Ah, 1986

August 2, 2025

Ah, 1986—a year burned into my memory like a highlight reel on a worn VHS tape, spooling through victories, heartbreaks, and those electric, formative moments that shape a young man’s life. We were fresh off the Sun Bowl in El Paso, where my Alabama Crimson Tide brothers and I pulled off a comeback for the ages against the Washington Huskies. It was Christmas Day. We were down 6–0 at halftime, nursing bruises and doubts. But the locker room didn’t go quiet.

Instead, we got an unexpected jolt—not from Coach Ray Perkins, but from Don Shula himself. The Don Shula. NFL’s winningest coach. Legend of the Miami Dolphins. And, more personally, father to our quarterback, Mike Shula. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. His words landed harder than any blitz. You could feel the energy shift. Fueled by that fire, we exploded for 28 unanswered points in the second half. Final score: 28–6. The desert air crackled with adrenaline. The crowd roared like a tide of thunder. And we flew back to Tuscaloosa as champions—battered but unbreakable. Roll Tide forever.

That game set the stage for a night that still loops in my mind, even now, at 60, when the world is quieter and memory speaks louder. 1986 was a year of beginnings—Pixar was planting its first creative seeds out in California, Oprah had just hit national syndication, and Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love” seemed to echo from every car stereo and jukebox. But it was also a year of heartbreak. On January 28th, just weeks after the bowl game, I sat in Bryant Hall—room 312—with my roommate Ward Murphy and the rest of our hall mates: George Salem, John Fruhmorgen, Butch Worley, Woody Wilson, and Scott Blankenship. We huddled around my little RCA color TV as the Challenger shuttle burst into flame just 72 seconds after launch. We didn’t say much. Just sat there, stunned. Young men built to charge through walls, suddenly reminded how fragile everything really is.

Bryant Hall was our fortress—three flights of stairs above the world, smelling of old sweat, chalk dust, and cafeteria burgers. It still stands today, repurposed for both athletes and engineering freshmen under new NCAA rules. But in my mind, it’s always 1986. Room 312, frozen in time.

A few days after the bowl game, the itch to shake off the post-victory haze took hold. I decided to head out into the Tuscaloosa night. Back then, the town was a blend of Southern charm and student mayhem—frat parties flooding the lawns, the Strip alive with neon and noise, the air thick with promise.

Getting ready was a ritual. I pulled on my best pair of jeans—broken in and perfect after a season of punishment—and reached for my prize: a pair of quilled ostrich-skin boots I’d scored at the Tony Lama factory store during our Sun Bowl trip. While teammates eyed boa and elephant hide, I went straight for the ostrich—exotic, bold, and, as the salesman put it, “our most expensive pair.” When I told him I didn’t come from a boot-store family, just liked the look, he chuckled and said, “Then you’ll need something to match.”

Sure enough, when I got back home, a package from Tony Lama was waiting at my parents’ place—inside, an ostrich belt and two buckles: one stamped “United States of America,” the other gold-plated in the shape of Texas. That night, I threaded the belt through my jeans, snapped on the Texas buckle for a little extra swagger, and topped it all off with a crisp denim shirt and a bowtie—gridiron grit meets Southern gentleman.

I bounded down three flights of concrete stairs, boots echoing like a drumroll. Outside, the Alabama night was cool and clear, campus lights flickering like stars. There in the lot waited my pride and joy: a brand-new 1987 red Mazda RX-7, license plate “Bama 48” for my jersey number. Sleek. Fast. A rotary engine that purred like a lion. I slid into the leather seat, flipped the key, and the dash came alive in red and blue glow. I hit the sunroof, letting in a breeze tinged with pine and distant barbecue smoke.

Then came the soundtrack—Kenny Loggins’ “Danger Zone” from Top Gun—the opening riff exploding as I peeled out onto University Boulevard. “Revvin’ up your engine, listen to her howlin’ roar…” Loggins wailed, and I was off, flying past Denny Chimes, the Quad majestic in the night, and down to the Strip, alive with laughter, music, and the reckless joy of youth.

My destination: Harry’s Bar. The heartbeat of Tuscaloosa nightlife. Back in the day, Harry’s had a basketball court, but by ’86, it had pool tables instead—the clack of billiard balls a constant soundtrack. The place was pure dive: sticky floors, jukebox blaring, beer flowing cheap and fast. But what made Harry’s legendary was the Crazy Bucket—a mystery liquor mix, white lightning topped with some nuclear pink-red potion. Nobody knew what was in it. Everyone knew it worked.

I pulled in, the RX-7 drawing glances, stepped out, boots sharp against the pavement, and made my way inside. It hit me immediately—the haze of cigarette smoke, the sound of pool balls cracking, jukebox crooning out singalong classics, and the buzz of teammates and co-eds packed into every corner. I spotted a few of the Bryant Hall boys—maybe Ward, maybe Scott—and grabbed a Crazy Bucket, the red-pink swirl catching the light like some kind of moonshine magic. The first sip hit hard. Sweet. Sharp. Dangerous.

