by Mark Hendricks
The semester before our 2009 trip to Kaua’i, Diana took a college astronomy course from Don Olson, a truly world-renowned astronomer on the Texas State faculty. Hawai’i is considered the most remote population center on the planet, meaning that – for a relatively large population – it is further away from a major land mass than any other. This remoteness makes it ideal for stargazing, and, in fact, the Big Island is home to one of the world’s most significant observatories.
            So, it seemed only natural that Diana would ask Don if there would be anything interesting in the sky for us to see when we were there in late May. And it was only natural that Don would be helpful and very happy to inform us that we would be there at the only time of year – late May – when the Southern Cross would be visible from the Hawaiian Islands. That particular constellation is usually only visible in the Southern Hemisphere, but Don assured us that there is a narrow window where it can be seen in the southern Hawaiian sky in late May. All you have to do is look in the southern sky after 9 p.m. or so and it should be there, slightly above the horizon. That would be easy for us as we were staying on the southern shore of Kaua’i. A simple look straight out at the ocean from the beach should give us a great view of the Cross.
            So we were disappointed that the first three nights, the southern sky was shrouded with cloud cover. The rest of the sky was perfectly clear and the stars were beautiful, but the southern exposure was non-existent. It would have been so easy for us to see it, too, because our balcony lanai faced directly south. It should have provided a perfect view for “Cross-gazing.” On the third night, though, I had about given up.

    “Don is going to be so disappointed,” Diana said.
            I told her I would send him an email to soften the blow, and went inside and wrote to him that the southern sky had been cloudy and our attempts at finding the Cross had been fruitless.
            “If there’s anything you can do to blow these clouds away with your powers of great astronomy, we would appreciate it. Otherwise, we are going to give up the hunt,” I wrote to him.
            But the Southern Cross was the last thing on our minds the next morning as we loaded up the Escalade for a trip to Hanalei. Hanalei is a beautiful little artsy town on the North Shore and is home of Hanalei Bay, where they shot much of the movie South Pacific. The trip from Poipu to Hanalei has to be one of the most beautiful drives imaginable. It seems that every corner you negotiate and every hilltop you crest yields one incomparable view after another. Gorgeous beaches, incredible mountain vistas, valleys of taro, rain forests so dense you lose your cell phone signal and your satellite radio feed, and, always, the magnificent floral displays. Color EVERYWHERE. I could not make this drive without quietly thanking God for his handiwork and for providing my eye surgeon with the necessary skills to correct my vision, which only weeks earlier had nearly completely abandoned me.
            We stopped at the Kilauea lighthouse on the way up to the North Shore. The little peninsula that is home to the lighthouse is also a wildlife preserve and the view of the Pacific is breathtaking, as is the distant glimpse of Mount Makana, the “Bali Hai” mountain of South Pacific. Then on to Hanalei, crossing the little one-lane bridges where local custom dictates five to seven cars pass in one direction, and then you give the oncoming traffic its turn. They call this “driving with Aloha” in the Islands. It is how people should drive everywhere. So civilized. Road rage does not exist on Kaua’i.
            In Hanalei, we “discover” the Hanalei Gourmet Deli. Great lunch of fish and chips. The fish had no doubt been swimming recently, maybe that morning. A quaint little bar where the locals rub elbows with the visitors and one just wants to stay and swap stories and stay some more. Would maybe forever be long enough?
            But the beach beckons, so we pile into the Escalade for the 10-block trip to Hanalei Beach Park. And there is the pier from South Pacific and a beautiful, very sparsely populated beautiful white sand beach. Calm, blue water. The bay surrounded by green mountains, seeming to rise out of the water. It’s sunny, but rain showers can be seen coming over the mountains. Still enough time for a great swim. The water is cool and effervescent. It cleanses stress from our bodies and we are younger.
            Time to go. The beautiful trip back and we see all the same views from the reverse angle this time. They are just as magnificent. To the condo pool where a plunge rinses the sand away. Then a rest and a shower. Tonight, we are going to the Casa Blanca for dinner.
            We went there two nights ago. It’s a place recommended to us by Ed. The drinks are good and very reasonable and the food is too. We have met a local singer/songwriter named Mike Young and he has become our friend. He is playing tonight.  He has been very impressed with Diana’s knowledge of and ties to country music. He is a typical Kaua’ian in that he is humble, unassuming, laid back and smiles easily. Good cocktails, food and music prove a great cap to what has been a wonderful day so far. But we figure it is about time to be heading back, so we get up to leave.
            “Hey, where are you going?” asks Mike. “You can’t leave yet. I have a special surprise for you.”
            He introduces us to a woman who he has been talking with for a few minutes. He says, “She is the best hula dancer in the islands and is the head dancer in the show at the Lihue Marriott. She wants to perform a hula for the two of you.”
            Well, this is a great honor and one that cannot be spurned without causing great loss of face in the Hawaiian culture. So, of course, we pull up a couple of seats and are entertained as she dances a beautiful dance to Hele on to Kaua’i, which, roughly translated, means Coming Home to Kaua’i. It is a song Mike has chosen for us and it is one of our favorites. She then dances the Hawaiian wedding song for a young newlywed couple. It is purely magical and there is not a dry eye in the place.
            We thank Mike and the dancer (sadly, I cannot recall her name) and we promise to catch Mike’s act again before we leave for home. We go back to the condo where we fix a nightcap and turn on some music on the Ipod.  We are sitting on the balcony lanai reflecting on what a great day it has been. The trip to the North Shore, the great evening at the Casa Blanca, our own private hula performance, new friends. And then the song comes on the Ipod. A sledgehammer of a reminder that there is one more thing to do tonight.
            The song is Fly Me To The Moon, and it is a song that our astronomer friend Don Olson has said would be one that he would launch into space to be played for all eternity if he could. It reminds me to look to the southern sky. One last shot at the Southern Cross. If the clouds are there again tonight, I guess it was just not meant to be.
            When you look straight south from our balcony, the lower portion of the sky is kind of blocked by a line of several palm trees. But there is a break in those palm trees and right there in the break, perfectly framed by the silhouette of the palm fronds, shines the Southern Cross. It is bigger and more majestic than I had imagined it would be. And the framing by the palms is just amazing. What a wonderful sight. Diana and I dance to the rest of Fly Me To The Moon and then we raise a glass in a toast to Don Olson, the astronomer who chased the clouds from the southern sky and gave us a look at a wondrous creation.
            That night, I send Don another e-mail, telling him of our greatest day ever and how it ended, right on cue from Ol’ Blue Eyes hisownself.
            The next morning, I receive a message back from Don: “Isn’t it wonderful when the heavens perform as advertised?”
            Yeah, Don, it sure is.

