tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36859515970022365382024-03-13T22:09:21.454-07:00Dirk ChatelainDirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3685951597002236538.post-1652913274706782962014-10-16T12:14:00.000-07:002014-10-16T12:14:18.324-07:00Royal pain<div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.35em;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">(Published May 28, 2006):</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Put yourself in Denny Matthews' place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">The "Voice of the Royals" was there in 1969, the beginning. He was there when the outfield fountains first splashed. When Brett reached for .400 and legions of fans, Nebraskans included, calculated his average on their game programs.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Matthews saw Saberhagen win 23 games in one year. He watched Bo snap ash over his knee and smash cowhide deep into the summer night. He called Game 6 in '85.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">On Thursday afternoon, Matthews sounded like Bob Uecker in "Major League, " a man in need of a drink.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">The Royals, losers of 12 straight at the time, had scored six runs in the first inning against the league's best team. By the eighth, Detroit had tied it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Then came the ninth. One Tiger home run, then another. 10-8. Matthews' voice never deviated from monotone. Had a driver been nodding off on I-80, neither home run call would've woke him.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Pudge Rodriguez stepped in with two on, two out. Crack. Another bomb into the fountains. The ball had barely splashed when Matthews paused for station identification. What else can you say?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">"How they sit there and not be critical I have no idea, " says Pete </span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">Theoharis</span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">, a 35-year-old teacher and Royals fan in Hastings.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">At some point, </span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">Theoharis</span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;"> expects Matthews' teeth to let go of his tongue. He expects to hear, "What in God's name is Angel Berroa doing?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Put yourself in </span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">Theoharis</span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">' place. He's one of the remaining Nebraskans who religiously cheers the boys in blue, who are on pace to lose a major league record 124 games.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Twenty years ago, the Cornhusker State was practically a baseball colony of Kansas City. Now </span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">Theoharis </span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">hears people chuckle at the Royal mess, at desperate souls like him and Jason Jorgensen and Paul Fey, who cling to memories of 1985.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">How bad are the Royals? Consider the following:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Kansas City</span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;"> is on a comfortable pace for three straight seasons with at least 100 losses. No non-expansion franchise since the 1952-54 Pirates has matched that.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Kansas City</span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;"> has suffered two losing streaks in excess of 10 games during the first 50 games of the season. Only three teams since 1920 have ever done the same.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">The Royals' opening day starters the past three seasons -- Brian Anderson, Jose Lima, Scott Elarton -- won two combined games in April and May of their respective seasons. That's six months of pitching and two wins. Arizona's Brandon Webb has eight wins in April and May of this year alone.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Since Opening Day 2004, the Royals have won 125 games. Since Opening Day 2005, the cross-state Cardinals, whom the Royals beat in the '85 World Series, have won 132.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Since 2004, the Royals have seven losing streaks of at least eight games, including a club-record 19-game streak a year ago. Since 1989, the Atlanta Braves have none.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">This 26-month debacle is a far cry from the period of 1975 to the '94 strike, when only two franchises won more than Kansas City: the Yankees and Red Sox.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">That span of success drew Nebraskans en masse to the Royals. They were star-studded. They were classy. And just a few hours away, they made Kansas City the perfect vacation spot: Worlds of Fun roller coasters during the day, relaxing Royals Stadium at night.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">George Brett retired in 1993 and things were never the same. The baseball strike tarnished 1994 and the following seasons. Meanwhile, small-market economics, egregious front-office errors and an attitude befitting of the Cowardly Lion doomed a once-proud organization. The Royals stopped winning and you stopped seeing Royals shirts on the streets of Hastings and Lexington and Omaha.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">"There's not many of us left, " says </span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">Theoharis</span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">, a social studies teacher and coach at Hastings High.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Theoharis</span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;"> was born in Kansas City. He moved to Hastings when he was 9. He used to listen to games in his bedroom and keep a scorebook. When the Royals played at California or Seattle, he'd fall asleep to Matthews' play-by-play.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Theoharis</span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;"> played baseball at Hastings College. He wore No. 5, just like his hero. After graduation, he got a PR internship with the Royals. He was there in '94 and '95, just after Brett had retired. Brett even played on the company softball team with him.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">When he moved to Minnesota, </span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">Theoharis</span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;"> still listened to games. When the clouds were just right in Winona, Minn., he could pick up the AM signal out of Des Moines from his car.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">He'd sit in the garage, staring at nothing, hoping someone, anyone, would take Brett's place. No one ever did. Every time Kansas City farmed a phenom like Jermaine Dye or Johnny Damon or Carlos Beltran -- that was the starting outfield in 1999-2000 -- the Royals traded him to organizations with deeper pockets.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Theoharis</span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">, now back in Hastings, doesn't remember the last time he missed catching at least a few innings on the radio or TV.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">When he sees a Cubs shirt or a Yankees hat or a Red Sox sweatshirt, "I get ill."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">The Royals are the local team; that's who Nebraskans should cheer, he says. That's why he's devoted one wall in his basement to Brett and other Royals memorabilia. That's why he's "brainwashed" his son.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">"If he wisens up and gets sick of losing, he might change."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">In years past, he would've thrown something across the room when Matthews went to station identification after a homer. Now he takes a deep breath. He knows how Cubs fans feel.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">"I wait for something bad to happen."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Put yourself in Jason Jorgensen's place.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">The 31-year-old sports director at KRVN 880 in Lexington grew up in Minden listening to the Royals on KRVN, which has carried the Royals since the early '70s.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">KRVN didn't carry the Royals last year. Fred White, who was Matthews' partner on the radio for 25 years, came to Lexington, where people used to meet in the summer and caravan to Royals games. He convinced KRVN to give Kansas City another chance.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">"How was anybody supposed to know?" says Jorgensen.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">On paper, the Royals looked better than the teams that lost a combined 210 games in 2004-05. They added veterans. They drafted Alex Gordon.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">"At this point, I hope they keep him in Double-A so he's not subjected to this, " Jorgensen says.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Jorgensen coached Little League last summer. He absorbed the laughs from kids who don't know George Brett from George Costanza.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">"It's easy to support a team that's winning, " Jorgensen told them. "Support a team that's 20 to 25 games under .500 -- in May."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Put yourself in Paul Fey's place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Fey, a Kansas native and K-State graduate, follows the Royals from Omaha. He has one hope during this already excruciatingly long summer.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">"Here's the thing: I don't want them to become the worst team ever, so they have to win 30 more games, " says the 37-year-old UNMC professor, eyeing the Mets' 40-120 record in 1962.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Fey was a senior in high school during the World Series. He watched a highlight DVD the other day.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">"It is a long time ago."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Maybe a few years from now will be different, Fey says. You know, three years ago the Tigers almost set a major league record with 119 losses. Now they're the best team in baseball.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">By 2009, Gordon should be at Brett's position. A new GM -- or even better, a new owner -- may shuffle the deck and spend some money. Maybe the pitching will be better, says the Hastings teacher.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">And just like that, </span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">Theoharis</span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;"> relapses. He remembers Zack Greinke.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">The kid was once tabbed as the best pitching prospect since Bret Saberhagen and David Cone and Kevin Appier.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">In February, he left the Royals during spring training to seek psychological counseling. Ain't that the Royals' luck, </span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">Theoharis</span></span><span style="line-height: normal;"><span style="line-height: 22px;"> says. "I might be joining him pretty soon."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">If Hollywood producers should decide to remake "Major League, " the stars of the movie would be the Kansas City Royals.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Their audition tape is a blooper reel.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Earlier this season infielder Esteban German was in center field and tried to catch a fly ball with his face. His excuse: He forgot his sunglasses. Catcher John Buck was charged with a passed ball on a pitchout.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Royals' best player, Mike Sweeney, gets injured as often as the Royals lose. He's on the DL with a bulging disk in his upper back. Before that he was hitting .176.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">Closer Mike MacDougal is on the DL with a shoulder strain. His replacements have blown 12 of 17 save opportunities.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">The comedy of errors extends to the top of the organization. Owner David </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Glass reportedly has offered Atlanta assistant Dayton Moore the job as general manager. But Glass has yet to fire the current GM.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">The biggest joke might be who is selected as the Royals' All-Star representative. Mark Grudzielanek is the only starter hitting above .300. Mike Wood is the only winning pitcher.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 22px;">No word on callups from the California Penal League.</span></span></div>
Dirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3685951597002236538.post-88825700418314489792014-10-16T10:10:00.002-07:002014-10-16T10:15:01.572-07:00For the love of a pug -- epilogue<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">LINCOLN – Their first night together, the pug lay flat on the old man’s carpet, fighting sleep. Wasn’t time for bed yet, but the day had been long and the journey longer. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">Just hours earlier, the old man had embarked with his new companion on a four-mile walk. About halfway home, the dog sat in the grass and refused to continue. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">"I wore him out," said Loren Gerischer, 91. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">Four months had passed since Mike’s death, since he’d begun a quest that tested his patience without exhausting his spirit, since he’d interrupted his daily walks to scour newspaper classifieds and call phone numbers and try out dogs that never felt as comfortable as Mike did.
He wasn’t sure another dog could.
Then Loren got a call from the Nebraska Humane Society in November. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">They’d read about his love and loss. They’d vowed to help.
Four months of regret and sorrow, diligence and hope. On the floor, in the quiet of a small living room, lay the old man’s reward.
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">Finally, Marty closed his eyes… </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;"> ** </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">E-mails came from Colorado and Connecticut and dozens of places in between. Some wanted to help. Some wanted to know the story’s end. Some wrote separate letters to animal shelters asking them to keep an eye out for pugs. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">From Sarah: "I understand how hard it can be to lose a dog, but I can’t imagine how hard it would be when he was pretty much your only companion." </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">From Pam: "I own two pugs and totally understand why he fell in love with Mike."
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">After the World-Herald article ran in October, Loren had become a celebrity in pug circles. When he attended Pug-O-Ween, a Halloween celebration at Chalco Hills, strangers whispered and pointed.
Wasn’t he the man who walked his dog across Lincoln each day for two, three, four miles at a time, stopping only to quench Mike’s thirst or split a Runza hamburger? </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">On July 3, a night a like any other, the man and his dog left their white duplex and started west. Mike spotted a dog across 33rd Street and broke free from Loren’s grasp. By the time Loren reached the corner, Mike lay in the street. He never made a sound. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">Since that night, the old man had blamed himself. Why didn’t he go east out of the driveway instead of west? </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">He had gone to bed each night with a cell phone – a picture of Mike featured on the screen. He tucked it against his legs, where Mike used to sleep. He vowed someday to be buried with it.
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">Thousands of people had learned of Loren’s story, but sympathy didn’t solve his problem.
Each time Loren inquired about a dog, a problem arose.
Sometimes the dog was too young or too active – Loren didn’t need a boisterous puppy wrapping a leash around his fragile legs during walks. Sometimes the glitch came at his end – he didn’t have a fenced backyard, a requirement for some animal adoption agencies. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">Then, in early November, a 10-year-old with a golden coat named Marty came to the Nebraska Humane Society. His owner had surrendered him. He needed a home. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">NHS leaders immediately thought of the 91-year-old whom strangers had been calling about.
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">Marty was 10, much older than Mike, but he obeyed orders. And most importantly, he could be a good walker. The Humane Society housed the dog in an office for a few days while they worked out the details with Loren. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">On Monday morning, Nov. 12, Loren came to Omaha.
