From the Sidelines to the Stadium: My Journey of Resilience and Perseverance in Football
- Ashley Walker
- Jan 5
- 8 min read
From the Sidelines to the Stadium: My Journey of Resilience and Perseverance in Football
Hey there, folks—pull up a chair and let me spin you a tale that’s as much about heart as it is about helmets. As I sit here reflecting on it, it’s on Monday, September 1, 2025, with the college football season just kicking off, and I’ve got these two old black-and-white photos—and a couple of newer ones—that bookend my football story. They speak volumes about the grit it took to chase a dream that seemed out of reach more times than I can count. The first is a gem of the Southside High School junior high varsity team from 1979 to 1980, showing me in my number 56 Southside Crimson Panthers uniform, flanked by Craig Hunt at number 80 on my left and Eric Landis at number 11 on my right, with my junior high head coach Jimmy Owens—also a varsity football assistant on Head Coach Randy Ross’s staff—standing proudly in the background.
It’s been 46 years since that 1979 season began, a testament to how long this journey has shaped me. Our family roots run deep here—over 140 years in this tight-knit community along the Coosa River, with ancestors who helped incorporate Southside, Alabama, in 1957. My dad, Robert Fuhrman, wore number 50 as an offensive guard and center for Southside High in the 1950s, losing his front teeth in a brutal game against Glencoe High School with nothing but a leather helmet for protection. My brother David followed in the 1970s as an offensive guard, earning All-Area and All-County honors, though a knee injury that required draining didn’t end his high school career until college loomed—his bad knee kept him from playing further after his senior year.
The second old photo? That’s me in full stride at the University of Alabama’s stadium—Bryant-Denny, holding about 65,000 seats in my time there—during my freshman year in 1985, an official shot from the UA Sports Information Office. And then there’s a newer one: me with David Iglehart, our backup quarterback, captured during the Crimson Tide’s 24-14 win over Temple University in 1986 at Bryant-Denny Stadium, a game that helped us to a 10-3 season and a Sun Bowl victory.
An article by Bill Lumpkin in the 1985 Birmingham News, written before the Alabama-Auburn game, dubbed me Darrell Fuhrman, the bull, spotlighting my tenacity as a walk-on during scouting. A photo sent to the Gadsden Times by the Curry College sports information office in 1983 highlighted my transition as a former Southside High School football player, Darryl Fuhrman, marking my early college days, while another clipping from the same paper in 1984, also from Curry’s sports information office, noted my sophomore year role, playing a key part in the team’s best 7-2 season after recovering from an eye injury. These aren’t just snapshots; they’re milestones in a journey marked by setbacks, sweat, and a whole lot of perseverance. Let me take you through it, step by step, because this isn’t a story of natural talent or easy wins—it’s about the character it takes to keep showing up when the odds are stacked against you.
It all started way back in third grade, under the humid Alabama skies that could turn a simple afternoon into a dusty ordeal. I discovered football through my cousin David Denson’s Silverhawks pee-wee team, and I even practiced in my gear, but getting there was the real challenge. I had to ride my bike three miles from our house to Danny League Field—named after my cousin Danny League, who tragically passed away from cancer—just to join in. It was a baseball field, not a lush gridiron, covered in dirt, lots of dust, and very little grass, kicking up clouds with every step. After practice, I’d pedal back home without going through the extra conditioning. My mom, Mrs. Jerrie, was crafty about it—she knew that grueling commute, combined with her growing disenchantment after David’s knee troubles, would push me to quit, and it did. That injury, which haunted him into college, made her an unyielding force against me playing pee-wee football, determined to spare me the same fate. That first quit could have ended it, but something kept pulling me back.
Fast forward to the spring of my eighth-grade year at Lyman Ward Military Academy in Camp Hill, Alabama—a strict boarding school founded in 1919 and known for its disciplined environment and military-style training that instilled values like leadership and resilience in young cadets. There, I was honored as Cadet of the Year in my eighth-grade year, having reached the rank of Master Sergeant, the highest rank achievable at that grade level, and serving as Company First Sergeant, the highest position you could hold in the company at that age group and class. This recognition highlighted my potential and set me on a path toward possibly becoming battalion commander had I stayed through my senior year. The academy’s football program gave me a taste, but I wasn’t in peak shape. I decided to go out for the team, feeling that pull again. But unbeknownst to me, Mom and Dad had other plans: I was heading back to Southside High for ninth grade. By then, I’d grown a bit soft—a chubby noncommissioned officer who’d risen through the ranks too quickly at Lyman Ward, lightening my physical duties.
Come fall, I showed up for the Southside Junior Varsity football team under Coaches Jimmy Owens and Greg Love. Southside High, with its proud Crimson Panthers tradition dating back decades in our riverside community, was no joke—the school had been a powerhouse in Alabama high school football, fostering tough, community-driven athletes. But I was a robust, overweight kid, and Coach Owens didn’t hold back. He’d make me run extra suicides after practice—those grueling sprint drills up and down the field—to burn off what he called my “baby fat.” Under the blazing late-summer sun or in the drizzly Alabama evenings, those sessions tested my limits. I wasn’t the fastest or strongest, but I kept going, building the endurance that perseverance demands.
