A new set of warriors took to the fields today to find themselves.

Between the shrill of whistles and the bellicose language spouted by coaches, Mississippi Association of Independent Schools member schools officially started football practice for the 2015 season.

Some players in Columbus who did so had one less leader to make an impression on their lives.

At Heritage Academy, the Patriots started their season without one of their assistant coaches and leaders, Robert “Tate” Marsh.

Marsh died Thursday, July 9, after a battle with cancer.

He was 67.

Born in Birmingham, Alabama, in 1947, it’s impossible to highlight all of Marsh’s accomplishments in a playing career that went from Greensboro High School West in Greensboro, Alabama, to Marion Military Institute in Marion, Alabama, to Mississippi State University, to the Dallas Cowboys.

After knee injuries cut Marsh’s playing career short, he became a coach in 1972 and, arguably, had his biggest impact.

In 43 years as a teacher and as a coach, Marsh worked in Scooba; Dade City, Florida; Mobile, Alabama; New Hope; and Columbus. Most recently, Marsh served as defensive coordinator for head coach Barrett Donahoe at Heritage Academy. He was an integral part of a coaching staff that helped lead the program to the MAIS Class AAA, Division II state title in 2012.

Donahoe, whose team started two-a-day practice at 7 a.m. today, said Marsh “had a genuine connection with the kids” that went deeper than the relationship coaches typically have with their players.

“Our kids really liked him,” Donahoe said. “He had a way of pushing the kids in a very old-school manner, but the kids, at the end of the day, knew how much he cared about them, and he would always make sure they understood that. Because of that, they knew he was trying to do the best for them.”

■ ■ ■

Donahoe said he and Marsh had contrasting styles when it came to practice and how they taught their players.

Despite the differences, he said they worked well together because they respected each other. Donahoe also had confidence Marsh would have the Patriots in the right places on defense. If they weren’t, he knew Marsh was going to fix it.

“He was a true teacher of the game,” Donahoe said. “It didn’t matter to him how long it took him to teach an individual what they were supposed to do. He was going to do it.”

Donahoe’s comments are revealing in a time when many coaches talk about how today’s student-athletes are different. From season to season, coaches discuss the challenges of connecting with their athletes and often say their jobs are a little tougher these days due to myriad factors, including the growth of technology and the increased scrutiny on coaching methods.

But Marsh changed with the times.

If you want proof, just ask Charles Jones, who played for Marsh at W.P. Davidson High School in Mobile, Alabama.

Jones, a member of the class of 1986, was an offensive lineman. He wrote a letter that Marsh received shortly before his death. In the letter, Jones wrote, “Back in those days, warriors roamed the earth and played in the fields and the goodness thereof.” His language in the letter, which went a little more than three pages, evoked the spirit of a time gone by, when football players wore leather helmets and coaches were demanding men.

Jones’ letter described Marsh as a man who set standards and held players to them. Jones wrote Marsh yelled and screamed — even had a nickname, “Harsh Marsh.” But Jones’ letter highlighted the impressions Marsh’s “little souvenirs” left on him. He wrote about “fumbles” and mud holes and singing the alma mater song while being led by a man he never thanked for all of the insight.

Norlene Wolford, who was Marsh’s companion after his wife, Patricia Guyton Marsh, died seven years ago, said Marsh initially didn’t recognize Jones in the letter, but she said he remembered who he was when he wrote he was the “team’s resident preacher-son.” Wolford said the letter captured Marsh’s passion for football and how much he loved working with the players.

“Football was a tremendous part of his life,” said Wolford. “It was a passion. He really had a passion.”

■ ■ ■

Wolford said Marsh was so passionate about football that he was more concerned about not being able to do his job after he was diagnosed with cancer.

But Wolford said Marsh didn’t let the disease stop him. In fact, she said one of the first things he wanted to do when he returned from surgery in Tupelo on May 6 was to go to the practice field and watch the Patriots work. When Marsh arrived, the players took their helmets off and greeted him. The Patriots shook his hand and told him how much they wanted him back as soon as possible. Wolford said one player said, “Coach, you have to get back because I miss you yelling at me.”

Wolford learned a thing or two about football in the time she spent with Marsh. Still, she admits she didn’t become an authority. She marveled at how Marsh would use a note pad and devise defensive schemes to stop various formations. She talked about the countless times they would go out to dinner and people would stop them because they recognized Marsh.

But as much as she loved his courage, she was touched by the relationships Marsh built with the players.

“He knew what a young man’s ability was by coaching them, and he knew when they were not playing to their full potential and he did everything he could to get them to the level he knew they could get to,” said Wolford, who will work with Heritage Academy to establish a Tate Marsh Scholarship fund to help a student who wants to enroll at the school. “He would be the first to tell you there are a lot of expectations when you’re on a team. He wanted everybody on his defense to play to their highest level.”

Wolford doesn’t know how Jones learned Marsh was sick, but she said she wrote to him in Canoga Park, California, and included her phone number in hopes he would contact her.

