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What I learned from football . . . the good, the bad, and the ugly

It was an overcast November day in 1947. My dad Mack Mulkey, a student on the G.I. Bill at Southern Methodist University, was bursting with pride as we made our way to our bleacher seats at SMU’s Ownby Stadium for the kickoff of the Texas A&M-SMU football game. Right after my birth in the midst of World War II, Dad had written a letter to my mom Sue revealing how delighted he was that his first-born was a boy and his dream that his son would grow up to be a football player. Our attendance this game was seemingly his initial attempt to make his vision a reality.

The good news: Dad had been able to procure tickets to the big game for both of us. The bad news: Our seats were right behind those of the A&M Corps of Cadets, whose tradition required them to stand for the entire game. Since I was four years old at the time, Dad put me on his shoulders so I could see the action. And while we were both thoroughly exhausted when the final whistle blew, we were also elated that SMU had eked out a victory—20-14.

While Dad never pressured me to play football, I was aware of how much he enjoyed the sport and later became mindful of his own unfulfilled gridiron aspirations. So it’s possible I may have unconsciously been eager to win his approval, to forge a common bond between the two of us. But more than that, I grew up in an era in which the dominant culture in the South highly valued the ability to play sports well and promulgated the belief that participating in the rough and tumble of football would help mold a youngster into a “real boy” (on the way to becoming a “real man”). Playing football seemed almost as normal a part of the cycle of life as eating and sleeping, and those that didn’t comply with the collective custom were regarded as sissies, weaklings, and momma’s boys.

So, despite being a shy, sensitive kid (better suited to be an artist or a writer, though probably not a musician since I’m essentially tone deaf), it seemed only natural that I’d begin playing sandlot football as a young boy and organized football in junior high. I played for the enjoyment of the game, of course, but also to prove that I was OK, that I was worthy of being a member of the in-crowd of athletes and mischief-makers. And when I was engaged in the sport, I did experience a greater sense of fitting in as well as a feeling of connection with my teammates. Plus being a football player got many of the girls’ attention too.

In addition, I appreciated the fact that, unlike life itself, football was governed by a set of rules and boundaries that were clear and unambiguous. What rose to my consciousness only decades afterwards was that the violence that’s an essential part of the game served as a socially sanctioned way for me to release my suppressed rage, a deep-seated resentment toward many adults—relatives, teachers, and others—stemming from their authoritarianism and disrespect toward young people, including emotional and physical abuse—shaming, blaming, patronizing, teasing, shouting, rough handling, slapping, and spanking.

You gotta be a football hero!

By the time I’d entered high school, of my own volition, I’d made the choice to lift weights year-round and to run in the off-season, activities that were highly unusual for young athletes in those days. To further enhance my physical fitness, I totally abstained from alcohol and tobacco, the two drugs readily available in the late Fifties. I motivated myself by visualizing intercepting a pass for my high school football team. And as I listened to University of Tennessee football games on my car radio, I envisioned myself as Cotton Letner, a receiver for the Volunteers football team. It wasn’t long before my intentionality, disciplined training, and ferocity paid off. My junior year, I was on the sidelines when our head coach, frustrated by the passes being completed by the opposing quarterback declared, “That guy is killing us! Somebody needs to get that son-of-a-bitch out of there!”

Thereupon coach put me in the game to run a linebacker blitz. I instinctively anticipated the precise moment the ball was snapped, burst through the line of scrimmage untouched, and exploded helmet-to-helmet into the startled opposing quarterback. The crowd of spectators cheered wildly as Number 12 crumpled to the ground, barely hanging onto the football. I excitedly bounced to my feet as I watched my adversary being helped to the sidelines, ecstatic that I’d fulfilled my high school coach’s earlier decree. “Guess I should’ve put you in the game a lot earlier,” coach mused as he put his arm around my shoulders.

After that, at just over six-feet tall and one-hundred-seventy pounds, I became a starter on the 1959 high school team, comprised primarily of seniors, that was ranked number one in the state at mid-season (We lost two of our last three games, but that’s another story.). And toward the end of that season, I intercepted a pass that sealed a win for us against Franklin County High School on their home field.

In early September 1960, my senior year in high school, the football season began without great expectations. Local sportswriter Stoney Jackson wrote in his sports column “Sportsworthy” in the September 7, 1960 edition of The Tullahoma News: “I think this may be one of those years we can charge off to ‘rebuilding’ or some other convenient phrase and not expect too many victories, though I could be pleasantly surprised as the season progresses.”

As he’d predicted, after five games our record stood at 2-2-1—two wins, two losses and a tie. But we were coalescing as a team and becoming more proficient offensively and defensively every game. I was elected team captain, leading by giving my all at practices and in games and by exhorting the younger players to play up to their potential. So despite our record, our team went into the last half of the season in high spirits. We lost two more close games to formidable teams, but we went out on a high note, winning our final three games by a combined score of 105-26, including a 40-0 win over cross-county rivals Manchester Central High. We’d wound up with a (barely) winning record—5-4-1!