In a quiet room, just the two of them, Marty sniffed and snorted. Loren said hello and scratched Marty’s head. Then he took Mary for a test walk. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">Loren’s a man of caution and skepticism. He doesn’t get too high or too low. But minutes later, he returned:
"I think he’s the one."</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;"> ** </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">Five weeks later, Loren sits in his living room as the snow disappears outside.
He and Marty haven’t been out much. Too cold. Too icy. And Marty’s kind of got a bad hip. The previous owner, Loren says, must not have walked him enough. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">Once the days get warmer, Loren will try to build up Marty’s stamina. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">"It’s going to take a while where I can get him to go like Mike did," Loren says. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">Loren makes room on the couch and Marty hops off the floor. The dog yawns and lies on his stomach. Go to sleep, Loren tells him. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">"I know you’re an old man ‘cause you got gray whiskers," Loren tells him. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">Marty’s not interested in sleep, and soon Loren is wrestling with him, vigorously massaging his gold coat with both hands.
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">"I pick on him," Loren says. "They like it. That’s what I did to Mike." </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">Marty hops off the couch, seeking refuge on the floor. Soon they’re off to the backdoor and the fenced backyard, where Marty scouts the perimeter looking for rabbits and squirrels and anything that moves. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">Loren is still trying to teach him to sit, to come, to lie down, to play ball. In time, he says. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">"You know they say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks," Loren says. "You can. You’ve just got to work with ‘em." </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">On the floor by the living room window, there’s an artificial Christmas tree, about waist high.
Mary Kay from down the street pulled it out of the garage a few weeks ago, much to Loren’s chagrin. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">He’s not much into frills. Next year, he jokes, he’s going to put that tree in a place she can’t find it.
But for now he allows the lights and ornaments to gleam in the afternoon sunlight. He allows the featured decoration: a stuffed animal. </pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">
</pre>
<pre style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe UI Web Regular', 'Segoe UI Symbol', 'Helvetica Neue', 'BBAlpha Sans', 'S60 Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; white-space: normal;">It’s a little, gold pug and it sits at the treetop, taking the place of an angel.</pre>
<br />Dirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3685951597002236538.post-41129652225857141372014-10-16T08:30:00.000-07:002014-10-16T08:30:29.357-07:00For the love of a pug<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">LINCOLN – He plants his cane against the concrete and he’s off, leaving behind a small, cluttered duplex and the sign by the door: <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"HOME is where the DOG is."<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />He reaches the end of the driveway and turns east down the hill – the way Mike wanted to go that July night. <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Black Velcro shoes are strapped tight to his feet. Faded, striped hat is pulled firm over his gray hair. Tan pants are pulled so high that his belt covers the bottom of his green shirt pocket. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">His eyes never leave the ground. His chin never leaves his chest. His each step covers 18 inches. He’s got a bad left knee that doesn’t bend so well. He’s got a bone spur on his right foot. Twice he’s broken his hip. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Three, four, five, six miles each day will do all that to a 90-year-old body.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />But if everybody was as healthy as Loren Gerischer, the doctor told him, they wouldn’t need Medicare D. Want to know the secret? Honey and green tea. <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"Cleans ya out," Loren says. <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />And every day, he walks and walks and walks. <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />At least he did. <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Today’s walk ends at three blocks. He reaches the bus stop, leans against the sign and waits. He’s getting very good at waiting since Mike’s been gone. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Seven minutes after its scheduled 11:42 arrival time, the No. 8 comes to a halt on L Street. The old man climbs in. <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Eight minutes later, he gets off at the downtown library, just as he does six days a week – the library isn’t open Sundays. He tells the driver thanks and steps onto a crowded sidewalk. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Into the building. Straight to the elevator. Down to the basement. He grabs two newspapers: the Omaha World-Herald and the Lincoln Journal Star. He finds his table.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />He removes his glasses and sifts through the neat stack of sections. He starts with the World-Herald. He stops to read Blondie. He giggles and the unshaven whiskers on his chin do a dance.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Then to the classifieds, to the pets, to the dogs. His bottom lip protrudes as he drags his wrinkled right index finger down one column, then the next, past the German Shepherds and Golden Retrievers and Jack Russell Terriers. <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />No pugs.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />He grabs the Journal Star. Same routine.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />No pugs.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />He folds the papers neatly together again and stops to read a front-page story: Global warming may cause stronger storms.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"Hmmm. That could happen."<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />**<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />When the old man left the house that summer evening, he and Mike had been together about two years. Loren had recently bought a new cell phone that takes<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial;"> </span>pictures. A friend snapped a shot of Mike and posted it on the main screen. The old man liked that very much.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Each night, Mike lay on the couch next to Loren as he read, sometimes past midnight. When the old man got up to go to bed, Mike followed. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">He nestled his brown fur and black, wrinkly face against the old man’s leg. He closed his googly eyes. When morning came, Loren grabbed his slippers and let Mike out the door, no leash. Across the street. Into a neighbor’s yard. He did his thing and turned back, waiting for passing cars. <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"Mike would never leave me."<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />The old man grew up southeast of Des Moines. Four aunts raised him. After working on a sheep ranch in Wyoming, he ended up in Lincoln. He doesn’t remember how or when or why. <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />He worked two and three jobs at a time. He cleaned at the roads department. He washed dishes at the airport restaurant. He picked cans from highway ditches and rest stops until the state shut down his operation – they locked the lids. He has a sister in California, but no wife or kids or nieces or nephews.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Just Mike.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />They were known around the neighborhood for their walks. Sometimes they traveled to the south side of town, two or three miles away.<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial;"> </span>They’d be gone a few hours. Once the old man tried carrying an odometer to see how far they traveled.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"It gave out. Batteries didn’t hold up."</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">He always packed two water bottles, but never took a sip -- they were for Mike. <span style="font-family: Tahoma;">As p</span>ugs tire, their breathing resembles a growl. They don’t have the airspace in their mouths, the old man says. So they moved at Mike’s pace. They went where Mike wanted to go. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Mike preferred every walk go past Runza, where he and the old man shared a hamburger. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Sometimes they got caught in a thunderstorm, sometimes in 100-degree heat, prompting a police officer to ask in vain if they wanted a ride home. Mike was a smooth walker, but sometimes he pulled too hard on the ice and the old man fell down. Sometimes, Mike saw another dog and broke free. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">One time Mike came walking down the street alone, a few blocks from home. He reached a street corner panting and looked in every direction. A neighbor spotted him and walked him back to the old man, who was looking, too, a few blocks away.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Somehow Mike always found his way home.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />On July 3, the old man planted his cane against the concrete and they were off. Mike wanted to go east down the hill. For some reason, Loren didn’t listen. They went west toward the park, toward busy 33<sup style="line-height: 28px;">rd</sup> Street. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Halfway there, Mike spotted a dog across 33<sup style="line-height: 28px;">rd</sup>. He lunged. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;" /></span><i style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-size: large; line-height: normal;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: large; line-height: normal;">Mike!</span></i><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The old man couldn’t clench tight enough. He let go. He tried to lift his chin from his chest and when he did, he saw Mike sprinting toward to the corner.</span><i style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /><span style="font-size: large; line-height: normal;"><br /></span></i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-size: large; line-height: normal;">Mike!</span></i><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Right at the end of the sidewalk, before a line of cars flying by at 30, 35, 40 mph, Mike stopped. </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /><span style="font-size: large; line-height: normal;"><br /></span></i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-size: large; line-height: normal;">Mike!</span></i><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The old man moved quicker. His strides lengthened. Along the bushes. Past the twin trees. To the corner. Mike? </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /><span style="font-size: large; line-height: normal;"><br /></span></i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-size: large; line-height: normal;">Mike!</span></i><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The car just kept going and going, down the hill and out of sight, leaving the dog in the street. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And the old man alone.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">**</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><strong style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial; line-height: normal;"></span></strong><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">That was the night his routine changed. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">He still ate his daily helpings of vegetable beef soup and buttered popcorn. He still folded bulletins at church on Friday and constructed 1,500-piece jigsaw<span style="color: blue;"></span>puzzles. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">He still studied the World Books he bought for $15 at a garage sale -- "You know how many eggs a queen bee lays in her lifetime? Between 50,000 and 60,000."</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But no more walks. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">He planned one for his 91<sup style="line-height: 28px;">st</sup> birthday – Sept. 24. Instead, he went to Applebee’s for supper. He redirected his energy to finding another Mike.<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial;"> </span><br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />The problem: He needs a dog old enough<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial;"> </span>to walk steadily. So no puppies. And he wants a male. <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Mary Kay Kreikemeier lives down the street and looks out for the old man. She tells him he should get an old dog. She likes to tell the story about the<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, Serif;">February afternoon a few years ago when the old man was walking his old Husky – you didn’t know who would die first, she said. </span></span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Times New Roman, Times, Serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, Serif;">T<span style="color: black;">he dog stopped to nap in the grass and</span><span style="color: blue;"> </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman, Times, Serif; font-size: large;">Loren decided to join her. Well, someone saw an old man on the ground and called 911. Loren arose to find paramedics on the scene.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Why not another Husky, Mary Kay asks. They’re gentle. They walk well. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Times New Roman, Times, Serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, Serif;">No. Loren wants a pug. He could have one right now, he knows, if he </span>would’ve gone east down the hill.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"If I’d done right, I’d still have Mike. I told him it was my fault. It was me. It wasn’t him."<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />He’s prayed about it again and again, pleading with the Lord for another dog.<i style="line-height: 34px;">Ask and you shall receive.</i> No answer. <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />He’s left with the cell phone. Each night since he buried Mike in a field of wildflowers, he has slept with the photo against his legs. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The other day a friend grabbed the phone and scrolled through recent calls to look for a number. The old man ordered him back to the main screen: "Get Mike back up there."</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"When I’m buried over here in the cemetery, the phone goes with me."<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />**<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />A bright, breezy morning – exactly three months after Mike left him. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The old man is off to Pierce, Neb., some 2 ½ hours north. He found a pug in the classifieds and made a call. One-year-old. Willie’s his name. So Mary Kay from down the street packs a few kolaches. She picks him up. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">You excited, Loren?<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"No. Why be excited? If you told me I was going to get a million dollars, I’d probably be just like this."<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />He’s a man of simple needs. TV? Doesn’t own one. A cook for his meals? Doesn’t need one. A Christmas tree? Doesn’t want one. Mary Kay makes him put it up anyway. <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"I’m gonna find where she put it and bury it somewhere."</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">They reach Pierce by 11 and find the house on the north edge of town. He walks through a chain-link gate and spots Willie, with the purple collar, among a family of pugs. Willie jumps against his cage toward Loren’s hand. <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"Hi Willie," says the old man -- he struggles to pronounce the "L", so it sounds more like "Wiwwie." <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />What do you think, Loren?<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"Don’t know yet. I can’t tell until we go walking."<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Willie’s owner sets him free and hands him to the old man. Willie licks Loren’s face. Loren rubs Willie’s head.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"Yeah, he’s a pretty good boy…He’d probably be a pretty good walker."<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />The old man takes the leash and they’re off for the gravel street. It’s clear<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial;"></span>Willie is a wild one. He chases his tail. <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"C’Mon Wiwwie."<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Willie pees on the flowers.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"C’Mon Wiwwie."<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Willie runs behind Loren, wrapping the leash around<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial;"> </span>the old man’s legs. He lays on his stomach, rolls on the ground, trying like a shackled magician to remove the unfamiliar harness.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"C’Mon Wiwwie."<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Willie lags behind. Then he sprints ahead. Loren grunts, clenching his left hand into a fist. He nearly falls. Left foot and cane move in concert, springing the right foot forward. His eyes never leave the ground.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"C’Mon Wiwwie."<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Willie squeals a little. He wraps the leash around the old man’s legs again. Loren has to let go or fall down. He lets go. He tries again, grabbing tight. Willie tugs. The old man grunts. <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"Alwight Wiwwie."<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Want me to take him, Mary Kay asks. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The old man, halfway around the block, keeps going. He shortens the leash – he didn’t have to do that with Mike. Now Willie can’t run behind him. Willie doesn’t like it.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"C’Mon Wiwwie."<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Willie sits in the grass, refusing to move. The old man pulls. Harder. The harness slips off Willie’s head. <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"You take it," he says, handing off the leash.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Willie<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial;"> </span>charges ahead, leaving the old man behind. Loren reaches the driveway and leans against the van, searching for air, searching for answers. <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"Hmmmm. What do you think?"<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />Willie would be a pill in the city, Mary Kay tells him. What if he lay in the grass and wouldn’t move? What if he wrapped the leash around you and got loose? What if?<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"Wiwwie, wish you would walk a little bit better."<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />The wind whips through town. The old man sticks out his bottom lip.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"I sure wish I’d done what Mike wanted to do."</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">He grabs a treat from his pocket, bends over and reaches out his hand. The panting dog sniffs…he doesn’t bite. Loren puts the treat away. <i style="line-height: 34px;">Ask and you shall receive.</i> Not today.<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"Yeah, Wiwwie, might have to give up on you, wait for another one… <br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"I’ll keep looking. There’s no problem to that. Maybe I don’t get one this year. Maybe I don’t get one next year. One’s going to come my way. Yeah…<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />"I got time."<br style="line-height: 34px;" /><br style="line-height: 34px;" />He plants his cane against the ground, turns away from the dog and starts back toward the van.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;">He’s a long way from home.</span>Dirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3685951597002236538.post-76624406563419097872013-05-23T15:18:00.002-07:002013-05-23T15:18:57.475-07:00Summer baseball<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="3" style="width: 100%px;"><tbody>
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<td align="left" valign="top"><span style="color: black;"> </span></td><td align="left" valign="top"><span style="color: black;">Beatrice, Neb. -- High above the "350" sign in
center field, a loudspeaker echoes John Mellencamp's "Small Town" under a
dark sky of thunderheads.
