David McElroy

Lucy made a new friend Sunday afternoon. By the time she and I went to a park near our house, it was late in the evening and most families were already leaving. But one little girl was running around by herself as her mother read a book on a bench.

“What’s your doggie’s name?” the girl asked shyly as we walked near them. I told her Lucy’s name and the girl was delighted.

“Lucy?!” she repeated with excitement. “That’s my name, too. She has my name. She’s just like me!”

The girl asked if she could pet Lucy. After we got her mother’s permission, I showed her how to approach Lucy and how to pet her gently. I explained that Lucy is scared of some people, but that she loves attention from kind people.

Lucy the girl sat on the grass in front of Lucy the dog and faced her. She gently stroked her furry neck and head. As she grew accustomed to her — and Lucy accepted her enough to lick her arm — the girl talked quietly to her, as she might to a best friend.

I held the leash and talked with the mother as our Lucys became friends.

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I am miserably unhappy — and I have no idea what to do about it.

For years, I’ve danced around having to admit that to myself. When exactly did it start? I’m not sure. Maybe it started as soon as I became psychologically self-aware enough to see my life clearly. But I’ve never wanted to call it by its true name.

I’ve been able to admit that I was lonely. I’ve been able to admit to being crushed by not having the love and companionship I need. I’ve even been able to face the enormous consequences of losing what little semblance of family love I once had.

I’ve lied to myself. I’ve told myself I was fine except for this one thing or that other thing. The things I’ve told myself were true, as far as they went. I did so much difficult emotional work that I knew which pieces were missing. I knew which pieces of my core were damaged. I had excellent head knowledge.

But my message to myself was always a partial lie. It was a way to keep from sliding into the deep pit of misery from which it would be hard to return. But I haven’t been OK — not really — for a long time. Maybe I never have been.

All I know is that I have somehow deprived my life of love. And without love, there is no happiness, no meaning, no joy.

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Terry Constable had no interest in Nick Saban when he started pursuing her back in West Virginia.

They were both in the seventh grade at the time and went to rival schools. They met at a 4-H science camp. In the years to come, he consistently pursued his crush, but she wasn’t interested. She was a city girl and he went to a smaller school in the country. Mostly, though, she spent six years — all through their junior high and high school years — dating a popular boy named Mick Shaffer.

It wasn’t until they were in college — Saban at Kent State in Ohio and Constable elsewhere — that they started dating long distance. Before long, they married and have now been together for close to 50 years.

Saban tells a story about a homecoming celebration thrown for him nearly 10 years ago to mark his growing success as a college football coach, most recently at the University of Alabama. He said it was a great trip home and he discovered that Terry’s old boyfriend, Mick Shaffer, had ended up as the owner of a service station.

Saban said he couldn’t resist the chance to brag a little about how well she had done by marrying him instead, so he drove by Shaffer’s station.

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