At the conclusion of the season, out of 7,820 players nominated, I was among the forty-four named to play in a High School All-American game in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. University of Tennessee assistant football coach Skeeter Bailey drove into town, wined and dined me, then offered me a full football scholarship to play for the UT Volunteers. Well, actually he bought me a hamburger, fries, and a milk shake at the Dairy Bar. Nonetheless, I was elated and accepted his offer. There was no prouder man in Tullahoma than my Dad.

Life in the big league

The grueling twice-daily practices at UT began in early September of 1961, and in due course I was named a starter at receiver on the freshman team (Freshmen were ineligible for the varsity in those days and played their own shortened season.). That meant I was one of the top eleven players on the freshman team since we played both offense and defense due to the limited substitution rules of that era.

One day during morning practice the legendary athletic director General Robert Neyland came down to the freshman practice field and briefly spoke to our head freshman coach. Coach pulled me out of a drill and said, “The General wants to see you.” “See me?” I thought. “What the hell for?” As I loped toward him, Neyland looked me up and down, grunted, then turned, and without a word, ambled back up to the varsity practice field. To this day I can only guess what that little episode was all about.

I was a teenage Vol!

Most of my freshman teammates were hellraisers first, football players second, and students third (or somewhere thereabouts). After their first term at UT, fifty percent of the freshmen on football scholarships (around thirty players) bombed in the classroom and flunked out. I myself made the Dean’s List with all A’s and B’s.

At the end of spring practice in 1962, as a rising sophomore, I was listed as the number three player at my position on the varsity squad, which meant I was one of the top thirty-three players on the varsity team. However, right before the 1962 fall practice began, due to a shortage of running backs, I was moved to fullback. The first game was upon us before it became clear that the switch had been unsuccessful. So I was red-shirted (held out a season) and watched other receivers move ahead of me on the depth chart.

Given the disappointment of being relegated to the practice squad, the fact that I didn’t have a great deal in common with my teammates, the reality that this era was one of the low points in UT football history (the 1962 season ended with four wins against weak teams and six losses), and that being a team member had become a monotonous daily slog, I began to gradually lose interest in UT football. I began hanging out with the iconoclastic Fisher boys—Bob and Bill—through whom I gained an interest in jazz and the blues, foreign films (Knife in the Water, 8½, Belle de Jour, among others), and books by Vonnegut, Brautigan, Wolfe, and Kesey. It was also during this time that I realized the soothing effects of Pabst Blue Ribbon and began imbibing excessively on a frequent basis.

Finally, due to my terrible grades in the spring of my sophomore year and my nonchalance about my team responsibilities, my scholarship was revoked. Coach Bailey told me that I could try out during fall practice to try to win it back, but I declined the opportunity. Dad didn’t let his disappointment show, but I’m guessing my departure from major college football was devastating for him.

Back on the gridiron again!

After a year as a regular student at UT, I became hungry for a return to football—for the joy of playing the game and the team comradeship, of course. But primarily, though I was oblivious of it at the time, because my ultra-masculine identity was inextricably linked with being a football player. So I decided to transfer to Sewanee: The University of the South for the fall 1964 semester to play for Coach Shirley Majors, patriarch of the legendary Majors football family.

When I arrived at Sewanee weighing 200 pounds, I was moved to tackle. I was delighted to find the team fellowship and cohesiveness that had been lacking at UT. During my time at Sewanee my teammates and I played football together, skipped required chapels together, drank together, and went on road trips together.

During my two years at the University of the South, a Division III school, we lost only two games. But the highlight of my tenure there was our final game of the season on November 6, 1965, when we played Washington University (of St. Louis) at home for the conference championship. A grueling defensive struggle, we were ahead 7-3 with a minute and twenty-five seconds remaining in the game with Washington on our four-yard line with a first down. A field goal would obviously not aid our opponents; they had to score a touchdown to win the game. But our defense mounted a spirited goal line stand and stopped Washington six inches from our goal as time ran out. We were conference champs!

Mulkey’s defense was one of the keys. He was a devastating tackler and one time made three straight stops which caused Washington 16 yards loss—their only losses for the entire afternoon. —Bob Teitlebaum, Chattanooga Times, November 7, 1965

I was awarded the game ball for my defensive effort, and on the way to the locker room, I met my joyful Dad and Mom. Dad ecstatically embraced me, sweaty uniform and all; his vision for his oldest son having come to fruition. I’m almost certain Dad would have loved to have taken me to dinner where we could rehash the game. But, looking back with regret, I chose instead to join the entire football team in the backroom of the Sewanee Inn, where, for several days and nights, we held court while numerous students, professors, and townspeople dropped by to congratulate us and to buy rounds of beer for the entire team.

