Winning: From Walk-On to Captain, in Football and Life. Gary Brackett
on the front. Her face was awash in emotions, some seemingly in conflict with each other. She shed a single tear, and we knew something really weird was going on. We never saw Mom cry. In addition to being more than a bit confused, I was just excited to see proof that Dad was still alive. Later, we snuck into my parents’ room to read the letter, still sitting on her dresser. It was from my father, who seemed to be in good spirits. The letter said he had checked into the Veterans Hospital in Martinsburg, West Virginia. He wrote that he loved her and was sorry to have put her in this position all alone with five kids, but that he had to get his mind right. How must Mom have felt when reading this letter? Happy to know that the love of her life was getting better? Surely. But also, she must have felt some bitterness being left alone with all of us. Whatever anger or frustration she felt, she never let us see it. Dad stayed in the hospital for over two years getting treatments for his PTSD. When we first visited, a couple months after the letter’s arrival, a doctor tried to explain to us what Dad was going through.
“This disease changes your Dad’s body’s response to stress. See, our brain tells our body when it should be scared through chemicals that act like signals in our nerves. People who have been through really stressful things, like war, can get those signals mixed up. He has normal responses that are based on an abnormal past. People with this disease think they are back in war when really they are just in the house. That is why he gets so scary sometimes. Because he thinks he has to be.”
As much as the doctor tried to explain things, and he may have done a great job, for an eleven-year-old kid the situation was baffling and frustrating. At that age, you think people get help because they are sick physically. Mental illness just does not make any sense.
In response to the jokes of my peers, I struggled and internally agreed with them at times. People are either crazy or regular, what does that make him? He should be here! He should be at my games.
Now that I’m older, I realize that people usually don’t get help because they are weak, but rather because they want to remain strong. The hospital greatly helped my father; he quit smoking and drinking and became a devout Christian. He was eventually given awards at church for his consistent presence and service as an elder and usher. At home, he was less erratic and more able to control his emotions.
These negative experiences were not all of the man as a father, and after his time in the hospital, Dad’s positives became more evident. Though he never finished high school, he plugged away until he earned his GED. One of the brightest men I knew, he had his PhD in the streets. He was always aware of things around him, and for many neighbors he served as a kind of porch counselor. He sat there in a chair offering opinions, solicited or not, to any who would listen. For some people he was a trusted bank who held on to their checks, a kind of insurance policy against unwise spending. He advised others about legal rights and taxes. He was perhaps most valuable to his fellow veterans and was passionate about getting adequate medical attention for PTSD.
That porch was like a microcosm of the projects, and Dad often joked that he didn’t need TV. “This porch is like a big screen view of everything you need. I don’t need cable. You want fights? Take a look over there to the left. A little inappropriate romance? Look at those two over there. Drugs and violence? All you need is right here from this vantage point.”
If he wasn’t sitting on that porch, he was cooking on his grill. One of Dad’s more lighthearted but avid rules: don’t anyone touch my grill! On holidays he could barely sleep for all his excitement about getting up and getting things going. Often Mom teased him affectionately about finishing his cooking before the guests even arrived. He was punctual about every obligation, a value that continues to serve me well and save me money. After all, a tardy arrival to any NFL meeting or any film session can literally cost thousands.
The affection and gratitude I feel today is a new development. As a young boy, I didn’t understand his methods. Often I was flustered by Dad’s responses to me after games. I’d come home excited,
“You see that, Dad? Two touchdowns and twelve tackles! Did you see? Did ya?”
“Gary, I saw those two missed tackles and that fumble of yours that gave the other team good field position.”
I was upset that he wouldn’t validate my achievements, but I knew he was proud of me. I had overheard him gushing on the phone with his friends, “You ought to see Gary. Can’t nobody stop him, man. That boy of mine has got heart and talent!”
• • • • •
At that age I had a difficult time understanding the contradiction of his words to me and his words about me. The words to me stung, and stayed with me longer. There was ample balm to that sting, though. Our home was not an unloving one, a fact largely due to Mom’s influence.
4
While Dad was always opinionated and often critical, Mom was a source of quiet, steadfast love. Dad always felt somewhat distant. Even the way he looked at us felt removed. With her kids, Mom was as tight as they come. We all knew that Sandra Eileen Brackett was our numberone cheerleader. No matter what other obligations she had, no matter the weather or time, she was always there for us. Someone once told me that we grow into what we see. And what we saw from Mom was a great example of kind, caring, tireless parenthood.
I never really appreciated everything my mother went through and the sacrifices she made so that her children could be successful. When my father was home and we wanted to go out or over to a friend’s house, we would ask my father. He did what many men do and told us, “Wait until your mom gets home.”
I took Dad at his word. When she would pull up in the driveway, I would run outside the house and before she could get out of the car, I’d exclaim, “Mom, can I…” No offers of help with the bags. No questions about her day. No, “happy to see ya, Mom.” And her response was always, “Baby, just give me a minute.” I never understood what the minute signified until I began working a full day’s work and would arrive home to a chorus of requests when all I wanted was a minute to breathe. Even in the face of sometimes self-absorbed children, Mom never said a bad word about anyone. She often urged us away from the sheer idea of negativity, “If you don’t have anything good to say about somebody, don’t say anything at all.” I wish I had that same quality.
After Dad’s episode with Greg and subsequent hospitalization in 1991, things became increasingly tight financially. After all, our household incomes went from two to one. Usually Mom stretched the food to feed everyone. But there were rough weeks when she would glance around the table at the scant portions, and decide to scarf ice instead of eating…all so we could have more. She was so convincing in her decisions: “I’m not hungry tonight. I have no idea where my appetite went. Ya’ll split my share!”
On a daily basis, she was someone whose actions did the speaking. In spite of working full-time at two jobs and raising five kids on her own while our father was in treatment, her spirits and love never flagged or waned. Not only was she always in the stands at her kids’ games, she was also the mother who organized all the other fans and brought cowbells to ring for celebratory moments.
Mom’s most epic scheduling miracle in my eyes took place on opening day of little league baseball. The league had scheduled all of the Brackett children’s games to start around the same time. My sister was playing softball; Grant and I were on the Elite Bakery team together; and my brothers Granville and Greg played on Atlantic Electric. Somehow Mom worked her way between all three fields and was there to see every one of our at-bats! She was even able to talk about it on the car ride home.
“How did you watch me, Grant, Greg, Granville, and Gwen, Mom? You only have two eyes!”
“Oh… a mother’s magic is a powerful thing, honey.”
By watching our activities, Mom supported our interests. But she insisted that we get involved in her