A Sunday Stroll Through Time on the Bridge Property

The fig tree still grows, stubborn and sweet, even if my hands can no longer reach it like they used to. On a warm Sunday afternoon in May 2025, I set out for a walk across the bridge property in Southside, Alabama—a patch of land passed down to me by my late aunt and uncle, James and Elizabeth Fulks. It is more than soil and trees; it’s a living memory, an open journal, a sacred inheritance.

The air was thick with the scent of blooming wildflowers as I moved southeast toward the Pinedale Road entrance. My steps were slower than they used to be—measured by necessity, not choice. I no longer have the strength to mow or tend the crêpe myrtles that now grow unruly, nor the patience to battle the ivy climbing up the trunks of stubborn pines. Still, the land welcomed me like an old friend. The fig tree caught my eye—its new green shoots a quiet miracle. It has known many springs. So have I.

With each step, the years unwound behind me, and soon I was back at fall practice in 1985 at the University of Alabama. I could feel the sweat, the churn of cleats against turf, the split-second instinct of a Mike linebacker twisting to deliver a hit. Back then, the headaches came and went. Now, they linger—echoes of blows once brushed off, signs of damage we didn’t understand.

Tuscaloosa in the mid-80s was more than football—it was a season of becoming. I was living my dream in crimson and white, chasing girls between Russian history lectures and American literature classes, working security at The Getaway, and pouring drinks behind the bar. Every sprint after practice, every jog off the field, reminded me I was where I had always wanted to be. I never took it for granted.

But my road to that dream wasn’t paved smooth. Growing up in Etowah County with undiagnosed dyslexia was a daily fight. The school system didn’t understand it, and I was labeled slow. Nothing bruises a young boy's pride like sneaking into special ed so a girl he likes won’t see. But some people saw me clearly. My ninth-grade English teacher, after a long, hard day wrestling with verbs, leaned in when the classroom emptied and said, “Darryl, you’re going to have to work harder than most. But I know you can. I see potential in you.” That moment landed like a lifeline.

Then came Coach Ross—my “football daddy.” He pulled me up to varsity, saw something in me when I couldn’t see it myself. I wasn’t a star like Troy Gent, Donny Higdon, David Smith or Mike Webster. I was a question mark, an underdog. But my mother, Jerrie Fuhrman—Mrs. Jerrie to everyone else—refused to let that define me. A nurse with a warrior’s heart, she searched the nation for help, calling schools in Massachusetts, Oregon, South Carolina. Then one day, she came running into the barnyard where I was working. “Curry College wants to see you,” she said. “We’re flying to Boston tomorrow.”

Curry was a rebirth. I found my academic footing, rebuilt my confidence, and reignited my athletic fire. Still, my heart longed for Alabama’s red clay. Two years later, Mrs. Jerrie worked her magic again—not for Penn State or Auburn, but for the University of Alabama. I arrived in Tuscaloosa in the summer of ’85, nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Somehow, I made the team, and my bonds with men like Joe Dismuke—first forged in Foxborough, Massachusetts—were waiting for me like a compass pointing home.

Back on the bridge property, I paused by the fig tree, its tender green shoots promising fruit once more. I saw in it my own journey—weathered, yes, but still growing. The crêpe myrtles may be wild, the ivy relentless, but the pines stand tall. So do I, in my own way. The Coosa River shimmered in the distance, and Psalm 104:24 rose in my heart: “How many are your works, Lord! In wisdom you made them all.”

This land is more than an inheritance. It’s a mirror. It has known storms and seasons, roots and regrowth. So have I. I can’t tend it like I once did, but it still tends to me, reminding me of where I’ve been and why I keep going.

I turn toward home, my heart full. I came out for a Sunday stroll. I found a lifetime instead.