Thursday, May 23, 2013

Summer baseball

 Beatrice, Neb. -- High above the "350" sign in center field, a loudspeaker echoes John Mellencamp's "Small Town" under a dark sky of thunderheads.

Well I was born in a small town. And I live in a small town.

The snare drum snaps in cadence, once every second.

Below on the field, Manager Bob Steinkamp gathers his team one last time.

He looks at Hideki Nagasaka, a 5 - foot - 6 Japanese ex - DJ with a 94 - mph fastball and a nasty curve. The little pitcher lives in Coach's basement hoping to get noticed before his visa expires.

He looks at Vince DiMaggio, his 36 - year - old assistant whose cousin planted the baseball seed in him. You know, the DiMaggio they wrote songs about.

He looks at Nathan Warrick, a cocky Texas Longhorn with a charismatic grin and legs that used to fly by defensive backs. Coach might see this kid in Omaha next June.

And at Neil Fuehrer, a small - town Nebraska pitcher who will never again put on a uniform after this night. He's trading in his curve ball for a stethoscope.

Each with a different past and an uncertain future, but brought together for seven weeks in Beatrice -- where you can hit a fly ball higher than the tallest building -- to form one pretty darn good baseball team.

Prob'ly die in small town. Oh, those small communities.

On this chilly summer night, on a diamond in the rough in the middle of nowhere, they dream.


Dreams die hard, you see. They drive the little Japanese pitcher to get on a plane and fly from Los Angeles to Alaska because a team playing in a tournament just might hold the open door.

They define you, if you let them. Vince D can't sleep at night, thinking of ways to help the speedy Longhorn hit like Joe.

Used to daydream in that small town. Another boring romantic that's me.

Dreams endure and change. They push the speedy Texan away from football, a game he's loved all his life, because baseball doesn't have many like him.

They force us to make choices. The doctor in waiting gives up a game his peers would do anything to play so he can treat colds and flus and broken bones.

Dreams, more like the dreamers, fascinate us because so many of ours have long ago died. We admire the dreamer's youth and the stories he'll live to tell: "I was a black kid from Lancaster, Texas, playing baseball in white Nebraska trying to help a 68 - year - old widow grow potatoes, " he'll say someday.

So we watch from the sidelines, a bit envious because it's a game they play. And each time they dive headfirst for a foul ball or throw a helmet after striking out, in their determined faces, we see a glimpse of ourselves.


These players range from sure - fire major league prospects, journeymen who don't have a prayer of making the minor leagues, and everything in between.


Most are here in Beatrice because they know somebody who knows somebody who knows Coach, a man with contacts at the North Pole. Most are here having never heard of the place. But what's a destination without the road that takes you there?

Coach ranks the 2003 edition of the Bruins as one of his best five teams in 34 years, one that went to Alaska last month and came back with a winning record, the first team from the lower 48 to do that in 28 years.

It's a group with remarkable chemistry - even Huskers and Longhorns get along. No bad apples, and Coach usually gets one or two.

Laid - back and dry - witted, Coach rarely smiles. He doesn't yell at players. Doesn't hold practices. Players live with host families and sleep into the afternoon.

"We're in Beatrice, what else is there to do?" says John Segovia, a pitcher from Monterey, Calif.

They carpool to games in towns like Chillicothe, Mo., and Clarinda, Iowa, because buses are known to break down.

I've seen it all in a small town. Had myself a ball in a small town.

"They're still playing in this little town in southeast Nebraska that brings in kids from all over the country, opens its arms and allows them to be better players and better people, " says Frank Anderson, Oklahoma State's new coach and a Nebraska native.

Coach, now a scout for the Seattle Mariners, started the program in 1970 as a 21 - year - old kid who wanted to play. Back then, every town like Beatrice had a team.

At one point, about the time Harry Caray's stepson was his catcher, he bought an old bus for $500 to use on road trips. On the way to Hutchinson, Kan., to play a team with Roger Clemens, Rafael Palmeiro and Pete Incaviglia, it broke down.

"We showed up 20 minutes before the game in a cattle truck."

Their budget is $15,000, all of which Coach raises. The Bruins don't even have the money to play in next month's National Baseball Congress World Series. They finished fifth last year.

"You have to want to do it, " Anderson says. "You're not getting 5,000 people at the games. You're hoping to get 50. You pass the hat and hope you make enough money to keep the lights on and pay the umpires."


Coach couldn't pay for the Japanese kid's flight, but yeah, he'd give him a look. So the little pitcher got on the plane and flew from Los Angeles to Anchorage.

