Lessons from the Bear

It was a long way from Albertville, Alabama, to Boston, Massachusetts, home of the New England Patriots. For a young country guy who got his start as an All-American guard in the SEC, it was also a long time from 1973 until I retired in 1985. Coach Paul "Bear" Bryant, the legendary, larger-than-life head football coach for whom I played at the University of Alabama from 1969 to 1972 would one day call me "the best offensive lineman I ever coached," a quote I would also laugh about much later as being the furthest thing from the truth of how he really felt about me. In fact just before the '73 draft, Bryant told me privately I wasn't good enough to turn pro and simply dismissed my request for some guidance.

With the new eyes I have now, eyes that God has opened, I realize maybe his quote was a way of motivating or possibly even apologizing to me — instead of capitalizing on the fame I would earn playing professional football, which I thought he did for so many years. I hope I'm right. If I'm not, or in either event, I forgive him completely for not believing in me and encouraging me when I needed it most.

Coach Bryant always carried a poem in his wallet titled "This Is the Beginning of a New Day." If he ever told anybody why he carried it for so many years, I don't remember, but here is how it read:

This is the beginning of a new day.
God has given me this day to use as I will.
I can waste it or use it for good.
What I do today is very important, because
I am exchanging a day of my life for it.
When tomorrow comes, this day will be gone forever,
Leaving something in its place I have traded for it.
I want it to be a gain, not a loss — good, not evil.
Success, not failure in order that
I shall not forget the price I have paid for it

— W. Heartsill Wilson

The author, Heartsill Wilson, was an accountant in Texas who also worked on the sales staff of Chrysler. Considered one of the finest sales consultants to the automotive industry, he was one of the most respected motivational speakers of his time.

One of the greatest gifts Wilson had, which I now believe probably appealed most to Coach Bryant, was his ability to see the best in people and get them to see their own value and talents. His philosophy of leadership was often referred to as "peopleology," a term loosely defined as the art of seeing things from someone else's perspective, and in the world of sales, his mantra was "to sell Jim Brown what Jim Brown buys and see Jim Brown's needs through Jim Brown's eyes."

I also personally think now that Coach Bryant carried that poem as a gut check or a reminder to balance his leadership style every now and then away from being a total dictator and a chronic, often punishing, masochistic football coach with exercising encouragement and positive praise of a player's strengths rather than constantly harping on his weaknesses. I remember one particularly grueling practice early in my playing days at Bama when Coach Bryant felt I wasn't giving my absolute best against the defense. He came down out of the tower — where he sometimes watched practice — pulled me out of the line, grabbed me by the face mask, and yanked me over to the sideline like a dog by the chain. "Hannah!" he growled, "You fat, lazy turd! You're better 'n that, boy! You better dig real deep and find out who you are in the gut, boy — in the gut — because I ain't seeing anything but a fat, lazy turd, you understand?" This rebuke out in front of the rest of the squad scared the complete life out of me. I stood there, huffing and heaving and tried to nod my head. "Hannah," he continued, "you better find out who you are, boy, and find out if you're really as good as you think you are. You got a lot of promise, boy, and if you want to play for me, you gotta show me who you are!"

He was literally roaring at me in that voice that sounded like a concrete mixer with gravel tumbling in the bottom. I managed to force out a labored, "Yes sir, coach!" He pushed me back a bit and let go of the face mask. "Okay, then, let's get back to work," he said as he turned his back to me and started toward the tower. "I better never have to have this talk with you again, son." And he never did. For all the years I played my heart out for him at Alabama, and for many years thereafter, I felt like he coached me individually with a lot more negative than positive reinforcement. Regardless, he was a great coach to play for and he taught me a lot. And with that uncertain endorsement from Coach Bryant, I left Bama full of ego and vanity, but I somehow endured to become a nationally recognized pro football player with my face staring out of a helmet on the cover of Sports Illustrated, the most prestigious sports magazine on the planet.

Some people would say my life was the American Dream come true. Maybe in their eyes they were right. In mine the truth is that most of my life and pro career were more of a living nightmare than a dream because the man I saw in the mirror each day was someone I never really knew. The real me was a little boy in a champion's body trying to make his daddy happy by emulating the pro football players I had watched growing up. I wanted to become one of those players so badly I became an impostor, posing as "John Hannah: The Best Offensive Lineman of All Time." Until I finally outgrew that mission and found myself in Psalm 73 — the number I wore for my entire college and professional careers — the drive to become a player like I idolized and to please my father in the process detracted from every other meaningful relationship I had. In striving to be the best in every game or competition, I never completed the development of my personality, nor did I truly get to know my Heavenly Father. Both of these shortcomings drastically affected my quality of life and ultimately frustrated bonding with my own son.

The brutally honest fact is that my trophies and success were not gained from pursuing ideals. They were medals I won fighting against God's will. They were ribbons, plaques, crystal, and brass awards I weighted myself down with as I guarded the true inner me. I was rewarded and decorated for hiding inside a uniform as I pursued a myopic goal of defining my image as the best athlete I could be.

Even though it took a lifetime to realize it, I now know it all began by misunderstanding some basic...