On The Sidelines

It was an odd game the other night, up in Idaho; Boise State brought the best record, but not by much, while Texas State yearned to finally beat a team in their own division. Boise spent the first half racking up touchdowns, while the Texans accumulated penalties. Came the second half, and everything flipped. Suddenly, Boise lost all ability to run, catch, tackle, or kick, while Texas State took to scoring like they’d invented the whole idea.

As the clock wound down late in the fourth, the game began a rapid see-saw: a field goal for this side, a touchdown for that one, and vice versa. Boise was still trying to recapture its full-on mojo when a Texas player took out its quarterback, Maddux Madsen, at the knees – literally, and belatedly. It was a savage and deliberate hit that both refs and announcers somehow deemed irrelevant, even as the crippled Madsen limped painfully from the field.

But another player took note: Brad Johnson, the Texas State quarterback. As the game ended, he pushed his way through the exuberant crowds to track down Madsen on the sidelines. A roaming television camera caught the moment when the two team leaders came together … and stayed on them, as Johnson seemed to offer his regrets over Madsen’s injury, and then asked to pray with him.

Madsen, smiling, agreed, and the two bowed their heads as the post-game tumult swirled around them. The camera, quietly, lingered.

About the same time, about the same game was being played 2,400 miles away in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. There, too, a couple of players – wide receivers Jordan Shipp of the Tarheels, and Malachi Toney of the Miami Redhawks – converged at the close of a tight, tough game. It was an interesting matchup: both wear No. 1 on their jerseys, and each had each scored a crucial touchdown during the contest.

In their case, neither was injured. But they shook hands, went down on their knees, and heads on each other's shoulder, prayed. While photographers converged on the scene, cameras flashing.

“Show me a man with no enemies, and I’ll show you a man with no friends,” John F. Kennedy used to say. He had a point. Those who stand for nothing must inevitably stand alone. While those who wade into the arena – who find purpose – who take critical risks for crucial goals – have a way of drawing the attention, allegiance, and affections of others who share, or at least admire, their courage.

A former boss of mine would have appreciated the idea, but not the phraseology. “We don’t have enemies,” he used to tell his team. It was quite a statement, given that our work brought us head-to-head every day with people whose spiritual sensibilities, moral values, and political agendas were antithetical to our own. He knew very well, from painful experience, the cost of taking stands, and how cruel antagonists can be.

Still, he insisted – as Christians – we don’t look on our adversaries as “enemies.” Instead, he said, “we have opponents.” People with whom we’re undoubtedly competing. People whose goals we’d like to thwart. Whose cause must be confronted. But no one whose life we want to see shattered, whose heart we want broken, whose soul we want lost.

It’s interesting, not that the cameras found the praying young men on the sidelines of last weekend’s contests, but that those focusing the cameras opted to linger on these scenes. Was it only the inherent drama in the moment? The touching glimpse of something unexpected between, and among, such fierce competitors?

If so, what is it about these moments is so touching? Is it simply the sight of someone praying? Has that become so uncommon in our nation today? Do we find so little time – before the meal in the restaurant … before the major public event … between the praise songs and sermons of our increasingly stripped-down worship services … in the rush to get our overtaxed children into bed – to pause, and direct attention to a power and authority greater than our own?

Or was the prolonged camera focus a quiet, perhaps instinctive, recognition – amid the loud and often violent melee that seems to be so rapidly engulfing every aspect of our social and political culture, every corner of our daily life – that this is important? That this is how it should be.

That this is how it can be.

The story goes that, early in the American Revolution, in the aftermath of a brutal battle at Germantown, Pennsylvania that General George Washington had initiated but badly lost – some of his battered troops happened upon a small fox terrier, whose rather fashionable collar identified her as “Lila.” And her owner as … British General William Howe.

Washington’s troops were delighted, and brought the dog to their leader laughing at the prospect of his using her to taunt and humiliate the commander who had for so long made their lives so very miserable. They counted little Lila an especially sweet prize of war.

But Washington – a dog man himself – knew a good pup when he saw one, and could imagine all too well how valuable Lila was to his relentless foe. He had the dog returned at once to Howe, under a flag of truce, with a note scripted by his young aide, Alexander Hamilton:

General Washington’s compliments to General Howe, does himself the pleasure to return [to] him a Dog, which accidentally fell into his hands, and by the inscription on the Collar appears to belong to General Howe.

The general’s response goes unrecorded – no cameras, back then, to capture the scene. But I like to think he was impressed. Taken aback, perhaps, at what kindness could be found, sometimes, in places one might least suspect. Musing, maybe, on the unexpected humanity of a people he was working so hard to defeat.

Whoops – did I neglect to mention who won the games: Boise State v. Texas State, North Carolina v. Miami last Saturday? I guess I did.

But then, the scores weren’t the most important thing that happened in those stadiums, that hard-fought Halloween evening.