    - By Mark Hendricks
(Written on the occasion of DeLynn's 18th birthday)
________________

OK, DeLynn: You tell me – where the heck have the past 18 years gone?
    When I wrote what was, until now, the last chapter of Father’s Forum back on July 18, 1984, you were only a few hours old.
    We were all still afraid of the Soviet Union and tormented by the presence of the Berlin Wall.
    We didn’t care about Saddam Hussein, and had never heard of Osama bin Laden. There were still Twin Towers in New York City.
    We had cassettes and videotapes instead of CDs and DVDs.
    Waylon was still with us, and I had no idea what he meant when he sang, “I look in the mirror in total surprise, at the hair on my shoulders and the age in my eyes.”
    But I do now, durnit.

    We still had Traveler, a good ol’ dog who took you into his heart the day you came home.
    And we hadn’t even considered your brother, a kid who stole your heart the day he came home. Admit it, he did.
    We still had Papa, and Grandmother, and Pappy and Gee-Gee, who all loved you very much.
    Your Mom and I still had each other, and still thought we always would. Regardless of all that’s happened with that, because of you and Patrick, your Mom and I will always still have each other in some form or fashion. And that’s a good thing.
    Some things change. You’ve learned that.
    Some things don’t. You’ll learn that.
    You will probably also learn that those things that change are the things that bring us joy, entertainment, sadness and heartache. They bring us ecstasy, and they bring us misery. We need all those things in life. If we’re lucky, we’ll get our share, and not too much more.
    And you’ll probably also learn that those things that don’t change are the things that bring stability to our lives. They’re the things that guide us in the right direction, signposts that tell us we’re headed where we need to be going, or warn that we’re veering from the course. They allow us to become what we should be.
    They are things like the love of a parent for a child. The knowledge that there is a God and a bigger picture. The certainty that we fit in that picture somewhere. The security of knowing that if we experience the change, but are guided by the unchanging, that we stand a chance of finding our fit in that picture before it’s too late.
    Remember, DeLynn, that God gives us gifts. But also remember that a gift is not just something you get, it’s also something you give.
    You were the first of the two great gifts in my life. (Yep, that brother of yours was the second.) Today, your 18th birthday, the law says you’re an adult. The law says it’s time for you to be responsible for yourself. Silly law, that one.
The law says it’s time for me to give back the gift I received 18 years ago.
    It’s a funny thing about gifts, though. It’s something I’ve learned over the years, and something you’ll no doubt come to learn as well. The less consequential gifts in our lives, we can give and never see again. We never really miss them.
 But the ones that really count, the ones hand-made by God, we can never completely give away. We give them, we share them, but regardless of silly man-made conventions like laws, we always get to keep them, too.
    So today your Mom and I can give you one of the two neatest gifts we’ve ever received. And it’s also one of the neatest gifts we’ve ever given. Remember, though, that because it’s one of God’s gifts, we can never give it away completely. We get to keep it, too.
    It’s you.
    And it’s very precious. Please take care of it.
    Dad
  

