2 of 2

The person I spoke with told me someone would call me back soon. "Soon" seemed like an eternity. My mind raced as I considered the possibilities. Would I "soon" find out that the crash was "minor" and that all were OK? Or would I find out that I would "soon" be saying goodbye to my father and my friend?

Minutes passed with little conversation between my girlfriend and me. Though she tried, she didn't know what to say to comfort or reassure me, and I knew nothing would take away the gnawing sense of foreboding I felt. It was as if I just knew. As Job said, "That which I have feared the most has come to pass" (Job 3:25).

I was jerked back to reality by the ring of the phone sitting on the floor between us. I picked it up and heard simply "no survivors." Sounds so neat and clean … now, so 6 o'clock news-like.

I was told that a family friend and my 14-year-old brother Gene would leave immediately and make the 4-hour trip from Huntington to Blacksburg to pick me up. My girlfriend and I walked hand-in-hand in silence across campus to my dorm.

When we arrived, I woke the resident advisor and told him what had happened. I asked him if it was OK if my girlfriend stayed with me for a while. At the time, females were not allowed in male dorms. He said yes and she sat with me as I packed to go home. Her presence made the fear seem not so overwhelming.

One never expects one's world to be turned upside down at 18, but it was for me. I arrived home early on Sunday to a city in shock and a home in tears. I remember seeing my mom as I came in and the blank, hopeless yet brave face she wore. I hugged her and told her that I, as the oldest son, would be there for her and my brothers and sisters, ranging from age 9 to 20. The truth be told; I didn't know what I should do or what I could do. Most of all I thought to myself, What would Dad do?

A 1962 photo of the Morehouse family; Mike is fourth from the left

Twelve hours after the crash, the ensuing bedlam had given way to a pall over our home and our city. One has to live in a university town to understand the bond that exists between "town and gown." In essence, Marshall was Huntington and Huntington was Marshall. The town supported the school with a love, devotion, and care that belied the hardness of this Rust Belt city along the Ohio River.

The state and the nation opened their arms wide and comforted a town reeling from indescribable loss and families ripped apart on that West Virginia hillside. For days, funeral gave way to funeral, while young co-eds were heard pounding tearfully on the doors of their dead boyfriends' dorm rooms, not wanting to admit they would never again answer.

But by the grace of God, there is life after death—now and to come. Marshall came back the next year as "The Young Thundering Herd"—a team comprised of mostly freshmen, sophomores, and inexperienced walk-ons under the leadership of a young coach named Jack Lengyel (played by Matthew McConaughey in the new film).

As fans wondered silently if Marshall would ever win another football game, the Herd shocked the world on Sept. 25, 1971, with a last-second 15-13 victory over Xavier in the first home game played after the crash.

Fast forward to 2006, and that thrilling victory—needing no Hollywoodizing or cinematic embellishment—will be presented on the big screen . . . and those of us who have never forgotten will remember with sadness and joy those we loved and lost.

They were not just victims of a plane crash. They were fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, sons, brothers, and friends. They were all—from my Dad on down to a backup lineman— family.

That's what the title of the movie is shouting for all to hear: "WE ARE MARSHALL!!!"

I will watch the movie with my wife, my two children, and a grandson—none of whom were ever blessed to know my dad. I will sit with my brothers and sisters. I will sit with friends who lost loved ones. I will sit and watch, and cry, and maybe even sob.

I will watch the flickering images and be reminded of the man who never had the chance to walk his two daughters down the aisle, or stand beside his four sons as we took our brides, or hold his twelve grandchildren or his three great grandchildren.

I will long for days before a rainy night in 1970.

But above all, I will remember. And I will give thanks to God for my dad and the rest of the Marshall family.

Mike Morehouse lives with his wife, Janet, in Opelika, Alabama where he works in a community rehabilitation facility for people with disabilities. When he's not spending time with his family, he likes to perform in community and church theatre productions.

Photos courtesy of Mike Morehouse

© Mike Morehouse 2006, subject to licensing agreement with Christianity Today International. Click for reprint information.

first page |  2 of 2