Postscript

Now more than sixty years after my youthful dedication to football, I can more fully comprehend its full impact on my life:

1. I learned personal discipline from my individual workouts and from our team practices—running, exercises, and weightlifting, keeping my body in excellent physical condition.
2. I learned to be highly competitive and to do everything within the boundaries of the rules to win.
3. I learned that holding a vision of what I wished to attain was an important step in creating the reality I desired.
4. I learned to regard any man who was not a jock as someone who was not worthy of my acceptance or respect, and I learned to regard my football opponents similarly.
5. I learned that I’m a natural leader with the ability to enroll team members in a common vision.
6. I learned that violence and inflicting pain on one’s opponent were integral aspects of the game and that accolades would come my way if I hit an opposing player hard enough to knock him from the game.
7. I learned the importance of teamwork and supporting one’s teammates.
8. I learned to be tough, to “suck it up” when I was in pain and to continue to play even when injured.
9. I learned that I strongly preferred winning but that losing was part of the game.
10. I learned to be a real man I must be stoic, never show weakness, never admit pain, always go for the win, and stand by teammates no matter what.

In retrospect, it’s clear that I garnered benefits from my football experience, and it’s just as clear that there were costs. From midlife through the present, I’ve expended a good deal of emotional energy to discard the patriarchal beliefs about manhood and male privilege that were part of my gridiron lessons (see numbers 2, 4, 6, 8, and 10 above). Nonetheless I am satisfied that the positive aspects (see numbers 1,3,5,7, and 9 above) have served me well, even though those positive aspects could have readily been gained through playing soccer, volleyball, or another team sport.

After my football career was over, I found myself missing it and the status it had afforded me, so I took up other sports to fill the void—handball, volleyball, running. I remained a fan of the game and avidly continued following both college and professional football, sometimes attending games in person but primarily spending hours in front of the TV on Saturdays and Sundays in the fall. At this point, however, football no longer is a part of my life. In fact, if I were king of the universe, I would ban the game entirely for the some of the reasons above, the absurdity of the overemphasis of the sport at the high school and college level, and the distinct possibility of brain damage that confronts football players of all ages.

So, anyone up for some handball? Or maybe a trail run?

“Papa’s words ringing in my ears, son, you got to get tighter with your tears.”

As I listened to these lyrics of the Willie Nelson song, Old Fords and a Natural Stone, I was transported back more than half a century to my Tullahoma (TN) High School graduation.

Our graduation took place on the evening of May 23, 1961, a few days after I’d returned from playing in a high school All-American football game in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. In full view of the throng of relatives and onlookers in the high school auditorium, one by one, members of the class of 1961 received their diplomas. And as we sang our alma mater for what I knew would be the final time, I began to weep, overwhelmed by a powerful sense of impending loss as long-time friends and comrades were about to go our separate ways.

I hastily fled the assembly, trying to hide the tears streaming down my face. But as I burst into the hallway, I inadvertently ran right into the arms of Miss Mitchell, my beloved sixth-grade teacher. She did her best to comfort me: “It’s OK, Bruce. It’s really OK.” But terrified that my friends might see me crying, I dashed around the corner to the nearest restroom.

“Guys do not cry,” I silently chastised myself as I rinsed my face with cold water and ran my hand through my hair. But my heart told a different story as unfamiliar emotions continued to well up inside me.

It would take a while, around three decades, before I finally came to realize that being a man meant allowing myself a full range of feelings, including sadness, grief, fear as well as happiness, compassion, and love.

In so many ways, Donald Trump represents the death rattle of an old America, and it’s loud and it’s violent.

When Eddie Glaude Jr. shared these words in 2021 — quoted in I Alone Can Fix It: Donald J. Trump’s Catastrophic Final Year by Carol Leonnig and Philip Rucker — the country was still reeling from the end of Trump’s first presidency and the January 6 insurrection. His statement was less about Trump the man than about Trump as a symptom of something deeper: a nation convulsing through the final throes of an old social order.

That “old America,” as Glaude described it, is one rooted in hierarchy — an order built on white dominance, male privilege, and a narrow vision of Christian morality that left little room for those who lived or believed differently. For generations, this structure defined who counted as a “real American” and who did not.

Over the past half-century, however, that framework has begun to crumble. The civil-rights and women’s movements, immigration reform, and the steady assertion of LGBTQ+ rights have all transformed the cultural landscape. America’s population is now more racially and ethnically diverse than at any point in its history. Younger generations, raised in that diversity, tend to embrace pluralism as a fact of life rather than a threat to it.

