Above: Bowers (93) looks to tackle Georgia Tech's Josh Nesbitt

Too often, wins and losses are monitored simply by what happens on the field. The success and failure in the classroom go without just praise or concern, other than how it might impact what happens on the field. And the struggles and perseverance that these American youth experience outside of the college altogether exist invisibly for the most part.

Thus, it would be easy to concentrate on the fact that Da’Quan Bowers is having an exceptional year. The junior defensive end leads the NCAA with 11 sacks this season. And of his 48 total tackles, 40 of them are solo, and 18.5 have gone for losses. In boisterous fashion, the 6-foot-4, 275-pound Tiger has erupted into the game-changer Clemson followers thought he would be.

Those gaudy numbers are impressive, certainly. But what is more striking to this writer is the knowledge that Bowers is fighting against more than offensive coordinators, double teams, and elusive backs every week, every day.

In the early part of August, as players were testing conditioning, knocking the dust off the pads, and jockeying for movement up the depth chart, the Bamberg native was given the news that his father, Dennis Bowers, had died at the age of 54. On the heels of this loss, Da’Quan Bowers has been asked to perform on the field.

And in that capacity, he has been a star. Like father, like son.

I had an opportunity to know of Dennis well before Da’Quan had become one of the nation’s top high school products and well before he was a top-tier recruit for Clemson. The elder Bowers was lead guitarist for the gospel quartet band Tommy Ellison and the Singing Stars since 1978 and was a crowd favorite at concerts both nationally and internationally.

Bowers would command the attention and applause of crowds of hundreds and sometimes thousands with his nearly flawless riffs, so much so that Ellison would often stand in reserve for minutes on some songs as Bowers throttled through solos effortlessly. As he would reach a peak in his rendition and the audience would stand and clap in approval, Ellison would playfully call out to his guitarist, “Dennis, Dennis,” as if to reel in the musician.

Needless to say, Bowers would continue to roll through his session, disregarding his bandleader, eventually leading Ellison to throw his hands up in submission and walk away, all to the pleasure of the faithful quartet fans.  Essentially, Bowers owned the guitar the way his son would eventually own his burst off the snap; and he controlled the stage the way his son would later learn to control the line.

After more than thirty years of recording and travelling together, the Singing Stars was expected to disband, though, in January of 2009 when its front man, Ellison, died. He had been the only lead singer to grace the stage for the group in its existence. But instead of letting the band fade into the history books, Dennis Bowers took on the duties of the front man, quelling any signs of the group’s dissent. With Bowers as the lead vocalist, the Singing Stars returned to the road that spring.

When visiting a concert headlined by the Singing Stars a few months later, I was astonished to see how well Dennis Bowers had adjusted into his new role. With no guitar, he ran through the group’s signature hits, “Adorable One,” “Closer,” and “At the Gate I Know,” leading the quartet in grand fashion. The group’s sound was intact and Bowers seemed a natural fit.

But what I, like many in attendance wanted to hear, was who would attempt to replace Bowers as lead guitarist. With his role as primary vocalist so expanse, he relinquished the post he had held for more than three decades when the group returned to performing. During the set that I witnessed, two guitarists could be heard through the first three songs but it was not evident which, if any, was any where remotely close to what Bowers had been.

After pacing the stage for a moment following a song, Dennis Bowers called one of the guitarists to the front to stand beside him. The young man, with stringy dreadlocks, stood next to him, towering over him. Bowers proceeded to “remind” the crowd that he had once been the lead guitarist and that the young man beside him was hoping to fill his shoes.

Bowers went on to say that he didn’t know if the new member was up to the task and that he wanted the audience to “be the judge.” He would ask them after the young man had played what they thought. If they didn’t like him, according to Bowers, it would be the last they heard from him. Saying that Bowers had set a stage of pressure for his replacement is an understatement. However, despite the pessimistic introduction, the young man shrugged confidently, smiled earnestly, and nodded his head firmly when Bowers moved away. 

Measuring his stance and his fingers for just a moment, the guitarist set in to play; the familiar riff of “Trying to Get to Heaven” then blared through the speakers and the hundreds in attendance immediately lifted to their feet. It was obvious that the premature arousal was sparked by simply knowing that particular song was starting. The verdict, though, was still out on his ability to carry it. And so upon the brief eruption in response to the song’s opening, the crowd grew silent – listening.

Eerily, what I heard sounded familiar. The sound was crisp, rhythmic, and growing. Interestingly, neither Bowers nor the young guitarist appeared surprised. While playing, he moved closer to the front of the stage, bent his knees, and flung his head continuously making his locks sling through the air in symmetry with the licks.

He had done it, I thought, and relatively well. Sarcastically, Bowers asked the applauding patrons, “Was he alright?”

He had turned toward the performer, his smile wide and eyes approving, well before the voices and applauses of approval from the patrons were returned. It became apparent to me then that the connection between these two men was a bond that went beyond the stage and beyond the music.

Bowers asked again, “Did he sound good?” and further inquired, “Tell me now?”

But he already knew the answer. He knew it before the audience, prior to that performance, long before the band knew, and perhaps even prior to the performer. With pride, Bowers relayed to the crowd that “this is my son, Da’Quan Bowers. He attends Clemson University and will probably play in the NFL one day.  But if ya’ll say it’s okay, he’s go play the very guitar that I played for all those years.”

The younger Bowers stood humbly while his father spoke, nodding slightly and smiling reluctantly before returning to his original position. In moving to his next spot on the stage, the elder Bowers slapped his son on the back and slid into the completion of “Trying to Get to Heaven.” The two would play off one another again during the thirty minute set.

Bowers was already a Clemson Tiger at that point, but it was obvious that this was anything but a band gimmick, and that football was but one of his passions. Through the course of the evening, Da’Quan Bowers performed professionally not only as a musician but as an entertainer. In quartet music, showmanship is as much a part of the concert as the music. That said, Bowers moved through the routines, the steps, twists and turns, like an old pro, or rather like his father.

One could almost imagine Bowers as a child emulating his father, sharpening his skills in order to one day keep pace with him or by chance share the stage with him.

With the Singing Stars, Bowers was a band member. He wasn’t an All-American defensive end. He carried his equipment in and out of the building along with the others. He wasn’t under the stadium’s spotlights, separated from the fans that watched him. Instead, he performed in an elementary school’s gymnasium and after the show stood amongst patrons without notice, with only his physical stature setting him apart.

Today, the status of the Singing Stars is uncertain. Bowers, though, didn’t just lose a band member; he lost his father. And by looking at the chemistry between the two of them, he also lost a friend and a mentor. These bonds, these off-the-field relationships, are not often considered by onlookers. They are relevant nevertheless and make the young men that clip on their chinstraps humans, not only players.  

When Bowers lines up and earns a sack or a tackle for loss this season, one can only wonder if Dennis Bowers is somewhere asking the fans in the stands, the coaches, the opposing teams, and those watching the games on television, “was he alright?.”