figures that hold each other at the centre of the sculpture, cut out of the bars, remind us of the basic values of equality, trust, empathy, and social responsibility for our fellow human beings.” An embrace is basic humanity, strength in the midst of struggle. Sometimes, it takes an accomplice to accomplish something.

Ai Weiwei, whose conceptual art can be bitingly—but often not overtly—subversive, is internationally praised but has been treated harshly by the Chinese government for criticizing their deficiencies regarding democracy and human rights. In 2011 he was arrested and held for 81 days without charge, generating international protest, then not allowed to leave the country for four years. He has since lived in Germany, England, and Portugal.

After the 8.0-magnitude earthquake in Sichuan province in 2008, Ai led an effort to memorialize the names of over 5,000 children who perished in poorly constructed schools that collapsed, while many nearby buildings remained standing. For the 2013 Venice Biennale, Ai created an installation, entitled “Straight,” composed of 150 tons of twisted, contorted steel rebar clandestinely salvaged from the rubble of schools destroyed by that earthquake. Ai’s team hand-straightened each metal bar.

We happened to be in Venice that summer. The emotional power of the installation is hard to convey, unless you saw it. At first, it looked like a pile of discarded construction metal, but, after reading on an explanatory sign the source of the metal and that Ai was commemorating the lost children, we noticed the bars were arranged to evoke the undulating movement of ocean waves, or perhaps flags waving in the wind. (One of the few structures that remained upright at one of the earthquake-damaged sites was a flagpole topped by a windblown flag.) Waves can be soothing, flags patriotic, and this art turned those thoughts upside down. The mangled-then-straightened steel—visually, metaphorically—holds to account governmental corruption and neglect.

Such is the power of Ai’s art. He can evoke emotion and deep contemplation on the world around us. He creates work that defies the barriers of language. Both “Arch” and “Straight” combine art and activism.

According to Ai, “Arch” was originally about racism and the global refugee crisis caused by regional insecurity. Interpretations changed over the years as issues emerged, such as the U.S. immigration crackdown and the isolation created by the COVID-19 pandemic. Ai said in an interview, “Our world is more uncertain and unstable than any other time during the previous half a century. Against such a backdrop this work is once again a warning and reminder.” He said, “It’s more relevant to us as we all face the challenge of walking out of the cage of our thoughts, life conditions, and wars, to enter the state of peace and health.”

Ai said “Arch” calls for the free passage of all populations, and a world without borders. Like John Lennon’s “Imagine,” (“Imagine there’s no countries. It isn’t hard to do. Nothing to kill or die for… You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I hope someday you’ll join us, and the world will be as one.”) it is idealistic and unrealistic, but provocative. “Arch” evokes visions of our shared striving for human connection, freedom, and peace.

“Art should be something that liberates your soul, provokes the imagination and encourages people to go further.” – Keith Haring, New York City graffiti artist

Here’s how sometimes life throws you a curve: I don’t play golf, but I have “golfer’s elbow.”

That’s the way the ball bounces. You can’t win ‘em all.

I’m going to step up to the plate and not pull any punches and say: Someone dropped the ball in naming that condition. Whoever did so may talk a good game but didn’t keep their eye on the ball.

Perhaps by naming lateral epicondylitis as “tennis elbow,” they thought they hit a winner, knocked it out of the park, made a gutsy play, and were in a league of their own, but this time they missed a chip shot. A gimme. Couldn’t buy a basket. Made an unforced error.

Maybe there were off-field distractions.

To whoever tossed this misnomer: The ball’s in your court. You’re on the hot seat. So maintain your composure, get your head in the game, fire on all cylinders, and get back on track. Oh, and give 110%.

Stranger things have happened.

Drawing the face-down lettered tiles—unless you cheat—is random. So sometimes you get a bad hand. Keep playing. 

Blank is valuable. 

Think beyond the immediate move. 

Sometimes, gain less now to gain more later. 

Versatility matters. 

That which pairs well with another gains much. 

Using many letters is often less valuable than using fewer. Unless you play all your letters and make a fresh start. 

Letters huddled together pack a wallop.  

It’s not only what tiles you play that matters but what you leave behind. 

You need both vocabulary and math. 

Too many i’s makes play difficult. 

Sometimes it’s ok to take a deep breath and concede a game that has become unwinnable. It happens. There will be another one.

The cathedral  in Freiburg, western Germany, much like the Packers’ Lambeau Field in Green Bay, Wisconsin, looms vastly out of proportion to the city around it. Both cities have modest populations but enormous edifices that dwarf surrounding buildings and attract gawking tourists from around the world. Both have statues of revered figures. You can pay to tour them both. One is overtly religious; one may as well be.

Construction on the Freiburg cathedral started around 1200 in the late-Romanesque style (towering round arches, massive stone and brickwork, small windows, thick walls) and was later finished in the Gothic style (pointed arches, stained-glass windows, flying buttresses, ribbed vaults, and spires). Its construction took over 300 years, so most builders and designers never saw the finished structure.

Its most prominent feature is the 380-foot tall ornate spire, the first spire in the history of Gothic architecture built with open lattice. Bottom to the highest viewing platform open to tourists is 335 steps.

Among the cathedral’s 19 bells, 16 of them in the tower, the oldest and most famous is the 750-year-old, 3-ton “Hosanna bell,” one of Germany’s oldest Angelus bells, which are rung before the traditional Catholic Angelus prayer service (a celebration of the Incarnation of Jesus) and each year on 27 November in remembrance of fierce Allied bombing raids in 1944. The Hosanna’s ring is said to be “unmistakable: melancholic, loud, and clear.”

The cathedral survived the air raids, which left nearly all of the old part of the city around it in rubble. The tower vibrated violently but held firm due to the secure lead anchors firmly binding its sections. The windows had been removed from the spire prior to the bombing and also suffered no damage. It is built to last.

