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To laugh after victory is nothing;
to gloat over conquest is naught
But to pick oneself up when you have suffered defeat
is a virtue that can never be taught.
To cheer when you see your team winning;
To applaud when the score is with you
Is nothing when compared with the team that can smile
When they're behind by a touchdown or two

I wrote those amateurish words almost 36 years ago, but they remain hauntingly fresh and real in my mind. Especially with the upcoming release We Are Marshall, opening in theaters Friday, Dec. 22.

The movie tells the story of the Marshall University football program in the wake of the tragic 1970 plane crash that took the lives of 75 players, coaches, staff and boosters, and how the university, the community, and the families affected rose up out of the ashes.

We Are Marshall has generated a lot of emotion in my family, not just because it's an inspiring football story, and not just because many of us are fans of the Thundering Herd.

For us, the film hits much closer to home: My father, Gene Morehouse, was one of those 75 killed in the crash on that rainy evening, Nov. 14, 1970. He was 48. I was 18.

Gene Morehouse

The chartered plane carrying the team, returning from a 17-14 loss at East Carolina University, crashed into the side of a hill less than one mile from the airport in Huntington, W. Va., Marshall's hometown.

There were no survivors. It remains the worst sports related disaster in U.S. history.

My father did double duty as Marshall's Sports Information Director at Marshall and as a radio broadcaster for the Herd's basketball and football teams. His voice was one of 75 silenced that night, but the memories of our loved ones keep those voices resonating within us to this day.

We Are Marshall, of which I've only seen the trailer, will certainly be difficult to watch as even 36-year-old memories of a father lost do not diminish over time. The film will surely stir up the empty feelings I felt the night I heard that my father "almost" made it home—but "almost" just wasn't good enough.

I was a sophomore at Virginia Tech in 1970. At the time, Blacksburg, Va., was a sleepy little college town in the Blue Ridge Mountains, a school of mostly males studying agriculture and engineering.

On that November night, my girlfriend and I were out for an evening, enjoying Blacksburg's limited social activities. We walked into a donut shop—oddly called "Spudnuts" as the donuts were made from potatoes—for a late evening snack.

I paid little attention to the noise from a radio playing in the shop, but somehow I picked up on a news bulletin. All I remember hearing were the words "Marshall University" and "plane crash." I knew my dad was flying with the team that weekend to Greenville, N.C., for the game as I had spoken with him earlier that week during one of my few phone calls home—cheap long distance and prepaid calling cards then being a thing of the future.

Dad was excited they were flying on a Southern Airways charter jet. At the time, Marshall was perceived as the second tier college behind West Virginia University, and the Herd teams usually traveled by bus. The flight was a first for Marshall and as a result, the plane not only carried 48 players, coaches and university staff, but also 22 leading citizens of Huntington who helped defray the cost of the trip by paying for their tickets—ultimately with their lives.

After hearing the radio bulletin and sensing that something horrible had happened, my girlfriend and I went immediately to her dorm to use the phone in her room. I dialed home several times, but the line was busy. Ultimately, someone—not a family member, as I recall—answered and confirmed that there had been a crash, but that there were no firm details yet.

By this time, friends and neighbors had come to the house and were no doubt attempting to comfort my mom and four of my five siblings who were in Huntington that night. My brother Steve, then 10, was at a midget football game in Tennessee.

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