The first day he ate a salmon steak and threw a five - hit shutout. Oh, to see their faces in the ninth inning when he hit 94 on the radar gun. Or the first time his change - up dropped as if the force of gravity had suddenly tripled.

"If he were 6 - 3, 220 pounds, he'd be worth $1 million with his stuff, " Coach says. "(But) name me another 5 - 6 pitcher in the major leagues. There aren't any."

The little pitcher loves it on the mound. He just didn't like Japanese baseball. Coaches don't let you talk in the dugout. You have to stand at attention in front of them. One time a coach punched him in the face. He quit and became a hip - hop DJ for three years. Didn't even pick up a ball.

Somewhere during that time, though, he decided to give it another shot. He came to America on a tourist visa and pitched for an independent - league team in California. That's where one of Coach's contacts spotted him.

Now he's on another $1,000 tourist visa that runs out Sept. 11. The little pitcher has to get signed by a professional team in the next six weeks, difficult considering he's recovering from a torn triceps muscle. If he doesn't, he's going back to Japan.

Teammates watch the little pitcher warm up in the bullpen, shaking their heads.

He gave up just one earned run in 28 innings with the Bruins. In Coach's basement, he doesn't go to bed until 4 a.m., staying up to study English from a textbook. He struggles to understand it.

He's 24 years old, doesn't have much money, and his family worries, but he wants to stay in America.

"This is my business, this is my life."

The little pitcher threw one inning in last Tuesday's season finale and came back to the dugout limping slightly. His right foot bled through his shoe from a blister.

Teammate Paul Howey looked at the little pitcher's worn - out cleats and walked away.


Vince D sits in the dugout in his New York Yankees shorts and apologizes for his "50,000 - word answers" to simple questions.

The man talks like a car salesman. About baseball history, strategy and his players, whom he adores. He lies awake at night thinking about their swings. Blame his fatigue on his passion for baseball. He wants to be a Division I coach someday.

"This game's everything to me."

Blame that on Joe DiMaggio.

Vince grew up in Monterey, Calif., in the 1970s, 30 years after Joltin' Joe captivated a nation with a 56 - game hitting streak.

The DiMaggios are a close - knit family of fishermen, but like Joe, Vince D can't stand the seas. When he was young, Vince spent time regularly with Joe, who taught him to get that front foot down before the pitcher releases the ball.

"The things I learned about the game from him, those things have never left me, " says Vince, whose great - grandfather was a brother of Joe's grandpa.

He always wanted Joe to come to his games, but even leaving the house drew unwanted attention to the American icon. Joe, then in his 70s, did make it to one of Vince's junior college games. He sat in his car in the parking lot so he wouldn't be seen.


The crowd in Clarinda, Iowa, for the Bruins - A's game on a sweltering July night could cram into a dugout.

"Another sellout, " jokes Howey, a 23 - year - old from Abilene Christian in Texas.

A Little League game on an adjacent field has drawn five times as many as the 21 who have come to the ballpark where Ozzie Smith and Chuck Knoblauch once played summer ball.

It's no different back home.

To promote the season finale, pitcher B.J. Wierzbicki helped pass out fliers around the one - McDonald's town of 12,496.

"We've never heard of you, " a few people told him. "Where do you play?"

Christenson Field, where a home run ball to right gets lost in a bean field. Where pitchers on their days off man the admission gate. Where a long washboard gravel road -- "Car sounds like it's going to fall apart, " Wierzbicki says -- is the only connection to civilization.

Where the smell of sprinkler water and freshly cut grass mixes with chewing tobacco and worn - out batting gloves.

No, I cannot forget from where it is that I come from. I cannot forget the people who love me.

Christenson Field, where a 71 - year - old gray - haired widow they call Miss Lois watches every Bruins home game.

She subscribes to Baseball Digest and is disgusted when her Kansas City Royals lose.

"I'll wake up in the morning, and she already has SportsCenter memorized, " says the 6 - foot - 7 Wierzbicki, Lois Kammerlohr's host son this summer.

When Tim Moss, the former Texas second baseman, met Miss Lois three summers ago, he was a well - mannered black teenager from Lancaster, Texas.

He could count on one hand the number of blacks he saw that summer. Yet Miss Lois, who isn't 5 - foot tall or 100 pounds, made him feel at home. She had a garden in her backyard, and one day Moss asked to help her with the potatoes. When he walked out to the garden, Moss didn't see any potatoes, though.

"Well, you have to dig for them, Tim, " Miss Lois said. "They're under the ground."

At Christenson Field, the crack of the wood bats and players' not - so - subtle criticisms of the umpires are the loudest sounds on hot, humid nights. The bright western sky makes routine fly balls as tough as running down Nathan Warrick.