The cathedral has one of the world’s largest “Lenten veils”  (also known as “fasting cloth”), at 10×12 meters. It was created in 1612 and features a large painted Crucifixion scene. The largest in Europe, it has been displayed for the last 400 years from Ash Wednesday until Holy Wednesday (which commemorates the Bargain of Judas as the betrayer of Jesus—also called Spy Wednesday). It was customary in Europe during the Middle Ages for the veil to completely separate the main altar (chancel) from the rest of the church. Some say that placement was for the congregation to focus on listening as they could not see the liturgy being performed—a form of “visual penance”—to remind Christians of their sinfulness and to encourage repentance. See no liturgy, sense your guilt. Nowadays, Lenten veils are utilized in some parts of Austria and Germany, more to indicate the beginning of Lent and less to block the view of the chancel. In 2003, the Freiburg Lenten cloth was repaired and given a supportive backing and now weighs over a ton. Moving it requires special machinery.

The cathedral’s high altar features a multi-panel painting by prominent German Renaissance artist Hans Baldung, who created altarpieces for many cathedrals. (He was also infamous for painting scary witches in forests casting evil spells, which contributed to witch hunts in the 16th and 17th centuries.) The altarpiece and the cathedral itself are dedicated to the Virgin Mary.

External masonry features, such as gargoyles (there are 91), are damaged by weathering and pollution, so the cathedral is a continuous repair site. One gargoyle bows toward the building and points its rear end at the city council building, and, according to a legend, was created by a disgruntled stonemason who was not paid the amount he expected by the council, which is forever saluted rudely. There is a spout for water to pour downward where you-know-what would be excreted from that part of an actual person. Next to it is one with its head leaned forward, buried in a book, a drainpipe emerging from the top of its head. Gargoyles direct water away from the building and were thought to ward off evil spirits—which, according to the city’s website, “is why many of these eerie creatures are depicted with tortured, screaming mouths.” (One theory is that the mooning gargoyle keeps the devil at bay with its outward facing posterior.)

According to an economic analysis of cathedral building, in the years 700-1500, such construction was “the expression of many impulses: religious, economic, political, artistic and cultural…. They required enterprise, planning and organization of a high order, substantial inputs of capital and labour (skilled and unskilled), and assemblage of impressive quantities of resources – stone, brick, lime and sand, timber, iron, lead, copper, glass and much else…. Prosperity and confidence in the future were good for church building.”  Economic good times featured robust cathedral construction, and technological advancement brought new features, plus more jobs and income.

Even in the religious realm, size matters. A cathedral, the bishop’s home church, is often a town’s most imposing building and one of its most ancient. It’s the central church of a diocese, indicative of the bishop’s high status in the hierarchy and is larger than parish churches led by mere priests. The large, prominent bishop’s chair is situated above both laity and other clergy.

Cathedrals are there for God’s (and the bishop’s) glory but are woven into the secular community around it. Cathedrals attract tourist eyeballs (like mine) and money. In the bustling courtyard surrounding the Freiburg cathedral, vendors sell art, crafts, souvenirs, and clothing. Restaurants serve diners on nearby streets. Cathedrals have served as sites for the staging of non-religious events, such as coronations, and as tombs for princes. Some display trophies celebrating state power, like the griffin atop the east gable of the cathedral of Pisa, a large gilded bronze statue of the mythical beast created to memorialize naval victories in the Western Mediterranean.

I felt appropriately awed by European cathedrals, their spacious interiors and massive building materials. How, without modern equipment, did they elevate impossibly heavy stones and bells so high? Meticulously crafted and brilliantly colored stained glass windows glimmered. I admired artwork by famous painters, as if in a museum. Cathedrals felt like special spaces: human ingenuity, wealth, and strength commandeered to foster awe of the divine.

Yet I also felt like an outsider. While I have stretched beyond my Christian origins to appreciate beliefs and practices different from mine and while I felt the sacredness of each cathedral, the Mississippi Baptist inside me lurked. In my formative years, church buildings were almost irrelevant. We wanted them to keep the rain off, look nice, and function well (I really wished my church had a gymnasium), but a painting by an accomplished artist would have been a distraction from focusing on Jesus. That kind of money could send missionaries to spread the Gospel in a far-off land. Our stained glass windows were mass produced, plain, with no interesting designs, ordinary collages of colors. We valued solid construction, comfortable pews, and reliable air conditioning (think Mississippi in July). The building was valued mainly according to whether it allowed heartfelt worship to happen inside it.

A gargoyle? That would have been too close to a pagan idol. Psalm 115 says idols are useless and deceptive, and #1 of the Ten Commandment warns against creating a “carved image” and tersely declares God is “a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and the fourth generation of those who hate me.” Who wants to risk jealousy-driven iniquity on their grandchildren and great-grandchildren?

Of course, we Baptists have our own style of hierarchy and ways of exerting power (often while feigning humility), but my church didn’t enshrine status in the architecture. The pastor (my father) didn’t even have a reserved parking spot, much less his own perch above the congregation.

What counted for us was this: Was Jesus your Lord and Savior? Had you genuinely—not because everyone else in your town did or because your parents hoped you would—invited Jesus into your heart? You could do that anywhere, in any structure, religious or not, or while swimming in a pond. If you hadn’t, you were bound for eternal torture in hell and your life had no meaning (even if you thought it did).

I grew up prejudiced against formal, liturgical worship styles commonly used in cathedrals—with their pre-written prayers and historical statements of faith. To us, prayers had to be spontaneous or they weren’t genuine. In my provincial mind, “liturgy,” with its whiff of rote recitation, was alien to inspirational worship. Only later did I appreciate how liturgy can express holiness and reverence, can remind us of the mystery of faith, that there are things we can’t explain, yet we live faithfully anyway.

I visited the cathedrals more for historical and artistic reasons than religious. I can’t say I felt very spiritual in them.

