The death of Henry Bernat at 90 describes how we respond to those who are leaving us who once moved groups of people to do something both mighty and good.
I took stats for the Owen J Roberts Varsity football team for 13 straight seasons. I was on the sidelines or up in the announcer’s booth for all but 3 or 4 games of that long run. I saw how Henry Bernat spoke to his players. I heard him speak at halftime. I watched him with his coaches. He was always under control. Joe Edwards could be firing off shells like a howitzer, urging, shouting, stalking, cracking his fist into his palm, getting his players’ attention with a hand through their faceguards. Henry watched and let Joe be Joe and all his coaches be themselves, but they revolved around his sun. He was the center.
Long ago I watched us play West Chester Henderson in West Chester. They were bigger and faster than us. We were down 3 or 4 points in the 4th quarter. The clock was moving. Henry called 13 straight running plays. The same running back each time. If my memory does not betray me, I think he called only two plays, smashes over the right and left tackle, repeated. Every person in that stadium knew what was coming. They could not stop us. Our players were so well coached in the fundamentals of blocking that they could not stop us. Again. Again. Again. The crowd was standing, roaring, caught up in something that felt downright mythic. Henry stood, arms folded play after play. That drive was the purest expression of toughness and love and heart I have ever seen in high school athletics.
Kids perform at that level for very few coaches. The measure of Henry Bernat could be seen in how his players responded to him on the field. The measure of Henry Bernat can be seen in how his players are responding to him now — with love and heart and memories of once having done mighty things.
