PROLOGUE

“Whoever survives the test, whatever it may be, must tell the story. That is his duty.”
--- Elie Wiesel

On what would become the worst day of my life, weak sunlight was spilling into the valleys of east Tennessee, illuminating the redbuds and forsythia bravely splashing color along the winter-raw hillsides.

Harbingers of spring in the Appalachian mountains, the redbuds and forsythia meant it was time for Bobby and me to prepare our yard for planting flowers, flowers that would last until the first frost—longer than our remaining time together.

At the time, I did not know that.

I did seem to know we’d lingered too long in our Chattanooga home, waiting for Bobby’s sheepdog, Sugarplum, to die—her death from cancer, inevitable. But death chose the wrong victim, forever erasing Bobby’s dream of retiring to our oceanfront condo where he always found peace. There he could sit for hours on our 19th floor balcony watching a storm build over the ocean—gray cumulus clouds, shot through with surreal streaks of pink and gold. In the evenings, he allowed himself the luxury of gazing at a line of shrimp boats, their nets hoisted for the day, crawling along the red rim of the horizon.

But in April 2008, like all but 15 days since I retired eight months previously, we sat suspended in time, bound to the city by his dog’s impending death. On that seemingly innocuous day, after running errands, Bobby and I had stopped at Five Guys restaurant. Afterward, I was ready to shop for flowers, but Bobby insisted on returning home to give Sugarplum her cancer medicine.

After taking Bobby home, I headed out to select the flowers we would enjoy in the days ahead. Over his shoulder, Bobby said, “Be careful. I love you”—his usual parting words to me. At the door, I glanced back and saw him preparing Sugarplum’s medicine with a pharmacist’s precision. I knew he’d soon stretch out on the sofa with his huge dog snuggled beside him.

I smiled to myself as I drove away. All around me, the first buds of spring seemed to reflect our new beginning—a time to enjoy each other, content with life.

After 20 years, the nightmare from which Bobby could never fully escape had receded into a rarely visited nook of his mind. A few weeks earlier, discerning he was increasingly at peace with his past, I had begun secretly writing his story. Amazingly, when I read him the initial pages, he seemed open to the idea. In fact, he agreed to assist me—with one caveat: “Sherry Lee, even if I let you write my story, I may never let you have it published.”

Bobby’s tenuous agreement to let me tell his story might have been an omen, but I didn’t catch it. Until then he had steadfastly rejected any mention of writing a book about his 1988 trial. After the trial, book agents and media representatives eager to pay for his story had approached him, but he refused, never wanting to make money from the tragedy.

As we discussed writing about Bobby’s life, he said emphatically that before anyone could understand the man he had become—the man accused of murder—the story must begin with his childhood. So we agreed that’s where we would start. It was where I would begin to unwrap the layers of this complex man who was sometimes witty, even roguish; at other times, reserved and somber. Whose emotions were often as fragile as butterfly wings, and sometimes as hard as steel from a blast furnace; a man who cared deeply about old friends, but isolated himself from their love.

Although I knew much of Bobby’s biography, I looked forward to hearing more about his family, his youthful escapades, and his illustrious sports career—well aware I would have to pull from him anything about his football feats. Unlike many sports heroes, Bobby always shunned the spotlight, acutely uncomfortable in its glare.

During his glory days on the turf of powerful Central High School, where he ran so fast the media tagged him “Hippety Hoppe,” Bobby developed into the first All-American to come out of Chattanooga. After signing with Auburn University, he was riding high, feeling bullet proof.

Three years into college, Bobby had proven himself to be a talented multi-position player on what would become Auburn’s first, and to date, only national championship team. Some say, on Auburn’s football field, Bobby ran with unsurpassed agility and speed. Few realized that during the national championship season he was running to escape unseen demons, their breath hot on his heels.

Most people who knew Bobby during his days at Central and Auburn agreed that, until the early morning of July 21, 1957, he could outrun his own shadow. After the tragic event, his football fame interested him less and less. Following a brief foray into the National Football League, Bobby returned home, ready to begin what would become a rewarding coaching career.

On the surface, everything seemed fine. But Bobby could not rid himself of the dark curtain that hung heavy over his mind and soul; sheltering a secret he shared with no one—not even me. Some days the old Bobby resurfaced—the man with a rowdy sense of humor who kept family and friends laughing. At other times, he withdrew into a shell, wanting only his dogs for company. Bobby was never quite sure if folks were whispering behind his back, so he chose his friends carefully. They became the trusted few that got to enjoy his wry wit and incredible knowledge of the world.

That April afternoon, I returned home, my arms full of larkspurs and snapdragons and my heart filled with excitement about our days ahead, days as promising as the new season bursting to life around me.

Instead of walking into the warmth of Bobby’s arms, I found him sprawled on his back on the kitchen floor; his eyes wide open. I somehow called 911 and then began trying to resuscitate him—but I knew it was too late. That realization was more horrific than I could ever imagine.

Since finding Bobby on the floor that day, I am haunted by his eyes. I see them in their myriad hues. Twinkling bright blue, like sunlight on water, when he was laughing. Steel blue when he was upset or sad. For me, their color was a gauge of his emotions. When Bobby appears in my dreams—day or night—what I see first are his eyes. I hope that never changes.

Several weeks after his death, with a heavy heart I returned to the story we had begun. To my surprise, writing about Bobby helped me grieve. But it’s difficult, even today, to realize how much richer the book would be if Bobby had lived to tell his story.

So, although I wrote this book, it is Bobby Hoppe’s story—the story of a sports legend who shielded those he loved from his dark secret for 31 years, and, as the lyrics of our favorite song said, who loved me as I loved him—“until the Twelfth of Never.”

I wrote this for you, Bobby, because I wanted your story to be told. I wanted others to hear what really happened that night—not just to Don Hudson, but also to you. And I want to share why I have come to believe that, in Pliny the Elder’s words, “In these matters the only certainty is that nothing is certain.” I’ve shared a bit more about your football stardom than you would have allowed, but otherwise, I hope you are pleased. Until the Twelfth of Never, Sherry