By Mark  Hendricks
    Patrick’s was a good team that year. Three or four star players. Several more who, like Patrick, were solid, steady and took well to good coaching. The brightest star on the team was Kevin. He could play any position. His glove was a vacuum cleaner on defense. On the mound, he threw nothing but strikes. He was a terrific hitter with a beautiful swing. And on the base paths, he was simply the fastest kid in the city. Kevin won ballgames for us that year. Several, in fact.
    Kevin had only one bad game all year. That was the same night Patrick had perhaps his best game ever. Patrick’s stars were aligned that night. The kid was everywhere. He was playing first and there were two on and two out. The batter hit a screaming liner well over his head, but ol’ Patrick’s cleats musta had wings that night. Michael Jordan in his prime may not have been able to get up for that ball, but, somehow, Patrick did. When he came down, he looked in his glove in disbelief. The ball was there. On the way to the dugout, his teammates whacked his butt, punched his shoulder, smacked the back of his head.
Jeez, it must hurt to be a star, I thought.

    But it was joy on Patrick’s face, not pain. He had a good night with the bat, too. Scored a couple runs, drove in three more.   
    But Kevin had not been Kevin that evening. Absent-minded from the start, he’d made two errors at shortstop, had been hitless at the plate and, when called on as a relief pitcher, had given up the go-ahead run. In the end, though, the game was in his hands, and his teammates and all us parents wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. Bottom of the last. Down one run. Two out. Runners at second and third. Patrick representing the winning run at second. Kevin at bat, a swing away from redemption.
    He struck out on three pitches.
    At the end of all games, Coach Phil took his boys down the baseline into the outfield where they all sat in the grass and listened as he nurtured the seeds of their memories. We parents, too, had taken to strolling toward the outfield after games. You didn’t have to be a kid to learn from Coach Phil.
    That evening was business as usual. Phil didn’t talk about the game. Didn’t mention the loss.
    “Is this a beautiful night or what? Take it in, guys. Look at each other. Remember those faces. Remember those names. Smell the grass. Appreciate the feel of the leather on your hand, the sting in your wrist when you make good bat contact. That’s what this is about, guys. And that’s what you’re going to remember when you’re old like me. Because those are the things that matter. And someday, you’ll know I’m right. I am so proud of all of you.”   
    As we made the long walk from the fields to the parking lot, Patrick and I talked about the game and his performance that night.
    “You played one heckuva game tonight, buddy. That’s the best I’ve ever seen you play,” I told him.
    “Thanks,” he said, and smiled.
    “But what was with Kevin tonight? He seemed completely out of it.”
    “He told me he had a problem with his dad earlier today,” Patrick said.
    “A problem with his dad? What do you mean?”
    “Kevin’s dad can be mean. Sometimes he can be real mean. I think he was real mean today,” said Patrick.
    “Oh.” What the hell could I say? For the first time, it occurred to me I had never seen Kevin’s dad at one of his kid’s ballgames.
    We walked in silence for a moment and then Patrick said, “I’m glad I don’t have a dad like that.”
    With my right hand, I reached around him and cupped his shoulder. With my left, I lifted my glasses and dabbed the moisture from my eye. And we walked across the parking lot together on a warm South Texas evening. Father and son. A couple of guys. Each an individual – and indispensable – part of us.
    And his cleats clashed on the pavement.

