It's amazing how the words of a man you never met can haunt you. I never met legendary Alabama football coach Paul "Bear" Bryant, more affectionately known around these parts as "Coach Bryant." I never even shared the earth with him. He died a decade before I was born.
And yet, I'm constantly haunted by 13 words from a commercial that aired back in the 1970s. I'm probably not alone.
"Have you called your Momma today? I sure wish I could call mine."
I can hear the raspy voice of the iconic coach. It's more prescient in my mind than the "I ain't never been nothin' but a winner" speech that plays at the end of the pregame video at Bryant-Denny Stadium. A speech I've heard many times over, more than I've ever watched the South Central Bell commercial.
Bryant was larger than life, but reduced back to his childhood form whenever he discussed his Momma. If that happened to a man of his stature, what chance would someone like me have?
It's a relatable feeling for so many of us who are Momma's boys. No matter how old we get, no matter how long it's been since she's been gone.
The South Central Bell commercial typically gets shared by many on Mother's Day. But for me, I found myself thinking about it a lot on Friday, on the day my Mother would have turned 67 years old. She's been gone nearly three years. I have a family of my own now, but when I think about her, I still feel like the same little boy staring up in reverence.
That commercial haunts me because I can't call her. That commercial also haunts me because I never called her enough. We had a great relationship my whole life, we talked frequently, and yet it was never enough.
When I got old enough to leave home, I moved to Tuscaloosa to fulfill a dream of attending the University of Alabama. I left and didn't come back home for good until it was too late. At first, I called her almost every day, a promise I made to her when I moved out of her house. A promise I didn't keep.
Life got busy. Every day became every other day. Every other day became a couple of times a week. A couple of times a week became once a week. That's mostly where it stayed, though there were longer stretches here and there. It's not that I forgot, it's just that I was busy and we were on entirely different schedules as I worked a taxing job late into the night almost every day of the week.
That's no excuse. I had moments when I could have picked up the phone. I didn't. And now, nearly three years after she left us, it's the only thing I want to do. In the good moments, the bad, and all that's in between. I catch myself sometimes grabbing for my phone to make that call.
I used to give my Mom a hard time for still leaving voicemails. Who leaves voicemails anymore? I'd ask her. Now, the two I kept from her I cherish more than any material possession.
What I would cherish more is one more conversation. One more opportunity to tell her what she meant to me. If you haven't called your Momma yet today, do it. Because man oh man do I wish I could call mine.