Anecdotes about son James Dungy provide fuller picture of Tony Dungy's loss

Commentary: Gary Shelton

LUTZ, Fla. -- Tony Dungy approached the lectern with a small smile. He said he was happy to be there. He opened with a joke about the preacher's verbosity.
Considering the body of Dungy's eldest son lay a few feet in front of him, it seemed Dungy was holding up better than his friends had feared.
Then Dungy's voice cracked, leaving him with a sound that was raw and wounded, and his face was so twisted it was possible to see the pain underneath. He stepped back, dabbing at hollow eyes with tissue, trying to gather himself before he could continue.
For 20 minutes, Dungy talked about faith and hope and loss, and several times, the emotions would visibly wash over him. Each time, he would step back, and the audience at Idlewild Baptist Church would applaud, as if to allow him time to overcome his emotions. Each time, Dungy would return to the microphone, trying to comfort those who came to comfort him.
How does a man find such strength? How does he share an agony so private with his public? How does he use faith as an answer when there are so many unanswered questions?
A man buried his son Tuesday, only five days after his death and only 18 years after his birth. A husband put his arm around his wife. A father embraced his other four children.
Away from the illusion of a game, away from the celebrity of his job, it is as simple as that. For the past week, that is who Dungy has been to the Tampa Bay community. It hardly matters that he is the coach of the Indianapolis Colts, or that he used to be the coach of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, except that is how most of us came to know him.
Most of the 2,000 or so mourners who entered Idlewild were there because of Dungy's character, because most around here have a story or two about a decent man who has suffered an unimaginable loss. He is one of us, and for most of a week, those who live in the Tampa Bay area have wanted to put an arm around Dungy's shoulder.
There were no answers to what apparently drives a young man to suicide. There were only answers to why so many people miss Jamie Dungy so much.
He was a mama's boy. He loved the color pink and chicken quesadillas and put ketchup on almost everything. He liked stray dogs and old friends and practical jokes.
Dungy told the story about when Jamie was 7 and his father worked for the Minnesota Vikings. A player named Vencie Glenn had given Jamie a hat, and suddenly, Vencie, No. 25, was his buddy. The next year, the Vikings traded Glenn to the Giants.
On the first day of camp, Dungy saw his son in the dining room after the morning practice. Jamie seemed unhappy, and his father asked why. Jamie said he had followed No. 25 around all day, calling out his name, and Vencie ignored him.
"Son, that wasn't Vencie Glenn," Tony said. "That was Alfred Jackson."
McKay told one about Jamie being steamrolled by former Bucs quarterback Eric Zeier on the sideline. Jamie was looking away from the play when he glanced up at the scoreboard and saw the play coming toward him. He curled up just as Zeier and others plowed into him.
Pastor Jeffery Singletary told one about the fishing trip when a storm quickly developed. Most in the party were praying, Singletary said, when he heard the beep-beep of Jamie's video game. He also heard Jamie ask his father if it things were going to be all right.
"Things are going to be fine," Singletary remembers Tony saying.
In one of their final telephone conversations, Jamie told Tony the Colts were going to the Super Bowl, and he wanted to know if he could be on the sideline. Tony warned him about the difficulty of getting there, but yes, he said, there would be a spot for him on the sideline.
Together, the stories weave a more complete picture of Jamie Dungy. He quoted scripture. He was a polite kid.
"If you were nice to Jamie, you were his friend," Dungy said. "The other way was to look like you needed a friend."
The more you heard, the bigger the questions became about Jamie's final days. Was his pain deeper than most teenagers? Was his ability to cope with it less? We will never know.
Dungy said his son was searching for who that person was inside of him, who he was going to be.
"As he made that search, I knew he was never going to leave that compassionate, friendly, loyal, heartfelt roots," Dungy said. "But like a lot of teenage boys, I think he was hit with messages that maybe that's not the way boys are supposed to be. Like most of us, I think he went through a time as a teenager he wasn't sure his parents always had the best advice, that we always had his best interest at heart.
"My daughter Tiara said it best. She said, 'I just wish he could have made it to 20, because when you're 17 or 18, a lot of things your parents tell you don't make sense. At 20, they start to make sense again. I just wish he would have made it.' "
Again, Dungy's voice quaked. Again, he paused. Again, the audience applauded.
For most of Tampa Bay, Dungy quit being a football coach a long time ago. Instead, he was a neighbor, a man of grace and dignity.
Today, it would be nice if he could find a little peace.
Jamie, too.

Gary Shelton is a columnist for the St. Petersburg (Fla.) Times.