Sherry L. Hoppe's Blog, page 2

AND NOW, FOR THE REST OF THE STORY, Part 3

Cutting the original manuscript of A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE: Redemption of a Hometown Hero from 600+ pages to less than 400 was a painful process. The primary criteron used was whether a section contributed to the main theme of the book. Thus, a lot of the humorous stories of Bobby's high school, college, and coaching days were cut. This blog gives me the opportunity to share some of them with people who might have a personal interest. In this blog, I veer from funny stories and share a letter Bobby wrote to his high school coach and the coach's response to him. Anyone who knew Bobby or Coach Red Etter of Central High and later Baylor will appreciate Bobby's tribute to his coach.

January 25, 1983

Dear Coach Etter:

I read of your coming retirement with great sadness. Not only am I sad to see the football world lose such a noteworthy teacher and a man of honor and integrity from its ranks; but, I am also sad in a selfish sense when I realize that as a coach I will no longer be able to draw on your knowledge and advice. For me, it will be an immense loss not to be able to watch an Etter coached team, study your strategy, and look for new innovations.

I jest not, when I say of all the football materials I’ve read, films watched, clinics and seminars attended, and coaching received, I’ve never met your equal. In fact, I have found that some publications and coaches are years behind some of the things you were doing in the fifties.

Lastly, as a former player and friend I am sad to see an era that I was a part of come to an end. I feel that the umbilical cord is about to be broken, the last link severed from a cherished past; and I am so powerless to do anything about it, other than to hope that all you have worked for and created will somehow be salvaged and appreciated.

As a person knowledgeable in football, I can look back over my high school career and recall very vividly the plays you installed a few minutes before game time, adjustments made during the half, and your ability to utilize your material to the fullest and now realize that for the most part it was your coaching genius that produced the winners at Central. I’ve often wondered what your career would have read if you had stood in Bear Bryant’s or some other successful college coach’s shoes and had the money, coaches, talent and other resources that were available to them at your disposal.

Also, I would like to thank you for any achievement I might have accomplished during my high school career. I recognize the fact that my attendance at any other school would have produced nothing more than a mediocre product. I sincerely believe it was the coaching I received, your “T” formation, and the help and guidance from others at Central that was responsible for any fame that came my way.

From the earliest remembrance the only feelings I can recall from your players were those of profound confidence and a great proudness to be able to tell others you were our coach.

In closing, I would like to say that I can think of no other man who has honored his profession with more integrity and ability than you have. I would like to wish you well and hope you have many years of a happy retirement.

Respectfully,

Bobby Hoppe

***

Coach Etter’s handwritten reply – February 2, 1983

Dear Bobby,
Just a note to tell you that your letter is the nicest I have ever received. I guess everyone appreciates flattery, but it is important that we recognize it as such—nevertheless, the appreciation for both the “flattery” and the “flatterer” is sincere.

The truth remains that you did much more for me as a coach than I did for you as a player. You made the years 1950-51-52-53 (along with the help of many others) the greatest consecutive four years of my coaching experience. Your performance on a cold night in Nashville against Litton remains as the one greatest performance of any player I have coached against a team of equal ability.

The one thing that I can remember doing for you was “rescuing” you from the Riverview Pharmacy during the school year and persuading you to return to school! Since that time, I have marveled at your progress—not just as a football player, but as an individual making his presence in this world of value to others....

I will treasure my years with you at Central, your friendship since that time, and your letter will become one of my most cherished mementos of that friendship.

Sincerely,

E. B. “Red” Etter

AND NOW, FOR THE REST OF THE STORY - Part 2

A few more stories cut from the original A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE manuscript:

One day Bobby, Paul Allen Campbell, and other football players decided to play hooky and slipped down to Oscar’s, a hamburger joint a couple of blocks from Central High. Because he could run the fastest, Bobby agreed to serve as lookout, taking his place at the side of the school building, signaling when it was safe to run across the street.

When Bobby gave the all-clear signal, the guys dashed behind hedges until they reached Oscar’s. By the time they sprinted the length of the block, Coach Jake Seaton was waiting for them, engine running.

“Get in the car, boys.”

Coach Seaton had spotted them sneaking out Central’s back door, raced to his car, and was waiting for the red-faced boys at Oscar’s.

Busted—and not even a burger to show for it.

*****

Bill “Goat” Watkins remembers one playful prank well—a prank that cost him a trip to Principal Millsaps’ office and several afternoons of detention.

Standing in the cafeteria line, Bobby pitched Goat a water glass and motioned for him to pitch it back. Goat complied, but when he did, Bobby turned his back, leaving the glass to shatter behind him on the floor.