<br />
<br />
<i>Well I was born in a small town. And I live in a small town.</i><br />
<br />
The snare drum snaps in cadence, once every second.<br />
<br />
Below on the field, Manager Bob Steinkamp gathers his team one last
time.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<i>Prob'ly die in small town. Oh, those small communities.</i><br />
<br />
On this chilly summer night, on a diamond in the rough in the middle of
nowhere, they dream.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<i>Used to daydream in that small town. Another boring romantic that's
me.</i><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Everything.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
It's a group with remarkable chemistry - even Huskers and Longhorns get
along. No bad apples, and Coach usually gets one or two.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
"We're in Beatrice, what else is there to do?" says
John Segovia, a pitcher from Monterey, Calif.<br />
<br />
They carpool to games in towns like Chillicothe, Mo., and Clarinda,
Iowa, because buses are known to break down.<br />
<br />
I've seen it all in a small town. Had myself a ball in a small
town.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"We showed up 20 minutes before the game in a cattle truck."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Teammates watch the little pitcher warm up in the bullpen, shaking
their heads.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
He's 24 years old, doesn't have much money, and his family worries, but
he wants to stay in America.<br />
<br />
"This is my business, this is my life."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Teammate Paul Howey looked at the little pitcher's worn - out cleats
and walked away.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Vince D sits in the dugout in his New York Yankees shorts and
apologizes for his "50,000 - word answers" to simple questions.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"This game's everything to me."<br />
<br />
Blame that on Joe DiMaggio.<br />
<br />
Vince grew up in Monterey, Calif., in the 1970s, 30 years after Joltin'
Joe captivated a nation with a 56 - game hitting streak.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
The crowd in Clarinda, Iowa, for the Bruins - A's game on a sweltering
July night could cram into a dugout.<br />
<br />
"Another sellout, " jokes Howey, a 23 - year - old from Abilene
Christian in Texas.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
It's no different back home.<br />
<br />
To promote the season finale, pitcher B.J. Wierzbicki helped pass out
fliers around the one - McDonald's town of 12,496.<br />
<br />
"We've never heard of you, " a few people told him. "Where do you
play?"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Where the smell of sprinkler water and freshly cut grass mixes with
chewing tobacco and worn - out batting gloves.<br />
<br />
No, I cannot forget from where it is that I come from. I cannot forget
the people who love me.<br />
<br />
Christenson Field, where a 71 - year - old gray - haired widow they
call Miss Lois watches every Bruins home game.<br />
<br />
She subscribes to Baseball Digest and is disgusted when her Kansas City
Royals lose.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
When Tim Moss, the former Texas second baseman, met Miss Lois three
summers ago, he was a well - mannered black teenager from Lancaster,
Texas.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Well, you have to dig for them, Tim, " Miss Lois said. "They're under
the ground."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"He absolutely flies, " teammate Fuehrer says. "And he always has a big
smile on his face."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
The other Bruins, they've always known baseball. He's still
learning.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"I might get nervous playing in front of big crowds next year. I've
gotten used to playing in front of 50 people."<br />
<br />
He thinks back to the football crowds at Belton. "No, I won't get
nervous. I love that stuff."<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
The last competitive pitch the future doctor ever threw was a 1 - 1
fastball. A popup to shallow center field.<br />
<br />
"That's all she wrote, folks, " he says, plopping down on a chair
outside the dugout, a hint of sadness in his voice.<br />
<br />
Neil Fuehrer's line: one inning, no hits, 13 pitches.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Nothing came of it. It's probably for the best."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
When his teammates are playing next season, "I'll be sitting in a
library 10 hours a day."<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Yeah, I can be myself here in this small town. And people let me be
just what I want to be.<br />
<br />
Ice - cold water drips from Coach's head as he visits with fans. He
never saw Paul Howey coming with the Gatorade jug.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
He takes them downstairs, sets them by the little pitcher's bed and
drives back to Warrensburg, Mo., his hometown.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"It's been a pleasure, " Howey tells first baseman Drew Aguailar.
"You've got my number."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Coach sees his in the rearview mirror.<br />
</span>
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><i>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.</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Dirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3685951597002236538.post-41200702146192543102013-05-23T14:44:00.000-07:002013-05-23T14:44:27.084-07:00The one-hitter<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="3" style="width: 100%px;"><tbody>
<tr><td align="left" valign="top"><span style="color: black;"></span><br /></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" bgcolor="#dfdfdf" valign="top" width="15%"><br /></td><td align="left" valign="top"><span style="color: black;">Wichita, Kan. -- Shane Komine's
fastball hits 86 on the radar gun.
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Still, the scout, who wears a World Series ring on his finger,
isn't sold. Few are when they first see Komine.<br />
<br />
The 5 - foot - 8, 175 - pound right - hander lacks a great pitch
and has had a history of back and shoulder injuries.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
Komine has heard it all before. He's always been the smallest one
on the field. He's always won.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
The number of fans in Lawrence - Dumont Stadium could cram onto
the third base berm at Haymarket Park.<br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
All of this matters little to Komine, who understands the obscure
world of minor league baseball.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
There are too many for scouts and general managers to study. So
they profile players.<br />
<br />
"History shows that little right - handers don't make it very
far, " the scout says.<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Scouting is an inexact science. But percentages come into play,
and the odds are against a guy like Komine.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Wranglers fans haven't cheered since a fan won a Tony Gwynn -
signed baseball early in the game.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
"Basically, Oakland's philosophy is to get outs early in the
count. At Nebraska, my mentality was to strike everybody out."<br />
<br />
Ah, Oakland. The same organization whose General Manager Billy
Beane has single - handedly tried to revolutionize player
evaluations.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
Wichita catcher Mike Tonis grounds out to end the fifth. Still no
hits.<br />
<br />
The scout has seen performances like this. He isn't convinced
Komine can do it five days from now or against the Texas
Rangers.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
Komine has changed many a mind in his time on the mound.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"People were scared of him in the Big 12, " Childress said.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
The no - hitter is in the back of Komine's mind. He hasn't had
one since high school.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"That's what makes him tick, " the scout says.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"He has the innate sense of when a guy is going to swing, "
Childress said.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
The scout, impressed, raises his eyebrows and gestures to the
bullpen.<br />
<br />
</span>
<span style="color: black;">"Just tell that guy to sit down, " the scout
says. "They ain't going to need
him."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">*** </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Dirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3685951597002236538.post-56306934789315767882013-04-19T11:03:00.002-07:002013-04-19T11:12:31.852-07:00The Quarterback<div style="color: black;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;">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?
<br />
<br />
Hundreds of people, thousands, could be watching outside and you would
never know.
<br />
<br />
Sit inside a plane on a bright spring day. It's the best seat in the
house. Have you ever considered that?
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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?
<br />
<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
</span></div>
<div style="color: black;">
</div>
<div style="color: black;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Wise men could argue all day about the first time someone looked in his
window.
</span></div>
<div style="color: black;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: black;">
<span style="font-size: small;">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.
</span></div>
<div style="color: black;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: black;">
<span style="font-size: small;">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</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span>suffered broken ribs and a collapsed
lung that fall but didn't lose a game. </span></div>
<div style="color: black;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: black;">
<span style="font-size: small;">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.
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;">
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
"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."
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
Scott Weber knows it. The Texan wears red on fall Saturdays. He never knew Berringer. Now his son wears No. 18.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
"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."
<br />
<br />
Miller, lead singer of country band Sawyer Brown, met Berringer after a Lincoln concert in 1992. The
quarterback had sneaked backstage.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
<i>I grew up in Goodland, Kansas. I turned 18 today. I'm college bound for Lincoln.
Nebraska's where I'll stay.
</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<br />
* * *
<br />
<br />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.
<br />
<br />
"OK, dad gummit, " she told him. "That's it. I'm going in."
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
Brook bagged his first pheasant in
January 1981. Dad helped. Brook was "a
spittin' image of his dad, " Mom says.
<br />
<br />
Three months later, Warren lost a five-year battle with cancer. The
date of his funeral: April 17.
<br />
<br />
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."
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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."
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
"My heart hit my big toe."
<br />
<br />
<br />
* * *
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
<br />
* * *
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
There are dozens of ways to get from Goodland, Kan., to Lincoln, each
equaling about 350 miles. No road is well-traveled.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
Ron Brown called Berringer the most
important Husker during a tumultuous '95 season. Many teammates thought he
should be starting.
<br />
<br />
"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.
<br />
<br />
"And at the end of the day, when that plane crashed, I think that's
what people realized."
<br />
<br />
<br />
* * *
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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."
<br />
<br />
Ivans was walking the halls at school the next day when "it really hit
me."
