Philip

By Phil Williams

#12 and final post in my ‘tribute series’ to Bobby Bowden

“Philip”

(a term of endearment?)

I was killing time in a Starbucks near the intersection of I-10 and Thomasville Road on the outskirts of Tallahassee in early 2020, conversing on my cellphone with former teammate Grady King, when he suggested that I simply drop by and see Coach Bowden at his house. Grady said that Coach Bowden still lived at the same place he always had, and that he was sure he would be happy to see me. I thought, “cool”, and figured I could probably still find his house, which I had been to maybe two or three times back in the day. So without a heads up, I drove on over.

I rang the doorbell and some fellow came to the door, I figured maybe a grandson. He looked at me like he was used to folks just stopping by.

“Is Coach Bowden in?” I asked. “I’m one of his former players.”

He sort of looked me up and down.

“Yeah,” I said with a half-smile. “From a long ways back.”

He nodded, left the door slightly ajar, and turned back toward the way he had come.

I whistled on the doorstep for maybe 45 seconds and noticed a movement through the glass door from the same direction that the young man had headed. In a couple of seconds I recognized Coach Bowden as he craned his neck my way while reaching for the doorknob.

The second he saw me, out came, “Philip”, almost as if he had been expecting me.

Folks, I do not remember the last time I saw Coach Bowden, but it had been a while, and I’m pretty sure the years had changed me a bit. That man had coached well over a thousand players, I reckon, and yet he had simply glanced up at me and blurted out my name, albeit my proper name (those who have read my prior posts know I didn’t exactly prefer “Philip”. I’ve always gone by Phil, at least when I’m not in trouble or getting under somebody’s skin. Hmmm).

“Come on in,” he chirped.

I did, and we sat in the den just off from the front door. He balanced his cane against his chair.

The next hour passed by in about thirty minutes, stories and memories being recalled amidst seemingly constant laughter, and I found myself smiling whenever I heard him utter the old familiar “dadgummit”.

“Coach,” I said during one of those moments, “I always wanted to ask you about that play in Cincinnati, when it was fourth down and we were down 21-7 in the fourth quarter, and you called that drag route to me. Do you remember what you did?’ (I wrote about this in an earlier post in this series)

“What did I do?” he asked, his head cocked.

“Remember, you kept ahold of my face mask and sort of yelled at me not to drop it?”

“I did?” he asked. “Well I’ll be darned.” And he laughed away, shaking his head happily. “Sorry about that?” And then, “Did you catch it?”

He winked.

I smiled. “You know I did!” And we laughed some more.

Finally, a few minutes later, I found myself thinking I ought to leave. I mean, Coach was 90 years old and I had literally shown up on his doorstep unannounced an hour ago. Surely he must have wanted me to leave. But he showed no signs of it, so we hung out a few minutes more before I told him I ‘needed’ to get on.

As I write these words, I can see his face, his eyes still clear. I can hear his voice, still strong (though cracked slightly by age), his laughter vibrant and cheerful. Occasionally I have to repeat myself, but maybe only a time or two, his hearing pretty damn good for all those years of exposure to loud, raucous crowds.

As I consider Coach Bowden, as I visualize our moments together, I feel a warmth deep within, coupled with a nostalgic melancholy. My heart swells. Not because he was “THE Bobby Bowden”, a man so many put on a pedestal. No. Adamantly, no! For me it was, and is, different. I do not see him as special in the same way as many seem to do so. I do not idolize, nor pedestalize, this man, such a well known and adored figure.

No. I just somehow sit with him in my heart, with affection, with a gratitude, with a realization that this man cared for me in his own special way. And I do not say these words lightly. I truly felt, and feel, that he loved me.

He saw past my limitations - physically and emotionally - and embraced who I truly was as a young man and athlete, giving back to me as a coach what I fought to give to him and the team as a player. He was always there when I needed him, as I tried to be for him. I realized as I sat with him that this would almost certainly be our last time together while ‘here’, and I treasured those moments in my heart.

“I guess I should go,” I said.

I slowly stood up and he stood up even slower. I stepped over to him and put my hand on his shoulder.

“I love you, Coach,” I said.

To be honest, I don’t remember if he said the words back or not. I didn’t really care. But I think he did say them. And I know he did love me.

As I turned to leave I asked if we could take a picture together. He said okay, but wondered how messed up his hair was. I told him it was fine, though it was a bit wild (see accompanying photo).

It was hard to say goodbye.

I gave him another hug and thanked him for everything.

He hugged me back.

“Thanks for coming to see me,” he said, locking eyes with me.

I could only smile and nod.

And then, with that twinkle in his eye, “Goodbye…Philip.”

The last words I heard him speak.

P.S. Thanks, Grady King, for insisting that I go see him.