Athletics have always been about fanfare and attention for the Texan. High school football games back home in Belton drew 10,000 when rival Harker Heights came to town.

That's just one of the reasons football was all the Sam Houston State recruit ever wanted to do. Then, during the spring of his senior year, baseball scouts saw speed you can't coach.

After school, he would practice defense with the baseball team, dash over to the nearby track, get his conditioning in, then go back and take batting practice.

UT Baseball Coach Augie Garrido came into the picture late that spring and offered a scholarship. The 19 - year - old remembers everything about it, the day he decided to give up football.

"I would've loved it, but I think this is what I was born to do. Do the math. How many 6 - foot, 175 - pound wide receivers are in the NFL? I would've been just another guy who ran a 4.4. In baseball, there's not too many of those."

Caught in a rundown in a game against Omaha Diamond Spirit, the speedy Texan started laughing as the shortstop and third baseman chased after him.

"He absolutely flies, " teammate Fuehrer says. "And he always has a big smile on his face."

But it wasn't enough to play at UT last year as a freshman. He didn't have the attitude. Didn't know if he could do this for a living. Garrido says kids who have played the macho sports tend to be less energetic about America's pastime.

So he sent the speedy Texan up to Coach, just as he's done with the top Longhorn prospects the past four years. This summer was Warrick's time to get serious about a game that has always played second fiddle.

The other Bruins, they've always known baseball. He's still learning.

"Even at the start of the summer, I was one of the last ones at the ballpark. Now I'm one of the first ones here. We had three days off last week, and I hated it."

There are two outs and it's almost time to go back to left field. The public address man announces a discount on popcorn. The speedy Texan looks up at the crowd.

"I might get nervous playing in front of big crowds next year. I've gotten used to playing in front of 50 people."

He thinks back to the football crowds at Belton. "No, I won't get nervous. I love that stuff."


The last competitive pitch the future doctor ever threw was a 1 - 1 fastball. A popup to shallow center field.

"That's all she wrote, folks, " he says, plopping down on a chair outside the dugout, a hint of sadness in his voice.

Neil Fuehrer's line: one inning, no hits, 13 pitches.

Coach saw him pitch one inning two years ago at Doane College, liked his stuff and picked him up. The farmer's son from Imperial was a late bloomer, had recently added some muscle and was suddenly a professional prospect.

He's got the talent. You can see it in his 90 mph fastball and his dirty breaking pitches. Last summer, left - handed hitters were automatic outs against the southpaw. He had a chance to join a Northern League club. Could've been playing minor league ball in some town like Beatrice right now.

"Nothing came of it. It's probably for the best."

In a few weeks he begins his second year of medical school at the University of Nebraska Medical Center. He had one B at Doane and wants to start a family practice in a small town someday.

Vince D tells the 23 - year - old to keep him in mind someday when he's rich. The future doctor wasn't thinking about that when he went to the mound for that last inning.

When his teammates are playing next season, "I'll be sitting in a library 10 hours a day."


Yeah, I can be myself here in this small town. And people let me be just what I want to be.

Ice - cold water drips from Coach's head as he visits with fans. He never saw Paul Howey coming with the Gatorade jug.

The next morning, the little pitcher is still sleeping when Howey comes over to Coach's house to pick up his $280 check for working field maintenance. Howey walks out, only to return minutes later, this time carrying a new pair of Adidas baseball cleats, size 9 1/2.

He takes them downstairs, sets them by the little pitcher's bed and drives back to Warrensburg, Mo., his hometown.

They'll leave in different directions. The speedy Texan is off to El Dorado, Kan., the team he'll play for in the NBC World Series. He's never been there, doesn't know where he's living but, well, it's the next step.

It's 11 p.m., a half - hour after the game, and players are saying goodbye to each other one - by - one, reluctant to leave the field.

"It's been a pleasure, " Howey tells first baseman Drew Aguailar. "You've got my number."

The next morning Aguailar will fly back to California. His 8 - year - old neighbor in Beatrice will cry all morning and call him three times before the night's over.

Coach shuts off the lights at Christenson Field and drives back down the washboard gravel road, the same one the little pitcher, Vince D, the speedy Texan and the future doctor have traveled seeking the dream.

Coach sees his in the rearview mirror.

Got nothing against the big town. Still hayseed enough to say look who's in the big town. But my bed in a small town. Oh, that's good enough for me.

The one-hitter

Wichita, Kan. -- Shane Komine's fastball hits 86 on the radar gun. 

The scout sitting behind home plate isn't impressed. He's been evaluating baseball prospects for 27 years and hasn't seen many great pitchers throw 86.

