As a result, I stayed up well past my bedtime last night to watch a pair of unbeaten powerhouses–Alabama and Texas–fight it out for college gridiron bragging rights. I had picked the Tide to win, which might not have happened under a different scenario, but I didn’t really care which team actually came out on top.
Like any true fan of the sport, however, I was devastated at the 10:54 mark of the opening quarter when the Longhorns’ Colt McCoy, the winningest quarterback in major college football history, took a seemingly inconsequential hit–similar to hundreds he had taken before–and left the game with an injury that caused him no pain, but left him without feeling in his right arm. He never returned to the game.
Instead, Texas was forced to pin its championship hopes on a second-string quarterback, a true freshman who had taken barely two-dozen snaps on the season. Alabama, spotted the Longhorns a pair of field goals, then reeled off 24 unanswered points, carrying a seemingly safe 24-6 lead into the locker room. Things got dicier than expected for ‘Bama down the stretch as the Longhorns’ second-stringer and his receivers began to play in sync. Texas drew within 24-21 late, but it was too late. The Tide’s defense did what it had done all year long: made the big plays. Two closing-minutes scores made the final margin 37-21.
After the game, a reporter on the field asked Colt McCoy a stupid question. There was nothing unusual in that. I used to think that sports journalists had to take classes in how to ask asinine questions, and I’ve seen nothing in recent years to alter my opinion. This particular reporter had obviously been well-trained in the long-standing journalistic art. She wanted to know how the Texas quarterback felt as he stood on the sidelines instead of on the field, watching his team instead of leading his team.
Stupid question.
Anyone with a gram of feeling would have at least a general idea of how Colt McCoy felt. A national championship had been his dream since his freshman season at Texas, as he stood on the sidelines and watched Vince Young engineer a remarkable do-or-die scramble to wrest the title from the clutches of USC.
“How did it feel to watch my dreams die? Like being sawed in two with a dull razor blade, thank you.”
To McCoy’s credit, though he struggled even to find a way to begin his reply, when he finally did manage the words, they were profound.
After praising Alabama–“a tremendous football team”–his own team’s valiant effort, and the gutsy performance by his backup, Gary Gilbert, he turned the direction of his faith.
“I always give God the glory. I never question why things happen the way they do. God is in control of my life. And I know that, if nothing else, I’m standing on the rock.”
Thank you, Colt McCoy.
Thank you for reminding us that faith is not the domain of champions alone, but of losers as well. Thank you for reminding us that commitment to God is not merely a possession of those whose prayers have been answered and dreams fulfilled, but also of those who have just had their guts kicked out and their long-cherished hopes crushed.
Colt, I heard you thank God many times after big wins and mountaintop experiences, smiling, even basking, in the thrill of victory; but it meant even more to me to hear you thank God through the hot tears of fresh disappointment and the choked voice of dashed dreams, in what was probably the deepest valley that you, as a young man, have walked to this point.
Thank you, Colt McCoy.
I have watched enough football for enough years that I am familiar with–and even thankful to God for–all the simple testimonies of faith I occasionally see on the field: a raised index finger pointed heavenward, a bowed knee in the end zone. But those are always seen at high points, moments of celebration. I have yet to see a quarterback, having been sacked, rise to his feet and point a finger of thanks to God. I have yet to see a running back, stopped short of the end zone on some all-or-nothing game-ending play, move off to one side and take a knee, offering a prayer of thanks.
If you want to get my attention, then don’t talk to me about the game where you generated 400 yards on 25-of-30 passing, or the game where you bullied through the defensive line to score six touchdowns, or the game-saving play you made to salt away a victory that came within a whisker of defeat. No, if you want to get my attention, then talk to me about the game where the only receivers you hit were those on the other team, where you spent your day getting tackled in the backfield, and where the running backed faked you out of your shoes on his way to the game-winning score–tell me then how great your Jesus is.
Or, in Colt McCoy’s case, talk to me about faith when your dream-of-a-lifetime has just been unfairly ripped from your talented hands; talk to me of commitment when everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve given yourself to through grade school, high school and college eludes your give-it-all-you’ve-got grasp; talk to me of standing on the rock when the ground has just been pulled out from under your feet and there’s not a thing you can do about it. That’s how you get my attention.
Colt McCoy got my attention.
I hope I continue to see bowed knees of gratitude to God after touchdowns. But what I hope even more to see is young men like Colt McCoy who, when life has done its worst and dashed every hope harbored in the heart, may not even have the strength to lift a right arm and point a finger to the skies, but can say–and mean every word of it–“I always give God the glory . . . And I know that, if nothing else, I’m standing on the rock.”
Thank you, Colt McCoy.