By Mark Hendricks (Hillviews, Spring 2006)

    We lost to Northern Iowa 40-37 in overtime on a frigid Friday night in December in San Marcos. Our Bobcats played their hearts out but, in the end, it just wasn’t enough. And that is how the season -- an otherwise glorious season -- ended. One game short of the national championship game.
    But this is not a story about how things end. It is a story about how things begin. A story about lessons we learn, hopes we rekindle, friends we make along the way. Ultimately, it is a story about pride, and about spirit. And maybe, just maybe, about one spirit in particular who smiles on us still.
    So how does the story of this incredible football season begin? With a win against Delta State? No, not really. A second-game blowout of Southern Utah? Nope. Strangely enough, the real beginning came with a loss. Not that loss to Northern Iowa or that heartbreaker to Nicholls State. But a loss to the mighty (well, they were considered pretty mighty then) Aggies of Texas A&M.
    Our second-year coach, David Bailiff, led our Bobcats into College Station to play a game most experts said shouldn’t even be played. We were, after all, a team with a 23-year history of ineptitude at the Division I-AA level. We had no business in Kyle Field. No business playing a team expected to contend for the Big 12 South.
“Stay home, Bobcats, you’re out of your league,” they said.
They were wrong. Sixty minutes of what Jim Wacker used to call “smash-mouth football” later, we ended up on the short end of a 44-31 score. But we had shown the Aggies, the Southland Conference and Bobcat Nation that we could play this game again. We had given the Aggies all they wanted and a couple of heaping tablespoons more. At the end of that game, there was one worn out team. One team that wanted out of Kyle Field. One team that had had enough. And that team was not our Bobcats.
We were back.

The following Monday at the weekly luncheon of the Bobcat Athletic Foundation, the effort was summed up best by Bill Soyars. Bill is an Aggie, but he’s a San Marcan and a huge sports fan and supporter of Bobcat athletics. He stood that day and addressed Coach Bailiff.
“Coach,” he said, “I am a proud Aggie and I will be a proud Aggie until the day I die. But your Bobcats showed me something Thursday night. You just never quit. You never, never quit. I am a proud Aggie, but today and forever, I will also be a proud Bobcat.”
And a funny thing happened because of that nationally televised game from College Station. People began coming to Bobcat Stadium. There were tailgate parties. There were lines at the concession stands. Ninety minutes before kickoff, there were signs at the entrance to the parking lot.
“Lot full,” they said.
Later, during the playoffs, other never-before-seen signs would appear. These were on the ticket booths.
“Sold out,” they said. “Please watch the game on ESPN2.”
And what’s that we heard? Was that noise? In Bobcat Stadium? Oh, yeah. It was noise, alright.
“TEXAS!!” the alumni side of the stadium roared.
“STATE!!” came the cry from the student side.
And back and forth it went. Louder each time. Late in the season, the San Marcos Daily Record reported the cheer could be heard at the local WalMart across Interstate 35.
The wins piled up. The destruction of Panhandle State. Vindication for last year’s thumping by Northwestern State. A blowout of perennial power McNeese. A televised defeat of SFA.
Had it not been for an overtime upset on the road at Nicholls State, the conference title would have been well in hand long before the final regular season game against Sam Houston State. So, in the long run, perhaps that loss at Nicholls was a good thing. Because if the story of this season begins with the A&M game, the story of this season’s magic begins with Sam.
I was there. I saw it. I felt it. I may never really understand it. But I will never forget it. Nor will the 15,300 others who were there that day.
How did we win that game? Our team was out of synch. We committed an incredible number of turnovers. The Bearkats made amazing play after amazing play.
How did we win? With the help of 15,300 very powerful voices and one incredibly friendly ghost.
Time after time after time, we rallied our tired voices and screamed for our defense. And time after time after time, that defense responded. Until it could do so no longer. And then help came from somewhere else.
Sam Houston had the ball in the second half. It was third and long. Their quarterback dropped back and launched a 50-yard pass downfield to a receiver who went up and made the grab for what would just be a backbreaker for the Bobcats. It would likely end our hopes for a share of the conference title and any hope for a playoff invitation. And that receiver made that catch.
But then the ball somehow squirted out of his hands. So he reached out and caught it again. And it squirted out of his hands again. And he fell to the ground and the ball came down and hit him right in the chest, smack-dab between the numbers and before he could grab it yet again, it bounced harmlessly away.
What had just happened? My wife, Diana, leaned over and said to me, “Pass interference on Jim Wacker. He’s the only man here tonight who could have made that play.”
“Yeah,” I tell her.
Looking up beyond the stadium lights, I say, “Thanks, Coach.”
Jim Wacker, of course, was the coach of our back-to-back Division II championships. The teacher of David Bailiff. The man whose incredible spirit, enthusiasm, integrity and love of life were legendary on our campus for so many years until he lost a courageous battle with cancer. The man we honor at Jim Wacker Field at Bobcat Stadium.
His field. His legacy. His spirit.
His ghost, too?
We win that game by 3 in overtime. We are stunned. We rush the field in celebration and witness the presentation of the Southland Conference championship trophy in the end zone. President Trauth takes the microphone and addresses Coach Bailiff.
“Coach, there is one man here tonight who can be here in spirit only. Your coach. Your mentor. Your friend. Jim Wacker. He would have said, ‘This is UNBELIEEEVABLE!’ And he would be right.”
Bailiff’s eyes are closed. He is overcome by emotion.
To be sure, it is unfair to give credit to a friendly ghost for an effort that involved so many remarkable young men, hard-working coaches and a tireless staff. But lessons are not successfully taught unless they are learned. And Coach Bailiff learned lessons from Jim Wacker and, apparently, he learned them well.
In the midst of this amazing football season, Texas State is also experiencing a great volleyball run. Our team has won the Southland Conference tournament in Arlington and they have returned to San Marcos late at night, arriving by bus after 1 a.m. When the bus arrives at a quiet, dark parking lot at Texas State, one man stands outside the door to greet and congratulate the team. That man is David Bailiff.
Head volleyball coach Karen Chisum, misty-eyed, tells that story at the Bobcat Athletic Foundation luncheon and adds, “Can we all learn a few lessons about class from Coach Bailiff?”
Yeah, Coach Karen, maybe we can.
There is more magic: The phenomenal 34-point outburst against Georgia Southern in the first round of the playoffs that rallies the ‘Cats from a 35-16 third-quarter deficit to an impossible 50-35 win. A phantom fumble at the one-inch line by the Cal Poly quarterback that seals a second-round win.
A friend leans forward on that play and asks me, “Wacker again?”
It ends against Northern Iowa. But this is not a story about endings. It’s a story about beginnings. And Coach Bailiff said it well at a news conference after that loss.
“This is not the end. It’s just a start. It’s not going to take us another 23 years to get back here,” he said.
After that Sam Houston game and the trophy presentation that followed, Diana and I walk out onto the field. The night is cool and crisp. Stadium lights and stars. I look up at the scoreboard. It’s been turned off, but I can still read it in my mind. Texas State 26. Sam Houston 23.
I look down. At my feet on the 25-yard line are the words “Jim Wacker Field,” and I bend to touch his name.
“Thanks, Coach,” I am thinking.
And now, a few weeks later, I bang the keyboard and remember a remarkable season. Lessons learned. Friends made. Pride and rekindled spirit. And I think of David Bailiff.
“Thanks, Coach,” I am thinking.