It's the fifth inning of Komine's fourth start with the Class AA Midland Rockhounds, and Nebraska's best - ever pitcher is riding a no - hitter.

Rockhounds Pitching Coach Craig Lefferts will say later Komine could've shut out the Kansas City Royals on this night. His fastball is painting the corners. His changeup is a split second slower, confusing Wichita Wrangler hitters. And his curveball is nasty. He's retired 12 batters in a row.

Still, the scout, who wears a World Series ring on his finger, isn't sold. Few are when they first see Komine.

The 5 - foot - 8, 175 - pound right - hander lacks a great pitch and has had a history of back and shoulder injuries.

"You want me to recommend him? You want me to lose my job?" said the minor league scout, who discussed Komine on the condition that he not be identified.

Komine has heard it all before. He's always been the smallest one on the field. He's always won.

A year ago this week, Komine was at Nebraska rolling over Richmond in a 2 - 0 super - regional win. That day he gave up four hits in front of 8,474 fans.

On this Wednesday night in southern Kansas, the only reminder of Nebraska is when "Sirius, " NU's football tunnel walk song, blasts over the loudspeaker before the game.

The number of fans in Lawrence - Dumont Stadium could cram onto the third base berm at Haymarket Park.

Komine warms up in right field, just steps away from "Ye Olde Beer Garden." During player introductions, the public address announcer mispronounces his name (Ko - MINE, he says, instead of Ko - mee - nay).

All of this matters little to Komine, who understands the obscure world of minor league baseball.

Thousands of prospects float through the vast minor league sea each season. Some find a current that takes them all the way to the majors. Some don't have a chance. Most are somewhere in between, drifting.

There are too many for scouts and general managers to study. So they profile players.

"History shows that little right - handers don't make it very far, " the scout says.
Sure, this scout has seen guys like Komine make it all the way to the show. And he's seen can't - miss kids who can't cut it in Class AA.

Scouting is an inexact science. But percentages come into play, and the odds are against a guy like Komine.

Nebraska's all - time leader in wins (41), strikeouts (510) and complete games (18) was a ninth - round pick of the Oakland Athletics in the 2002 draft. This spring at Kane County, Ill., he was 6 - 0 with a 1.82 ERA in eight starts before his promotion to Class AA Midland. In his last start at Kane County, Komine threw a complete - game three - hitter. He'll do better on this night.

His performance is efficient. Komine averages about 10 pitches per inning. It's precise. Fifteen of the 27 outs are ground balls. It's boring and mesmerizing at the same time. And by the middle of the fifth, he still hasn't given up a hit.

Wranglers fans haven't cheered since a fan won a Tony Gwynn - signed baseball early in the game.

As Komine has progressed in the past year, hitters have become more patient. He doesn't have the velocity to throw it by hitters anymore. He doesn't try to.

"You just have to be able to mix it up and hit your spots well, " said Komine, who has the least pro experience of any Rockhound pitcher. "You're not going to be successful unless you can throw breaking balls on hitters' counts.

"Basically, Oakland's philosophy is to get outs early in the count. At Nebraska, my mentality was to strike everybody out."

Ah, Oakland. The same organization whose General Manager Billy Beane has single - handedly tried to revolutionize player evaluations.

Komine embodies the Billy Beane philosophy. He doesn't have a great baseball body, doesn't have the greatest potential on paper, but he's polished and was a proven major - college pitcher.

Lefferts said if a player's doing well, Oakland will challenge and promote him quicker than other organizations. Komine will likely be with Midland the rest of the year, Lefferts said, but after that, who knows?

Wichita catcher Mike Tonis grounds out to end the fifth. Still no hits.

The scout has seen performances like this. He isn't convinced Komine can do it five days from now or against the Texas Rangers.

"He's going to have to prove himself at every level, " the scout says, "because by baseball standards, he is not of the norm. For him to be successful at the highest level, he's going to have to have extremely good control, which I'm sure he does. But there's not a lot of room for error there."

What happens when his command is a little off and that fastball drifts back across the plate instead of staying on the corner? Scouting directors want pitchers who overpower hitters.

"When you first look at him, he's just a little guy, " Kane County Manager Webster Garrison said. "But when he starts pitching, your whole outlook changes."

Garrison watched Oakland starters Tim Hudson and Barry Zito go through the A's farm system. Komine has the same ability to attack the strike zone, Garrison said.

"Shane is not one of those guys with a great arm, " said Lefferts, who pitched in the major leagues for 12 years. "But he really knows what to do with what he's got. He knows what he has to do to be effective and doesn't try to do any more than that. That's a big key."

Komine has changed many a mind in his time on the mound.