<br />
<br />
"His death led me to redirect my life to Christ."
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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."
<br />
<br />
Wilmer went back to school. He started mentoring kids. He volunteered.
Six months ago, he moved to Wisconsin.
<br />
<br />
He's starting a church.
<br />
<br />
* * *
<br />
<br />
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."
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
"I can't quite bring myself to use it."
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
He whispered: "Come on, Brown. Make him proud."<br />
<br />
* * *
<br />
<br />
Brook had two orange-spotted Brittany
spaniels, a father and a son, Juke and Bodie. He took them hunting all the
time.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
When Brook softly closed the door,
Juke woke, jumped against the window and locked the door. The downpour
arrived before Brook got back inside.
<br />
<br />
Brook came home from the NFL combine
in February. He called for Juke. The dog limped out of the kennel, dragging its back legs.
<br />
<br />
"That just about killed Brook, " Jan
said.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
Brook's pup turns 11 next month. A
high school buddy watches him now.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
"Every time I look at him, I think of Brook. I love hunting with him. I just wish it
wasn't by myself."
<br />
<br />
<br />
* * *
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
People tried telling her how she feels. How she would feel tomorrow and
a year from now. She didn't want to hear it.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
"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."
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
"I've watched it hundreds of times."
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
Brook is talking about his dad. He
says he knows he's watching. He says Dad has the "best seat in the house."
<br />
<br />
"Watch his eyes, " Jan says. "You see the pain in his eyes?"
<br />
<br />
<br />
* * *
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
First he signed it: Brook Weber.
<br />
<br />
<br />
* * *
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<br />
The song Brook called his favorite:
"I Will Leave the Light On."
</span></div>
Dirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3685951597002236538.post-87719320418048468982011-12-21T14:48:00.000-08:002011-12-21T14:51:58.853-08:00Love and defection: The travails of Touchdown Tommie<span style="color: black;">(Published June 11, 2006)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">CRETE, Neb. -- On the day a small band of Doane Tigers first met Touchdown Tommie, they made a pact: No one, under any circumstances, asks for an autograph. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><em>Got it? Nobody. </em></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">That was during the interview process for the school's head football coach, after Tommie Frazier walked onto Doane's campus with an aura Vito Corleone would've envied. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"A lot of guys were like, 'Oh my God, this is my hero. We're going to have lunch with him,'" said Robbie Trent, a Doane wide receiver. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">That was a crazy time, when a once-proud small-college program, stung by scholarship deficiencies and back-to-back losing seasons, ached for a dose of adrenaline. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">That was a much simpler time, when players didn't wonder when a coach would snap and another peer would turn in his playbook. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">It's only been a year since the Godfather of Nebraska quarterbacks won his first head coaching job just 28 miles from the epicenter of his fame, but already Tommie Frazier's young coaching career is facing third-and-long. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">He has won two football games. He has lost more than half his team. He has turned believers into critics, who now wonder if Doane will have enough players this year to effectively practice; if it made a colossal mistake in trusting a head coaching neophyte who, they say, confuses the NAIA with the Big 12; if Frazier or any coach can again champion a program that lacks </span><span style="color: black;">resources to compete with </span><span style="color: black;">small-college powers. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">By all accounts, Frazier has pushed his players to take the game as seriously as he did a decade ago. He yelled and screamed. He stressed excellence, shunned excuses and didn't look fondly on kids who lacked fundamentals and work ethic. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">But Frazier's expectations shocked many current and former players. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"You can't come in and run a Division I program with kids who just want to play," said Aaron Coufal, a freshman lineman who quit the team last summer. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Doane recently went through spring practice with about 32 players -- one defensive lineman switched to offensive line to give it a full unit. At the beginning of two-a-days last August, the team numbered more than 100. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"We didn't run anybody off; they ran themselves off," Frazier said. "What we had last year is no different than any other major program, or small one. They don't jell because (the coaches) didn't recruit (the players). We're fine with that. But I promise you, the ones who stayed, they're better football players and better people." </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Frazier wouldn't be the first coach to rebuild from scratch. He believes it's better to do that than patch problems, only to watch them reappear four or five years later. He doesn't waver publicly from his steadfastness. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">The mass exodus, according to players who quit and some who stayed, centers on Frazier's methods -- methods which went beyond tough love. They say Frazier's -- and his staff's -- intensity, negativity and lack of compassion sucked the fun from the game. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">The World-Herald interviewed 12 current and former Doane players about the gridiron turmoil that overshadowed Frazier's first season. Some supported Frazier's direction, saying his knowledge and drive will lead to wins. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"If we win the GPAC next year or not, I'm learning things I wouldn't learn other places," Trent said. "I believe the commitment will pay off maybe three years down the line. This will be a distinguished program." </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Others predicted trouble. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"You need to have that interpersonal relationship with each player to be a successful coach," said linebacker Kelsey Romshek, who walked out after two-a-days. "Coach Frazier didn't have that." </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"They expected 4.3-second 40s," said one sophomore lineman who quit but wished to remain anonymous. "That's not what you're going to get at Doane College. They tried to get a big name for recruiting and it backfired. Now Doane's going to eat it." </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><strong>The predecessor</strong></span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">If Tommie Frazier was Don Corleone, Fran Schwenk was Ward Cleaver. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Frazier's predecessor coached at Doane for 21 years. He was a second father to many players. He temporarily housed out-ofstate players who arrived before fall camp. He asked about Mom and Dad, about a recent fishing trip, about chemistry. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"He wasn't just blowing smoke," said Trent, the senior wide receiver. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Schwenk was Doane's all-time winningest coach at 114-87-3 when he tired of looking up at his rivals. Building on the tradition established by Al Papik, Schwenk reached the national quarterfinals in 1993 and the semifinals in '97. He relied upon players who grew up waiting on center pivots, not stop lights. At the end of each season, he traveled much of the state looking for recruits. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"Every once in a while, one of those kids just blossomed and turned into an exceptional player," said Paul Schelstraete, a banker in Crete who played in the late 1960s during Doane's unbeaten streak of 38. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Schwenk never cut a player because he was too slow or too small. He believed drawing kids, even those too small or too slow, to Doane and giving them "the college football experience" was worth the hours developing basic skills. He built a large roster -- Doane was one of few NAIA schools with a junior varsity -- and trusted sheer numbers to grow and bear fruit. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">During one successful season, half his starting lineup played eight-man football in high school. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"To them, Doane College was their Notre Dame," Schwenk said. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Pride may be the most crucial part of small-college success, said Jason Dannelly, a former Dana College player and owner of Victory Sports Network, which covers and promotes NAIA sports. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">The best programs develop breeding grounds within 100 to 150 miles of campus and foster bonds of loyalty amongst players and coaches. It has to feel like a high school program, Dannelly said, because kids receive so little scholarship money and fanfare. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Schwenk knew the formula. But in 2000, the Nebraska-Iowa Athletic Conference, of which Doane was a member, expanded its borders. It added Sioux Falls and Dakota Wesleyan -- Briar Cliff and Morningside would later join. Doane's peers anted up. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">The Tigers, and their veteran coach, folded. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><strong>The head Tiger</strong> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">Tommie Frazier, a big fish in a small office, relaxes on a lateMay morning. He watches a TV judge hear arguments between two people who don't much like each other. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Bill Callahan's desk is almost as big as this room, which Frazier could fill with trophies and rings and memories of one of college football's greatest dynasties. Instead, the only thing red in the room is a Lil' Red bobblehead. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"I'm a Doane Tiger, man." </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">He applied for this job with an assistant's stint at Baylor on his resume. He left a fundraising gig at his alma mater. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Frazier says he could've coached elsewhere, but Doane was the best opportunity. He admittedly feels more comfortable in the big cities -- he lives more than 80 miles away in Omaha -- where rumor doesn't sweep across town like a flu virus. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"I guess that's the problem around here," Frazier says. "Before, everybody could come in here and know everything that was happening with the program. They can't do that now. I don't think it's right for people in the community, people outside of the president or athletic director, to know everyday operations and what's going on here. When that happens, then you start hearing all these things, 'Oh, the program's in shambles.'" </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">He eventually wants to compete for national championships at Doane. He has drafted his plan. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"I'll be quite frank, it was more of a country club atmosphere where you show up and go out to practice and just walk around; that type of a deal," Frazier says. "But when we came in here, they saw how tough it was going to be." </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><strong>Defections </strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">Aaron Coufal grew up on a farm near Dwight, Neb. He helped Dad harvest corn and beans. He chased pigs and cattle. He played on East Butler's C-2 state semifinal team in 2004. He wanted to play more. He chose Doane before Frazier took over. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Last summer, he worked out regularly with about 10 future teammates. He was one of just two freshmen. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Coufal, at 6-foot-3, 250 pounds, wasn't in the best shape. Still, he drove to Crete four days a week for two-hour sessions. He ran and lifted weights and ran some more. Every night, Frazier dismissed him from conditioning drills, Coufal said. According to a teammate, he told Coufal to sit down so he "didn't die." </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"I got ripped out hard every day," Coufal said. "It just built up to the point where I didn't want to play for them anymore. I put in about 45 minutes of driving to get screamed at. If that's not commitment, what is?" </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">According to Coufal, offensive line coach Brad Davis, who played on Oklahoma's 2000 national championship team, told him during two-a-days that he'd never play. Coufal quit. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">As many as 50 others quit before Doane's first game. Less than 60 suited up for the last game, according to players; Frazier says only 10 to 15 quit the whole year. Another wave left after the season, before two months of winter conditioning that required a 5 a.m. alarm four mornings a week. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">The roster defections were like cutting fat, said Jordan Crawford, the Great Plains Athletic Conference's leading tackler who is happy playing for Frazier. There are the kids who play football as a college hobby, Crawford said. Then there are kids who go to college to play football. The ones who left didn't want to win badly enough. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"What we do here is preparing them for the real world when they don't have football," Frazier said. "Guess what, they get a job and not work hard at that, guess what happens? They're going to get fired." </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Doane assistant John Stineman coached high school football in Nebraska for more than 30 years. In 1998, he was a nationwide finalist for the NFL High School Football Coach of the Year Award. He joined Schwenk's staff in 2004. He has stayed to help Frazier. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"I don't know if he knew the level of athletes we had or that play on the NAIA level," said Stineman, who coaches quarterbacks. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Stineman said Frazier knows the game, but he and some members of his staff were too hard on kids. It's pretty easy coaching elite athletes, Stineman said, but "when you've got to work with a 140-pound pimply faced freshman, you've got to make some adjustments with your coaching." </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">A Frazier practice is crisp and well-organized. What soured some players was his expectation of reserves to execute as well as the all-conference picks. Many players didn't pick things up as well as a young Frazier, who as a freshman commanded Tom Osborne's offense a few months after first seeing the playbook. As a coach, Frazier had little patience for those who asked questions. When kids didn't catch on, Frazier often removed them from drills. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">The end result -- all the defections -- left only six or seven healthy offensive linemen at one point. Starters were sharing scout-team duties. The list of walking wounded lengthened because players were taking so many repetitions in practice. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"A lot of times you don't have to play frontline players on kickoffs and returns," Stineman said. "We had to." </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><strong>The recruiting trail </strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">Jamaal Major was a 6-foot wideout from New Orleans. Michael Pleas was a 6-3 receiver, a Floridian like the coach. Frazier lured the pair to Doane after two-a-days started last August. He quickly worked Major and Pleas into his rotation. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">They appear to represent Frazier's recruiting path. He says Doane will enter Omaha and Lincoln more often than Schwenk did. It will venture outside the Midwest more, too. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Frazier knows Texas and Florida. Davis, the offensive line coach, knows Louisiana. Defensive coordinator Troy Dumas, who teamed with Frazier at Nebraska, played in the NFL. Doane doesn't intend to stop recruiting Nebraska kids, Frazier said, but the state's sparse population makes finding talented players difficult, especially when conference foes tap the same pipelines. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">It remains to be seen whether the talent Frazier covets will end up at Doane. Crete is a small town. Doane is an expensive school without many of the lavish facilities found on other campuses. The Tigers had a few players from Texas two years ago, Stineman said. They left immediately after the season. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"They're a long ways from home," Stineman said. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Frazier says 19 to 20 players intend to arrive in August; he declines to give names and says most are finishing up admission paperwork. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Some of Frazier's players say the class, as of now, is closer to eight. Doane's current roster stands at about 40; just three are listed as offensive linemen. Frazier expects 70 to 75 players in the fall. Would he be forced to recruit on-campus players who quit a year ago? </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"I don't know how many of them that left the program would be willing to come back," Stineman said. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Mark Brahmer, head football coach at Pierce High School, was an All-American at Doane in 1993. He doesn't know how Doane could practice with just 50 or 60 players. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">He's willing to give Frazier a chance, but he questions the coach's recruiting. Every GPAC school came to Pierce, a Class C-1 juggernaut, this year to recruit. Every one, that is, but Doane. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">It's the same story in southeast Nebraska at small schools the Tigers once farmed. Doane fans and players agree Frazier was hired, in part, because of his potential recruiting prowess. Yet the 1995 Heisman runner-up hasn't taken advantage of his star power where it's brightest. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"Nobody knows Doane College in Florida," Brahmer said. "But I think if Tommie Frazier walks into Pierce High School, it would turn heads. Any of our kids would know exactly who the guy is." </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Major quit the team after catching 20 balls last fall. Pleas led the team in touchdown receptions but left town after the season. A month ago, he was arrested in Georgia for armed robbery and burglary. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><strong>Help on the way? </strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">Fran Schwenk saw the problem looming for years. When the NIAC expanded, most of its member schools increased their scholarship allotments to compete with NAIA powers like Sioux Falls. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Doane's administration chose not to. The Tigers contended for a conference crown as late as 2002. But starting in 2003, teams Doane had drubbed throughout the '90s started biting back. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">The NAIA limits member schools to 24 scholarship equivalencies, 28 percent of Division I's allotment. GPAC coaches can give no player a full ride. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Doane and its conference brethren aren't required to reveal scholarship equivalencies and much of financial aid packages depends on academic aptitude and family income. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">But Doane's pie, insiders say, is smaller than most in the conference. Doane, according to Schwenk, gives between 12 to 13 scholarships. Some in the league are close to 20 equivalencies, enabling them to compete for national championships, said Dannelly, of Victory Sports Network. Most disperse about 15 scholarships. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Concordia coach Courtney Meyer, also in the league's lower half in scholarships, said financial investment typically parallels conference order of finish. Those who spend win; those who don't lose. Schwenk agrees. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"I don't care if you're Fran Schwenk or you're Tommie Frazier or you're Vince Lombardi, you've got to have an even playing field," Schwenk said. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Schwenk left a year ago for William Jewell College in Missouri in large part because of the scholarship situation. His last few years, coaches told players about opponents' star players who wanted to come to Doane but received $2,000 to $3,000 more elsewhere. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"It all boils down to what kind of financial aid package you can put together," assistant coach Stineman said. "Doane has to make a commitment to get the football program back up or we're going to have to be content to work with what we get. Tommie knows what he's doing, but you can only do so much." </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Doane President Jonathan Brand, who took the job last July, will meet with his coaches this summer to discuss scholarships. It's possible they will decide more aid is needed to compete, he said. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">For now, Brand stands behind his coach. He says the defections and the losses haven't thwarted his optimism. This past winter, before the sun was up, he was running on campus when he stopped by the fieldhouse to see Frazier's players working out. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"That just pleased me immensely," Brand said. "When you want to do something, you've got to take it seriously. I believe in Tommie." </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><strong>No autographs </strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">Courtney Meyer, Concordia's coach, had two starters on last year's team who arrived at practice 45 minutes late every day. They weren't loafing. They were singing. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><em>Sorry, coach, choir practice again. </em></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">NAIA coaches say you won't find that in Division I. You won't attend girls' basketball games with your team or skip conditioning because of a part-time job. You won't join fraternities with thespians or eat meals at the cafeteria with the math major from down the dorm hall. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"We have to remember it's still small-time football," said Meyer, whose Bulldogs finished 4-6 last year. "They have a lot of other things other than football to be a part of." </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Frazier, leaning back in his office chair, recognizes the dramatic element in his story. It's not every day one of college football's most recognizable names grabs the whistle at an NAIA school. But he says this experience is about his passion, not his background. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Still, Memorial Stadium and those national championships, on this morning, seem so far away. The only difference between Doane and Nebraska, Frazier says, is talent. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"I was always raised if you're going to spend time to do something, why not give it 100 percent? Why not do what you can to be the best? If you can't do that, I'm sorry, maybe Doane's not the place for you. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"I'm not trying to run this place like a Division I program. I'm trying to run this place based off my experiences in what it is to be successful. Let me tell you, you've got three guys on this staff who have won national championships at the highest level. Everything we do here we did as players ourselves. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"It shouldn't matter whether you're Division I, Division I-AA, Division II, Division III or NAIA. An athlete is an athlete. Any athlete out there who doesn't want to be pushed to be the best, then they shouldn't be playing a sport." </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">He remembers the day his players first met him. Nobody asked for that autograph. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"They wanted to see if I truly knew what I was talking about. I guess I did, because I'm here." </span>Dirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3685951597002236538.post-20643851197405630232011-09-05T20:27:00.000-07:002011-09-05T20:41:30.586-07:00The Hurdles<em>(Published May 2010)</em><br />
<br />
<br />
Nasty night.<br />
<br />
Fifty degrees, a north breeze, light rain. Lightning flashes in the southwest sky. Wednesdays in May don't come much worse.<br />
<br />
William Peters-Vili sheds two pairs of sweats, a hoodie and a Benson High jacket. He finds lane 8 on the track.<br />
<br />
District meet. 300-meter hurdles. He's seeded eighth. He hasn't placed in the top four all year.<br />
<br />
If he doesn't tonight, he won't wear a Benson uniform again.<br />
<br />
He is the prom king afraid to dance. The three-sport athlete without press clippings. Football coaches call him the “heartbeat.” Track coaches call him “the handyman.”<br />
<br />
A year ago after the season, William sent his track coach an e-mail thanking him for his time.<br />
<br />
Now Mark Meier, a Benson assistant, is standing by the starting line, too nervous to be still. He is 43. He has coached state champions.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow, Meier will craft his own e-mail to his own high school coach. After 14 years holding a stopwatch, he'll write: I saw a race yesterday, and I think I finally understand why I do this.<br />
<br />
That's for later. Right now, standing in the rain, Coach knows only the qualifying times.<br />
<br />
“On paper, he has no chance.”<br />
<br />
The starter's gun fires, and William takes off, gliding over the first three hurdles. Best start all year. Now the turn, and here's where he struggles. Stutter-step over hurdle 4. <em>Shoot.</em><br />
<br />
William is off stride. He bangs hurdle 5, opening that quarter-size scab on his left knee. He nearly tumbles to the track.<br />
<br />
Coach watches from the backstretch. He figures it's over.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Beautiful night.</strong><br />
<br />
Seventy degrees, not a breath of wind, the sun sinks fast in the southwest sky. Tuesdays in September don't get much sweeter.<br />
<br />
They are brothers, William and Wilson, separated by one year. They each have bronze skin and good grades and a love for sports.<br />
<br />
Big brother William is 6-foot-1 with a thicker goatee.<br />
<br />
Little brother Wilson is 6-4 with a quicker wit.<br />
<br />
They had finished football practice and come home. The phone rang. It's mom. She needs a ride home from work.<br />
<br />
“Wilson, do you want to go with me?”<br />
<br />
First Wilson said no. He was cleaning his room. Then he changed his mind.<br />
<br />
So they jumped in the Sebring and pulled onto Bedford Avenue.<br />
<br />
It was spirit week at Benson High three nights before homecoming.<br />
<br />
Wilson, a junior, had gone to school Tuesday in old-man glasses, no lenses, white tape wrapped around the black frames. Nerd Day.<br />
<br />
William, a senior, didn't dress up. “I'm too smooth for that.”<br />
<br />
They'd always been tight. They'd always been different.<br />
<br />
Little brother danced without fear. He struck up conversations with strangers. He used cell phones so much, he broke them. He set up a Facebook account for big brother. “That sounds dumb,” William said.<br />
<br />
Little brother bet classmates he'd catch a touchdown pass, then he paid his debt in Skittles.<br />
<br />
Every practice, the team members huddled at midfield, raised their arms and chanted, “Here we go, Benson!” Wilson busted out of the huddle and ran circles around it, chanting, “Here we go, Wilson!”<br />
<br />
“You couldn't be mad at that kid,” Benson assistant football coach Jamar Dorsey said. “You just couldn't.”<br />
<br />
But how many times did a coach observe little brother's antics, look at William and shake his head?<br />
<br />
Big brother would grin: “He didn't get it from me.”<br />
<br />
William was one of Benson's best football players, a wide receiver. But in June at football camp, he moved quickly to block a defender and his right knee buckled. Ligaments ripped.<br />
<br />
He had envisioned college coaches coming to Benson to see him. Suddenly, his senior season was over before it began.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Green light.</strong><br />
<br />
Onto 52nd Street. William looks at his little brother, coughing in the passenger seat.<br />
<br />
Wilson? He wasn't breathing.<br />
<br />
“Stop playin'.”<br />
<br />
Wilson?<br />
<br />
Past Benson High. William pulls into a restaurant parking lot. Wilson?<br />
<br />
He calls 911. Reclines his little brother in the seat.<br />
<br />
Ambulance shows up. Takes Wilson away.<br />
<br />
William calls his aunt, his friend, his sister, his youth minister.<br />
<br />
He picks up Mom. Hurries to the hospital.<br />
<br />
Doctor comes out of the ER. Once. Twice. Heart rate not stable. Working on him.<br />
<br />
Wait. Pray.<br />
<br />
Then the doctor comes back.<i> </i>Sorry, we did everything we could.<i> </i><br />
<br />
Now <i>William</i> can't breathe. He punches a wall. How many people had showed up at the hospital? Fifty? A hundred? He tries to get away.<br />
<br />
After midnight, he walks into the house and sees Wilson's kindergarten picture on the wall.<br />
<br />
Into his room, where he sits on the bed. He looks across the hall into his brother's room.<br />
<br />
It's dark.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>It's light.</strong><br />
<br />
William hasn't slept, but the next morning he goes to school.<br />
<br />
Lift your eyes, he tells himself. No one likes to look at a sad face.<br />
<br />
But it's hard, especially when the football players are crying.<br />
<br />
Two nights later, homecoming. He joins his team in the old gym.<br />
<br />
He can't play because of the injury, but coaches named him captain anyway. And before each game, they leave the gym and give him the last motivational words before kickoff.<br />
<br />
But this week ... are you sure, William?<br />
<br />
Coaches hang at his side as 100 eyes focus on him.<br />
<br />
<i>We're young men. There's no time to waste. We have to go on. Be strong.</i><br />
<br />
Benson recovers a fumble in the end zone in the final minutes and takes a 21-19 lead. The defense holds. They only have to run out the clock to win.<br />
<br />
Time out.<br />
<br />
William, wearing his green No. 12 jersey, limps onto the field. He steps behind center, takes the final snap and drops to his left knee.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>His right knee still hurts.</strong><br />
<br />
He does not miss a practice. He does not miss a weight-room session. He tells coach he's healthy. He lies.<br />
<br />