The jukebox was on fire—“Sweet Home Alabama,” “Addicted to Love,” and every drunk anthem you can howl into the night without shame. We belted lyrics like they were gospel. We danced with girls in acid-wash jeans and big hair. We retold the Sun Bowl story with ever-growing drama—Don Shula’s halftime speech gaining mythical status by the retelling.

And then came the inevitable closer. The jukebox dropped David Allan Coe’s “You Never Even Called Me by My Name”—the one we all knew as ‘I Was Drunk the Day My Mom Got Out of Prison.’ Every voice in the bar—off-key, half-drunk, hearts full—rose to meet it. Crazy Buckets raised. Arms around shoulders. That unshakable brotherhood that only exists when you’re young, undefeated, and immortal—for a moment.

Looking back, that night wasn’t historic. It wasn’t life-changing. But it was unforgettable. It was the magic of pulling on your best boots, turning the key in a brand-new car, and letting the night take you where it wanted. It was pool balls, jukeboxes, Crazy Buckets, and the kind of joy you don’t even know is golden until years later.

And now, decades on, it still plays on a loop in my mind—right alongside that Sun Bowl victory, Don Shula’s fiery words, and the Challenger’s silent sky. Because some nights, like some wins, never fade.

Roll Tide! 

Darryl 

El Paso, December 1986. We had already landed for the Sun Bowl when they handed us sombreros at the airport. Coach Dude Hennessey (RIP), our Bryant Hall director, put his on and smiled for the camera. He had coached the defensive line for Coach Bryant from 1960 to 1976, then looked after us in the dorm.

Bryant Hall, December 1986, just before we boarded the bus for the Birmingham airport and the Sun Bowl. Left to right: Gary Otten, Butch Worley, George Salem, and Steve Clonts, my third-floor hall mates, dressed for the trip. George and Gary lived across the hall from me.

This is the third floor of Bryant Hall, 1986. Gary Otten is on the left, Huntsville, offensive line, headphones around his neck. Next to him is Butch Worley, Huntsville, our placekicker. Then George Salem, Birmingham, offensive line. His dad, George, played halfback here in 1956, and his uncle Ed was an All-American halfback in 1950. The Salems were already a Tide family before George ever moved onto the third floor with us. I had a phone call with him recently, and we reminisced about those days. And me, Darryl Fuhrman, Southside, inside linebacker, the one in the trench coat and the green tie.

We put the ties on and stood in the doorway with our arms around each other, the hall light on behind us. We thought that was just another day. All we saw was the grind. Dorm to the meeting room, meeting room to the practice field, practice field back to the dorm. We had class, but for the most part we were secluded. We used to laugh that we lived in a monastery. In those days the only men in Bryant Hall were football players and basketball players, and the basketball players were up on the third floor with us. The NCAA still let a school keep a dorm like that. A few years later they ruled athletic dorms out. You don't know any of this while you're in it. You get older, and then you see it. We were the kings of the universe in our minds, and we didn't even know it.

Sun Bowl locker room, El Paso, December 1986, after practice. Left to right: John Davis, freshman defensive back; me, Darryl Fuhrman, inside linebacker out of Southside; and Billy Ray, freshman quarterback. Equipment bags on the floor, red lockers behind us, and Christmas still a few days off.

I wrote this essay on August 2, 2025, and I’ve been sitting on it ever since, looking for this photo. I finally found it on October 3, 2026.

My family always told me that at the end of the Sun Bowl they saw me shake hands with the head coach of the Washington Huskies, after Alabama beat them on Christmas Day, 1986. This is that moment.

I’m in the crimson jersey, number 66, tape on my wrist. Coach Don James is the one with his back to the camera, purple cap, light jacket. The stands are still full behind us, and the mountains sit over the Sun Bowl. We had just won, 28–6, in El Paso. It was Coach Walter Ray Perkins’s last game as our coach. Cornelius Bennett 97, was the MVP. I was an inside linebacker, and when it was over I shook Coach Don James’s hand. My family saw it. I just didn’t have the picture until today.

January 28, 1986. Seventy-three seconds after liftoff, the solid rocket boosters tore away and the white cloud swallowed Challenger. We watched it happen on the little color RCA in room 312 of Bryant Hall — Ward Murphy and I, with George Salem, Gary Otten, Steve Clonts, Lance Laskey, Scott Blankenship, John Fruhmorgen, Butch Worley, and Woody Wilson crowded in from down the hall. Nobody said a word.

This is my 1987 Turbo II, Sunrise Red, the one with the sunroof. The sunroof is in the piece because it comes with a great sound system that allowed you to play Kenny Loggins' Danger Zone to the max with the sunroof back. The picture catches me in it. The two-spoke wheel is right here, the Mazda mark in the hub, and the tach is already lit orange. The key is still in the column. Down the center are the vents, then the cassette deck with the equalizer sliders glowing, then the climate controls and that small orange readout. The five-speed sits at the edge of the frame. What makes it the Turbo II, besides the car outside, is the boost gauge in the cluster. If you hit the boost, it guaranteed to put you in the hatch. The rest is just the cabin Mazda built for that year, close enough to 1986 that the title still fits.