In 1998 at a tournament in Hawaii, Nebraska Associate Head Coach Rob Childress saw Komine pitch for the first time. He was 5 - foot - 7, and 140 pounds "soaking wet, " Childress said.

He told then - Head Coach Dave Van Horn, "They'll laugh at us in the Big 12 if we run a 5 - 7 guy out there on weekends."

The Huskers recruited him anyway, and Komine turned into the only 5 - 7 pitcher who made your knees shake. Opponents' scouting reports had his fastball in the mid - 90s, Childress said. It never came close to that.

"People were scared of him in the Big 12, " Childress said.

There's a mysterious side to Komine, who Midland teammate Matt O'Brien calls a "silent assassin." Ask Komine a question and he's articulate and gracious. But in the clubhouse, he doesn't say much, Childress said, which works to Komine's advantage.

The no - hitter is in the back of Komine's mind. He hasn't had one since high school.

Then Wichita's Justin Gemoll bunts to lead off the sixth, and Rockhounds third baseman Adam Morrisey, charging toward home plate, can't make the play in time. It's over.

The crowd won't see a no - hitter tonight, but maybe Komine has won over some of the doubters. The scout won't try to persuade his organization's general manager to make a trade, but Komine's strengths are clear.

"He lets hitters get themselves out, " the scout says. "He knows how to pitch, knows how to set hitters up. That's in his favor."

Lots of pitchers can throw strikes, the scout says. But not everybody has command of those strikes. Not everybody can throw a 3 - 1 changeup for a strike like Komine is doing on this night.

"That's what makes him tick, " the scout says.

When Wichita's free - swinging designated hitter Tydus Meadows comes up in the seventh, he strikes out for the third time in three at - bats.

Komine feasts on hitters like Meadows. The Wranglers' clean - up hitter sees that 86 mph fastball as an opportunity to add to his home run total. It plays right into Komine's game.

"He has the innate sense of when a guy is going to swing, " Childress said.

Komine, who hit a man in the first inning and walked one in the ninth, will end this night with only the third complete - game shutout in the eight - team Texas League this season. It comes six years after a one - hit shutout by Midland's Jarrod Washburn, who went 18 - 6 as a starter with the World Series champion Anaheim Angels last year.

"They really had no idea what to look for, " Lefferts said of Wichita hitters. "They really didn't have a chance. It was a masterpiece."

In the ninth, with Midland up 2 - 0, Lefferts sends a reliever to the bullpen just in case Komine stumbles. With one out and a runner on first, the last thing Komine wants to do is walk a batter and bring the potential winning run to the plate. So when the count goes full on Wichita shortstop Oscar Salazar, everybody in the park is thinking fastball. Komine throws a curveball. Moving a shade under 70 mph, it drops at the last second under Salazar's swinging lumber.

The scout, impressed, raises his eyebrows and gestures to the bullpen.

"Just tell that guy to sit down, " the scout says. "They ain't going to need him."


Friday, April 19, 2013

The Quarterback

Stand inside a well-lighted room. Peer out a window into the distant black. Strain to see someone. You can't. Have you ever noticed that?

Hundreds of people, thousands, could be watching outside and you would never know.

Sit inside a plane on a bright spring day. It's the best seat in the house. Have you ever considered that?

It's why pilots love that ascent into the pure blue. It's why a tall, dark and handsome 22-year-old cowboy boot-wearing, prank-playing, touchdown-tossing, soon-to-be uncle from the middle of nowhere jumped in that tiny plane 10 years ago today.

He enjoyed other things. He kept photo albums of his Brittany spaniels. He read Dr. Seuss to kindergartners and spoke to teenagers about perseverance and held cancer patients' hands. He regularly woke before dawn to cast a line or wade through the prairie grass. He even played a little football.

But maybe most of all, Brook Berringer loved to fly. As he rose toward the sun that April afternoon, toward the heavens he often thought about, did he know how many were watching?

* * *

Wise men could argue all day about the first time someone looked in his window.

Perhaps the winter of 1981, after Brook first fired a shotgun -- he saved the shell. A month later, his father, who bought Brook a fishing license three days after birth, checked into the hospital. He never came home.  

Perhaps the fall of '94, when the obscure backup quarterback was thrust onto the national stage against Wyoming. He sparked a come-from-behind win with three touchdowns. Back home, a farmer was listening on the radio. He hopped off his tractor and ran to meet the mailman. Are you listening? "Brook is on fire." Berringer suffered broken ribs and a collapsed lung that fall but didn't lose a game.

Perhaps the fall of '95. The Huskers won their second straight national championship that year, but No. 18 had little to do with it. On the field, anyway.  