With everyone in the cafeteria watching, Goat was marched to the office by the cafeteria monitor, who mysteriously failed to see the first pitch by Bobby.

*****

Former Judge Sam Payne also shares memories: “Bobby and I were rowdy kids. We ran all over town together, and whenever we could, we’d hang onto the back of street cars and catch a free ride.”

He also recalls the two of them standing on the Walnut Street Bridge, poised with water-filled balloons to drop on passing cars.

Water balloons were popular weapons for North Chattanooga boys, it seems. Paul Allen Campbell remembers one day when he and Bobby were tossing water balloons at cars as they rolled to a stop at a red light on Riverview Drive.

According to Paul Allen, he and Bobby didn’t mean to splash anyone, but one driver’s side window was open and when he turned his head to look at them, the water balloon splashed square in his face. With lightning speed, he swung open the car door. As he leaped out, sunlight bounced off a small pistol in his hand.

Bobby grabbed Paul Allen by his shoulder, gave him a push, and yelled, “Run!” Then Bobby took off. As Paul Allen was struggling to keep up, the boys heard a shot behind them, giving them added impetus to flee.

“We never threw another water balloon,” Paul Allen says, smiling weakly.

AND NOW, FOR THE REST OF THE STORY

When A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE was completed, it was more than 600 pages. To reach the goal of less than 400 pages, a number of sections were cut. Two criterion guided the cuts: Is the material redundant and does it contribute to the core story?

The most difficult were those deemed not central to the story, because many of those sections were based on stories shared by men who had played football with Bobby or had been coached by him. So. . . over the next few weeks I will be sharing some of the material that did not make it into the final book. This week I share a few episodes that relate to Bobby's love of history, especially warfare.

***

Bobby didn’t spend all of his time on the football field. In the school library, he discovered countless rows of books about World War II. He sometimes skipped class to browse through the volumes, picking out those about Hitler to read more closely.

Bobby was both fascinated and appalled by the German dictator. The more he read about Hitler, the more he resented sharing the dictator’s lineage. Bobby was of German descent—his grandparents having migrated to America from Koblentz-on-the-Rhine—so he could not help but be mesmerized by Hitler’s desire to create a pure Aryan race—people with blue eyes, blonde hair, strong bodies. A snapshot of himself? He found the idea both embarrassing and vile.

Bobby also read that Adolph Hitler, growing up in poverty, often alone and uncertain, found a sense of purpose in fighting for the Fatherland. Similarly, but in the microcosm of his world, Bobby found a purpose in battling for the Purple Pounders.

Hitler, far from a model soldier, was known for his sloppy manner and unmilitary bearing. In that regard, Hitler and Bobby were polar opposites. But both were eager for action and ready for difficult assignments. However, Hitler’s obsession with eradicating all Jews from the face of the earth was anathema to Bobby. Years later when he visited the Dachau concentration camp, standing still in front of the massive ovens where so many were sent to their death, Bobby blinked back tears—his lifelong abhorrence of Hitler fully justified.

***

At Central, captivated with the various components of war, Bobby passionately studied about military strategies, fighter planes, and tanks.

But sometimes warfare was just plain fun.

One day in shop class, when students were assigned the task of building tables, Bobby made a wooden sword and then talked Paul Allen and another friend, Billy Joe King, into making swords for themselves. For days, Bobby appeared around corners, wielding his sword and yelling, “Defend your honor!”

When the teacher left the room one morning, the shop class turned into a swashbuckling sword fight. Standing on top of tables, brandishing swords—it was all great fun until the teacher returned unexpectedly. Bobby and his mighty men were in big trouble. Their swords were confiscated, never to be seen again.

It was easier to get away with a good fight on the football field.

***

Jim Woods, who attended Central with Hoppe, recalled how much Bobby loved history and political science and how much he detested the Nazis.

“Bobby was always pretending he was a fighter pilot, shooting down the Nazis.
“One day when J. Pope Dyer, the political science teacher, was out of the room, Bobby got on top of a wooden desk and began pretending he was shooting everyone in the room, telling them they were Nazis.”

Rotating in place atop the teacher’s desk, his hand a pretend gun, Hoppe kept aiming at classmates and shouting, “Bam, you’re dead. Bam, you’re dead.”

Woods said Bobby “shot” him but when Woods didn’t fall out of his desk seat, like other classmates, Hoppe jumped across the desks—like a wood nymph hopping from stone to stone across a babbling brook—until he reached Woods’ desk.

“Why aren’t you dead, Jimmy?” Bobby asked.

“Because you didn’t hit me,” Woods replied with a smart-aleck smile on his freckled face.