Wolford is comforted by the fact that Marsh left a similar impression on so many people, including Carl Lisowski, who played golf with Marsh at Green Oaks. Lisowski put together a video filled with pictures of Marsh with his family and with his players. He gave the video only to members of Marsh’s family and to those who were close to him. On nearly every image, there is a smile on Marsh’s face, even on the pictures in which he is wearing hospital garb.

We miss that smile today on the first day a new set of warriors takes the field. We thank Marsh for the lessons he left with us.

Adam Minichino is sorts editor of The Dispatch. You can reach him at [email protected]. Follow him on Twitter @ctsportseditor.

Letter from Charles Jones to Tate Marsh

Dearest Coach:

Let’s you and I, together, go back to a time, a time when things were simple, a time when warriors roamed the earth and played in the fields and the goodness thereof.

Football is a game, a game played and measured on equal yards of grass. Played in four equal quarters, two equal halves, the game thrives on rules, team spirit, rigidity, but when the game is played right, coached right, something extraordinary happens. The game takes on dimensions beyond itself. Spectators, coaches, and players: we all get lost in the gift shop that is sport, searching for that elusive souvenir that will ground our common experience in something memorable, something we can place on a shelf.

Your coaching has given me many souvenirs. You have helped to make my life memorable, something of a souvenir even. For back in those days, those simple days, warriors roamed the earth and played in the fields and the goodness thereof.

It all starts with spring training. It had been a bitter practice, a long practice, a humid and hot practice. Although I don’t recall his name, some hopeful was trying out for running back. This hopeful kept fumbling the ball: five, six, seven, eight straight times. Until finally, you placed the ultimatum: fumble again, leave the field. The kid fumbled; the kid left. Although I thought it “Harsh Marsh” at the time, I’ve since come to value that coaching decision. Don’t fumble the ball, repeatedly. Don’t drop it, repeatedly. Protect it, repeatedly. If you drop it out here, you will drop any where, repeatedly. Although I no longer play or even watch the game, I understand the need for ball control. Don’t fumble the ball, repeatedly. We don’t all get roster spots or trophies just for participating. I remind myself of that daily. Although I am far from perfect, although I fumble often, that advice has made me a better man, husband, father. Although you never realized it, there you stood through the years, coaching me through the times I fumbled. One of those precious little souvenirs to which I cling.

Back in those days, warriors roamed the earth and played in the fields and the goodness thereof.

Football thrives on team practice: shorts and shoulder pads on Monday, full pads and full contact on Tuesday and Wednesday, helmets and special teams on Thursday, game time on Friday. Set and rigid, players need structure. That said, there are moments of fun, moments of glee, moments of utter hilarity. Such was the case in our practice leading up to the game against Satsuma High School. As usual, it was one of those dreary, humid practices, a Mobile practice. Nobody wanted to be on the field, neither coach nor player. Sensing this, you took matters into your own hands. Out of nowhere, you darted out like a buck: across the track, over the sideline, the fifty, the forty, the thirty. At the twenty-five, you sprung from the field like a diver leaving the board. In the air fully extended, you hung for a brief moment, both hands and both feet stretched to their limits. In one fell swoop, you belly flopped into a mud hole, a gigantic mud pie that stretched all the way back to the back of the end zone. You came up smiling, mud covered; we ran out ready to practice. “Take time to have fun,” you screamed. Dearest coach, I can stand in your presence and with all sincerity claim that every day of my life I’ve searched for some humor, some mud hole in which to fling myself carelessly and recklessly. I never thanked you for that. Another precious souvenir to which I cling.

Back in those days, warriors roamed the earth and played in the fields and the goodness thereof.

Pre-game rituals are vital parts of any sport, especially football. Under your guidance, our ritual consisted of a pre-game meal. On one occasion, I was complaining about how my steak had been cooked, well-done rather than medium-rare. You pulled me over to the side and inquired as to how often I ate steak; I relented often. You said, “Many of your teammates had never eaten steak; their families couldn’t afford it.” My blessings stood numerous. We have a Thanksgiving tradition in our family. Before the meal, we circle the table and cite the thing for which we’re most thankful. Upon every occasion of this, I can’t help but recall your frank but encouraging words about blessings and the goodness thereof. I never thanked you for that. Another precious souvenir to which I cling.

Back in those days, warriors roamed the earth and played in the fields and the goodness thereof.