Football ends and basketball starts, then track. His knee still hurts.<br />
<br />
At school, William walks the hallways and sees posters and T-shirts and buttons with his brother's name and face. Wilson's old locker is covered with cards.<br />
<br />
At night, moods change fast. He walks into the house and hears Mom and sister Winona laughing. He changes clothes, comes back and they're crying, looking at photos.<br />
<br />
Wilson's room is still Wilson's room. His TV, his clothes, his book bag, his shoes.<br />
<br />
“It's hard to wake up and look across the hall.”<br />
<br />
So he sleeps downstairs. First thing in the morning, he watches “SpongeBob.” Wake up happy, you'll have a good day, he says.<br />
<br />
He disconnects his phone. Too many people asking the same questions: How are you doing?<br />
<br />
I'm doing better, he says.<br />
<br />
“That's the only answer I can come up with.”<br />
<br />
He tries to open up. Tries to be goofy. Says random things to get a laugh. Fill a room with sound and it doesn't feel quite so dark. Still, he's not sure if friends laugh because he's funny or because he's lame. Wilson never had to wonder.<br />
<br />
“I can't do what he does.”<br />
<br />
Monday night, he'll dress in green cap and gown, walk across a stage and accept a diploma, becoming the first in his family to graduate from high school.<br />
<br />
But first, something even bigger.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Running hurdles</strong> is an exercise in rhythm, like dancing. One bad step, you lose stride. Steady speed is the priority.<br />
<br />
When William hits hurdle No. 5 and nearly falls, he squanders momentum.<br />
<br />
“Recover!” a coach yells.<br />
<br />
William swings his arms and chops his legs, his spikes splash against the track.<br />
<br />
He clears hurdles 6 and 7. Coach perks up.<br />
<br />
He's still building speed when he skims No. 8 and crosses the finish line. Coach has a feeling.<br />
<br />
William has never qualified for state. He needs fourth place.<br />
<br />
Ten minutes pass, maybe 15.<br />
<br />
They wait through another race. Then the public-address voice talks about the weather the storm is rolling in.<br />
<br />
William paces. I think you got fifth, his teammate says. More waiting. Finally, results on the loudspeaker:<br />
<br />
<em>Sixth place ... Tevin Dixon, Omaha Burke, 43.58 seconds.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Fifth place ... Trent Wagner, Norfolk, 42.99.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Fourth place ... William Peters, Omaha Benson, 42.88.</em><br />
<br />
Eleven hundredths of a second. Less than the time it takes to complete a breath.<br />
<br />
William lifts his head toward the dark clouds and whispers to a face he'd been talking to since the stoplight turned green on a beautiful September night.<br />
<br />
“We made it.”Dirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3685951597002236538.post-55120602230125375362011-09-05T20:17:00.000-07:002015-11-20T08:11:04.697-08:00The King and his Children<em><span style="color: black;">(Published December 2004)</span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">ST. DENIS, France -- "King," as the kids call him, sits at a sidewalk cafe in the shadow of a 12th century basilica on a sunny late-summer afternoon.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>A new, white Nebraska basketball T-shirt hangs from black shoulders that have narrowed considerably since he last dunked in the Coliseum.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">Since he left Lincoln and the winter winds of the North American heartland. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">Since he said goodbye to the rural Texas woman to whom he had made a solemn promise.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>Down the cobblestone from where he sits, a large woman in a purple dashiki buys bananas from Cameroon.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">A Moroccan waiter serves steaming platters of couscous. Everywhere, men in white meander to the mosque, their long cotton robes revealing the depths of their devotion from a block away.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><span style="color: black;">It's been two years and a lifetime of violence since the kids in this Paris suburb began acting peculiar around him. Finally, an 8-year-old Algerian boy </span><span style="color: black;">confronted him on the playground with a simple syllogism:</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;"><em>Mom and Dad say all Americans hate us. You're American, Leroy. Why do you hate us?</em></span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>"Ahhh, that's just politics, man. You can't mix politics with friendship."<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>Leroy Chalk, who once snatched cotton in an east Texas hamlet and record-breaking rebounds off Husker backboards, folds his 6-foot-9 frame, extends his meathook hands, snatching the boy like an errant jumpshot.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>"I love you."<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>Leroy Chalk, who grew up dreaming about the Celtics and the Lakers, spent a lifetime using basketball as a vehicle to get to places he'd never been.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">To Nebraska, where he quickly became a crowd favorite. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">To Europe, where he played professionally in Belgium and France for 17 years. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">To St. Denis, and the kids -- children of poor Muslim immigrants from their North African homeland.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>Leroy Chalk might have moved back home but for that summer night 25 years ago when he lost the one whom he owed everything.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">He still thinks about her when he teaches preschoolers English -- ball, red, car, bear. When he teaches his basketball teams the bounce pass and the pick and roll. When he walks onto a playground, and his eyes meet an 8-year-old boy's, and he smiles.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>"What I remember is everyone loved Leroy, no matter where he went," said Cliff Moller, a teammate for four years at NU who now lives in Alexandria, La. "He has the personality where he can fit in anywhere."<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;"><strong>He drives</strong> under the public housing projects that soar 13 stories into the blue, past one of the schools where he teaches physical education. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">Red light. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">There was a drive-by shooting a year ago at this restaurant on the corner. Cops don't even bother with the drug dealers and thieves anymore. When a camera crew wants to shoot a documentary, they call in Leroy to keep the peace.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>He pounds his fist against the steering wheel, once, twice, thrice. Beep, beep, beep.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>"Hey!" he shouts at five boys on the corner. They wave.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>He came 13 years ago to St. Denis, a communist, predominantly Muslim community. He wanted to start a professional basketball franchise.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">The communists didn't go for it. Didn't want to privilege one kid over the next. So he got a job with the schools. His mother always valued teaching above all else.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>He walks inside the school, past a newspaper photo of Mike Tyson pasted to the window. Into a gymnasium. It's Friday afternoon. Girls run and scream and throw balls into soccer nets.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>How many hours of his 55 years has he spent in gyms like these? Thousands? Tens of thousands?<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>Glenn Potter, a former Nebraska basketball assistant who now coaches at Brigham Young-Hawaii, remembers the gym in Big Sandy, Texas. A rickety old building that creaked when Chalk stamped his size 16s on the floor. When he dunked.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">If Big Sandy scored 50 points on that floor, Leroy had 30.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>One game his white teammates stopped passing him the ball. Once, the football team went out to eat and the restaurant owner told the black kids they'd have to sit in the back.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;"><strong>He grew up</strong> the only boy in the house, playing dolls with his four sisters. His father drove an oil pipe truck through Texas and Louisiana and Mississippi and came home only on weekends. Leroy wondered where he'd been.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>He always told mom he was going to get out.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">When a cousin died in Houston, Leroy, who was in grade school, wanted to go to the funeral. He wasn't that close to the cousin; he just wanted to see the big city. He wrote down the name of every town they drove through on that 220-mile journey.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>Henderson . . . Lufkin . . . Livingston . . . Kingwood.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>Leroy was in high school when his dad got sick with tuberculosis and had to quit trucking. The boy got a job at a dairy farm. He milked cows before school and after.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">Sports remained his outlet, though. She used to yell at him when he'd play football with his sisters and go Butkus on them.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>Coach Potter showed up at a track meet in the spring of '67, Leroy's senior season, and watched the tallest boy on the field throw the shot and run the 800. He went to the old gym and watched him jump and run and dunk. His arms hung to his kneecaps.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">When Potter pulled up to the farmhouse seven miles outside Big Sandy in his fancy rental car, Leroy's mom fed him fried chicken, black-eyed peas and cornbread. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">She begged Leroy to stay close to home, then relented. He headed to Nebraska.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>Wichita . . . Concordia . . . Hebron . . . York.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>At Nebraska, Chalk almost didn't make it his freshman year. And not because the weather was "so cold it hurt." The school work hurt more. He stuck with it, though.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">If he quit, he would've wasted all she'd done for him.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>Flossie Mae Hayes grew up in rural Texas and dropped out of high school to get married. She had five kids in nine years and expected them to get A's. She dreamed they'd all go to college.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>"I didn't care about no school; I was going to the pros," Chalk says.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>After her husband got sick, she left home at 4 a.m. every day to clean the town doctor's house. On Christmas morning, she'd cook dinner at home, drive to Doc's house, cook, clean, then come back home in time for presents.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">She always made certain Leroy had a good pair of basketball shoes. Cost half a month's wages.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>She drove to Lincoln just once to see him play. It was during his sophomore year. He begged Coach to put him in.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>"You wouldn't see Leroy outside practice without two or three people at his side. They just wanted to be in his presence," Moller said.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">"He had a little crew, what they'd call a posse nowadays, white people from Nebraska that just sought him out. They drew some sort of energy from him."</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;"><strong>He picks up</strong> a rubber ball, lumbers up to a girl half his height and throws it into the net. He smiles. Pats her on the head. In one of his classes, he's got 24 kids from 14 countries. And none see why that's an issue. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">A Chinese boy doesn't look at a Tunisian girl and think about 9/11. A Portuguese girl doesn't look at a Jewish boy and think about Israel.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>But Chalk can't control what happens when they get home. Still, he sees change.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>Ten years ago, these Muslim girls wouldn't be wearing shorts. They wouldn't be playing sports in an after-school program. It's a male-dominated society, and girls in St. Denis get raped and abused for leaving their veils in the dresser drawer.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>"That's like going outside with no clothes on; it's a big deal," Chalk says.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>But because of the school programs that Chalk helps coordinate, his boss, a Muslim man from the Ivory Coast, says the girls don't view westernization as evil. Then there are those in school who said 9/11 wasn't, either.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>The ideas that America professes aren't welcome in the homes of many of Chalk's students. Democracy?<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">"They don't want no democracy," he says. Oppression of women? "Women accept it; it doesn't bother them. It just bothers people in the West."</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>He arrives at school at 10 a.m. on weekdays and the kids stop recess to say "Bonjour." Little girls want to give him a kiss. The boys want to hold his hand.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>As they run off to play, Chalk asks himself the question: Where will they be in 10 years? Will some be suicide bombers? Will they be peaceful? Will they hate America and the West that tries to conform them to a set of values different from those they hear at home?<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">He's seen kids he considered friends suddenly change.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>"They're wearing the long dress-looking things and the thing on their heads. I saw two or three the other day I knew.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>"As far as me working with the kids, they might be terrorists, too. But it's hard for me to see kids like that. You can't classify people on who's good and who's bad. You can't look at people and say, 'I hate all Arabs.' You know? There's a lot of good ones, too. I don't think I hate any of 'em.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>"They're just kids as far as I'm concerned."<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;"><strong>He's in a different gym now</strong>, this time barking orders in French to his high school basketball team. se depecher, un, deux, trois. The slow Southern drawl remains. He gives his whistle a quick blow. Tweet.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>The kids circle and sit at his feet on a rubber floor. Most won't play after Chalk is finished with them. Not the kid in the McGrady jersey. Not the one in the Webber jersey and Nike shoes and baggy shorts.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">But they know where Chalk has been.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>They know about the Celtics, the franchise that drafted Leroy in 1971 after he grabbed a school-record 782 rebounds in three seasons at Nebraska -- a record Venson Hamilton finally broke in 1999.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">Chalk says he would've scored more points, but the NCAA outlawed dunking before his freshman year.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>"I worked on so much dunk material. Man, I had so much, Woooo. I would dunk on my mother if she got in the way. And I get to school and we couldn't even dunk. So I think that's what really kept me out of the pros.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">"Y</span><span style="color: black;">ou just try to finger roll; guys were throwing that stuff back into the stands, you know?"</span><br />