Berringer lived 22 years, nine months and nine days. When the gentle plains he knew so well destroyed his plane and ended his life, thousands stopped to listen.

"In Nebraska, if you mention the name Brook Berringer, it stirs up all kinds of things, " said Wes Wilmer, a 34-year-old who never met the quarterback. "Not because he was a great football player, because they know his story."

Mom knows it. Jan Berringer received 10,000 letters after the accident. She talked to the old farmer who wanted to hear the funeral on the radio. Reception failed in his house, so he walked to his field, climbed into his tractor and listened for three hours.

Michele Ivans knows it. The 28-year-old was a high school senior when she dressed in black and walked into a packed field house. The next day, she decided to change the reason she lived.

Al Domina knows it. The Lincoln doctor met Berringer as a patient in 1992. They chatted for maybe 10 minutes. Doc went home and told his wife he'd met "the neatest kid today." Brook's picture now hangs on his den wall.

Chris Wilson knows it. The high school buddy fished all night with Berringer after a Nebraska football game. Now he watches over Brook's prized possession.

Scott Weber knows it. The Texan wears red on fall Saturdays. He never knew Berringer. Now his son wears No. 18.

Berringer started seven games for Nebraska. Seven. Yet of the more than 2,000 players Tom Osborne coached in 35 years, none, he said, affected others more than the quiet, confident quarterback.

"You just couldn't say no to him, " Mark Miller said. "If you take the most charismatic person in your life, that's what he had."

Miller, lead singer of country band Sawyer Brown, met Berringer after a Lincoln concert in 1992. The quarterback had sneaked backstage.

The two became friends. Berringer persuaded Miller to pick him up when the band was in Kansas or Iowa or Missouri, so he could experience tour life. It's only a few hours out of the way, he told them.

He arranged a Sawyer Brown concert at Memorial Stadium for April 19, 1996, the night the Huskers were to receive their national championship rings. He asked Miller to write a song for the event. The morning of the 18th, the day he died, Brook asked Miller to sing it over the phone.

I grew up in Goodland, Kansas. I turned 18 today. I'm college bound for Lincoln. Nebraska's where I'll stay.

* * *

Jan Berringer points toward the backyard. That's where Brook used to throw footballs through a hanging tire. He asked her to play catch a few times. She asked him to throw softer. One time, the ball hit her right in the chest.

"OK, dad gummit, " she told him. "That's it. I'm going in."

Berringer's hometown of 5,000 people is 16 miles from the Colorado border. Brook's dad, Warren, bought the brick, ranch-style house because it backed onto the football field.

Jan and Warren grew up here. They were high school sweethearts. Their only son was born in Scottsbluff, Neb., in 1973. Warren bought Brook a fishing license before he left the hospital. A year later, the two were spending days hunting in the wilderness. Jan made sure Warren took diapers and a bottle.

Brook bagged his first pheasant in January 1981. Dad helped. Brook was "a spittin' image of his dad, " Mom says.

Three months later, Warren lost a five-year battle with cancer. The date of his funeral: April 17.

Mom flaunts Halloween pictures of her four grandkids; the oldest was born eight days after the accident. She was an elementary teacher for 36 years. She can talk for hours about good kids and bad. Sometimes, she gets lost on a tangent. "You'll have to tell me where I was."

This past fall, she had a double mastectomy and surgery to remove a malignant colon tumor. A card from Bill Callahan lays on her counter.

As afternoon shadows lengthen, the light shines in the window on Jan's right cheek; the left is dark. It's a beautiful, warm April afternoon, except for a gusty north breeze. Just like that day.

Jan was preparing for an NFL Draft party. Brook was projected to be a midround pick. "I wanted to drive down Main Street screaming, 'Guess What!' I couldn't have been higher when that phone call came."

It was Osborne. There had been an accident. Oh, no, Jan said, Brook hurt his shoulder throwing. No, Osborne said. Oh, no, he'd been hurt in a hunting accident. No. Airplane, Osborne told her.

"My heart hit my big toe."

* * *

He had a mitt-popping fastball and could dunk with either hand. He earned academic All-Big 8 and could strum the guitar. And he was a good pilot.

Brook's dad was in the Air Force during Vietnam. Warren's twin brother was a commercial pilot for Delta. Brook began taking lessons in high school. He had piloted the twoseat 1946 Piper Cub more than a dozen times.

Just before 2:30 p.m., Berringer took off from a 2,600-foot airstrip three miles east of Raymond. His girlfriend's brother, Tobey Lake, sat next to him. After climbing over a pine shelter belt, the plane hit a 25 mph northwest wind. It wobbled like a bad pass.