Before taking the field on Friday night, you would always call for a team prayer. As the team’s resident preacher-son, I was tapped for this dispensation. Eyes closed, heads bowed: I never prayed for victory, but I did pray for safety, confidence, and sportsmanship. At that time, I was spiritually immature, wrestling with what it meant to be Christ-like in a profane world. School was a place I could simply be myself, a place where I wasn’t always the preacher’s kid, a place where I didn’t have to live to such high ideals. There always was an easiness about school, at least until Friday night. On Friday night, you held me accountable for my faith, accountable for my beliefs. Perhaps without ever knowing it, you taught me how to pray, how to lift my voice to the Lord, how to place our burdens at his feet. In a way that a sermon or a Sunday school lesson could never do, you demanded that I publicly live out my faith in front of my teammates and coaches. Since that time, I’ve matured in matters of the spirit, seldom praying in public now but opting instead for a prayer behind closed doors as instructed in Matthew 6:6. Looking back on it now, however, praying over the team is one of the truly great souvenirs in my life — lifting up those young men in prayer, lifting up those coaches in prayer. Wherever two or three are gathered in His name, there He will be. Friday night was so very special because I had the opportunity to see the silhouette of God’s brow, to revel in the goodness thereof as the Holy Spirit moved through that locker room. I never thanked you for that special souvenir.

Back in those days, warriors roamed the earth and played in the fields and the goodness thereof.

In any football game, halftime gives refuge, gives moments of reflection. Such was the case in our half-time loss against Murphy that year. During practice that week, you had put together a game plan that could handle our opponent, a game plan that would redeem the botched fair-catch of the season earlier. In retrospect, it was the perfect game plan. Unfortunately, plans don’t always work out. In all honestly, I simply can’t recall the score at half-time, but we were losing soundly. Before retaking the field, I will never forget what you said: “I’m not sure what’s happened.” In that moment, in front of the entire team, I always appreciated your honesty, always appreciated that instance of vulnerability. I don’t remember the final score of that game, but I do remember your frankness. You will never full realize how many times I’ve used that example as a model in my own life. Family, friends, colleagues, students: I can look them in the eye and be honest, be vulnerable. I can look them in the eye with a competent uncertainty and conclude that “I’m not sure.” Vulnerability is not the badge of cowardice; uncertainty is not the badge of ignorance; uncertainty and vulnerability are often the first steps toward wisdom. Yet another precious souvenir to which I cling.

Back in those days, warriors roamed the earth and played in the fields and the goodness thereof.

Getting to and from the fields of play is a vital part of any sport. After every game, our bus rides home took on significance. Somewhere around that Azalea Road/Michael Boulevard corridor, you would call us to order in order to sing the alma mater. Win or lose, it was always part of the post-game ritual. I’ve never really been able to understand the impact of that alma mater, but over the time I’ve come to appreciate the ritual, the symbol, the communal chant. As strange as it may sound, over the years, that alma mater has kept me connected to Mobile. It’s funny sometimes, the primal places from which we spring become mere shadows. Seldom do I ever go back to Mobile. In fact, I’ve never been back to Davidson. I certainly never planned it that way, but when I left Mobile, my worldview changed. Although never far from my mind and always in my heart, Mobile became a symbolic home, a home not defined of boundaries and ordinances but a home defined of spirit and ideal. This ideal of home proved relevant in the moments leading up to kickoff one Friday night. “Winning this game matters,” you said, “because most of you will spend your lives in this city.” Although I’ve spent the last thirty years traveling between Washington DC and Los Angeles, traveling as a writer, filmmaker, and college professor, your words proved prophetic because I was always in Mobile, present in spirit if not body. Although I don’t remember the score, we lost that game, but you were right; important games follow you even when you’re on the move. But even after that loss, that opportunity lost, there was still the alma mater, struck up just as the bus turned into the homestretch. That song washed away the loss, washed us in fellowship of melody and harmony. We found home again through that song. Thomas Carlyle said that all “deep things are Song….See deep enough, and you see musically.” In my memories, Mobile, sport, and your advice merge into song, lyrics not only remembered but also hummed. I never thanked you for that, for showing me the importance of song. Another precious souvenir to which I cling.

In those simple days, those simple times, warriors roamed the earth. Dressed in black and gold, helmets dazzled in the spark of stadium light. Led by a chief with mustachioed grin, warriors roamed the earth. Led by a chief with swagger in his gait, warriors played in the fields. Whether in some victory or some loss, whether in some game or some scrimmage, we played sport in the goodness thereof and the world was clean and fresh and new.

Please realize the lasting influence you’ve had on my life, the souvenirs you have given me. I pray the healing blood of Jesus Christ on you. May that blood bind you, heal you, comfort you in any hour of need. May Christ’s infinite grace tough you. May Christ’s infinite will resound in your life.

Kindest regards,

Charles Jones

Offensive Line

DHS Class of 1986

Adam Minichino is the former Sports Editor for The Commercial Dispatch.

READER FAVORITES

• 

  Motown classics to headline Starkville Strong benefit concerts

  By Ashlyn Joyner • 2 days ago

• 

  Starkville Utilities schedules power outage for Saturday morning

  By Paloma Green • 2 days ago

• 

  Possumtown Book Fest looks to build on record attendance

  By Natalie Staggers • 2 days ago

• 

  A plan at last: Overhaul planned for ‘most dangerous’ Hwy 45 intersection

  By Braden Simmons • 18 hours ago