Ozzy
10-03-2003, 09:10 AM
This was the headline in the sports section in the Dallas Morning News, written by UH ex Kevin Sherrington.
Houston Coach Has Handle on Adversity
Over lunch at a K-Bob's in Brenham last winter, Houston's athletic director met with an ol' boy from Rule about coaching the Cougars football team.
Dave Maggard came away thinking this Texas Tech assistant, who'd never been a college head coach or so much as a coordinator, was the man to fix a splintered program.
"A smart, mentally tough guy," he called him.
You wonder how anyone could tell that much about someone over a chicken-fried steak.
But he must have seen something in Art Briles, because his Cougars are 4-1 after Tuesday's win over East Carolina, their best start since 1990.
Maybe what Maggard saw was something you can't fake, something in the way Dennis and Wanda Briles raised their youngest boy back in Rule, an hour north of Abilene.
Dennis was the high school football coach and later a principal. Wanda taught special ed. at the junior high.
Art played quarterback in his father's offense. Nothing complicated, either, nothing like the stuff Art would later pull at Stephenville, where he won four Class 4A state titles in the '90s and set a national record for offense.
No, back in dusty Rule, it was sweep right and sweep left and throw it a dozen times, just to keep 'em honest.
Art's fancy offense didn't come from his father, a tough old boy who served in the military before earning his degree and going into coaching.
"What I got from him," Art says, "is the work ethic and attitude."
And Wanda?
"My mother," Art says, softly, "had a kind place in her heart for ever' and anybody."
Wanda had been raised by her older sister, Elsie, after their mother died giving birth to Wanda.
Elsie, in effect, became Art's grandmother. And the three of them, Dennis and Wanda and Elsie, provided a wonderful base for Art and his older brother.
"Great people ... very loving," Art says, his words slow and precise. "Very driven, very motivated people."
Bill Yeoman, who recruited Art in the mid-'70s, remembers the Briles family as "good West Texas folks," and in some places there is no higher compliment.
They didn't get to see him play much college ball. Houston is a long way from Rule, and Art had the misfortune of playing the same position as a quarterback from Carter, fellow named Danny Davis.
Art finally got a little time as a wide receiver his third year, and his parents and aunt decided to drive over to see him play against SMU in the Cotton Bowl.
Even now – it'll be 27 years on Oct. 16 – describing the worst day of Art's life isn't any easier.
"Looking back on it," he says, his tone so flat you could slide it under the door, "I could feel something was wrong during the game."
Why?
"Oh, I don't know. ... There's a place in the stands where the families of the players sit. I'd glance up before the game and I didn't see 'em. After the half, I didn't see 'em then, either."
And you knew you should have?
"My mother would always wave."
Still, it's easy to lose yourself in a game, especially if you're a "yes, sir ... no, sir" kind of guy like Art was, and still is.
You pull on your helmet and push down your fears and do as you've been trained, the way your parents taught you.
But the problem with games is that they always end, and life intrudes. Sometimes it even overwhelms, and it all but swallowed Art whole when Yeoman pulled him aside to tell him the worst news he'd ever give a player:
Somewhere outside Newcastle that morning, not quite halfway between Rule and Dallas on an old country road carrying Dennis and Wanda and Elsie to see their boy, a truck came a little wide on a curve and hit them head-on.
The next day, Art went back to Rule, and he and his brother buried their family. A week later, Art returned to Houston, where he finished out the spring semester.
But recovering from a knee injury was excruciating, and recovering some semblance of his life was worse.
So he left Houston and went back to West Texas. Earned a degree at Texas Tech and another at Abilene Christian, and he became a coach, just like his father.
And he never talked much about happened to his parents again.
"You either fight and go forward," he says, explaining his stoicism, "or you curl up in a ball and go stale. I just basically decided to dedicate my life to be the best I could be, mentally and emotionally, and I'm thankful for each day the Lord gives us."
No man or woman is born mentally tough. People and events shape you, both the good and bad.
Someone once told you that life is how you handle your problems, and Art Briles handled his.
Still does, Yeoman says. "The last 10 years around here gave me an ulcer, I was so worried," he says, laughing, "and I never had one when I was coaching.
"But, you watch, I'll be fine now that Art's here."