After that ninth-grade season, something unexpected happened: Coach Ross decided to bring me up to varsity, along with teammates Michael Webster, Donnie Higdon, David Smith, and Troy Gintz. It didn’t make much sense—I was probably one of the worst athletes on the roster at that point, still carrying extra weight and lacking the polish of the stars. But looking back, it feels like divine intervention, a gentle nudge keeping me close to the dream without fully handing it over. That 1980 varsity season turned out to be legendary for Southside High—the best team the school ever produced, driven by Scott Keeling, one of the hardest-hitting fullbacks I’ve ever seen. We went almost all the way to the state championship, with seniors like Joe Dismuke earning a scholarship to the University of Alabama, where he played a key role; Scott Keelan to Clemson University, joining the Tigers’ storied program; Brian Mintz to Jacksonville State, later becoming a coach; Rodney Long to Austin Peay University, where he made his mark; and Kyle Collins to Auburn University, walking on and earning a scholarship alongside legends like Bo Jackson. I was just a small part of that powerhouse squad, but being on it fueled my fire. As my A-Club brother Phil Murphy—a former running back under Coach Paul “Bear” Bryant at Alabama and spiritual advisor for the Lettermen of the Iron Bowl—told me, “Sometimes you just turn it over to Him.” Life, he said, is like a great cosmic chess game between the forces of light and darkness, guided by unseen spiritual forces. Phil’s wisdom came at a pivotal time, as we prepared for the Lettermen of the Iron Bowl’s first major autograph football presentation to wounded veterans from the Wounded Warrior Battalion at Quantico, Virginia, and the San Antonio Burn Unit in November 2013. The Lettermen of the Iron Bowl, a national 501(c)(3) nonprofit group based in central Alabama that raises money for veterans and just happens to be composed of former collegiate athletes and coaches, would evolve into the Lettermen of the USA in 2014, expanding their mission. This year, in December 2025, the organization marks its 14th anniversary, a milestone of service. In November 2013, Phil shared these profound words: “His plan was set long before this challenge arose, and it will be fulfilled abundantly, often miraculously, and typically at the last moment—when God’s light shines brightest. While we can do good, only He performs miracles! Prepare to surrender so He can take over. Praise Him for His sake! His name is I Am, becoming I Will, like paint transforming into a masterpiece. Watch Him and bow humbly. I’ve been observing Him for years. Thanks for joining the ‘I can’t’ team, so I CAN and I AM can become I WILL! Love, Phil.” Those words resonated, reminding me how my early struggles were part of a larger plan.
That varsity move at Southside lit a fire, but the real test came after high school. From 1983 to 1984, I played Division III football at Curry College in Milton, Massachusetts—a small liberal arts school with a modest Colonels program that emphasized teamwork over Division I glory. A photo sent to the Gadsden Times by the Curry College sports information office in 1983 highlighted my transition as a former Southside High School football player, Darryl Fuhrman, marking my early college days, while another clipping from the same paper in 1984, also from Curry’s sports information office, noted my sophomore year role, playing a key part in the team’s best 7-2 season after recovering from an eye injury that sidelined me early on; it detailed my move from starting on defense as a freshman to offensive guard, helping secure their top record since a 6-2 season. The 1985 Birmingham News article by Bill Lumpkin, written before the Alabama-Auburn game, dubbed me Darrell Fuhrman, the bull, spotlighting my tenacity as a walk-on during scouting. It was a stepping stone, honing my skills in a lower-pressure environment, but I dreamed bigger. Transferring to the University of Alabama, a perennial NCAA Division I powerhouse, was the ultimate leap. The Crimson Tide, under Coach Ray Perkins in 1985 (following the legendary Bear Bryant’s retirement), was a football dynasty with national championships in the early ’80s and a reputation for turning recruits into legends. But making the team as a walk-on or transfer wasn’t easy—spring practice that year saw over 250 hopefuls show up, separated from the varsity squad. Only two or three might cross over, and by the end, often just one remained. The grueling sessions in Tuscaloosa’s heat, with its mix of sprints, drills, and full-contact scrimmages, weeded out the weak. I wasn’t a blue-chip recruit; I was an underdog relying on sheer willpower.
Yet, there I was, captured in that 1985 photo: mid-stride at the University of Alabama’s stadium, Bryant-Denny, with its then-65,000 seats. And then, in 1986, that newer photo with David Iglehart, our backup quarterback, during the 24-14 win over Temple University at Bryant-Denny Stadium—a game that helped us to a 10-3 season and a Sun Bowl victory. As a freshman and sophomore, I had made it—living out my dream of playing major Division I ball. It wasn’t about starting every game or earning All-SEC honors; it was about the resilience to push through the quits, the extra suicides, the doubts, and the cosmic detours. The number 56, consistent from Southside to Alabama, symbolized that unbroken thread of perseverance.
Looking back from today, 1:45 PM on September 1, 2025, as the college football season kicks off, I see how this journey shaped my character. My broken Alabama helmet sits atop my bookcase, a silent witness to the quiet persistence—the ability to surrender to a higher plan while grinding every day. Whether pedaling through the dust of Danny League Field or presenting autographed footballs to wounded warriors years later, football wasn’t just a game for me; it was a lesson in faith, grit, and grace. If you’re chasing a dream, remember: the path might be muddy and uphill, but keep moving. Who knows? You might just find yourself in stride at your own Bryant-Denny.
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