From: Mark Hendricks  
Date: Sun Oct 26, 2003  7:40:51  AM US/Central
To: Diana Finlay
Subject: It's early

It's still fairly early this morning, so I probably haven't mentioned yet how deeply in love with you I am. Probably have neglected to say that you are on a pedestal that cannot be shaken or overturned.
May have skipped my mind to tell you the passion you have brought to my life. But it's early. The time change has warped my sensibilities.
So I probably forgot to say that you make me feel like some kinda damn superman, someone who may not, but now desperately wants to live forever. May not have gotten around to asking you just why in the heck I deserve this.
But, if I do, I thank God.
And you.
As the day wears on, I suppose it'll dawn on me to tell you how your touch electrifies me, or calms me. And how you always seem to know which I need at that time.
I'm still just only awake, so I may not have shared with you how delightful it is to laugh with you. How much I love your sense of humor. How wonderful it feels to just laugh out loud again.
Have I told you yet today that you can make me cry? That I have tears in my eyes as I write this? Or how good that feels? Isn't it wonderful to know that tears can be caused by joy instead of pain?
So many things I haven't told you yet today.
But it's early.
So forgive me if I haven't mentioned that your eyes melt my heart. That they sparkle. That you're beautiful.
Have I ever told you that when I drive to your home, I start to feel kind of queasy and anxious the closer I get to you? Sort of like a high school kid on his way to a big date. And then when you answer your door, you wrap me in comfort, and the anxiety is only a distant memory.
It's still early, so I may not have mentioned that there's a small conch shell on my dresser that I'm going to move back to my car today. Because I never notice it on my dresser. But when it was in my car, I couldn't miss it. And when I see it, I think of you.
And I may not have told you yet today what a good thing that is.
But it's early.
And I love you.