Until something happened at the fabulous Strasbourg cathedral, the Cathédrale Notre-Dame-de-Strasbourg.

For 227 years, it was said to be the tallest building in the world and is now the world’s sixth tallest church. Hundreds of exquisite sculptured figures with fine detail cover the front façade, depicting scores of biblical scenes and other significant religious events, such as the martyrdom of Saint Laurent (allegedly, for insulting a prefect). The color of the exterior’s reddish-pink sandstone changes according to the time of day and the color of the sky. Like that of Freiburg, its towering spire is elegant and intricate. Its Renaissance astronomical clock (its mechanism dates from 1842) features a parade by the apostles every day at half past noon. The place is a marvel.

I wandered the interior taking pictures and admiring. I watched—and photographed—people lighting candles. The usual splendid features—altars, paintings, sculptures, architectural designs—impressed, as intended. I barely noticed the actual worship service at the front, until I ambled closer.  The front pews were packed with young adults, which seemed unusual. There was a palpable energy I didn’t associate with a staid, ornate cathedral. When the service ended, a security guard efficiently—and firmly—escorted everyone away from the front.

My German friend Andrea and I walked outside where we were surrounded by the crowd of young adults who had been at the front of the cathedral and had exited around us. They spontaneously  began singing songs of praise. Andrea, who speaks French, asked someone about the gathering, and she was told it was the culmination of a multi-day pilgrimage. They had walked from town to town, ending in Strasbourg, along the way attending spiritual meetings to deepen their faith, to experience, as they told Andrea, “the joy of the Lord.”

Joyful indeed, they smiled and hugged, celebrating the journey’s end. The singing was full and exuberant, their ebullient mood infectious. There was no energetic or frenetic shouting that I associated with Protestant charismatic worship. It was a measured exuberance. This time, being present at a cathedral—an ancient structure that I mostly associated with secular history and practices foreign to my Baptist roots—stirred my spirit. Next to the old gigantic stones, my heart was warmed. I cried tears of fond memory. The fervent faith of youth can be naively hopeful and sunny (pray and the world will bend to your prayers), but it also can be inspiring. The Spirit punctured through my assumptions and experiences, and touched me.

The day before Georgia Tech faced the Air Force Academy Falcons at Falcon Field in November, 1978, was sunny and clear, in the 50s. Tech radio engineer and producer John Kramer toured the campus on that gorgeous day, the eastern edge of the Rocky Mountains in sight, most spectacularly Pikes Peak. “We toured the fieldhouse,” he said “which blew me away, then the huge cathedral.” Designed with spaces for several religious traditions, the cathedral, a popular Colorado tourist attraction, features seventeen 150-foot-tall, glass and aluminum spires that jut dramatically to the sky. Sunlight filters through colorful stained glass. Granite front steps lead to glistening aluminum doors with a golden finish. Kramer, a former Air Force cadet, said, “It was stunning and beautiful. I was so damn proud.” He strolled the campus with no thought of the weather.

Tech head coach Pepper Rodgers, an Air Force quarterbacks coach early in his career, warned players not to look past the 3-6 Falcons to season-ending contests against formidable foes Notre Dame and Georgia. Military academy teams play hard and intelligent football, are disciplined, and won’t give up. He said they will have plenty of oxygen on the sideline to cope with the thin-air altitude of 6,035 feet (compared to Atlanta’s oxygen-rich 738). Constitution reporter David Davidson said when he walked from the press box down to the field, he had to pause to breathe deeply. Eddie Lee Ivery felt it, too. “I couldn’t get my breath,” he said. (According to Air Force assistant coach Dick Ellis, that’s what the home team wanted. When the visiting team left their locker room to enter the field, an ominous sign declared, “Welcome to Air Force, Altitude 6,035 Feet.”) Tech were well prepared for the conditions, Rodgers assured them.

Tech radio color commentator Kim King settled into his hotel room then went for a jog, admiring the Rockies, and thought, “Tomorrow is going to be a beautiful football day.” Trainer Ken Smith recalled flying to Denver and switching to a small plane. The pilot said not to worry about the Colorado Springs weather. A pilot would know, right? When Tech conducted Friday’s walk-through on the field, Rodgers chatted with Ellis and commented on the sparkling weather. Ellis warned him the weather sometimes changes drastically day to day. Rodgers joked, “Don’t you let any bad weather come in tomorrow.”

However prepared Tech players thought they were, their reaction Saturday morning was bewilderment that they were even going to play. Many—nearly all from the South—thought: They’re going to cancel this game. Lawrence Lowe said assistance coach Norm Van Brocklin said, “They won’t play in this weather.” Ivery said, “I didn’t think we would play either. We looked down on the field from the hotel and saw sweepers scraping a foot of snow off the field and I thought, ‘There ain’t no way we’re going to play this game.’” The machines were deployed twice before the game and again at the half, according to a media report.

Upon awakening, King was shocked see snow driven horizontally by a strong, howling wind, and, he recalled, a foot of snow on the ground. He called Tech play-by-play announcer Al Ciraldo and asked if he had brought sufficiently warm clothes. Neither had, so they drove to Kmart and bought gloves, hats, coats, sweatshirts, and thermal underwear. A Tech equipment manager scrambled to find heaters for the Tech sideline and thermal underwear for the players.

Kent Hill recalled the coaches saying, “The cold is all in your mind,” but Hill noticed the coaches wore extra clothing to keep warm. It apparently wasn’t all in their minds.

“It was so damn cold,” Donnie Sewell remembered, still finding it hard to believe. “I’m from Florida, and I was out there on that frozen field.” Gary Lanier said rags hanging from their belts froze when they got wet. Mike Kelley said with his fingers frozen and the ball rock-hard, “It was painful to take the snap.” Rodney Lee said, “Your hands were like stones and the ball was like a brick. My feet were completely numb. I had no feeling in my toes.” Rodgers’ fifteen-year-old son Kelly traveled to the game and said, “That was the coldest I’ve ever been. The cold is all you thought about. That field was like cement. I kept thinking when they get hit and fall to the ground, that’s gonna hurt.”

