That evening, I remember distinctly.
Mama, worn out from a day of sewing to make extra money for bills, had gone to bed. Daddy had gone to a funeral home to visit a church member who had left this mortal coil to meet his just reward. In his case, I recall this was not a good thing because I heard the grown-ups talking.
“Never darkened the door of the church,” opined one.
“Too busy makin’ moonshine,” offered another.
That night, left to my own devices, I plopped down in front of the television set, atop a red, crushed velvet pillow that Mama had made so that I could watch TV comfortably.
Why I chose that television of the week movie (remember those?) I am clueless.
But this, I believe, planted the seed in my mind to become a sports reporter. The reason was simple and brought me numerous awards. It was the people and their stories I saw on the fields and courts that captivated me. I knew there had to be more stories like those, and I was determined to find them.
Other than once, when I had cried a single tear over a Walt Disney movie, it was the first time I shed tears at a movie.
Perhaps you remember it because it was a powerfully true story about two Chicago Bears—one white, one African-American. From the first days of training camp, they became roommates, and that friendship would grow stronger and deeper with tragedy. They were the first interracial roommates in the history of the NFL.
That night, on that pillow, on my stomach, I watched the movie Brian’s Song and never left the television set.
Though only eight years old, I cried through the movie as I watched one of the best players in football history, Gale Sayers – played by the incredible actor Billy Dee Williams – bond firmly with Bears player Brian Piccolo – played brilliantly by James Caan.
Shelley Fabares, as Piccolo’s wife, was completely real and moving. That night, with no one knowing, I went to bed and cried.
Things might have been different if it hadn’t been a true-to-life movie and Piccolo had not died at the age of 26, leaving a wife and three daughters. The movie was so powerful that it ended up with a 30 percent share, meaning that at least 30 percent of American households watching television were tuned into it. Today, except for the Super Bowl, a great rating is somewhere between a five and an eight share.
I recently saw that movie on Turner Classics Movies while looking for a series to watch. I knew, absolutely knew, I shouldn’t start watching.
For this reason, I remember how I cried when I was eight.
It’s ironic how things work. Just that day, I thought, “I never cry any more. Have I cried out my allotted tears?”
In the past 18 months, I have lost four preciously- close people to what I believe is a better place.
It is a place of happiness that is far removed from this vale of tears and sorrows. Another died before I had time to recover from the first one. I had loved them all for so long.
One night, after my husband had gone to bed, I could no longer contain my sorrow. I fell to the floor of our bathroom, scrunched myself into a ball, and cried silently for an hour, waiting for the second to die. Then came two more deaths before I had finished my sorrow over the first two.
It was seconds before the first tear came during Brian’s Song. I wanted to turn it, but the actors, the script, the soundtrack, and the story refused to let me.
That year, it won the media’s most prestigious award, the Peabody, and five Emmys. Wiping away tears, I wondered, “Why don’t they make heart-touching movies like that anymore?”
Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of St. Simons Island: A Stella Bankwell Mystery. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her weekly newsletter.