<br />
After Boston cut him in '71, Chalk signed with a Belgian team in '72.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>Brussels . . . Seneffe . . . Cambrai . . . Paris.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>He was MVP of his league in '74, often compiling 30 points and 30 rebounds a night.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>"I will never forget, one game in the European Cup, I had the ball, like three seconds left, in the corner, fake, this guy gives me baseline, and I come under the thing and I throw it, Bam, a really hard dunk like that, you know?<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">"And the referee said I stepped out of bounds. And we lose the game."</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>Headline the next morning: The King lost the crown and the victory.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>He didn't realize until he came to Europe that his name in French, Le Roi, means "The King." He laughs when he hears the kids say it.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">Chalk signed with a French team in '77, retired in '90, and has lived in Paris ever since.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>He misses American basketball -- the Husker T-shirt was a gift from American friends, as were three boxes of Hamburger Helper he requested. He misses his sisters in Texas.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">But the allure of Paris, a girlfriend and an 18-year-old daughter make it hard to leave.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>Besides, home wouldn't be the same. Hadn't been since he came back that summer of '79.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;"><strong>Mom had been sick</strong> the year before but was doing well now. One June day, he spent the whole afternoon with her. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">They drove 20 miles to Tyler in her new black Ford LTD. They shopped. They talked about the sisters, all of whom have graduated from college -- three went on to be teachers. Instead of going out with buddies, he took her to church.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>"We had a lovely day."<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>They came home that night and she went to bed. <em>See you in the mornin'.</em> He sat down in front of the TV.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">Fifteen minutes passed. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">He heard Dad holler from the bedroom. He ran to her side. Tried to bring her back. She was 54.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>Seven summers before, he had returned to Nebraska after a year of pro ball to finish his degree in political science and history.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>"My mother, that was my motivation. I could not fail her. I always wanted her to be so proud of me."<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;"><strong>He's in a grade school now</strong>, setting up a table and chairs built for 6-year-olds, not 6-9 power forwards. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">Today is registration day for English classes. He'll teach simple words and phrases -- tomato, airplane, car, water.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>A 4-year-old girl of Eastern European parents walks to the table wearing a long white dress and red glasses.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">She turns with curious brown eyes to her new teacher, of different skin and size and accent. Her long brown hair hangs over her cheeks.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>He swivels around in the chair. Their eyes meet.<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>"How are you? How are you? What's your name?"<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span>He wraps his arm around her and plants his lips on her forehead.<br />
<br />
The girl stares for a moment at the large black man from Texas with the gray whiskers. She doesn't understand, but she smiles back.<span style="color: black;"></span>Dirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3685951597002236538.post-25258162459081848642011-09-05T19:54:00.000-07:002011-09-05T19:54:11.974-07:00The Underdogs<div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><em>(Published May 2005)</em></div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">LINCOLN - Cowhide collides with leather on a humid summer night.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">The man with the slumping left shoulder slips his right hand into a baseball glove he's worn since 1972, some 20 years ago. He squeezes his fingers at the precise moment - pop. He slides the leather off. He grabs the ball and throws it with the same right hand - pop. That's the way he learned.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">The boy, barely a grade schooler, lifts his left leg. His right arm reaches back. He summons his strength. He uncoils. He gives back. That's the way he'll learn.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><em>Pop. . . pop. Back and forth.</em></div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">The two will practice after school like this for hours. They'll play in their Lincoln front yard on days when most kids don't. No mother or wife will call them for dinner. No family vacations or shopping sprees will interrupt.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">The man with the damaged limbs and severed lineage will save every hat, every jersey, every glove the boy will ever wear en route to becoming Nebraska's ace. He'll tell the boy about children's hospitals and foster homes, about prison cells and broken friendships, about fighting and faith.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">He'll promise to pick the boy up when he falls. And the boy will fall.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><em>Pop. . . pop. Back and forth.</em></div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">The man had been long ago abandoned, beaten, destined to end up next to his childhood friends in a world of barbed wire and steel bars. Forty years later, he'll sit atop a flood of red, pumping his fist as the fruit of his perseverance rings up another strikeout.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">The boy will be long forgotten, defeated, destined to end up in some junior college bullpen in a world of hanging curves and empty bleachers. Two years later, he'll jog to a dirt hill on national TV and make the nation's No. 1 team look like Little Leaguers.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Just a ball and two gloves. Just a father and a son. Just Harlan and Joba Chamberlain.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><em>Pop. . . pop. Back and forth.</em></div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><big><b><span style="font-size: small;"></span></b></big> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><big><b><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></b></big><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><strong>"Hey Mr. Chamberlain,"</strong> shouts an event staffer in a yellow coat. "Is he ready?"</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"Yeah, he's ready."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"Arm feels good?"</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"That's what he told me."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">A gusting south wind blows against 53-year-old Harlan Chamberlain's tan skin. It's a Friday night in May, and that means one thing: His boy is pitching.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">The 19-year-old with the mitt-stinging fastball and knee-buckling curveball has emerged from obscurity in 2005 as Nebraska's lead arm. He was once a pudgy ballboy, and a year ago, he was getting shelled at the University of Nebraska at Kearney.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Now he's putting up numbers that compare with college baseball's finest. This kid may earn millions someday.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">But behind each win, each award, each standing ovation, there's a crippled, orphaned American Indian single dad who showed Joba Chamberlain the way.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><big><b><span style="font-size: small;"></span></b></big> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><big><b><span style="font-size: small;"></span></b></big> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><big><b><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></b></big><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><strong>Summer, 1952.</strong></div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Paranoia invades the Winnebago Indian Reservation, located 90 miles north of Omaha, as a viral epidemic sweeps across the nation. More than 57,000 cases are reported in one summer.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">That June, a 9-month-old named Harlan met a friend of the family who had unknowingly contracted the disease, the same one for which Jonas Salk would reveal a vaccine in 1955. Harlan soon got sick. The doctor's diagnosis: polio.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">But the reservation didn't have medical services to treat polio. The Chamberlains barely had money for electricity, let alone hospital care. In 1957, Harlan permanently moved away from his three sisters and three brothers.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">He'd spend six years, five months and 11 days in a Lincoln children's hospital. He'd bounce around five foster homes.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Polio wrecked the left side of Harlan's body. He would never walk without limp. Never hear out of his left ear. His condition would degenerate.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Once, knowing his left leg was shorter than the right, doctors broke the longer one to slow its growth.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"They wanted to make you look as normal as possible," Harlan says. "Well, what's normal? Normal is different in every person's eyes."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><big><b><span style="font-size: small;"></span></b></big> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><big><b><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></b></big></div><div style="text-align: left;"><big> </big><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><strong>Harlan Chamberlain</strong> weaves through a crowd on his motorized scooter. He wears black-rimmed glasses, a gray T-shirt embroidered with a white "44" and a red collared shirt, buttoned only once at the bottom. A red hat stitched with a white "N" covers black hair turning gray.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"Humphrey," the scooter, transports him to the pass gate, where he hugs once-estranged brothers and sisters who have come to watch Joba.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">A white-haired woman approaches: "That little boy used to be the ballboy at Northeast - my gosh!"</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">That little boy, at 4 years old, used to watch entire baseball games on TV, tossing a ball into his glove over and over. Joba wanted to be a big leaguer.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"I've heard a lot of kids say what they were going to do, but I've never seen anybody so sure," said neighbor Jennie Oliver.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Harlan would sit in a folding chair outside their 32nd Street house, playing catch with his son.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Sometimes, they invited the neighborhood kids and moved the game across the street to Sacred Heart School. Harlan drove from house to house, recruiting.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"Baseball, tonight," he'd shout. "Baseball, tonight."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Neighbors remember 15 or 20 showing up. Harlan provided the bats and bases and gloves. He umpired. He coached. Hours later, by the time the moon had taken the sun's place, kids were asking for one more inning.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"Baseball and softball was our life," says sister Tasha, four years Joba's elder. "That's all we did. That's how we got by."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">During the winter, Joba chased basketballs for Lincoln Northeast's four state championship teams. He couldn't travel on the bus to road games, so Harlan drove him. They missed three games in six years.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Baseball, though, remained their passion. Some nights, Joba and Tasha played in the street while Dad sat, instructing them. He'd get upset when they struggled; he couldn't walk out to show them.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">He pushed for one more try when the boy muffed a ground ball and threw his glove, when Joba just wanted to watch TV.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Harlan told the boy how much he'd give to run to the end of the block. To chase him down a pop fly. <i>Don't you know what you've </i><i>got, son?</i></div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"There were several points," Tasha says, "when it was like, my goodness, can you just leave me alone? Can you just let us play for fun?"</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"He was really insistent that we were going to accomplish some things he couldn't."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><big><b><span style="font-size: small;"></span></b></big> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><big><b><span style="font-size: small;"></span></b> </big><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><strong>June 30, 1965, 3:15 p.m.</strong></div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Harlan Chamberlain moved to Whitehall, a home for wards of the state in northeast Lincoln, a "melting pot of misfits," said Mark Shelby, Chamberlain's best friend growing up, who also had polio.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">The public looked at Whitehall as a place of salvation for orphaned kids, said Rod Orduna, Chamberlain's childhood friend. Orduna remembers "going through hell." Adult supervision was limited in the youth cottages, which housed 20 to 30.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"You never knew what the next day would bring," Harlan says. "It brought horror."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Harlan was teased or beaten up every day. Two boys, in particular, used to steal from him. They hit him, then ran. The boy with the limp couldn't chase them. They came into his room at night and punched him.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">One night Harlan planned to run away. He packed what he had. An older friend who played football at Lincoln Northeast stopped him.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"You can't run forever, Harlan," he said. "At some point, you've got to fight back."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">One day, Harlan followed one of the bullies to the bathroom, where there was nowhere to run. He cornered him in the stall. He fought. Then he beat up the other one. They never bothered him again. Nor did anyone else.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Chamberlain attended Northeast. In 1970, he left Whitehall. He farmed for a while, then rented a trailer with Mark Shelby on North 20th Street.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">The two passed the time in bars playing foosball. But Shelby always wanted to party when Harlan wanted to go home. Soon Shelby was trying drugs.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"I didn't want anything to do with it," Harlan says.