Instead of dropping the nose, instead of setting the plane down in the field before him, Berringer tried to turn back to the airstrip. Experts called it a lapse in judgment. The plane stalled. The left wing dropped quickly. The descent began: 250 feet, then 100, then 50, 45, 40, 35, 30. . . . The plane hammered an alfalfa field at a 45-degree angle.

* * *

You pass Prairie Dog State Park and collapsing barns older than the New Deal. You pass Norton, where a speed trap often delayed Berringer. Then Colby, the team he beat to finish his high school career. Brook and some others shaved Coach's head after the win.

There are dozens of ways to get from Goodland, Kan., to Lincoln, each equaling about 350 miles. No road is well-traveled.

Berringer's football path led nowhere his first three years at NU. Then came '94, when Berringer replaced Tommie Frazier, who had to sit out because of blood clots. Frazier, with whom Berringer never got along, won the starting job back before the Orange Bowl.

The next fall, Berringer thought he had a good chance to start. Osborne announced his decision at a team meeting. Brook walked out quietly afterward. His Bible study leader, Art Lindsay, showed up at his house that night.

Lindsay asked Brook outside. He started reading Bible verses. Berringer grew up in a Christian home. But that night, friends say, changed his life. He committed to worshipping Jesus Christ. That was Aug. 24, 1995, Warren Berringer's birthday.

Ron Brown called Berringer the most important Husker during a tumultuous '95 season. Many teammates thought he should be starting.

"The one thing that football team had was a sense of togetherness, " said Brown, the former receivers coach. "That's what kept us going. That unity could've been totally abolished if Brook, all he had to do was start opening his mouth.

"And at the end of the day, when that plane crashed, I think that's what people realized."

* * *

Michele Ivans requested Brook's signature the day he graduated high school. Ivans was in junior high at the time. She placed the autograph against her TV during the 1995 Orange Bowl.

A year later, she was sitting at Brook's funeral. Jones Fieldhouse was packed that morning. She came to mourn. Something changed her mood as she listened to Art Lindsay's testimony. She listened to him repeat the daily devotional that Berringer would have read the morning of April 18: "Be ready for the sudden surprise visits of God."

Ivans was walking the halls at school the next day when "it really hit me."

"His death led me to redirect my life to Christ."

Three days earlier, a 24-year-old real estate agent was driving through Fremont. He flipped to a rebroadcast of a Fellowship of Christian Athletes banquet the night before, the night Berringer died. The quarterback was supposed to speak.

Wes Wilmer, a Husker fanatic, never met Berringer. But his death shook Wilmer. Made him think about his mortality, his place. Wilmer had a fiancee. He had a college degree. Something still wasn't right.

He kept driving. He listened to Lindsay speak of Berringer. He heard about sin and forgiveness, love and hope. He started crying. He pulled into a Mexican restaurant parking lot. He whispered a prayer: "God, give me life like you gave Brook life."

Wilmer went back to school. He started mentoring kids. He volunteered. Six months ago, he moved to Wisconsin.

He's starting a church.

* * *

The 67-year-old Doc has four kids. Each time, he ordered a boy. Each time, he got a girl. "Wasn't meant to be."

The short, bespectacled retiree was the Husker team urologist for 30 years. After meeting Berringer, they started talking regularly. Brook started coming over to hang out.

One time, Brook got an idea for a joke: He tore up his bedroom, stuffed jeans and a shirt with pillows and blankets and laid the fake body on the floor. His roommate got home and called 911. Doc grins at the floor. No, he was no angel.

The last time Doc talked to him, they were contemplating a fishing trip to Canada. Berringer would've taken the fishing pole Doc made for him. He only used it twice. Doc keeps it in his basement shop now.

"I can't quite bring myself to use it."

For seven or eight years after the crash, Doc thought of Brook every single day. A couple years ago, he had lunch with a chaplain, a fishing buddy, who told Doc he should write a letter to Brook. So he did. He wrote that football never mattered to him. He said goodbye.

Doc went to a Nebraska baseball game at Haymarket Park in March. He saw newcomer Andrew Brown. The kid wears No. 18. Brown came up to bat and Doc got teary-eyed.

He whispered: "Come on, Brown. Make him proud."

* * *

Brook had two orange-spotted Brittany spaniels, a father and a son, Juke and Bodie. He took them hunting all the time.

Juke was the jumpy one. Brook once spent a whole afternoon fixing a backyard pen. Five minutes after Juke went in, he escaped. Those skills didn't help Brook on Interstate 80. A storm was rolling in, so he found a rest stop and jumped out of his pickup to cover some furniture in the bed. Juke was sleeping.

When Brook softly closed the door, Juke woke, jumped against the window and locked the door. The downpour arrived before Brook got back inside.

