{"id":46838,"date":"2018-06-05T10:44:38","date_gmt":"2018-06-05T16:44:38","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.thelocalvoice.net\/oxford\/?p=46838"},"modified":"2018-06-05T10:54:28","modified_gmt":"2018-06-05T16:54:28","slug":"reader-submission-big-thanks-to-coach-brewer","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.thelocalvoice.net\/oxford\/reader-submission-big-thanks-to-coach-brewer\/","title":{"rendered":"Reader Submission: Big Thanks to Coach Brewer"},"content":{"rendered":"

When I heard of the recent passing of Ole Miss legend Billy Brewer, I was instantly transported\u00a0<\/span>to the moment that he and I crossed paths in the summer of 1987. Our brief encounter certainly\u00a0<\/span>made no impact on his life, but it very likely did mine.<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>
Photo via The Clarion Ledger.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

My only true goal that summer was to hang out in Oxford and drop ten pounds. Easy, right? I\u00a0<\/span>was all set to swim laps in the Turner Center pool several times a week, and to run at least two\u00a0<\/span>miles on days I did not swim. In addition, at some point, while suffering from a fit of ludicrous\u00a0<\/span>ambition, I hastily made an insane decision with a friend of mine to ride bikes from Oxford to\u00a0<\/span>Sardis Lake and back at least once a week.<\/span><\/p>\n

To justify being there all summer, and, as an afterthought to all this well-intentioned physical\u00a0<\/span>fitness, I penciled in the easiest collection of credit hours available at the Ole Miss Law School.<\/span><\/p>\n

In an initiation into this summer of athletic frenzy, on the Sunday before our first class, my\u00a0<\/span>cycling partner and I biked Old Taylor Road from Oxford to Taylor Grocery and back.\u00a0<\/span>Unfortunately, we had no idea what time it was when we started, how long it would take to\u00a0<\/span>complete this round trip, and, most importantly, just how dark it would be as we rode the winding\u00a0<\/span>hills back to Oxford. This ill-planned excursion resulted in our calling each other names that\u00a0<\/span>implied impaired cognitive functioning, all the while dodging unsuspecting cars that whizzed\u00a0<\/span>past us. Past the the brilliant Juris Doctor candidates who had no bicycle lights and couldn\u2019t tell\u00a0<\/span>time.<\/span><\/p>\n

Once school actually started, things got worse. The summer law classes exhibited an air of\u00a0<\/span>difficulty I had not intended, potentially causing an unreasonable infringement upon my time.\u00a0<\/span>The limited pool hours were not at all convenient, since classes apparently needed to be\u00a0<\/span>attended. That first ride to Taylor Grocery? It completely whipped my legs. And, alas, I\u00a0<\/span>discovered that, owing to some rare and obscure college town geographical abnormality, the\u00a0<\/span>innocent-looking streets of Oxford presented a couple three hundred thousand more hills to\u00a0<\/span>runners than to drivers of automobiles. Odd, but, scientifically tested by me, and indeed true.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Then one particular day, still early into that summer of 1987, I began preparing for my longest\u00a0<\/span>run to date. Right there in class, I took great care to draw and log a new route onto a dedicated\u00a0<\/span>legal pad, oblivious to the lecture going on around me. After sketching out my challenging\u00a0<\/span>course, I decided that as soon as class was completed, I would drive the route to see if it was a\u00a0<\/span>full five miles, and then run it. I felt proud, and could feel the motivation building.<\/span><\/p>\n

Just as I finished my sketch, the Professor had the gall to call me out by name and ask my\u00a0<\/span>opinion about some random court decision that dealt with Mississippi River Admiralty. While\u00a0<\/span>admittedly not relevant to the issues that had apparently been discussed during my mapping,\u00a0<\/span>the answer I brought forth was, in MY opinion, marginally close to being partially acceptable. In\u00a0<\/span>the Professor\u2019s opinion, however, my rambling deployment of substantial excessiveness sank to\u00a0<\/span>the bottom quicker than a burning barge off of President\u2019s Island. To my further horror, he\u00a0<\/span>loudly disclosed his true feelings regarding my effort to me, and everyone else in the lecture<\/span>
\nhall.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFor the benefit of anyone here, and especially for Mr. McMullan, let it be known that the days of\u00a0<\/span>easy credit hours in summer classes, if they ever existed, are officially over. It will take daily\u00a0<\/span>diligent work to simply pass this class. Of course, as tomorrow is the last day to drop this class\u00a0<\/span>without a grade, my kind suggestion is that several of you take some time this evening to\u00a0<\/span>seriously consider just how badly you wish to risk a failing grade. Fair enough, Mr. McMullan?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Indeed, the barge was on the bottom.<\/span><\/p>\n