But where some see progress, others see dislocation. The erosion of old hierarchies feels to many like a loss — of status, certainty, and belonging. Trump’s political genius, if it can be called that, lies in channeling that sense of grievance. “Make America Great Again” was not a promise of innovation or unity; it was a nostalgic summons to a mythic past when the boundaries of identity were clear, and the power of white men was unchallenged.

When Glaude called Trump the “death rattle” of that old America, he meant it was dying — noisily, painfully, and, at times, violently. The “loudness” is evident in the angry rallies, the online shouting, and the culture-war theatrics that dominate political life. The “violence” has been both physical — from Charlottesville to January 6— and psychological, reflected in the erosion of democratic norms and trust in institutions.

Still, every ending signals a beginning. The unrest of recent years is not only a story of decline; it is also a story of transformation. America is engaged in a long, uneven process of redefining who it is. The battle over belonging  — who gets to shape the national story, whose pain counts, whose voices are heard — is fierce because it matters. Glaude’s metaphor reminds us that the noise is not evidence of vitality, but of transition.

That truth was echoed in Tuesday’s elections. Across the country, voters rebuffed candidates who leaned into Trump-style grievance politics. Democrats scored major victories, including Zohran Mamdani’s historic win as mayor of New York City and decisive gubernatorial wins in Virginia and New Jersey. The results suggest that much of the electorate has grown weary of the anger and division that have dominated the public square for nearly a decade.

Five years after Glaude’s warning, the “death rattle” seems to be fading. The movement Trump embodied still exists — and may yet resurface — but it no longer defines the nation’s dominant rhythm. The noise of the old order is giving way, slowly, to the quieter pulse of a more inclusive, equitable, and forward-looking democracy.

I believe that the turbulence of the past decade will someday be remembered not as America’s unmaking, but as its painful rebirth. And now it’s up to us to take action that builds more momentum toward that future!

It was 1993, and I had been making my weekly 30-mile trek from my little cottage in the hills outside Austin, Texas to Bastrop Federal Correctional Institute for the better part of a year. Each Thursday, I worked with the male inmates in the prison drug and alcohol rehabilitation program, and afterward, I taught creative writing to any of the men who wanted to join our group.

During my drive this day I recalled my first trip to Bastrop a few years earlier. I remembered my own deep fear of stepping inside the prison walls, perhaps because of youthful offenses I’d committed that could have landed me behind bars, including the cultivation of marijuana. And I remembered my strong desire to be of service to these men that I didn’t fully understand, but that propelled me forward. Nonetheless, when I first heard the stories of transformation from my friends who had been volunteers at weekend workshops for the inmates, I avoided participating for a year or more. My entire body literally tightened up (yes, especially that part) at the imagined sound of that big metal door slamming shut behind me.

When I finally stepped forward, it didn’t take long to realize that the inmates were guys much like me, with similar abilities, dreams, passions, unexamined beliefs, blind spots, and fears. And, of course, transgressions that had been committed. I connected at a deep level with a number of the men, broke bread with them, rejoiced with them, cried with them, and supported them to grow and to make a fresh start. The compassionate Colombian attorney convicted of money laundering who served as translator for the numerous Spanish-speaking men at Bastrop. The Caucasian writer who was a model for those who wanted to quit blaming others and take responsibility for their own lives. The Native American artist who had killed in a fit of rage and would likely spend the rest of his days behind bars for it. The bond was more transient with some men. The taciturn African American, hard as a rock, who one day let a silent, solitary tear slip from behind his sunglasses.

I saw imprisoned men literally living lives of monks. I saw them adopt new ways of being, taking responsibility for their lives, cleaning up their past, learning to trust, yes, even to love. And I knew that if they could do that while incarcerated, I could no longer wallow in the prison of my mind. I could no longer make excuses and blame others for my shortcomings. I could no longer let my fear hold me back. I could no longer be a spectator. I would embrace my past and live my life fully from that point on.

With support from my friends inside and outside the prison, intensive workshops, my men’s group, and a great deal of personal discipline, I set about creating the life that I had previously only dreamed of. To reclaim my integrity and my authenticity, I committed to consistently tell the truth and keep my word, to forgive and ask for forgiveness, to atone for my misdeeds, and to seek reconciliation. Closure with former wives and lovers and acceptance of family members just as they were. Clearing up my credit card debt and my hefty bar tab left over from the Eighties. Earning my living as a writer and depositing $10,000 in savings. From time to time, I would almost collapse at the enormity of my task, but my path was clear.

If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime. I heard that from more than one of the inmates at Bastrop. How many of us, I wonder, continue to do time for our real or imagined offenses—some of us behind barbed wire or concrete barriers, some of us in our mental prisons of lies, pretense, fear, guilt, or shame? During my brief stretch at Bastrop, I believe that I helped some of those guys find freedom within the confines of their prison cells. And, in turn, they helped me break free of the shackles with which I’d restrained myself.