Quiet Strength (30 page)

At some point in life’s journey, professionally and personally, we have to be able to trust our preparation. When we’ve done everything we can, we need to wrap things up and move on. Thanksgiving Day games require teams to prepare with less time than they usually have. But I don’t ever remember watching a game on Thanksgiving and thinking,
These guys aren’t prepared.
They simply have to figure out how to prepare in less time. It’s a lesson we all could stand to learn.

Higher priorities, such as spending time with God and family, must not be afterthoughts jammed into your schedule. But doing so requires faith—faith in your preparation, faith in your outcome, and for me, faith that God is watching over me, even when I can’t understand His plan.

I really enjoyed that Thanksgiving and our house filled with family and friends. In fact, we had so much fun that we lost track of time. Before we knew it, Tiara and Jamie were rushing out the door so that Jamie could catch his flight back to Tampa. They said a quick good-bye to everyone and hurried out to the car, without even time for a hug. I waved good-bye and got back to my guests, never giving it a second thought, other than hoping Tiara wouldn’t get a speeding ticket on the way to the airport. I knew I’d see Jamie again at Christmas and get my hug then.

Back at work, the team continued making french fries on the field. We beat Pittsburgh that Monday night, and the
RCA
Dome was as electric as I had ever experienced. Marvin Harrison caught an 80-yard touchdown pass on our first play of the game, and from there the noise never stopped. It was so loud that some of the Pittsburgh writers accused us of piping in extra noise. We kept the enthusiasm going into December, beating the Jacksonville Jaguars to go to 13–0.

My journal entry of December 11 notes how excited we were on the flight home after winning in Jacksonville. We had kept our composure in a physical, hard-fought game. Toward the end, we pulled away to clinch a first-round bye and home-field advantage for the playoffs. The bye had been our primary goal, but we were also thrilled that we would be playing in front of our fans throughout the playoffs.

That was the last time I journaled in 2005.

As a head coach, I occasionally receive middle-of-the-night phone calls, usually about some trouble one of our players has gotten into. At 1:45 in the morning, Thursday, December 22, the phone rang and Lauren handed it to me.
I hope one of our guys isn’t hurt,
I thought as I reached for the receiver.

This time the call was not about a player. It was about our son. For reasons that will never be fully known, Jamie had taken his own life.

As the nurse was speaking to me, I frantically began to pray for Jamie. But as her words sank in, it became increasingly clear that we were beyond that point. Jamie was gone.

The next several days were all a fog. Lauren and I flew to Tampa on Jim Irsay’s plane to make funeral arrangements and then flew back to Indianapolis for Christmas. Vikings chaplain Tom Lamphere called me while we were selecting Jamie’s grave site.

“Tony, sit tight. I’m going to find a flight. I’ll be in Indy tonight.”

“Tom, just come down to Tampa for the funeral,” I told him. “You can’t be away from your family for Christmas.” I tried to make him take no for an answer, but I knew he wouldn’t. He’s just one of those special people who would do anything for a friend. Over the next several days, our family would be surrounded by a lot of those people.

Tom sat quietly with us during Christmas. We attended the regular worship service at our church on Sunday, Christmas morning. Our congregation was unbelievable. People never quite know what to say at times like this; there really is nothing you can say. But we could
feel
everyone’s love, and it was uplifting. Lauren and I weren’t sure how we’d get through this, but we recognized that we were going to have to cling to God’s strength and love if we were going to have a chance.

It wasn’t until days later, when I was standing over Jamie’s casket and preparing for the visitation, that it really started to sink in and become real.
I’m never going to see him again.

At some point on Christmas Day, Tom had told us, “Life will never be the same again, but you won’t always feel like you do right now.” I clung to that statement as I looked down at my young son’s face in that casket, just two weeks short of his nineteenth birthday. So sweet. So compassionate. So handsome. So gentle. So sensitive. So kind to kids who got picked on. So much like Lauren. So many people who loved him.

The next couple of days would bear out how loved Jamie was. Thousands of people attended his visitation in Tampa. It was a cold night, I’m told. I don’t remember. People stood for hours outside in that cold. There were people we knew from the area and others who had traveled great distances—people from every team we’d ever worked for—mixing with people we had never met before then.

