The keynote speaker at the fountain ceremony, Lucianne Kautz-Call, just concluded her speech. I was honored to have something I wrote used in her speech. I thought I’d share it in it’s entirety...
75
As the trees of Autumn fill the campus, painted in its glorious splendor by the brushes of nature, deep within our souls lie the innate awareness that a dormant and lifeless winter is quickly approaching. Listen carefully as the water’s stream comes to an end, because it is in the pursuing silence that the voices of those we honor speak.
Nestled along the banks of the Ohio River, the community still wears the rust of a city that has passed its prime. More than a century has buried the prominent position it once held as the western terminus for the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad. Like a sullen reminder, the university still sits within the skeletal shadows of the industrial remains that stand as monuments to a better day.
A few hours' drive in any direction will bring us to the doorsteps of more elevated and storied programs, whosefollowing far exceeds ours in numbers and distinction. But where the height of national perception lends a higher visibility, it blinds it from the intimate details that can only be seen from a less elevated position. This is where our story takes place.
Every November on the 14th day the water that springs from the Memorial Fountain and trickles down its twisted spires comes to a halt. As art imitates life, the story told within the symbolism of this event speaks to the core of what makes Marshall football so special. It has been nearly five decades since the course of our history was changed forever. As love can't exist without hate and good without evil, from the tragic loss of life on that cold and rainy night sprang the birth of a spirit that touches the souls of those who call Marshall their own.
What makes Marshall special isn't that they pulled themselves from the embers of this tragedy and elevated themselves from the most prolific losers to winning more games than anyone in college football in the final decade of the century. No…that is only the byproduct of the real story. The real story is that when the cold reality of life deals an unfair hand, we can choose to fold or we can choose to play. We chose to play.
I don't mean to use the term "we" in an egocentric manner to make myself a part of the narrative. I was merely a child observing this event through the filter of youth. It was later when I become a student at Marshall that I, like many others, came to realize how the spirit of those 75 left such an indelible and lasting impression on this university and on this community. This isn't a story that will die along with those who lived through the event. This is a story that will continue through the generations. Take the time to talk to the players and students who weren't born when these events unfolded. They will tell you they too understand that Marshall football is about more than a game.
So, in that vein, the young men who died that November night achieved immortality. You can feel their presence when we are losing, reminding us that not all is lost if we continue to fight. And when we hit the pinnacles once believed impossible in the wake of the tragedy, their presence can be felt in our elation and can be felt in our tears.
This day will always be special for those who are a part of the Marshall family. It is not only a day of mourning and remembrance of the lives that were so abruptly ended…but it is also a celebration of the flow of life. Although we grieve the finality of the youth interrupted on that cold, dark, November night in 1970, we need to rejoice in the spirit that arose from the tragedy. A spirit that still permeates the souls of those who call Marshall home.
As the water goes still, listen carefully for their voices. They have been speaking to us all along. They spoke to us when the decision was made to continue their game. Their voices sang as the fans exalted in the glory of our win over Xavier as if to say we’re still among you. Their voices were heard as the ball sailed through the uprights marking Marshall’s climb from the remnants of tragedy to the height of national champs.
As we stop momentarily to remember those who died, it is fitting to lament their untimely departure, but it is equally fitting to celebrate what they continue to give.
Nearby on a hill, overlooking our present field of dreams stands a marker that memorializes the lives of those who died so many years ago. Under that marker lays some of their physical remains. What you won't find buried there is their spirit. That spirit refused to die. That spirit lives on within the souls of those who call Marshall their own. When the wind blows softly through the trees that line the outskirts of the cemetery, if you listen closely, you can almost hear their voices. Standing vigil over the community that will never forget, they wait to fill the souls of the next generation of Marshall faithful.
75
As the trees of Autumn fill the campus, painted in its glorious splendor by the brushes of nature, deep within our souls lie the innate awareness that a dormant and lifeless winter is quickly approaching. Listen carefully as the water’s stream comes to an end, because it is in the pursuing silence that the voices of those we honor speak.
Nestled along the banks of the Ohio River, the community still wears the rust of a city that has passed its prime. More than a century has buried the prominent position it once held as the western terminus for the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad. Like a sullen reminder, the university still sits within the skeletal shadows of the industrial remains that stand as monuments to a better day.
A few hours' drive in any direction will bring us to the doorsteps of more elevated and storied programs, whosefollowing far exceeds ours in numbers and distinction. But where the height of national perception lends a higher visibility, it blinds it from the intimate details that can only be seen from a less elevated position. This is where our story takes place.
Every November on the 14th day the water that springs from the Memorial Fountain and trickles down its twisted spires comes to a halt. As art imitates life, the story told within the symbolism of this event speaks to the core of what makes Marshall football so special. It has been nearly five decades since the course of our history was changed forever. As love can't exist without hate and good without evil, from the tragic loss of life on that cold and rainy night sprang the birth of a spirit that touches the souls of those who call Marshall their own.
What makes Marshall special isn't that they pulled themselves from the embers of this tragedy and elevated themselves from the most prolific losers to winning more games than anyone in college football in the final decade of the century. No…that is only the byproduct of the real story. The real story is that when the cold reality of life deals an unfair hand, we can choose to fold or we can choose to play. We chose to play.
I don't mean to use the term "we" in an egocentric manner to make myself a part of the narrative. I was merely a child observing this event through the filter of youth. It was later when I become a student at Marshall that I, like many others, came to realize how the spirit of those 75 left such an indelible and lasting impression on this university and on this community. This isn't a story that will die along with those who lived through the event. This is a story that will continue through the generations. Take the time to talk to the players and students who weren't born when these events unfolded. They will tell you they too understand that Marshall football is about more than a game.
So, in that vein, the young men who died that November night achieved immortality. You can feel their presence when we are losing, reminding us that not all is lost if we continue to fight. And when we hit the pinnacles once believed impossible in the wake of the tragedy, their presence can be felt in our elation and can be felt in our tears.
This day will always be special for those who are a part of the Marshall family. It is not only a day of mourning and remembrance of the lives that were so abruptly ended…but it is also a celebration of the flow of life. Although we grieve the finality of the youth interrupted on that cold, dark, November night in 1970, we need to rejoice in the spirit that arose from the tragedy. A spirit that still permeates the souls of those who call Marshall home.
As the water goes still, listen carefully for their voices. They have been speaking to us all along. They spoke to us when the decision was made to continue their game. Their voices sang as the fans exalted in the glory of our win over Xavier as if to say we’re still among you. Their voices were heard as the ball sailed through the uprights marking Marshall’s climb from the remnants of tragedy to the height of national champs.
As we stop momentarily to remember those who died, it is fitting to lament their untimely departure, but it is equally fitting to celebrate what they continue to give.
Nearby on a hill, overlooking our present field of dreams stands a marker that memorializes the lives of those who died so many years ago. Under that marker lays some of their physical remains. What you won't find buried there is their spirit. That spirit refused to die. That spirit lives on within the souls of those who call Marshall their own. When the wind blows softly through the trees that line the outskirts of the cemetery, if you listen closely, you can almost hear their voices. Standing vigil over the community that will never forget, they wait to fill the souls of the next generation of Marshall faithful.