After class, a group of friends, at the insistence of my cycling partner, tracked me down with a\u00a0<\/span>lunchtime consensus. The food and drinks of my choosing were on them. While this generous\u00a0<\/span>offer gave me the perfect opportunity to drown the sorrows of my embarrassment and\u00a0<\/span>frustration, I had only a snack and tea, leaving them to rip and roar without me. I didn\u2019t want to\u00a0<\/span>talk about it. I just wanted to do some thinking on a run. A long run.<\/span><\/p>\n

Unfortunately, the length of my run simply allowed more things to go wrong.<\/span><\/p>\n

First, even though dark clouds were moving in to block the sun, the steamy heat at the\u00a0<\/span>beginning of the run was stifling. Hotter than my seat in Admiralty Class. Next? My brand new\u00a0<\/span>top-of-the-line Walkman decided to select that hot, humid afternoon to hungrily scarf down my\u00a0<\/span>favorite REM cassette. As a result, I ran slightly off the roadway to dump the tape into a trash\u00a0<\/span>bin. No big deal, except that the sweat in my contacts caused me to misjudge the height of the\u00a0<\/span>curb, resulting in a turned ankle coming down off the sidewalk. Then, just as I switched the\u00a0<\/span>Walkman function to radio, Oxford\u2019s album rock station broadcast a severe thunderstorm\u00a0<\/span>warning. And, finally, while I was conveniently two miles from my apartment, running uphill with\u00a0<\/span>a sore ankle, said thunderstorm hit, testing the water resistance of my treasured Walkman, and\u00a0<\/span>thoroughly soaking my favorite pair of New Balance.<\/span><\/p>\n

Oddly enough, I had never quit running despite the heat, the rain, the hills, the ankle, and the\u00a0<\/span>humiliation. Making it back to campus, and closer to my apartment, I started to notice just how\u00a0<\/span>rubbery my legs had become. They truly began to revolt. My breathing was now irregular. I\u00a0<\/span>could feel blisters forming on the balls of both feet, probably because of the unnatural moisture\u00a0<\/span>throughout my shoes.<\/span><\/p>\n

This run, and my condition while running, represented the status of my world at that moment.\u00a0<\/span>All I wanted to do was to simply quit running and sit on a bench. Similarly, based on the\u00a0<\/span>embarrassment that I had endured in class, I really wanted to drop it right then and worry about\u00a0<\/span>the consequences later. Maybe even forget the whole idea of finishing this silly degree right\u00a0<\/span>now. \u201cCredentialing\u201d myself just looked like it was setting me up for a lot of stress and work\u00a0<\/span>anyway.<\/span><\/p>\n

As I reached the beginning of a monsterous hill not far from the stadium, my ailing running form\u00a0<\/span>resembled a hobbling turkey, swinging from side to side, neck extended, looking down. Time to\u00a0<\/span>stop the madness, I decided. Time to quit running. Time to drop Admiralty Law. Time to\u00a0<\/span>rethink the whole law school plan.<\/span><\/p>\n

The instant before I relaxed to walk, though, I heard a couple of loud claps.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPICK IT UP, SON,\u201d a somewhat familiar deep southern voice yelled.<\/span><\/p>\n

I summoned all the energy left on earth and lifted my head just enough to make out a figure,\u00a0<\/span>seemingly clapping in slow motion, looking right at me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPick it up.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWho is that yelling at me?\u201d I thought, even though I was too tired to think. The mannerisms of\u00a0<\/span>the figure looked familiar, as if I was dreaming. Needed to keep running just to get closer to the\u00a0<\/span>voice.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s go. You can do it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHoly crap, it\u2019s Billy Brewer,\u201d I managed to realize.<\/span><\/p>\n

