There’s something that happens when you write honestly enough about race that some of the black people in your orbit start to take notice. The question comes to me often after some discussion about my upbringing. I was ripped from public schools and sent to one of those old-school segregation academies founded for a specific purpose in 1960s South Carolina, I’ll recall, trying desperately to make my reader see the straight lines between history and now.
It’s then the question comes. How’d you end up like this? It’s a fair question. Most people who grew up as I did don’t aspire to either racial punditry or white allyship.
The explanation used to be difficult. I’d fumble my words or pull a muscle trying to pat myself on the back. Now it’s easy. I know that I know what I know because a series of people who didn’t have to take the time to mentor me went out of their way to do so.
As a young kid, i was blessed with a sort of curiosity that took me to the edges of trouble. Once, as a 13-year old, I went to watch my beloved Clemson Tigers play football at Duke, and after some exploring, found myself unaccompanied to the practice field where Clemson was warming up behind an endzone. A few minutes later, the team took off in an organized way, heading toward what looked to me like the field at Wallace-Wade Stadium. No one was stopping me, so I decided to follow. It wasn’t long before the band was playing, the flags were raised, and Clemson trotted onto the field in a dramatic entrance. I’d run out behind the team and right onto the sideline. It wasn’t until late in the first quarter that equipment manager Alphonso Smith noticed my presence and shooed me back into the stands with far more patience than I deserved.
Brian Mance was on that team. He was on a lot of teams I loved as a kid. And we developed some traditions. When the orange Young buses passed Lot 5 where my grandparents parked their car, I’d sprint down the hill in front of the old west endzone. Before it became the gaudy monstrosity it is now, it was just some stands with a chain-linked fence. Players unloaded the bus and made a straight line to the locker room below. Some donned headphones and avoided the crowds. I didn’t blame them. They had a job to do. Others, like Brian, took a minute or two to talk to kids like me.
Every week at school I’d write him a note. I was a terrible artists, but I’d sometimes draw him pictures. Some of my finest work came with awkward drawings of a stick figure tiger wearing Mance’s #2 (#3, when he changed numbers). I’d write some note of encouragement. Mance would pick those notes up and encourage me. They were and remain some of the best moments of my life. He was one of my heroes, not just for what he did on the field, but for how he took the time to make me feel like I mattered.
Brian Mance is from Alcolu, just outside of Manning, a small town in the guts of South Carolina. He rose from high school stardom to have a spectacular career at Clemson. After every game, as Clemson fans flooded the field as we’re wont to do, I’d wade through the sea of bodies to find my friend. I’d congratulate him on some tackle or interception. He’d give me his gloves, his wristbands, or whatever else he had. Sometimes he’d get other players to give me their gear. I’ll never forget the moment when starting safety DeMarco Fox turned from the bench late one game, tied his black and white Nike gloves into a ball, and chucked them at me on the first row. I caught them, took them back to my grandparents’ seats, and became the envy of the neighborhood.
I’ve no doubt my story is one of many. Brian Mance spread unusual kindness through his Clemson career even when he didn’t have to. And in doing so, he smashed to bits the hideous stereotypes I often heard about black people by many in my community. I don’t know what it takes to defeat individual racism or outright malice, but it helps if every time you hear a joke or a slur, you have a friend’s face to think about. I was blessed with a few athletes who spent a few minutes every week, or more, showing me kindness and breaking down whatever barriers might have otherwise existed.
Life’s gotten harder for Brian. He’s moved into coaching, taking a spot on the coaching staff at Wofford College, where I have no doubt that he continues to invest in people just like he invested in me. But now Brian’s sick, dealing with a sort of pain and difficulty I couldn’t imagine. A GoFundMe page set up by a friend of his family tells the story:
Let us share with you how quickly life can change. Brian, his wife, Torrun and their son Jaden were celebrating 4th of July in their hometown with family and friends. On their way home, Brian complained about neck pain. The pain became so severe, they ended up in ER where Brian became increasingly worse and began to lose all mobility in his limbs. After days of waiting for a diagnosis and the consult of more than seven doctors, it was determined that Brian has neurosarcoidosis, a rare autoimmune disorder. He spent 21 days in the hospital and on July 25th was transferred to a rehabilitation center that specializes in the type of extensive therapy that will help him to regain mobility. By the way, this rehabilitation center is more than 75 miles from their home.
He’s settling in for a battle I know he’ll win. With a young son and a beautiful wife, he’s got a support system around him to lean on during the difficult rehabilitation ahead. I hope you’ll join me in supporting my friend in whatever little way you can.
Brian Mance is a gem, one of the truly good guys, and a person to whom I owe a debt for the unusual kindness he showed me, and for the ways he helped me break through the barriers of my upbringing.
If you'd like to support Brian Mance, you can do so here.