When Air Force assistant coach Tom Backhus saw the weather, he assumed the cadets could handle the cold but there was “no way these southern Georgia peaches are going to play well. No way. We thought we had an advantage and Ivery wouldn’t run well. But he killed us.”

Kelley’s family traveled from California. They may have wished they had stayed home. “They stayed the whole game,” he said. “They froze their patooties off. My grandpa was out there. They were covered in blankets. It was brutal.” Also shivering in the stands were representatives of the Tangerine Bowl, held in Orlando, Florida. Average afternoon temperature in November: 78°.

Tech defensive end Lance Skelton said he couldn’t feel his fingers and toes. When he exited the field to the sidelines, someone draped a big coat over him, but, he said, “The coats were frozen. It was like covering yourself in ice. We were miserable.” Marvin Dyett said one player was bleeding but didn’t know because his fingers were numb. According to Lowe, Van Brocklin told them to keep their feet warm by putting on a sock, wrapping it in plastic, then putting on another sock. But the feet of some players began to sweat, which froze.

 Air Force defensive back Charles Shugg said, “It was the coldest game I’ve ever played. It was a penetrating cold. We were used to being in cold weather, but it was so cold there weren’t many fans in the stadium. We were wrapping our feet in Saran Wrap inside our shoes, but the defensive backs coach was old school. He wouldn’t let us use heaters or gloves. We wore extra T-shirts, but that’s about it. It was brutal.”

Non-football-player cadets were required to attend games and to wear jackets and ties, regardless of the weather. They could wear an overcoat but not heavy-duty cold weather gear that a day like that called for, and, up in the stands, they were more exposed to the wind than players below. To ease their misery, they rotated in and out of the heated bathrooms.

Air Force linebacker Bill Becker was injured and watched the game from the sidelines, almost wishing he were playing to generate some heat. He said. “It was cold to just sit.” On the other hand: “For the guys on field, it hurt even more to be hit or to hit somebody. The turf was unforgiving. It was like falling on concrete. We kept thinking, ‘Can we have this over with now?’” Air Force fullback Steve Drewnowski said, “It was the coldest game I ever played. You’d put your hands down to the ground and your fingers almost get frost bite.” The only time he recalled being colder: when he flew scientists to Antarctica. Offensive coordinator Ken Hatfield said he gave gloves to backs and receivers, who removed them because they couldn’t feel anything anyway.

Jim Bowman, Director of Recruiting for Air Force, who had experienced twenty winters in Colorado Springs, watched the game from the press box. “It was terrible,” he said, “the worst weather I remember, and we had some bad weather. I was thinking, ‘Are you kidding? Are we playing in this?’”

King performed his usual pre-broadcast ritual: walk on the field to see the view from the ground and take in the atmosphere, to help him convey the scene to the radio audience. The ground was frozen. The fierce wind stung his eyes. He slid his feet gingerly to keep from slipping. He walked about 15 yards and thought, “This is ridiculous.” He reported to Ciraldo back in the press box, “It’s going to be hard to run or pass. I bet it’s a 3 to nothing game. The first team to kick a field goal wins.” He was unimaginably wrong, and footing actually turned out to be no problem. Ivery said the ground was slippery before the game, but after the snow was cleared, cleats were able to grip the turf fine.

Reports on the amount of snowfall were inconsistent. Some media said there was a light snow, but at least one newspaper reported the snow removal equipment could barely keep up with the snowfall. Herrington recalled snowplows removing snow before the game and snow blowers clearing off the line markers at halftime. Some players described lots of snow. (Not Drewnowski, who said, “I don’t think it snowed that day. I’m from New England. That’s not really snow.) Rodgers’ son Kelly said there was only “a remnant of snow.” Matt Rank recalled only snow flurries. Media pictures and one brief video clip from the game show little snow on the field. Perhaps there was snow piled up off-field and out of camera view? The National Weather Service archive shows no snow all week and only .6” on gameday. Perhaps memory of a dreadfully cold day exaggerates the amount of snow. Whether because the snow had been removed or little actually fell, what made the players miserable and sapped their motivation was the freezing temperature, rock-hard turf, and strong, vicious wind. When the game started, it was 20°, and the whipping wind made the wind chill factor zero. Or thereabouts. One Denver reporter wrote that the wind chill factor was 20 below. Not true, but nobody there would fault him for exaggerating.

But Air Force had a bigger problem than weather: Eddie Lee Ivery. Sewell said, “We kept running the same damn play, and they couldn’t stop him.” Air Force quarterback Dave Ziebart, who said it was “the worst weather in my four years at Air Force,” said of Ivery “I knew a lot of tough guys there, but he played just as well in the fourth quarter as early in the game.”

And Ziebart didn’t know about the throwing up.

It’s almost impossible to exaggerate how much Bart Starr was adored and admired in Green Bay. Not merely a Hall-of-Fame superstar and 2-time Super Bowl MVP who led the Packers to 5 championships, Starr—a devout Christian who supported many charities—engendered a mythology of greatness and saintliness. He had championship rings—and a halo. Almost everybody in tiny Green Bay had a heartwarming Starr story: words of encouragement, acts of kindness, patience with autograph-demanding fans.

One man came to Starr’s home, where Starr was meeting with a coach, wanting an autograph for his father, who waited in the car, and, over the man’s objections, Starr left the meeting to chat with the enthralled fan.

Another said: “I met Bart in Milwaukee, and he said, ‘Next time you’re in Green Bay, drop by for a Coca-Cola.’”

(Everyone called him “Bart.”)

“My brother was driving over the river bridge, and it was 20 below, and his car broke down, and the first one to stop to help was Bart.”

