Path to a better life for Kutztown freshman rugby player Joshua Williamson
By Mike McGovern
Sports columnist

“I've had some bumps and bruises along the way, but I've matured, I'm here and I'm happy.”

The workout took place in Keystone Hall, which meant contact was to be kept to a minimum. Just because rugby players are tough as Kevlar doesn't mean collisions with a hard gym floor won't smart.

Nevertheless, a couple members of the Kutztown University rugby team hit the deck and one of them got up screaming at Joshua Williamson, a teammate he thought was responsible for the knock down. Williamson, a freshman, is not to be messed with. He stands 5-10 and weighs in at 260 pounds. The guy is built like a soda machine, but slightly more mobile:
He runs the 40 in 4.8.  So there was Williamson, getting an ear full and a
face full from an angry teammate. He took it all in, gritted his teeth and walked away.
“You could tell Josh was angry, but nothing happened,” said KU rugby coach Dr. Gregg “Doc” Jones, who discovered Williamson as a high school senior at a Penn State rugby camp in 2004. Joshua Williamson recently returned from Durbin, South Africa, where he spent three weeks playing for the U.S. team in the Under-19 World Rugby Championships.
A big deal, to be sure, but no bigger than that day in early February when he walked away from a fight. Joshua Williamson grew up in inner city Washington D.C., raised by a single mom and without a dependable male influence in his life.

By default, his male role models were his friends who were products of a similar family structure, such as it was: Kids whose view of the future was clouded by hopelessness; kids who had difficulty fathoming life beyond the neighborhood, let alone the long odds of escaping it. His mother, Valerie Williams, loved him, fought for him and did the best she could under the circumstances, but too often peer pressure trumped parental pressure.
Somehow, though, in spite of all the trouble out there, Williamson knock on wood managed to avoid the worst of it. Oh, he wasn't perfect. As Williamson put it, he “ran with some dudes here and there back in the day.” But he never had a police record, never did jail time, never took a bullet or a blade. All of which seemed more likely than not, given his surroundings.
But it wasn't those surroundings, it was Williamson who was his own worst enemy. He was an angry young man, cursed with an uncontrollable rage.
“I wasn't angry at the world, I was angry at myself,” said Williamson, not one for making excuses. “My anger was because of my mom, a single woman, guys treated her bad.
“I was a little kid (10, 11 years old); I didn't want anybody to hurt my mom. I felt like a weak person; I didn't want to be around my mom unless I could protect her. It was that macho thing.” Which manifested itself, not at home, but just about everywhere else.
“Once someone pushed a button, that was it,” he said. “I had no patience. If something was said, instead of leaving it alone, it was, ‘Boom, let's go.' ”
When he was in fifth grade after years of beating up kids, “tearing up” classrooms and changing schools at roughly the rate people change the oil in their cars Williamson was finally assessed to have an anger management problem.
The following year, his mother moved to Hyattsville, Md., and entered Williamson in Pathways, a program for students with emotional and behavioral difficulties.
While at Pathways, Williamson continued to struggle with his anger, the punishment for which could be solitary confinement in a padded room.
 

When he was 13, he spent time in Children's National Medical Center in Washington. Doctors evaluated his condition and gave his mother a chilling diagnosis that wasn't exactly a blueprint for a bright future.
“They told me he would gress, instead of ress, that he was bipolar, learning disabled,” said
Valerie Williams. “They told me he would only get worse. They told me not to look forward to anything.”
Scared and frustrated, but buoyed by the unwavering support of her church, Williams took her son out of the hospital and out of Pathways. She did so, knowing that if Williamson caused any more serious trouble, could be prosecuted. she
“But I took him out anyway,” she said. “I just couldn't accept that (diagnosis).”
Valerie Williams took a chance and ended up changing their lives.
The Hyde Leadership Public Charter School, located in Washington, opened in 1999. It emphasizes a character development curriculum that values “attitude more than aptitude, effort more than ability and character more than talent.”
Students are guided by five words (leadership, integrity, curiosity, courage, concern) and five
principles (destiny, humility, conscience, truth, brother's keeper).
Parents are involved, too. They must attend interactive programs that will help them model the
behavior being taught to their kids.
Joshua Williamson, lugging enough baggage to open a Samsonite store, was enrolled that inaugural year, for eighth grade.

“When I met Josh, he was an angry kid, very quick to explode at the slightest provocation,” said Tal Bayer, athletic director and rugby coach at Hyde. “And I mean something as simple as, ‘Where are you going?' or ‘Where's your tie?'
“He had no self control; he'd go crazy.”
 

Williamson went crazy enough, often enough to give Hyde plenty of reasons to expel him. But the Hyde axiom, according to Bayer, is to believe in kids when they don't believe in themselves. So every time Williamson went ballistic, Bayer or another faculty member was there to “hammer away on his attitude.” He was made to write paper after paper some as long as five pages forcing him to reflect on his life and the causes of his behavior.
“It made me think a lot,” Williamson said. “Plus, there was a man helping me out and I never had that before. I figured if he believes in me and the school believes in me, why don't I believe in myself.”
 

Slowly, but surely, the number of “flip-outs” Bayer's terminology and their severity diminished.
But after baby steps forward came a giant step back: an explosion at practice during his junior
year, detonated when Bayer “called out” Williamson in front of the team. It was a vulgar, belligerent display requiring four or five people to restrain Williamson.
“He was livid, tears streaming down his face,” Bayer said.
Bayer wasn't nearly as angry at Williamson as he was hurt; hurt because Williamson disrespected him, dishonored the bond they had formed and the work they had done.
Later that day, Bayer, Williamson and his mom met for four hours in what Bayer considers a turning point. “We shared a lot of stuff,” Bayer said. “And it came out that he had never had a man care about him like I did. He thought when things got hard, I'd walk out.
“That was a good moment.” Valerie Williams thought about the peril that might've befallen her son and what's transpired instead and explained it the only way she could: as a “blessing from God,” a reward for her unshakeable faith. “I just wanted to make sure he'd be self sufficient, that he'd have a chance,” she said. He's gotten that chance and so far, he's made the most of it. Williamson, who is thinking about being a teacher, has succeeded on the field and is making it in the classroom, although catching up after three weeks in South Africa has been a challenge. He also has assimilated to the KU campus, a location as tranquil as his D.C. neighborhood was turbulent.
 

What's most important miraculous, actually is that the anger that once consumed him and
threatened his chance for a productive life, has been harnessed and presumably locked away
somewhere.
“I would've never guessed he had that type of history,” said Sharon Picus, director of human
resources at KU and the academic advisor to the rugby team. “What I know of him is that he's polite, respectful, focused . . . with a great sense of humor. He's a delight to be around.”
Williamson then and Williamson now; it's as if we're talking about two different people. The drastic transformation is not lost on him.
“At a certain stage of my life, I didn't think there was anything for me,” he said. “I didn't respect myself; I didn't think I was a good person. Now I love myself. Hyde helped me change.” And the change might've saved his life.
“I don't look back a lot,” he said, “but hey, I could've been dead. I've had some bumps and bruises along the way, but I've matured, I'm here and I'm happy.”
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