Brook came home from the NFL combine in February. He called for Juke. The dog limped out of the kennel, dragging its back legs.

"That just about killed Brook, " Jan said.

Brook decided to put him down. Before he did, he sat on the floor and talked to Juke about pheasants and quail. He held him while the vet put him to sleep.

A month later, a few days after the accident, a friend hung Brook's hunting coat on the dining room chair. Bodie spotted it from the patio. He ran to the table. He bit the coat and pulled it to the floor. There he laid the rest of the day.

Brook's pup turns 11 next month. A high school buddy watches him now.

Chris Wilson and Berringer did everything together. Basketball. Football. Flying. Brook hardly watched TV. He rarely slept. With the morning light, he was up. He routinely invited Wilson up from Kansas to hunt grouse or pheasants or coyotes, often before classes or football practice. Most times, Wilson turned it down.

Now he gets out as often as possible. He took Bodie hunting in December. He dropped the tailgate, and the dog jumped in like a 10-year-old at the swimming pool.

"Every time I look at him, I think of Brook. I love hunting with him. I just wish it wasn't by myself."

* * *

Jan knows Nebraska geography better than most politicians. She toured the state for months after the accident, speaking and signing Brook's biography. She thought it would help her grieve. Most times, though, strangers cried while she comforted. Not until she came home for good did death stain her.

It leaves the house quiet, far too quiet, on nights when memory desperately seeks snapshots of bright days gone. It slows the hands of that living-room clock. It saps the energy from legs and arms and renders dishes and laundry meaningless.

People tried telling her how she feels. How she would feel tomorrow and a year from now. She didn't want to hear it.

Sometimes she made a vow simply to get through the day. The next morning, she did it again. Ten years feels like a week. It feels like a century. She still feels an emptiness when she wakes up.

"I know that Brook is with his dad. And I know he's with his heavenly father. And I'm so happy for him. But I'm so selfish that, you know, I can hardly stand having him gone."

It's nearly dark, so Jan flips on a light. She wants to show a video, the same one they played at the spring game in '96, the same one they played at Brook's funeral two days later.

"I've watched it hundreds of times."

Toward the end of the tape, which is filled with highlights and hunting clips and readings of "Green Eggs and Ham" to little ones, there's an interview clip.

Brook is talking about his dad. He says he knows he's watching. He says Dad has the "best seat in the house."

"Watch his eyes, " Jan says. "You see the pain in his eyes?"

* * *

The Goodland cemetery sits at the north edge of town, just a few Hail Marys from the airport where Berringer first took off. On an April night at dusk, the gates are locked.

On the horizon, the purples and pinks and reds and oranges converge into one glorious shade, illuminating hundreds of tombstones. Fixed in the spring soil, a red flag lays beneath the breeze next to an ordinary stone. A tumbleweed latches onto it.

Four years ago, Scott Weber and his son came to this spot. Weber, 50, grew up in South Dakota, just a few miles from the Nebraska border. He listened to Cornhusker games on the radio as he hunted pheasants. Now he lives in Texas.

Weber remembers first seeing Brook Berringer in a game and wondering, "What kind of name is that for a football player?" When Berringer took the helm in '94, Weber started reading stories and quotes. He still watches the old tape of the Colorado game in 1994.

A year and two days after Berringer's plane went down, Weber's first child was born. The boy turns 9 on April 20. He wears No. 18 on his flag football team. He wants to play for Nebraska.

Above his bed hangs an FCA portrait painted in 1981. In the picture, a little boy holds a football while watching a group of older kids talk about Jesus. The boy is wearing a red jersey, No. 18. Several copies of the portrait, titled "Influence, " were to be distributed as gifts at the FCA banquet the night the plane crashed.

Weber and his 5-year-old son stopped at the cemetery during the blazing July heat. They walked to the red flag. The boy pointed at the tombstone. He listened to Dad explain what happened. Then the boy left a red, foam football helmet.

First he signed it: Brook Weber.

* * *

Wilson wouldn't listen to country music if you threw in a free cowboy hat. Then Brook called him one night. Told him to come up to Manhattan for a Sawyer Brown concert. Wilson had class the next day, but Brook convinced him. He's been a fan ever since. He's been to maybe 20 concerts.

Not once has Sawyer Brown played the ballad off its 1995 album, the one in which the piano replaces the drums, the guitars soften and Mark Miller croons about loss; the one Brook sang during those road trips with Juke and Bodie back to Goodland, through the wheat and the speed traps, past Pizza Huts and John Deeres; the one Sawyer Brown played the day of his funeral.

The song Brook called his favorite: "I Will Leave the Light On."