By Mark Hendricks  (Hillviews)

         If you ever knew Jim Wacker, picture him in your mind’s eye for a moment. He’s smiling, isn’t he?
    Jim Wacker strode through life smiling.
    The legendary football coach who led the Bobcats to back-to-back NCAA Division II national championships in 1981 and 1982, died Aug. 26 at the age of 66 after a lengthy, courageous and often inspirational battle against cancer.
    Wacker coached the Bobcats from 1979 to 1982. His 42-8 record in that span is the highest winning percentage in school history. He also had collegiate head coaching jobs at Texas Lutheran (where he won consecutive NAIA national championships in 1974 and 1975), North Dakota State University, TCU and the University of Minnesota. He returned to Texas State to serve as director of athletics from 1998 to 2001.
    Although he won four national championships and virtually every national coaching award offered, the defining moment of Wacker’s career may have come while he was at TCU when he self-reported several NCAA violations that had occurred at the school before he arrived. That led to the most severe penalties ever imposed by the NCAA and set the TCU football program on its heels. Wacker stayed at TCU and eventually rebuilt the team into a winner again. The incident forever branded Wacker as a coach – and a man – of impeccable integrity.
    When she learned of his death, Texas State President Denise Trauth said, “Jim Wacker was an important part of the history of this university, but he was also so much more. He embodied our spirit and our enthusiasm. He was an inspirational leader not only to the players who played for him, but for all of us. He touched so many lives.”
    The measure of how many lives Wacker touched was demonstrated on Aug. 29 when his funeral service was held in Evans Auditorium on campus. So many former players, family members, colleagues and friends attended that the event was standing-room-only. Attendees were asked to park at Aquarena Center and rode shuttle buses to the service.
    The Rev. Roland Martinson conducted the funeral service and spoke of Wacker’s infectious enthusiasm.
    “Can you hear him?” Martinson asked. “Booming voice. Hearty laugh. He always spoke the way he walked. Can you hear him? Unbelieeeeevable! Amaaaaazing! You’ve GOT to be kidding! Some thought, ‘Was he for real?’”
    Oh, yes, Coach Wacker was for real. Measure the man by what was said of him on that day we remembered him. Measure him by the column inches devoted to his legend and the quotes from those who revered him.

    “People couldn’t believe he was really like that. But that was Jim. He was the genuine article. There was never anything phony about him,” said Gordon McCullough, sports information director while Wacker coached the Bobcats.
    “I went to TCU thinking I was a man, that I was ready to soar with the eagles. But I was just a little bird in the nest, just a child. After being around him and learning from him, I felt like I could soar. He made me into that eagle,” said Kenneth Davis, former TCU and NFL running back.
    “There were only two times I ever saw Jim down, and that just meant he was on Cloud 8 instead of Cloud 9,” said former Wacker assistant coach and former Bobcat head coach Bob DeBesse.
    “He had character and integrity that is incredibly rare. The way he led his life is an example for everyone to follow. In a day and age when people are winning at all costs, Coach Wacker was determined to win the right way,” said Bill Miller, former player and now athletic director at Texas Lutheran.
    “Jim will be known for his spirit, the way he lived his life and for his integrity. When I finally leave this game, I hope I can be known for doing one-third as much for the game as Jim Wacker did,” said Texas Longhorn Coach Mack Brown.
    Ron Jacoby, quarterback of the 1982 Bobcat national championship team, summarized what many said that day we laid Coach Wacker to rest – reminded us that Jim’s lessons were not just about football.
    “A couple of years back, I was asked who was the person who had the most influence on my life, and it was Coach Wacker. In my life after football, in my business, in dealing with my kids, I’m always incorporating something he said 20 years ago,” he said.
    Measure the man by the love of his wife. And our love for her.
    That day in Evans Auditorium, Rev. Martinson asked Wacker’s beloved wife Lil to stand and he asked those in attendance to show her that she would not face her loss alone. The thundering standing ovation that ensued likely may never have stopped had not Martinson eventually returned to his microphone and begged for its cessation.
    Measure the man by the love of his children.
    Wacker’s sons Mike, Steve and Tom wrote a letter to their father near the end of his life. They were having difficulty speaking the words they needed to say to him.
    That letter read in part, “When we hear people talk about you as a professional, we realize how revered you are, but what impresses us the most is how your former players talk about you. It isn’t just respect, or reverence, or acknowledgement of your successes. It is so much more. They really love you. You communicate your love to them in so many ways that they have come to love you as well. The impact you have on them to this day is awesome. We feel very blessed every time they speak highly of you because you have ‘coached’ us our entire lives. Thank you for giving us a name that is so respected in the community. The values that you stand for have resonated within the educational community and they have reached far beyond … Thank you for all you have taught us so far, but thanks most of all for being our Dad!”
    If you ever knew Jim Wacker, picture him in your mind’s eye for a moment. He’s smiling, isn’t he?
    Now notice something else.
    So are you.