And on and on.

Players and colleagues over many years uniformly used variations of one phrase to describe him: “He was a fine human being.”

          After Starr’s glory seasons as a player, the Packers suffered years of embarrassing mediocrity. The city’s moniker, “Titletown,” became a mocking taunt. Despite Starr having no head coaching experience, a powerful movement grew in Green Bay for the Packers to hire Starr. Citizen-by-citizen, Packers fans collectively decided Starr, whose coaching experience was only 1 season as Packers quarterbacks coach (1972, when they won the division—a faint sign of hopefulness), could translate his championship aura and quarterbacking-on-the-field success to on-the-sidelines coaching success and restore the quaint town’s tarnished image. The slogan “Fresh Start With Bart” proliferated all over town: bumper stickers, handmade signs fluttering in Lambeau Field stands. It was everywhere.

One fan said, “He was a smart, take-charge guy. We assumed he was everything we needed in a head coach. I thought his lack of experience would be overtaken by his status.”

Another fan said, “We thought the football gods would smile on us.”

Packers historian Cliff Christl said, “That was almost a case where the fans hired the coach.”

The Packers executive committee, according to former Packers historian Lee Remmel, “felt they had no choice because there was so much groundswell of enthusiasm.” The executive committee was a small group selected from the Packers board of directors, and it ran the team, along with the president, whom they chose. They were all members of the Green Bay community and routinely interacted with these avid Bart Starr-endorsers. In line at the grocery store, one might get a nudge from behind: “You’re going to hire Bart, right?”

All of Starr’s close friends advised he decline the offer, citing his inexperience, his promising business pursuits, and the difficulty of the risky job. But, deeply loyal to the team that let him rise from lowly 17^th-round pick to 5 championships, he said, “They could have cut me, and they didn’t.”

Starr was named the Packers head coach on Christmas Eve, 1974. In a photo of that announcement, on the wall behind him and his wife, both smiling broadly, were banners that featured the Packers’ many previous championships. The banners over his shoulder demanded: Put more up here.

Then-corporate general manager Bob Harlan said of the fans’ thrill at Starr’s return to the Packers, “It was almost like Jesus was reborn.”

Through early disappointing seasons, Starr remained confident that with time he would succeed. Starr was not a naturally great player but worked himself into one, and now, he would do that as coach, with his charismatic smile and inspiring talks, steely determination, methodical intellect, championship experience, and character.

He seemed to be the perfect hire.

But he wasn’t.

Years later, at the 2004 unveiling of the Bart Starr statue near Lambeau Field, he thanked the fans for their loyalty and said with a humble smile, “even during the coaching years.” The crowd chuckled nervously.

The 1983 season was inconsistent— inexplicable losses and amazing victories. Mid-season, in the highest scoring and one of the most exciting games in Monday Night Football history, the 3-3 Packers defeated 5-1 defending Super Bowl champion Washington, on a field goal with under a minute to play. The dominating offenses—combining for 1,025 total yards (771 by the pass)—zipped up and down the field. The game featured 6 lead changes, 3 ties, 56 first downs, and an impressive 9.1 yards per offensive play by the Packers. At the final horn, the stadium roared as exultant players ran on the field, taking bows, waving to the championship-starved, frenzied crowd. Starr told them to stay on the field as long as the fans kept cheering.

The team was ecstatic, including running back Eddie Lee Ivery, who decided, what the hell, I’ll celebrate all week. “I was so caught up in the excitement, I didn’t worry about consequences,” he said. “If I’m caught, I have enough money for a good lawyer.”

By this point he was addicted to cocaine and alcohol, plus weed, and several nights that week he indulged lustily. The night before the next game, against Minnesota, he stayed up all night using, and was still high when he committed a crucial fumble on the Vikings’ 2-yard line, a turnover that probably cost the Packers the overtime game. And the playoffs. And Starr’s job.

Ivery said, “Without a doubt, absolutely” being high contributed to his fumble.

The following week Starr confronted Ivery about rumors of his cocaine use. Ivery denied it, and Starr said OK we’ll do a drug test—right now. Ivery turned to leave, paused, realized he was caught, turned back, and confessed. For the rest of his life, Ivery praised Starr for his humane approach. “Bart was concerned about me as a person,” he said, “then a player. He treated me like family.” Starr protected Ivery’s privacy by publicly saying he left the team due to “emotional problems.” Starr wrote a statement for Ivery, and Ivery read it to the press.

The honorable Starr said that if he promises confidentiality but doesn’t deliver, “They won’t come to us with their problems.” Unlike many coaches, Starr wanted to know their problems. Starr never divulged how the Packers learned of Ivery’s drug use. When the press finally discovered it, Ivery released a statement thanking Starr for his support and saying he prayed for forgiveness.

The Packers arranged outpatient counseling. Ivery said, “I talked to the counselor high. I lied to him and everyone else. They did drug tests, and I used someone else’s pee, twice.” But he eventually failed a test, and in a meeting with Starr, Ivery lied: “I told him I had it under control, but when I walked out the door, I started crying. I went back in and said, ‘Yes, I have a problem.’”

The Packers paid for 4 weeks of residential treatment at the Hazelden Clinic in Minnesota. “For me,” Ivery said, “Hazelden was 28 days of vacation. I didn’t go to fix my problem. I went to save my job. I didn’t think I had a problem. The Packers still paid me while I was there, so I said, ‘Heck yeah I’ll go.’ I thought, ‘I don’t belong here. I have it under control.” Those losers belonged there, but not him. He enumerated the reasons: “I’m still married. I haven’t lost my cars, pawned belongings, or lost my house. One guy there was paralyzed. Not me.” Ivery convinced a cafeteria worker to bring him weed. “I smoked a joint with her and her boyfriend,” he said. “I went in dirty, and I left dirty.”