High school and college classmates of Jamie—or James, as he had begun to introduce himself—attended in great numbers. Folks from our church. Bucs fans. People who had watched us through the years. Those who just wanted to hug me or Lauren. People who couldn’t stand football. People who understood when I said that it was
only
football.

The city of Tampa, our home, stood up for us once again—this time with a different kind of ovation.

We were determined to make Jamie’s funeral a celebration of his life—a “homegoing,” we called it. Jamie had accepted Christ as a small child and had stayed close to Him through the years. Because of that, we know his salvation was unchanged regardless of the demons he may have faced. We took comfort in knowing that his soul was in heaven even as we made our preparations to donate his organs and to bury his body.

The service was a blessing for us, and from the comments I heard afterward, I believe it was a blessing for others as well. I spoke for about twenty minutes at the conclusion of the service, not knowing if I would be able get through it. With the Lord’s strength and wisdom, I talked about Jamie’s life on earth and, more important, his
eternal
life through Jesus.

“It’s great to be here today,” I began. Then I paused, knowing that people felt I must have misspoken. “I know that’s a strange-sounding message, but when you came in today, one of the first songs you heard was ‘I Will Bless the Lord at All Times,’ which says, ‘I will bless the Lord, and praise for Him will always be in my mouth.’” I explained that those words were taken from Psalm 34, which David wrote.

“David didn’t write that at a time of triumph. He wrote it when he was on the run from Saul, fleeing for his life in desperation. Even so, he was able to say that he would constantly praise God and bless Him.

“That’s not easy to do. In fact, it’s difficult at times. The only way we can praise God at all times is to remember that God can provide joy in the midst of a sad occasion. Our challenge today is to find that joy.”

For our family, finding that joy had begun the night before, at the visitation. So many people came out and sparked so many memories that it actually began to bring back some joy for us. I told those who attended the visitation that we wanted to continue with the memories and the joy during the next day’s service as well.

“I was thinking these last few days about a number of things, primarily how I would like for you to remember Jamie,” I said. Those thoughts brought joy as well. “As you’ve heard many people describe him already today, Jamie was compassionate and friendly.”

I nodded toward the Colts organization, all of whom had flown down for Jamie’s homegoing celebration. “So many of these guys sitting here were nice to Jamie. Players and coaches and others. You were great to him, and we thank you. We are grateful to you.

“I also want to offer a special thanks to Mr. Glazer.” I looked over and saw Mr. Glazer, seated with his family in the middle of the large, packed sanctuary. “Jamie was nine years old when we came here to Tampa. While we were here, we took a lot of bus rides to the airport, and every time Jamie was with us, Mr. Glazer talked to him. Every single trip we took. He never talked about football but always about being a good son. Then he’d talk to me about taking care of my boys and being a good dad to my kids.”

Everyone knew that if you were nice to Jamie you could be his friend, but I went on to share another way to be his friend—just
look
like you needed a friend.

“Jamie got a lot of spankings for having animals under the bed, and each time we’d find a turtle, dog, or other animal in the backyard, we’d ask what they were doing there. His answer was simple. ‘Dad, nobody was there to take care of them.’ Jamie was that way with our children, with kids at church, and with kids at the Y. He was a friend to everyone.

“The other thing he demonstrated was loyalty.” I paused, and gathered myself. “If he was your friend, you had a friend forever, under any circumstances. I admired him for that. That’s hard for teenagers. As you all know, there’s an ‘in-crowd’ and an ‘out-crowd,’ and there’s a great deal of pressure to remain in that ‘in-crowd.’ Jamie didn’t care. If you were his friend, it didn’t matter how anyone else looked at you. He introduced so many people to us over the years with the simple introduction, ‘This is my friend.’”

I then recounted the story of Mike Vanderjagt and Jamie’s concern over his continued presence with the Colts. I concluded the story by thanking Jamie for his example to me of being a loyal friend.

