One is NOT Only

I got the news this week that my best friend from childhood, Blake, had just lost his father – Bob. Bob was also one of my dad’s closest friends. But neither of those descriptions convey how important he was to me. March 1st will be 35 years since I lost my own dad. Bob was a dear link to him and always told me how much he cherished the friendship with my dad. When I decided to make a big move six years ago from Nashville back to East Tennessee, Bob told me I was brave, and that he was proud of me. Those words meant so much coming from him.  Bob was 93 and Blake had let me know that he had gone into hospice care. He held on for two weeks giving those that loved him time to travel, visit, and prepare to say goodbye. He died the way he lived -with a deep Christian faith, dignity, humility, and consideration for what others needed from him.

Bob, whose full name is Robert Reese Neyland Jr., carried a legacy and weight his whole life just from his name. He was the oldest son of legendary Tennessee football coach, General Robert Neyland. He was very proud of his father and the legacy he built for Tennessee sports, but also a man that was very humble and never wanted to lean on that legacy for his own life. In my tai chi class today, my teacher talked about the energy of humility, and I immediately thought about Bob. Humility is not a passive energy, but an energy of quiet strength – not demanding attention but focusing attention on others.

Tennessee football fans young and old have heard of General Neyland the coach and his famous “Game Maxims”. The “General” is sometimes used as a nickname, but for Bob it was much more personal. He was very aware of his father’s graduation from The United States Military Academy West Point, his service in World War I, and then as an Army commander in India during World War II because it meant he was without his father during much of his teenage years. When I was visiting a few years ago, Bob was then in his mid-80’s, he shared an “it seemed like a good idea at the time” story about being a teenager in Knoxville while his father was serving in India as part of the WWII Pacific theatre. Bob was out with his buddies one night, bored, and they started taking turns throwing rocks to break out the gas street lamps in the Sequoyah Hills neighborhood.

Mothers of teenage boys have eyes everywhere and word quickly got back to Bob’s mother, Peggy Neyland. She told the quickly penitent Bob that he had to write to his father and explain the whole episode detailing his part in it. With extreme reluctance and much fear and trembling Bob wrote to his father, the General, explaining that yes, he had taken part in this shenanigan, but in his defense out of the over 20 lamps broken he had only hit two. The letter was dispatched, and Bob waited for the reply “very afraid” for weeks as his letter made it through multiple channels of the Army postal service. Finally, almost a month later the much-feared letter arrived. Bob said he opened his father’s letter and read a description of how things were on his father’s end where he was stationed. There was no mention of the “incident” until a brief postscript saying, “in regard to your breaking the lights with the other boys…as a former West Point pitcher, I am disappointed to hear that my son could only manage to hit two lamps…” Instead of an 85 year old man, I saw the face of a 15 year old boy still shining with love for his dad – the dad that understood his son’s character and knew anything he might say was not as hard as Bob having to write and then wait weeks for the reply. The lesson had already been learned.

I can’t remember a time that the Neyland family was not part of my life. Bob and Anne moved to my hometown, Bristol, Tennessee with their sons, Reese and Blake, when I was about three years old. We all attended State Street Church of Christ and Blake became my best pal and the person whose opinion meant the most to me. Reese was a few years older and I was always a bit in awe of him. When I was 10, our landlord passed away and my parents needed to find a new home. Blake acted as real estate agent and told his parents that the Bradleys should buy the house across the street from them which was for sale. My parents did just that and shortly after we became neighbors as well, moving to 121 Lovedale Drive in Tennessee Hills. The Neylands lived at 112 Lovedale Drive.

I spent many hours at 112. My own mother became ill when I was 12, showing signs of what we would learn a few years later was extremely early onset of Alzheimer’s disease. Anne would find chores for me to help her with so I could learn things she thought I needed to know and to give me a safe place to just be. I knew that home as well as my own. I had a key and would feed and change the bedding for Blake’s pet guinea pig, Flip, when they went on vacation. After one of their vacations to visit Peggy, who by then had moved to Sarasota, Bob brought us a over a bag of mangoes. This was the early-70’s and I had never even heard of a mango! They were picked perfectly ripe off the trees in his mother’s yard. I had never tasted anything so sweet – a small thoughtfulness – wanting his friends to share something special. Bob did this in multiple ways throughout his life. He wanted the people he loved to share in the good things that came to him.

Bob and my dad shared a love of sports. Bob had season tickets for Tennessee football and occasionally when his brother, Lewis, was not using his tickets, my dad and I would get to go with them to the game. I learned to understand the language of football even as I was learning to talk. Bob and my dad had a system for attending football games – rule number one was you never missed kickoff. They also did not believe in getting stuck in football traffic so we would drive in from Bristol just in the nick of time to park and then run flat out to the stadium, sometimes along the railroad tracks. Apparently, Anne said she was done going to football games with Bob when he expected her to run down those railroad tracks in high heels! Blake and I were probably about 8 or 9 years old and we knew it was our job to keep up. Neither Bob or my Dad ever looked back to see if we were OK or still there. You then sprinted up the stadium ramp into seats on the 45 yard line and focused on pulling the Big Orange through. Then after the game we scurried back to the car and headed over to Helma’s Smorgasbord to have a postgame feast and let traffic clear out before heading back to Bristol all the while dissecting the game play by play.