By Mark Hendricks (Hillviews, 2011)
Glen Cleckler ’50 and his wife JoAnn ’52 sit at the base of the Iwo Jima statue in Harlingen. One of the Marines depicted in the statue is Harlon Block, Glen’s friend who died on the island in 1945.

    From time to time, Glen Cleckler, 87,  still visits his dear friend Harlon  Block. He stands respectfully beside  his gravesite. He may speak to  him quietly, with a trace of a smile  on his face, about the perils of growing old.  But, for the most part, Cleckler uses these  visits to remember.
    And on this sweltering  summer afternoon on the campus of the Marine  Military Academy in Harlingen, it is no  different. Cleckler looks down upon his old  friend’s resting place and remembers. The  memories come easily, perhaps because they  comprise a story that is so impossible to forget.  The two were best friends in high school in  the Rio Grande Valley town of Weslaco. They  were young, handsome, athletic, and popular –  teammates on a conference champion Weslaco  High football team. Both seemed destined to  play college ball. Cleckler, in fact, had a scholarship  offer to Howard Payne. 
    But one afternoon in the fall of their senior  year of high school (1942-43), Block had a mischievous  idea. It was an idea that would tip the  first domino and start a sequence of events with  consequences both tragic and heroic.

It would  also eventually solidify a friendship that still  lives, more than six decades after Block’s death.  “Harlon suggested that we skip school that  afternoon and go to a movie,” says Cleckler.  Cleckler was not keen on the idea at first.  He had been hoping for perfect attendance  that year. But Block was persistent, so Cleckler,  Block, and a third friend and teammate, Carl  Sims, piled into Block’s pickup and took off for  the theater. 

The Weslaco theater was out of the question  because the manager there was a big fan  of the local football team and would certainly  recognize the three truants. They eventually  ended up 18 miles away at a theater in Harlingen.  After the show, it occurred to Cleckler that  they would need an excuse for missing school  that afternoon, or they would face the principal’s  dreaded paddle.  “Right there by the theater, there was a  Marine Corps recruiting office,” says Cleckler,  and another life-changing idea was formed.  The recruiting officer there told the three to  come back after they finished high school, but  they picked up some recruiting brochures and  applications anyway and headed back to Weslaco. 

The next morning, they were  confronted by the principal, A.C.  Murphy, who had his paddle at  the ready.  “I said, ‘Don’t you want to see  why we were out of school?’” says  Cleckler. He showed the principal  the recruiting materials and  presented him with a filled-out  Marine Corps application.  “He said, ‘I have misjudged  you boys. When do you join?’ We  told him we would join as soon  as we could, and we escaped the  paddle,” Cleckler says.  Well, Cleckler, Block, and  Sims figured their enlistment  would come later that spring  after graduation, but about  three days later, Murphy came  back with a better idea.

He had  made arrangements for the  three to take their exams and  graduate early. Eventually, five  other fellow seniors and football teammates  joined them, and a special early graduation  ceremony was held in January for the eight  future Marines.  Cleckler was chosen to speak on behalf  of the group at the graduation assembly and,  to this day, he remembers that one-sentence  speech word-for-word. 

“I said, ‘Wherever we go, whatever we do,  we will always remember you in this place today,’”  says Cleckler.  They left for Marine Corps basic training in  San Diego shortly thereafter. Following boot  camp, Cleckler, Block, and the others went  their separate ways, assigned to separate Marine  Corps units in different parts of the Pacific  theater in World War II.  U.S. Naval operations during the Pacific  campaign were highly complex. There were construction projects, security details, and  battles to be fought in scores of locations with  names that most of the young Marines and seamen  had never heard of — places like Tarawa,  Kwajalein, Saipan, Guam, Tinian, and Peleliu.  For the most part, rank-and-file Marines did  not know exactly where they were going until  they got there. 