And Art? He's fine, too. After 27 years, Houston's finally home.
Houston Coach Has Handle on Adversity
Over lunch at a K-Bob's in Brenham last winter, Houston's athletic director met with an ol' boy from Rule about coaching the Cougars football team.
Dave Maggard came away thinking this Texas Tech assistant, who'd never been a college head coach or so much as a coordinator, was the man to fix a splintered program.
"A smart, mentally tough guy," he called him.
You wonder how anyone could tell that much about someone over a chicken-fried steak.
But he must have seen something in Art Briles, because his Cougars are 4-1 after Tuesday's win over East Carolina, their best start since 1990.
Maybe what Maggard saw was something you can't fake, something in the way Dennis and Wanda Briles raised their youngest boy back in Rule, an hour north of Abilene.
Dennis was the high school football coach and later a principal. Wanda taught special ed. at the junior high.
Art played quarterback in his father's offense. Nothing complicated, either, nothing like the stuff Art would later pull at Stephenville, where he won four Class 4A state titles in the '90s and set a national record for offense.
No, back in dusty Rule, it was sweep right and sweep left and throw it a dozen times, just to keep 'em honest.
Art's fancy offense didn't come from his father, a tough old boy who served in the military before earning his degree and going into coaching.
"What I got from him," Art says, "is the work ethic and attitude."
And Wanda?
"My mother," Art says, softly, "had a kind place in her heart for ever' and anybody."
Wanda had been raised by her older sister, Elsie, after their mother died giving birth to Wanda.
Elsie, in effect, became Art's grandmother. And the three of them, Dennis and Wanda and Elsie, provided a wonderful base for Art and his older brother.
"Great people ... very loving," Art says, his words slow and precise. "Very driven, very motivated people."
Bill Yeoman, who recruited Art in the mid-'70s, remembers the Briles family as "good West Texas folks," and in some places there is no higher compliment.
They didn't get to see him play much college ball. Houston is a long way from Rule, and Art had the misfortune of playing the same position as a quarterback from Carter, fellow named Danny Davis.
Art finally got a little time as a wide receiver his third year, and his parents and aunt decided to drive over to see him play against SMU in the Cotton Bowl.
Even now – it'll be 27 years on Oct. 16 – describing the worst day of Art's life isn't any easier.
"Looking back on it," he says, his tone so flat you could slide it under the door, "I could feel something was wrong during the game."
Why?
"Oh, I don't know. ... There's a place in the stands where the families of the players sit. I'd glance up before the game and I didn't see 'em. After the half, I didn't see 'em then, either."
And you knew you should have?
"My mother would always wave."
Still, it's easy to lose yourself in a game, especially if you're a "yes, sir ... no, sir" kind of guy like Art was, and still is.
You pull on your helmet and push down your fears and do as you've been trained, the way your parents taught you.
But the problem with games is that they always end, and life intrudes. Sometimes it even overwhelms, and it all but swallowed Art whole when Yeoman pulled him aside to tell him the worst news he'd ever give a player:
Somewhere outside Newcastle that morning, not quite halfway between Rule and Dallas on an old country road carrying Dennis and Wanda and Elsie to see their boy, a truck came a little wide on a curve and hit them head-on.
The next day, Art went back to Rule, and he and his brother buried their family. A week later, Art returned to Houston, where he finished out the spring semester.
But recovering from a knee injury was excruciating, and recovering some semblance of his life was worse.
So he left Houston and went back to West Texas. Earned a degree at Texas Tech and another at Abilene Christian, and he became a coach, just like his father.
And he never talked much about happened to his parents again.
"You either fight and go forward," he says, explaining his stoicism, "or you curl up in a ball and go stale. I just basically decided to dedicate my life to be the best I could be, mentally and emotionally, and I'm thankful for each day the Lord gives us."
No man or woman is born mentally tough. People and events shape you, both the good and bad.
Someone once told you that life is how you handle your problems, and Art Briles handled his.
Still does, Yeoman says. "The last 10 years around here gave me an ulcer, I was so worried," he says, laughing, "and I never had one when I was coaching.
"But, you watch, I'll be fine now that Art's here."
And Art? He's fine, too. After 27 years, Houston's finally home.