Bobby jumped down, reached under Woods’ desk and flipped it. Just as Woods hit the floor, Bobby said, “See. I did get you.”

At that moment, Dyer returned to the room, seeing a no-longer-smiling Woods on the floor.

“I got in trouble, but Bobby didn’t,” Woods says. “Dyer loved Bobby.”

***

TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR MORE STORIES

THE MANY SHADES OF CONSCIENCE

In this final blog about why I wanted A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE to be published, I will share the fourth reason I was willing to reopen the darkest days of my husband’s life to the public eye.

Conscience is defined as “the sense of what is right and wrong that governs a person’s thoughts and actions, urging him or her to do right rather than wrong.” As I sat through Bobby’s trial, I was stunned more than once by the twists and turns conscience took on the witness stand. And so, in Bobby’s book, the theme of conscience is played out through the central characters in disparate ways—sometimes as pure as a new snowfall and at other times stained by personal motives.

Although Bobby had killed in self-defense, his conscience tortured him because he had taken the life of another human being. For 31 years, his conscience was as black as a starless night. As revealed in the book, after the trial Bobby began to see the grayness of his actions, perhaps because, as he testified about what happened in the wee hours of July 21, 1957, he at last internalized that if he hadn’t killed, he would have been killed. With that realization, he was finally able to forgive himself. Even so, he never saw his conscience as white and pure. He knew he was a sinner saved by grace.

The preacher/psychologist who betrayed Bobby’s sacred confidence had a skewed sense of conscience. Saying he had never betrayed a confidence previously, he felt justified in breaking his word to Bobby because he feared he himself would undergo personality disintegration if he did not tell the police what he knew. In his mind, he would become some type of accomplice by keeping silent. And his conscience wouldn’t allow that. The other part of his conscience that should have kicked in at the thought of betraying a confidence was silent—or at least overcome by his personal need to stay sane.

At the opposite end of the spectrum, another witness who didn’t even know Bobby could not be silent even though friends and co-workers told her she shouldn’t get involved in the case. But she knew something that contradicted the testimony of another witness, and she felt it would be wrong not to come forward, despite her timidity and fear of being on the witness stand. The witness being disputed seemingly had no conscience, apparently willing to make up stories without compunction. In contrast, the courageous witness who came forward voluntarily to counter what she believed to be false testimony had a pure conscience—her only motive was to do what was right.

On the prosecution side, witnesses who the district attorney knew or should have known were going to perjure themselves, were put on the stand and used to shore up a weak case. Before that occurred, detectives had used questionable strategies to get their star witness to come up with a story that would prove premeditation. Was there ever a nudge of conscience on the prosecution side? If so, it didn’t come out in the courtroom or in media reports.

And the judge who sat on the bench. I had naively believed judges ruled on the law, but many attorneys, and even several judges, found the rulings in Bobby’s case to be controversial if not downright wrong. The two most egregious ones were the ruling on preacher/penitent confidentiality and the ruling that let the case go forward after 31 years even though witnesses had died, records had been lost, and memories had faded.

Lastly, the jury. I expected every person on the jury to listen to the evidence before deciding whether Bobby was guilty. Yet, one person defied the judge’s orders and went to the scene of the decades-old incident with her husband. She made up her mind about what could or could not have happened long before the defense had concluded its case. I’m thankful the other jurors weren’t swayed—that they saw through the subterfuge and embellished recall of prosecution witnesses and that they believed Bobby. I will be forever grateful they heard the testimonies and sifted through the evidence before voting their conscience.

INSIDE THE COURTROOM--Truth and Justice

In my previous blogs I looked at two of the reasons I wanted to publish A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE, Redemption of a hometown hero [to reveal the “man behind the mask” and to portray how killing a man in self-defense affected Bobby]. In this writing I add a third reason: to portray the inside of a trial.

In any court case that garners regional and national media attention, people distant from the case hear and see only snippets or “sound bites.” The sparse information, limited by column inches, typically includes a brief summary of facts and sometimes a taste of courtroom dynamics, but many of the nuances and subtleties are not reported. Even worse, occasionally a media report reflects the bias of a reporter who cherry picks testimony to support his personal line of reasoning. (I’ll never forget my sister Sylvia cornering a reporter in the elevator at the courthouse during my husband’s trial, hissing,“You little shrimp. Why didn’t you tell the whole story?” Before she had time to say more, one of Bobby’s attorneys grabbed her by the shoulders and twirled her around to face the wall, later reminding us you never start a battle with someone who buys ink by the barrel.)