In late 1944 and early 1945, Cleckler was  on a troop transport harbored in Honolulu,  where he and other Marines awaited their  next departure for whatever destination lay  in store. One evening he boarded a transport  barge to go ashore for a night of liberty. On  the way to shore, he felt a tap on his shoulder.  He turned and came face-to-face with his old  friend, Harlon Block.  “Imagine, being out there in the middle  of the Pacific Ocean and running into my old  friend! That was quite a surprise,” says Cleckler.  Block’s unit was on a troop transport harbored  adjacent to Cleckler’s ship and both had  been granted liberty that evening, which led  to the chance encounter on the barge. They  spent the evening ashore talking about old  times, catching up, and speculating about  where they might go next. 

On the way back to their ships that evening,  Block removed a ring he was wearing and handed  it to Cleckler. It was a gold Marine Corps ring  he had bought after completing Marine paratrooper  training. He gave it to Cleckler.  “He told me to give it to his mother when  I got home. He said he wasn’t coming back. I  told him to go jump in the lake, but he wouldn’t  have any of that. Some guys just got that feeling.  So I took the ring,” says Cleckler.  They shipped out soon after. At the time,  they did not know their destination, but they  surmised they would be going to the same  place, and they were.

The Battle of Iwo Jima involved some of  the fiercest fighting of the war. American commanders  had estimated that the island could be  captured in three days. It took 36. During those  36 days, 6,800 American servicemen — the vast  majority Marines — were killed. More than  20,000 Japanese soldiers died in the battle.  On the fourth day of the battle, the Marines  secured the high point of the island,  Mount Suribachi.

Although the fight was far  from over, that event provided one of the most  iconic moments of World War II, when photographer  Joe Rosenthal snapped the Pulitzer  Prize-winning photograph of five Marines  and one Navy corpsman raising the American  flag on Mount Suribachi.  The Marine at the base of the flagpole,  pushing the pole into the ground, is Harlon  Block. Eight days after the flag-raising, Block  was killed by mortar fire. 

Cleckler survived Iwo Jima. He was rotated  back to the United States and assigned to a military  police unit at the Corpus Christi Naval  Base. He paid a visit to Block’s  mother and tried to give her  Harlon’s ring, but she did not  want it.  “She told me I should keep  it — that I’d been his best  friend. So I did,” says Cleckler.  Cleckler expected to be  recalled to the Pacific theater,  probably for what most  thought was the upcoming  invasion of Japan. But the  Japanese surrendered before  he shipped out.  Cleckler served out the  remainder of his enlistment  stateside and then went looking  for a college.

That football  scholarship offer to Howard  Payne was no longer on the table,  thanks to time and coaching  changes. He eventually decided  on Southwest Texas State  Teachers College, now Texas  State. He joined the Bobcat  football team, became a starting  center and linebacker and  was highly regarded as an allaround  athlete.  Cleckler graduated from  Texas State in 1950.

He returned  to the Rio Grande  Valley to Harlingen, where  he served more than three  decades as a coach, teacher, principal, and  family man. His wife, JoAnn Smith Cleckler  is a 1952 Texas State alumna. They still reside  in Harlingen. 

Their home is near the Marine Military  Academy in Harlingen, home to the largest  existing statue depicting the raising of the flag  on Mount Suribachi. It is, in fact, the original  working model prepared by the sculptor Felix  de Weldon that was used to cast the monument  that stands at Arlington National Cemetery.  At the base of the statue is an inscription  bearing the words of Fleet Adm. Chester Nimitz,  who said of the Marines on Iwo Jima, “Uncommon  valor was a common virtue.” 

A few feet from the statue is the gravesite of  Harlon Block. Originally interred at Weslaco,  his body was moved to the academy in Harlingen  in 1995 during the commemoration of the  50th anniversary of the battle.  And Block’s ring? Until last spring, Cleckler  wore it every day. Through his years as a Bobcat,  through his career as an educator, through  his life as a husband and father. But last year,  in a ceremony beside the monument and the  gravesite, Cleckler donated the ring to the Marine  Military Academy. It is on display at the  academy’s museum. 

On this day, Cleckler stands beside  Block’s grave. He has borrowed the ring  from its display case. He turns it over and  over in his hand, feeling the memories it  never fails to produce. 

“You know, I wanted to keep it, but I felt  this was better,” he says, looking at the monument  to his friend and his comrades in arms.  “It belongs here.”