My Dad Was A Georgia Bulldog
Except he was keeping a secret.
In the glory days before I was born, my father played football for the University of Georgia. This fact was wielded as a magical scepter with relentless power on my elementary school playground. In my naive, pre-internet worldview, my dad — a backup linebacker who rarely saw the field — was one of the greatest players to ever wear red and black. Despite his lack of playing time, his persona as a Georgia Bulldog was the ultimate trump card.
In a world ruled by playground hierarchy, it was my moral obligation to crush all arguments with this phrase: “My dad played football at the University of Georgia.” This simple statement remains the gold standard of Peach State royalty. His gridiron greatness became playground lore, growing more mythical with each retelling. I would say, “My dad could have played professional football, but he chose to be a mortgage broker.”
In a cruel twist of irony, one of my classmates had a father who was an actual, living, breathing hero. This kid’s father was Darrell Evans, a Major League infielder for our hometown Atlanta Braves. In a moment of bold ignorance that still makes me cringe, I told this poor kid that his dad “sucked.” Not to be outdone, he fired back, “Oh yeah? What does your dad do?”
“Well, I can tell you this: My dad doesn’t suck at his job.” Years later, I’m ashamed to write these words. Darrell Evans, please accept my apology, and thank you for helping my beloved Atlanta Braves win quite a few games during the ’70s and ’80s. You, Mr. Evans, deserved your rightful status as sovereign king of the monkey bars. May your majestic home runs and ground-rule doubles rest in peace.
When I wasn’t making a fool of myself on the jungle gym, I’d spend Saturdays precariously perched on our roof, fine-tuning the antenna for the Georgia game. My father, the high school sports star, would stand below barking directions as we searched for reception. After we achieved a clear picture, I’d descend the roof by swinging from the gutter and dropping into the bushes below — a stupid stunt that, by some miracle, never resulted in broken bones.
After a quick self-assessment for injuries, I’d sprint inside for kickoff. Like most passionate Georgia fans, we’d mute the TV commentators and tune in to Larry Munson’s legendary radio broadcast. Munson’s impassioned play-by-play was an indispensable part of our family’s gameday ritual. His gravelly voice painted such a vivid picture of every down that we could practically smell the grass in Sanford Stadium.
While our shouts of joy and groans of defeat filled the living room during televised games, the electrifying atmosphere of a live Georgia game remained unparalleled. One crisp autumn Saturday, we found ourselves in enemy territory — Bobby Dodd Stadium — ready to cheer on our Dawgs against the Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets. As we settled into our seats, it was apparent that we were the only Bulldogs in a swarm of Yellow Jackets. Typically, Tech fans are a mild-mannered bunch, more focused on mathematical probabilities than stat lines. However, this day proved an exception, as one belligerent fan seemed hell-bent on provoking my father.
This man’s barrage of obscenities was so creative that I doubted he’d ever set foot in an engineering classroom, much less earned a degree. He must have spent weeks crafting his insults.
Tension simmered in our section throughout the first half; a fight was brewing. Despite the insults, threats, and vulgarity, my dad remained determined to cheer. Five minutes before halftime, he stood to shout an innocuous “Go Dawgs!” Bad idea, Dad — you just poured gasoline on a smoldering fire.
As the teams headed to their locker rooms, the Tech fan barreled down the steps and got in my father’s face. The crowd stirred, sensing potential violence. I half-expected people to start chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” Instead, they grabbed their calculators to predict the probability of a Tech victory.
Seconds before fists started to fly, my dad stepped back and calmly said, “Look, I’m not going to fight you. I have a heart condition.” That simple phrase extinguished the flames of confrontation. Thoroughly deflated, our antagonist mumbled a weak “sorry” and slunk back to his seat.
For the rest of the game, I sat in stunned silence. The excitement of the day faded into the background as the words, “I have a heart condition,” consumed my thoughts.
I couldn’t believe it; my dad had a heart problem. Why didn’t anyone tell me? How serious was the problem? Was my dad dying? His health crisis and sudden dance with violence left me overwhelmed and confused.
On the drive home, I held back my tears as I finally gained the courage to ask, “What’s wrong with your heart?” My dad started laughing. What the heck was going on? What had I missed?
After catching his breath, he said, “I do have a heart condition — a tender heart. I didn’t want to fight that guy. I was trying to figure out how to enjoy the game without going to jail.”
Wait, what? My superhero, my protector, my football-playing dad talked his way out of a fight using clever wordplay. Part of me was relieved that nothing was wrong with his heart, but another part was embarrassed that he lied to avoid a fight. Would Darrell Evans pull this crap?
As I processed my father’s startling admission, a wave of conflicting emotions and questions washed over me. My mind raced, a jumble of thoughts I couldn’t untangle. Dad had just lied to avoid a fight — and it worked. But I’d always been taught lying was wrong. Now, I faced a different dilemma: Do I tell my mom that my dad, her husband, is a liar?
I’d been raised in a strict Christian household where lying meant swift punishment: no television, extra chores, and Bible verses to memorize. Yet, I was forced to grapple with an uncomfortable reality: sometimes, it’s okay to lie.
Now that I’m a parent, I’m unsure how I’d handle an unruly fan challenging me to fight in front of our children. I can assure you, I wouldn’t invent a fictitious heart condition, but I might suddenly discover an extremely delicate skin condition — skin so sensitive it can’t be punched.
Whether we want to admit it or not, one of the bravest things a parent can do is swallow their pride and lie. I mean, model peace and stretch the truth. In the playbook of life, my dad demonstrated that the best defense doesn’t always require a violent offense. Quick thinking and a keen sense of humor can resolve more conflicts than any neighborhood brawl.