But he convinced everyone that Hazelden worked, and that he was drug free. Flying first class back to Green Bay, he ordered a gin and tonic. The team’s top rusher, he missed the rest of the season.

Perhaps one reason Starr was so compassionate is that he knew the agonizing hold that addiction can have on a beloved person. His own younger son, Brett, a few years younger than Ivery, was also addicted to cocaine—the Starr family’s deepest anguish. They—like, eventually, Ivery’s family—experienced years of hopes and disappointments; lies, deceptions, missed family gatherings. Brett would call home, sobbing, apologize, commit to recovery, renew his faith in God, and they would hope, desperately, then he would disappoint them. Repeatedly.

Starr literally treated Ivery like family.

Ivery began using at home in the basement. “I got paranoid about getting caught,” he said, “so I did it down there.” His wife, Anna, wasn’t fooled. “I lied my way out of it,” Ivery said. “I pretended I was down there playing with the dog.” His alcohol consumption was copious. “By then,” he said, “I drank to get drunk. I crossed that ‘imaginary white line.’”

The Packers needed to win the 1983 season’s last game to make the playoffs (which means if they had won the Minnesota game in which Ivery fumbled at the 2, they would already be playoff-bound). But, after leading late, they lost the last game on a field goal with 10 seconds to play. Early the next morning, the Packers president, Judge Robert Parins, tersely fired the legendary Starr. No, “Thank you for 26 years of service…” No, “We’ve come to the difficult decision….” Just, “We’re letting you go.” Afterwards, a shocked and furious Starr closed his office door and wept.

Quarterback Lynn Dickey groused, “He fired him like he was a towel boy. That was horrible.”

Christl said Starr arrived with little experience and “left as a coach who was loved and respected, who remained true to his character, but he didn’t win enough games.” In the NFL, you can be dedicated and compassionate; you can be idolized and deified, but if you don’t win, you’re out.

In 9 years, Starr had only 2 winning seasons and 1 playoff appearance. Only once did they win 4 consecutive games. While Packers fans knew this firing might happen, given Starr’s record, a melancholy pall clouded Green Bay. One fan said, “It was like firing Jesus.”

Packers historian Lee Remmell said, “There was such a feeling of sadness. He was a gentleman, and he tried so hard. He lost sleep, and winning still didn’t happen.”

In his final press conference, a disappointed and emotional Starr quoted Theodore Roosevelt: It’s “not the critic who counts” but “the man in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood….” You can fault me, Starr implied, but I was in the arena, competing. The gentlemanly Starr graciously thanked the Packers for hiring him. He thanked the fans, players, coaches, and staff, from trainers to secretaries. He declared he was still the Packers’ “number one fan” because “no one has more of his heart and soul in this organization.”

He concluded by saying there was some good he had done that perhaps atoned for the disappointing results, and the example he gave was his relationship with Eddie Lee Ivery. He said he had talked with Ivery about a “particular situation” and challenged him to become the player he had the capacity to be. Ivery said he wasn’t sure he could do that without Starr but promised he would. Starr said to the press, “Maybe some of those things make it worthwhile.”

For Starr, his humane way of dealing with people made up for the lack of victories, and the relationship that came to mind at his farewell news conference, out of all the players that Hall-of-Famer Starr had coached, all his coaching colleagues, all the fans he had treated with kindness, was his with Ivery. The player whose fumble—and absence for the rest of the season as their best rusher—was a key reason the Packers missed the playoffs, which cost Starr his job.

In his farewell to Green Bay as coach, the man whose son was struggling with addiction concluded with a touching moment aching for hope. Starr placed faith in compassionate human connection. Starr said that just a few moments before that news conference, he and Ivery had “exchanged a few tears and embraced.” A despondent Ivery told Starr he had never had a father, and Starr replied, “You have one now.”

On September 2, 1979, Eddie Lee Ivery entered Soldier Field to compete against the Chicago Bears in his first game as a professional football player. The playing field was topped with an early type of artificial turf that most players didn’t like, although place kickers did. Hall of Fame kicker Jan Stenerud, who played most of his career for the Kansas City Chiefs (He scored their first six points in their victorious 1970 Super Bowl), then played for the Packers 1980-83, loved the surface. It never got muddy and provided sure footing. “For a kicker it was easier,” he said, “because many natural grass fields late in the season were muddy and slippery with little grass left, and I would wear mud cleats on my left (non-kicking) foot. But artificial turf fields looked like a beautiful golf course fairway.”

That turf helped Stenerud when he planted that left foot because the turf gripped football shoe cleats tighter than natural grass. In the lingo of the science of synthetic surfaces, as described in a National Institutes of Health report, synthetic turf lacks the ability to “divot,” the “complete shearing or removal of the turf/root system from the remainder of the root zone.” That “cleat-release mechanism” of natural turf is better for a football player’s leg joints because the foot is “released” from the grass in tandem with the movement of the player’s leg and is thus less likely to cause a “potentially injurious overload situation,” as when a player streaking down field plants a foot and quickly changes direction—the exact move that made Ivery able to buy him and his wife Mercedes Benzes. Synthetic surfaces “have the capacity to generate greater shear force and torque on the foot and hence throughout the lower extremity.” So there is solid belief (though not conclusive evidence for any particular injury) that football players were more likely to be injured on the fake stuff—even if there was no contact with another player. The NIH report concluded, “Studies that focus on lower extremity injuries caused by a twisting or shearing mechanism typically show greater rates of injury on synthetic versus natural turf.”

(Plus, synthetic turf in 1979 had a layer of asphalt beneath it, and the surface was more like carpet, and less imitative of swaying blades of grass as with later synthetic turf, which made skin abrasions more likely—if a player hit the ground and skidded. Ouch. And surface temperatures on early synthetic turf could be as much as 80° hotter than on grass. Whew.)

Packers center Larry McCarren said, “Those early turf fields were brutal. The traction was too good, and Soldier Field was never known for having the best turf.”

