If you’ve ever poked around my blog, you’ve read about my dad. He died in November, 2003. The pain I feel missing him must be similar to how an amputee feels about his missing arm.

I miss him a little more than usual today. Yesterday marked the 25th anniversary of the passing of Paul “Bear” Bryant. Bear was one of my dad’s heroes. I heard him talk often about the Bear, the way he coached, and the way he inspired his players.

I read a great story about the Bear today. He met pastor and author Robert Schuller on an airplane. The conversation is remembered here.

As I read, I reflected back on the story my dad told me about when he met Bear. The only problem is: I don’t remember the entire story. I certainly don’t remember the details, the sights, the sounds, the year, the breadth, the depth, or the length. All I remember is that Dad took a few players down to the pre-season camp in Tuscaloosa. The coaches got to meet with Bear and his staff and the players got to work out with the U of A players.

I would love to reach for the phone, call Dad, and have him tell me the story again. But the story is lost.

The only Dad/Bear story I have is Bear’s funeral. Mom’s father was in the hospital in Birmingham around the time Bear passed. Paul “Bear” Bryant is buried in Birmingham. When we visited my grandfather, we took a few minutes to drive through the cemetery. There were dozens of flower arrangements, hats, footballs, helmets, notes, and dead balloons lining the road into the cemetery and surrounding the grave. Dad walked up to the grave, spent a few minutes, and got back in the car. I’ve never known Dad to visit many tombs or make many pilgrimages. But he felt there was no way he could avoid this trip.

Even this trip is fuzzy. I was almost 14 when it occurred. I didn’t care as much about the trip then as I do now.

Tell your stories, record them, videotape them, write them down. Don’t let them die with you.