Billy was standing in the steamy summer humidity, at the top of the hill. He had to have been\u00a0<\/span>outside checking the weather, as the downpour had just stopped. I approached the top of the\u00a0<\/span>hill, hurting badly. Legs, lungs, ankle, feet, pride . . . everything about me that could hurt was.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWork through it. Pick it up,\u201d He barked in that famous Mississippi drawl that every single Ole\u00a0<\/span>Miss fan heard each week on \u201cThe Billy Brewer Show.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I miraculously reached the top of the hill, with still a mile to go. However, I was suddenly not\u00a0<\/span>limping quite as badly. My path now was on the sidewalk directly in front of Coach Brewer.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGood job, son. Just NEVER QUIT!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

“Yessir, Coach,\u201d I panted, picking up the pace and finding a sliver of determination somewhere\u00a0<\/span>in Coach Brewer\u2019s encouragement. \u201cNever quit,\u201d I echoed in some form of communication that\u00a0<\/span>was ninety percent exhale, and the other \u201chalf\u201d grunt.<\/span><\/p>\n

Even though I couldn\u2019t say it out loud more than once, I repeated it in my head, to the rhythm\u00a0<\/span>loosely established by my rubbery legs and aching feet and sore ankle. I repeated it in my head\u00a0<\/span>all the way home.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNever quit,\u201d I repeated as I sprawled out on the floor at my apartment. \u201cNever quit.\u201d I repeated\u00a0<\/span>it that night when I finally cracked my Admiralty Law book and actually starting reading. I\u00a0<\/span>repeated \u201cNever quit\u201d to myself the next day when my Professor questioned my decision to stay\u00a0<\/span>in his class. I repeated it again when grades came out at the end of the summer, and I received\u00a0<\/span>my (barely) passing grade, having worked harder for it than any previous class I had ever taken<\/span>
\nanywhere.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNever quit.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I repeated it when real life as a real attorney showed me tougher situations than I had ever\u00a0<\/span>imagined as a law student.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNever quit.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Billy Brewer said those words to me in 1987. Others in the Ole Miss family surely heard him say\u00a0<\/span>the same thing. The quote underneath Chucky Mullins\u2019 bust at the Vaught is \u201cNever quit.\u201d\u00a0<\/span>Chucky certainly owns that quote, and it is his forever. Yet, to me, coach and player…especially\u00a0<\/span>THAT COACH and THAT PLAYER represent the same message. Even this past football\u00a0<\/span>season, the recurring theme of current head coach Matt Luke could be summed up in two\u00a0<\/span>words: \u201cNever quit.\u201d You can bet that Matt\u2019s brother Tommy heard those words from Billy\u00a0<\/span>Brewer more than once.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNever quit.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Those were the last two words my cycling partner ever said to me as he realized he was losing\u00a0<\/span>his brave battle with ALS several years ago. Sounding a little like the coach, and a lot like\u00a0<\/span>Chucky, he vowed that no matter how difficult things got, he would \u201cNEVER QUIT.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

While most obituaries on Billy Brewer have focused on his rebuilding success at Ole Miss or his\u00a0<\/span>subsequent NCAA troubles, I will leave those subjects for others to cover. To me, he is the\u00a0<\/span>voice of Ole Miss. Why? He made the effort to encourage me, a non-football-playing law\u00a0<\/span>student, without receiving any benefit for having done so. I believe that I am a better person as\u00a0<\/span>a result. Well, at least in the areas of family and work. My running? It has temporarily sunk to\u00a0<\/span>the bottom, like the barges we studied in Admiralty. Once again it is time to \u201cPICK IT UP\u201d and\u00a0<\/span>\u201cNEVER QUIT!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

John T. McMullan<\/span>
\n5\/23\/18 –\u00a0<\/span>\u00a9 2018 John T. McMullan<\/span><\/p>\n

John T. McMullan received his law degree from Ole Miss thirty years ago. Since then he has seen all sorts of stories unfold, in court and out.\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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