Onto that field Ivery trotted for his first professional game. It was great football weather: cool and sunny. Packers and Bears veteran players sensed their long rivalry in their guts, each combatant eager to savor a satisfying victory. Thousands of rabid Bears fans shouted and chanted for an opening day win. “You couldn’t ask for a better day,” Ivery said.

The Bears offense was led by future Hall of Fame running back Walter Payton. Throughout Ivery’s career, when his team’s defense was on the field, he usually rested or conferred with players and coaches. But when opposing a team with a great running back, Ivery became almost an excited fan watching an idol, toes to the sidelines, observing intently and admiringly. “I wanted to learn from them,” he says. “Tony Dorsett, Earl Campbell, Walter Payton. I didn’t sit. Dorsett was smooth and quick. Campbell—I just hoped our defense could contain him. I was amazed. They were exciting. I would think, ‘Wow.’” When the Bears had the ball, Ivery, for the first time in his life, got to watch Payton from the sidelines where he could see up close the moves, speed, and strength of one of the very best.

Dick Stockton and Johnny Morris, the television broadcast announcers, noted the Packers’ Bart Starr had not defeated the Bears in Chicago as head coach. Starr, who had led the Packers to so much glory as a quarterback on the field, had so far had mediocre results and no playoff appearances in his 4 years as head coach. The Packers believed Ivery was a key to returning Green Bay to the pinnacle of the NFL. Anticipating Ivery’s debut, the announcers said Green Bay’s first-round draft pick was “the one to watch.” They said it was a “courtesy” that returning fullback Barty Smith started the game and that they would see a lot of Ivery. Clearly, they had been briefed on the Packers’ effusive enthusiasm for their hotshot rookie.

When the 1979 NFL draft had taken place, Packers Director of Player Personnel Lee Corrick was thrilled that Ivery, who played tailback at Georgia Tech, was still available at #15. He had seen Ivery on film and in person and observed, “When you think you have him down, he can explode out of there.” He vividly recalled a University of Miami game in which Ivery made an acrobatic over-the-head pass reception and gained over 100 rushing yards, more by breaking tackles than outrunning defenders. “He breaks tackles like a fullback,” Corrick gushed. “I thought he was a heck of a steal. I didn’t think he would fall that far. He had great balance, elusiveness, strength. He was a heck of a receiver. He could block. Eddie Lee fit all the criteria for what you’d want in that position, and they don’t come along that often. And he was a class kid from a class university.”

Packers historian Lee Remmel said, “I told Eddie Lee he was the finest Green Bay running back we had ever drafted.”

 Veteran Packers players knew when they saw him practice that he was what the team desperately needed. When McCarren, who played center 12 years for the Packers and made 2 Pro Bowls, saw Ivery play, he thought, “That is what a big-time running back is like. The speed with which he hit the hole, his instincts to find a hole. If I’m thinking my block wasn’t good enough, hoping the back could get through the line, Eddie Lee, well, he would get through, and he’s 10 yards down field. It was a different level of excellence. I felt, this kid is special. I had the experience to know, and I thought this guy has the rare mystical ‘it,’ the rare mystical it, who could be a difference maker, and there’s not a lot of them.”

Veteran quarterback Lynn Dickey, who had known nothing about Ivery before he arrived in Green Bay, said he was just another rookie to him— until he saw him in action. He was astounded. He said to teammates, “That kid is unbelievable. He’s quick and fast, has great hands. He’s picking up the offense fast. This guy is going to be something. He’s everything you want. You just don’t see guys like that come along.” He thought, “This guy is going to set records we can’t even believe.”

Backup quarterback David Whitehurst said, “He just glided. He was so smooth. He made cuts, would give the old lift-leg fake, so smooth. He didn’t have a quick cut like Barry Sanders, but would glide through the line. He made catching the ball look like he had a baseball glove on and the ball became a part of his hand. He could catch the ball not even looking at it. He’d see it coming, take his eye off it, and catch the ball cleanly every time. He was fantastic one on one. If there was an option route, one on one he’d win every time. He glided through the route, then suddenly he was wide open. His vision was unbelievable.”

In preseason games, Ivery had led the Packers in rushing yards and running-back receiving yards. He impressed with his ability both to power through the middle and speed around the end. In his first weekly predictions of the 1979 season CBS sports commentator Jimmy “The Greek” Snyder picked Green Bay to win the Bears game and mentioned the running game had much improved with the addition of Ivery. Several football commentators said he would be in contention for Rookie of the Year.

When Ivery entered the game in Green Bay’s third offensive possession, the announcers mentioned it like they were introducing a new star. “We knew it was a matter of time” before Ivery became a regular running back, Stockton said, and added that he broke all Georgia Tech’s rushing records and is a “quick, hard runner who can go to the outside.” On his first carry he gained 7 yards, but the play was nullified by a penalty. The next play he was hit after gaining 4 yards, then spun from the tackler’s grasp to gain two more—a classic Ivery move. Stockton noted, “It takes a whole bunch of blue shirts to bring him down.”

On the next Packers possession, Eddie Lee’s block helped Terdell Middleton gain 7 yards. On 2^nd down and 4, Ivery powered through tacklers for 6 yards for a first down. Stockton commented, “So far, I like what I see of that fella. He seems to be tough to bring down.” Morris added, “Anyone who can gain 356 yards can run the football. He has good hands, is a good blocker. He’s not real big for a power back, but he plays like he’s bigger.”