More than 20 years after the trial ended, I bought my own barrel of ink to ensure the complete story of Bobby’s trial was made public so people who had based their opinions about him from newspaper/television reports or rumors would have an opportunity to read the unvarnished truth—directly from trial transcripts.

When I entered the courtroom with Bobby in June 1988, I would not say I was naïve, but I soon found my views and expectations of a fair and impartial justice system were unrealistic.
I had always believed prosecutors had an obligation to uncover and present the facts, that they would only put witnesses on the stand they knew to be truthful. I was shocked to discover that apparently winning a case can be more important than veracity. And it never occurred to me that private citizens would lie for unknown reasons.

Truth—dictionary definitions describe it as “a statement that corresponds to fact or reality.” How could one woman make up an event that never happened and words that were never spoken? How could a preacher distort and embellish a sacred confession? How could a prosecutor put known felons on the witness stand and pit their allegations against a man unleashing a torrent of truth he had held inside for 31 years?

In addition to truth, what is required for justice? In simplest terms, fairness. Of course, justice must be considered in accordance with man’s laws or even God’s command. But “fair play” requires that proper regard and respect be given to what is right and reasonable, that a witness not be subjected to demonstrations that don’t equate to reality. In my husband’s case, he was forced to role play in two hardback chairs—over and over again—a scene that had taken place inside a ’57 Ford convertible. The similarities between the two circumstances were miniscule. He was also required to show how he loaded a gun, but in the demonstration, the gun was rusty and the shells had been spent. When challenged about the unfairness, under oath a detective said he didn’t know spent shells swelled. Fair play or fabrications intended to mislead jurors? If the prosecutor’s statement after the trial is any evidence, it was foul play. Despite badgering Bobby that his version was ludicrous, the prosecutor later told a local newspaper reporter, “When investigators later obtained vehicles like the 1948 DeSota Hudson was driving and Hoppe’s auto, it developed that Hoppe’s story was not a physical impossibility.” One wonders why the prosecution didn’t do this research before or during the trial.

The truth is only two people knew exactly what happened around 1 a.m. on July 21, 1957—Bobby Hoppe and Don Hudson. While I am undoubtedly biased, I believe the facts support Bobby’s statement that he killed Don in self defense. For that reason and because the veracity of my husband was without question during the 37 years of our marriage, I never doubted the truth of his defense.

**********

My next blog will discuss the fourth and final reason I wanted Bobby’s story to be published.

BOBBY HOPPE--A Man of Many Faces

In my first blog I shared one of the reasons I chose to reopen the darkest days of my husband’s life and promised to tell more about Bobby and the impact his actions had on his life and others.

I begin this blog by sharing an excerpt from the tribute I paid to Bobby at his memorial service, because I think the words I spoke that sad day paint a poignant picture of the total man.

**************************************
My husband of 37 years was called by many names—Bob, Bobby, Robert George, Padre, Coach Hoppe, Bobby Lee, and Von Hoppe—the last two my own nicknames for him. By whatever name he was called, though, the man I lived with and loved was an enigma.

He was a man of many faces—from somber and stern to mischievous and decidedly funny. And part of the enigma was that you never knew on any given day which face—and which personality—would show up. When he was coaching and teaching, athletes and students would frequently ask me: How do you tell when he is serious and when he is joking? My advice was: Watch his eyes. If they are steely blue, get out of the way; if they are twinkling, he is playing with you.

But who was this man?

•Bob was loyal to the core—if he was your friend, you could always count on him.

•He was compassionate and caring—always helping other people in need.

•Bob was a self-described loner; most people he loved never knew the depth of his love for them.

•Bob’s sense of humor could make you laugh until your jaws ached. When he was wound up, you couldn’t slow his tales down. He wasn’t known in high school or college as being shy about having fun. He was always instigating mischief!

•He lived at the heights and depths on this earth. From the fun times to the tragedy that haunted him all of his adult life, his life was filled and overflowing. He probably had as much fun as anyone I have ever known—particularly in early years.

•Bob was a quietly religious man who prayed daily; every morning and every night until he died he read scripture verses from the laminated 3x5 card that I had given him during the darkest days of his life.

•Bob loved nature—he would sit on the balcony of our condo for hours watching storms come up over the ocean; he never failed to pause and enjoy wildflowers; and together we savored many spectacular sunrises and sunsets.

•Bob loved the Episcopal Church, its tolerance, and its acceptance of the frailties of men.

•Bob was an avid reader—he focused on religious books and history books, particularly about World War II. When I wanted to know the background on current news events, I only had to ask Bob. Granted, sometimes he told me more than I wanted to know!