Bob and my Dad both had a competitive spirit. They stayed in good physical shape their whole lives. My Dad was almost 10 years older than Bob but when they were both in their 50’s they could still make that sprint to Neyland Stadium. They loved playing pick-up basketball with the teenage boys in our neighborhood. When I was having dinner with Bob and Anne in Nashville a few years ago before I moved back to East Tennessee, Bob told me he still felt bad about the time he broke my dad’s rib throwing an elbow in one of those pickup games. I burst out laughing and told him I had no doubt the elbow throwing went both ways. I had heard some of those high school boys complain about playing with Bob and my dad because they were too rough! Bob had such a gentle spirit that this side of him was something I only remember seeing on one occasion.

Blake’s older brother, Robert Reese Neyland III, known always as Reese, was a star high school basketball player at Sullivan East. I had gone to see Reese play with my dad. I sat with my friends while my dad sat with Bob. I don’t remember who they were playing but a player on the opposing team had been dogging Reese all night and then committed a particularly dirty foul on him. All of East’s fans were in uproar. The next thing I knew Bob and my dad were on the court heading for the ref and just as quickly they were being escorted out. I couldn’t believe it! My dad umpired Little League baseball with an stern hand. Bob was a coach for the same Little League and you had never met two more rule following, no back talk given or allowed men. It was so out of character for either of them. I was thrilled and went home bragging about how my dad and Mr. Neyland got thrown out of the game for standing up for Reese. I was quickly told this was not something I should be proud of.

When we were in elementary school the Neylands got a red and white VW bus. I can still picture Bob driving that and remember getting rides home from church in it. The VW bus was a symbol of the hippie generation of the late 60’s and early 70’s. That always amused me because Bob was the last person I would have ever associated as a hippie. He was a banker, kept his hair trimmed, wore dark rimmed glasses and suits to work. I always meant to ask him about that VW.

It was rare I thought of Bob in the singular, it was always Bob and Anne. Bob and Anne met as students at UT. She was a shining star and Bob was content to provide a quiet solid background to let her sparkle. In a period when my own mother and most of the moms I knew stayed home, Anne had a thriving career as a teacher. When I was in junior high, she went back to get her Masters degree. Bob was an encouraging husband who supported Anne in all her endeavors – they were very much a team. When I moved to Oak Ridge for my current job, Bob remarked that Anne did her student teaching here and that he spent a lot of time driving back and forth to Oak Ridge. After 65 years of marriage, he still adored her.

During my last visit with them before Anne died in 2020, Bob and I went out to pick up food for dinner. He let me drive. We went back and ate together, and I knew this had the possibility of being our last visit. I asked about their wedding and they got out a book with old photos and showed me the pictures from their wedding. You might have expected a large lavish affair as General Neyland and Peggy were well connected in Knoxville society, but Bob and Anne opted for an small wedding in her family home in West Tennessee. They were people who focused on commitment not ceremony. We talked about shared memories. It was a visit with people you are secure in their love for you and nothing really has to be said – the bond is just being together.

Many of my memories of Bob are from a childhood perspective. You start to see someone differently as an adult and appreciate things that go unnoticed as a child. Now I understand the burden of having such a famous father and name. The same legacy was passed on to Reese and Blake but like their own father they opted to go places where they wouldn’t have as much pressure from the name or the opportunity to make use of it. Bob created his own legacy. He was loyal family man who lost his father as a young man, then his mother, his dear brother, Lewis and then three years ago his beloved life partner, Anne. During the Nashville flood of 2010, Bob and Anne lost their home and had to rebuild while in their 80’s. He weathered all of these challenges with courage and dignity leaning on his faith. He was so proud of the men his own sons have become. He loved Reese and Mary Kay, Blake and Leigh Ann, their children and celebrated the joy of having great grandchildren. When Reese posted about his father’s death last week there were hundreds of responses, but these responses were not about fame or football. Over and over again they mentioned kindnesses Bob had showed to so many people, fond memories of friendship, his love for Anne and his family. I will miss this good man who has been a constant for my entire life. My earliest friend, Blake, has lost his dear father and I strive for ways to share comfort.

Faith, loyalty and humility are the legacy we will remember as we honor the life of Robert Reese Neyland, Jr. – simply Bob to those of us who loved him. 93 years well lived – your time has now come to return home to the realm of the soul – you may now rest with the righteous.

I’m just a poor wayfaring stranger
Traveling through this world below
There’s no sickness, no toil or danger
In that bright land to which I go

I’m going there to see my father
And all my loved ones, who’ve gone on
I’m just going over Jordan
I’m just going over home.

I’m going there to see my Saviour,
Who shed for me His precious blood;
I’m just a going over Jordan,
I’m just a going over home.

(Traditional folk hymn)

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“”We remember these, our beloved,
not to be sad, but to remember.
Our sorrow that accompanies their death
does not diminish the joyful gift that was their lives.
We remember their kindness and their nobility and their goodness.
They taught us to live and love, inspiring us through the grace of their best selves.
They have showered us with love and light, and as we remember them,
we bring their light back, to raise up our heavy hearts.
These we remember… ”  Rabbi Jonathan Miller

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