“The other thing I remember about Jamie—and nobody has said it up here today—is that he was a mama’s boy. He loved me, but he
loved
his mom. I drive my kids to school in the mornings and Lauren picks them up, and you know how kids are as they hit high school. They don’t always want their mom and dad around. Tiara used to say, ‘Dad, you can just drop me here. The kids don’t need to know that my dad’s driving me to school.’ It was the same with Jamie when I would drop him off. Lauren would come to pick them up, and Tiara would say, ‘Just stay in the car, Mom. I’ll come find you.’ But not Jamie. He loved to have her come into the school to get him. And when she’d come …” I stopped again momentarily. “When she’d come, he’d say to everybody, all of his buddies, ‘That’s my mom!’”

This time I had to take a little longer to gather myself, laughing as I cried. The memories of Jamie and Lauren were so strong.

“He’d then tell Lauren, ‘Some people think you’re my girlfriend. And that’s okay. I let them think that.’ That’s how I’ll always remember him, as a sweet, young boy. But I’ll also remember him as that young boy who was trying to change into a man and trying to find his manly identity. That’s hard to do today.”

Jamie and I had discussed that topic a great deal: what it means to be a man. One of the first times we ever talked about that was in 1995, when I was still with the Vikings. We had a player in Minnesota named Vencie Glenn, who gave Jamie a hat when he was about seven and attending his first training camp. How he loved Vencie Glenn after that. But things change quickly in the
NFL
, and by 1995, Vencie was with another team. On our first day of camp in 1995, Jamie and I walked from the morning practice to lunch, and as we sat there and ate, Jamie had quite a long face.

“What’s wrong, man?” I asked.

“I followed Vencie Glenn around all day and kept calling, ‘Vencie, Vencie,’ but he wouldn’t even turn around. He wouldn’t look at me, Dad.” In light of his earnest, hurt little face, I tried not to laugh.

“Jamie, that’s not Vencie Glenn. That’s Alfred Jackson.”

“No, Dad. It was number 25—Vencie Glenn. It’s Vencie Glenn.”

I explained to Jamie that 25 had been Vencie’s uniform number but that now Alfred was wearing that jersey. Vencie wasn’t there any longer, but he would always be Jamie’s friend.

“No matter what jersey or uniform Vencie is wearing,” I said, “the person inside that uniform will always love you.”

Over the years we had continued to talk about changing uniforms and teams and cities and making sure that it didn’t change the person inside, and I think he got it. As he got older, he was searching, as all teenagers do, for who he was and the kind of man he was becoming. And as he was making that journey, I knew he would never leave his compassionate, loyal, friendly, heartfelt roots. But like a lot of teenage boys, I think he was hit with messages from the world that maybe that’s not the way boys are supposed to be. Like most of us, I think he went through a time as a teenager when he wasn’t sure that his parents always had the best advice. He wasn’t sure that we always had his best interests at heart. Tiara had said it best: “I just wish he could have made it until he was twenty, because when you’re seventeen or eighteen, sometimes the things that you guys say to us just don’t make sense. But when I got to twenty, those things started making sense again. I just wish he would have made it to twenty.”

The memories continued to flood my mind as I looked out over the crowd of people gathered in the sanctuary.

“When Jamie needed to hear the right message, so many of you seated here today were there for him to reinforce that message and encourage him, and Lauren and I want to thank you for that,” I said. “What’s kept our family going these last couple of days is what we believe, and we believe God when He says that He works all things for His good for those who love the Lord. It’s hard to accept because we can’t always see it, but we have to believe it. I know that Jamie loved the Lord, and our hope is that God will be glorified today as we remember Jamie.”

I urged those in attendance not to take their relationships for granted. Sitting there in front of me were parents and children, husbands and wives, friends and coworkers.

“Parents, hug your kids—every chance you get. Tell them that you love them every chance you get. You don’t know when it’s going to be the last time.” I gathered myself and shared how I hadn’t been able to give Jamie a hug at Thanksgiving. Although we had talked on the phone a good deal since then—including one call when he told me that he was sure we were going to the Super Bowl and that when we did, he wanted to be on the field with me—I was never going to get that hug.