•And, he loved stories like Gunga Din, from which he could still recite long passages. His memory of history and literature was truly amazing.

•Bob was a hometown football hero, but he shied away from the glory. He never bragged about his illustrious football career—everything I learned about his athletic prowess came from others.

•Bob loved his students, his athletes, and his friends.

As for me, I never once doubted Bob’s love for me. Even when he was being a rascal—and he could be—I knew his love for me was deep and firm. No one but me will ever know how much he supported me in my career. He was always there for me when I needed someone to listen, to hold me, or just to shore up my confidence when I doubted myself. He believed in me and that always made such a difference.

In contrast, he frequently doubted himself. Scarred by one life event, I don’t think he ever realized what a profoundly good man he was. I’m thankful many others did.

Bob Hoppe loved deeply, loved widely, and loved well. But no one—except perhaps our son Kevin and me—felt the depth and breadth of his love more than his dogs. His last sacrifice was for one of them.

That’s the Bob Hoppe I lived with for 37 years.
****************************************

In the above tribute, I allude to the impact that killing a man—even in self-defense—had on Bob. A Matter of Conscience, Redemption of a hometown hero, reveals in detail several of the long-term ramifications:

…the guilt that painted his conscience in dark colors for so many years

…the inability to forgive himself, often causing him to feel morose

…the continuous fear that his tragic secret would be made public

…the feeling that he wore a K emblazoned on his chest, similar to the A Hester wore in The Scarlet Letter.

Beyond these consequences, the sum total of who Bobby was changed the night he killed Don Hudson. From a happy-go-lucky young man who lived to play collegiate football, overnight he became a sad, frightened fugitive who couldn’t run fast enough on the football field to escape the demons haunting him. A part of Bobby died the night he killed Hudson, and the part of him that remained alive was scarred beyond measure. A split second action taken because he feared for his life sent his psyche on a downward trajectory he was never able to totally reverse.

And, of course, the impact on the victim’s family cannot be overlooked or forgotten. The Hudson family lost a son and brother, and undoubtedly their lives were forever changed by his absence. While my emotional energy was totally committed to Bobby during the 1988 trial, in hindsight I feel compassion for the loss that family endured.

---
The next blog will pick up where I left off in the first blog, telling why I felt compelled to share Bob’s story in A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE, Redemption of a hometown hero, even though I wondered whether I should reopen a closed door.

Why?

For 31 years, my husband hid a dark secret: he killed a man in self-defense on a moonless night in the wee hours of a hot July morning. After he was indicted and tried for first degree murder more than three decades after the incident, for the last 20 years of his life he struggled to submerge the stained memories in the deep recesses of his mind. Why, then, after his death, did I reopen the darkest days of his life through a book about his life and historic trial? Five months have passed since the publication of A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE: Redemption of a hometown hero, Bobby Hoppe, and I sometimes still ask myself that question.

The first time the doubt struck me like a searing laser was the night I returned home from the initial book signing—held in Chattanooga, Tennessee, where Bobby had been a hometown hero. That night, people stood in line as much as an hour and a half to buy the book and have it signed. Many had personal stories to share about the impact Bobby had made on their lives, lifting my spirits. But, when the euphoria of the evening faded and I returned home, as I walked into my bedroom, my eyes lingered on the urn holding my husband’s ashes. Overwhelmed by grief from my loss and guilt for unveiling the past, with tears in my eyes, I murmured, “Dear God, Bobby, what have I done?”

As the publicity continued to mount, including reviews in publications across the southeast, as well as in USA Today and ESPN Magazine, I rode the wave of excitement and tried to push away the haunting question. But it will not fade. Because not only I, but others, ask, “Why,” I am using this blog to respond. Today, I provide the first reason:

Bobby wore a mask engineered by his high school football coach after losing five teeth in his first game and two in his next outing on the gridiron. Consequently, he became known as “the man behind the mask.” After he killed Don Hudson and no one knew, he donned another mask, this one invisible. To many people, Bobby appeared somber and stoic—and, much of the time he was that way because of his troubled conscience. But, somewhere deep inside him still lived the playful rascal he had been before the tragic incident. When he was with people he liked and trusted, the “other Bobby” came out, and he once again became a fun-loving guy who could make you laugh until your jaws ached. One of the reasons I decided to tell Bobby’s story in A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE was to reveal the man behind the mask—the wonderful, crazy guy I loved who was not only funny but also kind, generous, and compassionate.

In many ways, this first reason I share is far from being the most significant motivation, but it was important to me that people who knew only part of Bobby be exposed to the whole person.

The next blog entry will focus on who Bobby really was and the impact his actions had on his life and on others.