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.
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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.
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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.
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.
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