A small army of Charleston Southern University students poured out of a van and huddled along a cold, damp street in New York. Behind the hoodies and orange ski caps were rosy noses atop smiling pink and purple lips shivering in the December morning air.
When Mike Sanfratello steps off the plane he starts with a prayer. “Lord, help me to get out of the way …” he whispers as his feet move quickly through the airport terminal in Utah. “Let me find you here and let me join you in it.”
Ashleigh Dockery’s braided ponytail hangs off her left shoulder. You can tell by her youthful green eyes, soft-spoken tone and petite, peaceful manner, she was born and raised in the South. But don’t let her Southern Charm fool you; she enjoys a challenge, which probably explains her passion for crime. Dockery is the perfect law enforcement foil.
In early May, James Mangini will leave his home in Hanahan, South Carolina, and begin running eight and 10 hours a day. Not on smooth cement sidewalks and highways, but on gravel, dirt, grass, and on byways, secondary roads, through small towns, across nine states, 1,000 miles in 30 days, until he reaches his destination: The Michael J. Fox Foundation in New York City.
Take a moment; let that sink in.
“Character is like a tree and reputation like a shadow. The shadow is what we think of it; the tree is the real thing.” — Abraham Lincoln
Rob Concannon is in the position he’s in because of where he’s been – and where he’s been is now legend. The stories have been chronicled and preserved in a frame on his office wall.
Norman Seabrooks clutched his diploma in one hand; the other was balled in a fist. He accepted his degree from The Citadel in honor of Charlie Foster and Joe Shine, who came before him; Red Parker and Keith Roden, who struggled beside him; Herb Cunningham and Flossie Gordon, who sheltered him; the anonymous faces who stuffed his pockets with extra desserts and milk after late-night practices; the maintenance staff that publicly embraced him like a son and privately prayed for Norm’s strength and safety. But this, he thought as he left the stage with degree in hand, was for William Thomas Seabrooks.
Jonathan Davis moved to Charleston, South Carolina’s Lowcountry in May 1991, three months before his contract began as an assistant football coach at Charleston Southern University. He lived alone and worked for no pay — his wife, Lynette, left behind in New Jersey, working to support both of them — to pursue his dream in the competitive world of college athletics.