On 3^rd down and 27, the Packers’ at their own 15-yard line, after a penalty followed by a quarterback sack, on what is usually a pass play, the quarterback handed the ball to Ivery. He was hit at the line of scrimmage, spun to his left (how many times had Georgia Tech fans seen that?) and broke free using his power and speed. At the 25, he faced a defensive back—and he saw a Green Bay blocker behind that defender and no other defender close enough to stop him. The thought flashed in his head: In my first game as a professional football player I’m going to get past him—one tackler, especially a defensive back, rarely brought him down—score an 85-yard touchdown on Walter Payton’s home field, and gain over 100 yards before halftime. This was going to be a spectacular introduction of one Eddie Lee Ivery to the NFL. All he had to do was get past one small defensive back—which he did routinely—follow his blocker, and he’s gone.

He faked left then ran right. This move was what had made him a star in high school and college, what the Packers envisioned would propel him to stardom—and the team pulled along with him—starting with his very first game against the team with one of the NFL’s greatest running backs. He could change his direction, lose very little speed, then quickly re-accelerate. As he had done many times before, he would leave a defender behind and race downfield. His cut was normally so swift and deceptive that would-be tacklers often missed him once they had committed to a direction as they neared him, or he would hit them at an angle that prevented them from grasping him effectively, bounce or spin free, and away he would go.

But as he cut back to his right, planting his left foot, he stumbled and fell, hitting a defender on his way to the ground. On Soldier Fields’ artificial turf, there was no divot, no tearing away of grass to release his cleated shoe. Because his left knee buckled, he had no power or speed to push past the defender, as he had intended. The pain in his knee was so great—the worst pain he had ever felt— he screamed and let the ball go as he fell, grasping his knee. “Damn the ball,” he thought. In the frenzy around him, the Bears recovered the fumble, and Ivery lay face down, barely moving except for tapping his right foot nervously on the cursed artificial turf. Ivery writhed and sobbed. The tears, he says, were from the pain, not the sadness of possibly being unable to play.

Green Bay Press Gazette reporter Don Langenkamp had a direct view of Ivery, and he cringed as he saw the injury take place: “I, very clearly, could see that knee coming apart. It was horrible. It’s so tragic because he had greatness. From then on, watching him, you winced, worried it would come apart again. If you saw it, it never leaves your mind.”

In the stands was Ivery’s cousin Jerry Ivery, who attended with his uncle Austin Ivery, who lived in Chicago and worked as an Army recruiter. Jerry’s heart sank. Jerry, who grew up next door to Eddie Lee, was so familiar with Eddie Lee’s body movements and style that he knew immediately something was wrong. “He went down and grabbed his knee,” he says. “He didn’t fumble much, and when I saw how he fell and how far the ball went, I said, ‘That’s it.'” Somber, Jerry watched and waited.

Years later, when asked who were some of the hardest hitters he faced, Ivery said, “The entire Bears defense. That was the only time I was leery of getting the ball.” But on the play when his knee buckled, no one on that great defense had yet touched him.

Analyst Morris said, “I think he may have pulled a hamstring, or may have a muscle cramp.”

If only it were so.

Ivery had gained 24 yards on 3 carries (8 per). After a commercial break, the broadcast showed him lying on his back, still on the field, both knees bent. Two trainers helped him to his feet and to the sidelines as he limped. A teammate slapped his butt. Stockton said he hoped it’s not serious because the Packers “have a good young ballplayer who was going to help them this year.” Morris added that the Packers were counting on Ivery to “take some of the heat off Middleton who was hurt at the end of last season. So this is a tough break for Green Bay.”

Later in the second quarter the broadcast showed Starr on the sidelines, and behind him Ivery reclined on the bench, grimacing. An ice pack eased the pain somewhat. The announcers said without Ivery, the Packers have no long-gain threat in the backfield. During a play in which Payton ran with the ball, Stockton announced Ivery had a “twisted left knee” and wouldn’t return to the game. Ivery repeatedly picked up the ice pack and looked. Once, he thought it looked fine and tried to walk, but the pain sat him back down. He began to think, “This might be bad.” The team doctor told him it might be a sprained ligament, and he wondered, “What the hell is that?” and thought he might miss a couple of games.

Walter Payton was terrific: agile, strong, fast, blocked powerfully. His fakes on defenders were quicker than Ivery’s. His style was more to come to a stop and make a very fast cut, rather than change direction in one fluid motion like Ivery. After one Payton block, Morris said, “Look at that block by a scatback runner.” Payton was strong for a scatback. He finished the game with 125 yards rushing and 49 pass receiving. The Bears won 6-3. No touchdowns were scored.

The next day an MRI on Ivery’s knee revealed a torn anterior cruciate ligament and cartilage damage. He would have surgery and miss the rest of his rookie season, after playing less than 2 quarters. Ivery attended the film session on the game, and when they showed the play, Starr said, “Damn, Eddie Lee, you have to hold onto the ball.” They laughed a little, but Ivery could tell Starr was dead serious. “That’s the first time I really understood that professional football is about winning and supply and demand,” he said. “The attitude wasn’t, ‘Poor Eddie Lee got hurt,’ but: ‘We need to win.’ If you fall, hold onto the ball, and then we’ll look at the knee. We were on a drive and could have scored.

“I was on my way to a 100-yard day,” he recalls. (Ivery often recalls specific plays from college and pro in detail.) “We ran a slant, and I was the fullback in the split formation. I ran off tackle to the left. I was supposed to look at the outside leg of the tackle and pick a hole. Our tackle made his block, and the guard picked off the linebacker. All I had to stop me was a little defensive back. I saw him coming and knew what I would do: cut against the grain.

“Now I wish I had just run over him.”

“That was a terrible blow to us,” Starr said. “He gave us speed and quickness at that position that no one else had.” Packers CEO Bob Harlan, remembering past draft fiascos, wondered, “Are we unlucky yet again?” Everyone knew of players who never recovered from that injury. Packers historian Remmel said, “That was hard to swallow. There were very few Eddie Lee Iverys in the NFL.”

While Ivery had been lying on the turf in pain, Payton trotted over from the Bears sideline and said, “God bless you. You’re a hell of a running back.”

The great Walter Payton had been watching him, too.