Tribute to Dr William A.A. Foster
THE YEAR 1991 will forever be remembered as one of the greatest years of my life. So many memories. Good memories. Bad memories. Enduring memories. I remember them all. But perhaps no memory is as resilient as those final moments of that year’s Boys Athletics Championships. The smell of peanuts and sky juice from the vendors in the bleachers. The emotional ups and downs as we see-sawed in battle against the boys from Calabar. The nervous lows of going into the final race needing nothing less than a win if we were to take home the Mortimer Geddes Trophy for the first time in 20-plus years.
I remember, too, the hopeful highs from the reassuring fact that our 4x400m team was the best in the country all year long, but I also remember the taste of the tears that followed when it was announced that we had lost Champs by half a point. From the lowest of lows that evening, I remember the upswing of ecstatic disbelief the next morning, when it was announced that the points tally was wrong and we were in fact Championships winners. I remember the deadly combination of youthful exuberance and adrenaline as we marched to Calabar to claim our trophy. And yes, I remember the panic and sheer terror that followed as the Calabar boys greeted us at their gate with stones, bottles and every conceivable piece of debris that they could find.
Yes. 1991 was a memorable, memorable year. And to ensure that memory would forever stand the test of time, I was introduced to a book a year later, titled Blue Flame; White Light by William A.A. Foster. I didn’t know who he was. Except that he was a Jamaica College (JC) old boy. I’m not even sure I knew he was a doctor. I only knew that his book had captured the events of that historic 1991 Champs in such vivid and visceral detail that, as a young, budding writer with publishing aspirations, I immediately questioned whether I could ever write in such a fashion. Imagine my surprise when I later found out that writing was only a hobby for him. A pastime that he chose to dabble in when he wasn’t performing life-saving openheart surgeries here in Jamaica, or arranging for persons to receive donated heart surgeries overseas. My admiration for him grew, as did my feeling of inadequacy when I thought of how much more powerful his poems and his stories would be if he ever decided to take writing seriously.
RESPECT AND ADMIRATION
It would be years later when I would meet the man behind Blue Flame; White Light. At his small office at the Medical Associates hospital. I had just been entrusted with the awesome responsibility of president of the Old Boys Association and the good doctor had reached out to me with an invitation to chat. My respect and admiration for him grew tenfold as he told me stories of his journey from being a short pants boy at JC to becoming one of Jamaica’s most prominent cardiologists. It went to even further Olympian heights when I learnt of his generosity, his love of sports, and his love of JC. I told him of the impact his book had on me at JC and how much I admired his writing. I told him how surprised I was to learn that he wasn’t a journalist given his exceptional talent for this “hobby”. Secretly, I think he was just as surprised that an army man could read, much less have such a shared taste in poetry and prose.
Years later, I would come to learn so much more about William Foster and his genuine love and compassion for people. I recall a young man at JC whose mother was gravely ill with a serious heart defect. Dr Foster took a personal interest in her. Check-ups. Medication. Test after test. He was right there as if she was his own flesh and blood. And as valiantly as we fought to keep her, alas, it was not enough. When we lost her Dr Foster wept. Openly. His soul was genuinely wounded. Yet he never knew her nor received a penny for her care. Such was the man.
FOREVER FRIENDS
And that man and I would go on to become forever friends as he took me under his wing to school me on the best cricketers, athletes and footballers to ever pass through the gates at 189 Old Hope Road. Dr Foster would often send me pre-releases of his poems, Op Eds and short stories for an opinion. Imagine that. Me being asked to give an opinion on a piece written by William Foster was akin to Frank Worrell asking me what I thought of his stroke and timing. I demurred, of course. But the good doctor kept sending me his writings.
Sometimes he’d call to give me a heads-up to check my email. “Major”, he would say, “you’re really going to love this one.” I have all of his emails and writings, as well as my old, dusty copy of Blue Flame; White Light which I pulled out for inspiration to write this tribute. Not that I needed it. Dr Foster was a mainstay of the JC Old Boys Association. Always present at our Carlton Alexander Awards Annual Dinner – an award for which he himself was a recipient in 2011. Always there to rely on when a boy needed help or when an aspiring doctor needed a mentor. Always there to remind us of the legacy of what we have inherited, having come through these gates at 189 Old Hope Road. His kindness, his generosity, his passion and love for his alma mater was only eclipsed by his love for his patients. He will be forever missed.
I never had the courage nor the confidence to submit a sample of my writing to Dr Foster for his opinion. I didn’t think I was yet worthy. Sadly, that opportunity has passed and my last hope now is that he will find favour with this tribute. I do so pray that it meets his high standard.
As I close, allow me to share my favourite poem from this legend of a bard from Jamaica College. He sent it to me some time about three years ago and for some reason I’ve never forgotten it. I think I now know why:
Be a Griffin
Cry our beloved country
Leave us wet with tears
Give us the inspiration
To ease others of their fears
Let us all have trailing hands
From dawn to evening song
To hoist from desperation
Those who have suffered long
There is a time called winter
And a time called spring
There was no winter Saturday
The Griffin was on the wing
On behalf of all JC old boys and the executive body of the JC Old Boys Association, I want to thank Dr Foster for all that he has done for our great school. There will never be another William A.A. Foster. Fervet Opus in Campis, sir.