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">The buddies parted ways in 1972. Three years later, Chamberlain took a job at the Nebraska State Penitentiary as a counselor. He quickly empathized with the men on the other side of the bars.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"I was no better than them," says Harlan, whose first roommate at Whitehall wound up in the penitentiary for murder. "The only difference was I could walk out of there at 4:30. Given certain situations, I would be there just like they were."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">A few years later, limping through the maximum security halls, Harlan spotted a familiar face: Mark Shelby. Shelby has been incarcerated off and on for the past 25 years. He'll be in prison at least another 10.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"I regret the choices I made," Shelby says softly from the state pen. "I just wish, maybe, I should've been more like (Harlan) in some situations."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><big><b><span style="font-size: small;"></span></b></big> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><big><b><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></b></big><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><strong>Harlan</strong> motors to his perch overlooking the field. He sips watered-down iced tea. He chews Wintergreen Extra. He extends his right leg, the one doctors broke - there's still a steel rod inside. He's had 15 surgeries but needs a new left hip. He needs a new right knee.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">A sports agent introduces himself, says he's been watching Joba.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">The 6-foot-3, 225-pound sophomore pitcher takes the mound minutes later. He unleashes a 90-plus mph fastball for strike one. Minutes later, he fans a Missouri Tiger on full count.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"That was a nasty curveball," Harlan says.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">That wasn't the stuff Bill Fagler saw at Lincoln Northeast baseball tryouts.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Fagler, the former Northeast coach, remembers a kid maybe 5-foot-8 who had to weigh 250 pounds as a freshman. Joba couldn't excel at that size. He'd always been better than his peers, but he was sitting the bench. He wondered if this game was really for him.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">When Joba's hitting slumped, Harlan flipped him ball after ball, watching for hours as the boy smacked them into a net.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"He was always like, you're going to be one of the best," Joba said. "I'm like, Dad, get out of here with that, you know? Dad, reality - it's not going to happen."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">The boy didn't crack Northeast's pitching rotation until his senior year - he played mostly first base and catcher growing up. He didn't attract college coaches.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"I was very frustrated when he graduated," Fagler said. "I could hardly get anybody to even take a look at him."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">That summer, Fagler would see Joba running the streets of northeast Lincoln during the heat of the day. That August, Joba attended a Nebraska baseball camp. Pitching coach Rob Childress recommended the junior college path. That night, University of Nebraska at Kearney coach Damon Day called and offered Joba a scholarship.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">The pitcher couldn't get into school until January. He maintained baseball fields in Lincoln that fall. He hung out with Dad. Second semester came and Joba left. It was a Friday night.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"For three weeks, I was kind of lost," Harlan says. "I'd never been without him."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><big><b><span style="font-size: small;"></span></b></big> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><big><b><span style="font-size: small;"></span></b> </big><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><strong>Justin Chamberlain</strong>, nicknamed "Joba" as a baby, was a year old when his father and mother split up. He was 3 when Harlan obtained full custody.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Their cramped house had two bedrooms. Tasha got one. Joba slept with Dad in the other. On Sundays, the two wrestled as they watched Hulk Hogan on TV. They watched movies at night; Joba curled up next to Harlan in his recliner, which no one sat in without Dad's permission.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Harlan bought the scooter in 1991 after he tripped over a sidewalk crack and fell. His mobility inside the house was limited - Humphrey couldn't get up the porch steps. Harlan didn't go downstairs for 10 years. </div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Joba took take care of laundry. He mowed the yard and took out the trash. He unloaded the scooter from the family van.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"He don't do dishes, though," Harlan says.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Dad cooked from the living room, setting the frying pan or electric skillet on the coffee table. Joba ran and grabbed a stick of butter when needed. One time a friend brought over two five-pound bags of porkchops. Harlan prepared a whole bag from his recliner.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"My kids love porkchops. We were in hog heaven the rest of the night."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Mom was never around - still isn't. Money was never to spare - still isn't. Joba remembers picking out new clothes at thrift stores. The only vacations were baseball tournaments. When Christmas came, when the kids needed clothes for the new school year, Harlan pawned off his possessions.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"Remember when bomber jackets were cool?" Joba says. "Oh, me and Tasha had to have one. We begged Dad and we finally got one."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Harlan and Joba moved a few blocks north in 2001. Tasha, who moved out a year before, remembers cleaning out the old house. Where's all your stuff, she asked Dad. He didn't have much left.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"I think he felt like a failure," Tasha said. "Even the poor kids in the neighborhood had some of the coolest stuff and we didn't."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Job stress, financial worries and raising a teenage daughter without a motherly influence took its toll on Harlan's aching body. His doctor told him his post-polio syndrome, which deteriorates his bones slowly, would only escalate. He retired from the state pen in 2001.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Harlan took a job staffing Husker events. He substitute teaches for Lincoln Public Schools. He lives by himself. He rides the scooter and pushes his snowblower in the winter until his driveway is clear. He grabs items off the kitchen's top shelf. He buttons shirts with one hand.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"When you learned to swim, you learned with two arms and two legs, right? I learned with one arm and one leg. But I can still swim.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"I don't know what it's like not to be handicapped. By virtue, I don't know what it's like to be handicapped."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">He called Roper Elementary Wednesday and said he wouldn't be in class the next day; Joba's pitching. He loaded Humphrey and took off for the Big 12 tournament in Oklahoma City.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"He had a God-given talent for playing baseball," Harlan says. "If there was anything I could do to enhance that, to better that, I was going to. Nothing was going to restrict me from being there, for him and with him."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><big><b><span style="font-size: small;"></span></b></big> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><big><b><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></b></big><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><strong>The kids</strong> at the grocery store used to stare. Joba used to stare back: "Take a picture; it lasts longer," he'd say. Joba grew up around wheelchairs; several family friends were disabled.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"They do everything you do. That's the way it's always been. That's the way I'll teach my kids. Your grandpa's in a scooter. He's still your grandpa.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"If I could be half the man he is, I would take that and run with it."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">This past winter at a Nebraska basketball game, the baseball team walked onto the court during a timeout rolling a bin of plastic balls. Most Nebraska teams get the opportunity to distribute the souvenirs at one game or another, but these were baseball players - fans were going to find out how far these little balls could fly.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">So Mike Anderson's troops take the floor. They start launching balls into the nosebleeds.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Joba grabs ammunition. He retreats to the corner of the floor. He looks up to the handicapped section. He flips a few balls to people in wheelchairs. He smiles and walks away. <br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><big><b><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></b></big><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><strong>Joba's freshman season</strong> at UNK ended with a 3-7 record. Still, the kid thought he was good enough for Nebraska. He joined the Huskers last fall. He turned weight into muscle. He discovered useful off-speed pitches. He earned a starting role.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">In February, he won national player of the week after striking out 15 batters in one game. On April 8 against Texas, he allowed one earned run in nine innings on ESPN. He hit 98 mph on the radar twice in the ninth. He couldn't touch 88 two years ago.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"I've tried to show him that if you're passionate about something, nothing is insurmountable," Harlan says.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">It's Sunday afternoon, Mother's Day. Harlan acts as gatekeeper to the upper deck, checking tickets, stamping hands. He can't see the field but hears the crowd's roars.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">The mother of a Lincoln Northeast girl sees Harlan next to the stairwell. How 'bout that boy of yours, she says.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Harlan reaches into a plastic grocery sack. He pulls out a baseball. He shows her the scribble between the seams. Her eyebrows jump. <i>Is that Joba's signa</i><i>ture?</i></div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Harlan doesn't smile, simply placing the ball in her hand. She leans over Humphrey's handle bars and kisses Harlan on the cheek. She vows to put the ball on her desk. She walks away.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">A few seconds pass, a few moments of silence. A tear forms in his right eye. It races down his cheek. He wipes it away.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"That people will feel that way about him, that's something you never get over."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">The crowd roars. He folds his hands and stares ahead at nothing.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><strong>OK,</strong> we need to take a picture, guys - it lasts longer<strong>.</strong> </div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">We need you, Joba, to get down on a knee next to your dad. Smile or don't smile, your choice.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Father and son converge beyond the reach of a shade tree in their backyard. Their whiskers almost touch.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Harlan has an idea. He puckers his lips. He turns and tries to kiss Joba on the cheek. The boy jumps away.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"Dad, cut it out. What are you doing?"</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">A moment later, the boy licks his finger and sticks it in Dad's ear.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"Gross!"</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Joba leans in, tilts his head: "Your head's already big enough for the both of us," he says. "I don't want to be cheek to cheek with you."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">They'll go on like this the whole photo shoot. They could go on like this all night.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">The day always finishes the same, though. On the phone or across the hallway, no matter. The routine started a few years ago when there was too much to say. They condensed their thoughts.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">"If I don't say it, he reminds me," Harlan says. "He'll say: I didn't hear it; you forgot."</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Every night, before the last lightswitch flips, before the future is pondered, before the past is laid to rest, before blessings are counted:</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">I love you.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">G'night.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Sweet Dreams.</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="txtbody" style="text-align: left;">Don't forget your prayers. </div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Dirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3685951597002236538.post-12543812968248800022011-09-05T19:25:00.000-07:002011-09-05T19:55:18.215-07:00The Pilot<em>(Published April 2010)</em><br />
<br />
<br />
PORTLAND, Ore. — The teacher rummages through Room 105, searching for Ndamukong Suh. <br />
<br />
He looks in his file cabinet. No, not here. In his desk. No, not here. In his closet full of boxes. <br />
<br />
Ah ha! A VHS tape. <br />
<br />
Room 105 lies at the end of a massive hallway inside Portland's largest high school, Ulysses S. Grant. <br />
<br />
Outside, the neighborhood is green and tidy, cozy as a Sunday morning cappuccino. Tudors, bungalows and foursquares tightly line the shaded streets, each featuring wood floors and colorful landscaping. <br />
<br />
You can't find a home younger than 70 years old. You can't find two bathrooms and a remodeled kitchen for less than half a million bucks. <br />
<br />
The neighborhood focal point, Grant High, is two stories of orange brick beneath towering conifers. <br />
<br />
Inside, black-and-white photos adorn the walls — every varsity team dating back to 1924, when all the faces were white. <br />
<br />
Ndamukong Suh walked these halls for four years. Now he's four days from selection in the NFL Draft. <br />
<br />
His fate didn't always seem so clear, Karry Cameron says. You'll see on this video. <br />
<br />
Mr. Cameron walks briskly to his VCR. He wears a blue suit, red tie and buzzed hair. He enunciates every syllable and speaks with the certainty of a veteran coach — football, wrestling, track and field. <br />
<br />
He could pass for a CEO in downtown Portland. Instead, he's been at Grant since 1984. Half that time, he taught “bridge,” a study skills class designed to prepare freshmen for the rigors of high school. Three of every four students eventually made honor roll. <br />
<br />
In 2001, a broad-shouldered, soft-spoken boy — half Cameroonian, half Jamaican — walked into Room 105 and found a seat at the second desk against the wall. <br />
<br />
Mr. Cameron emphasized preparation and organization. Bring your bookbag every day. Take notes. <br />
<br />
“I was pretty much a drill sergeant,” he says. <br />
<br />
Nine months later, the boy fulfilled the class's final requirement: an on-camera exit interview. Mr. Cameron inserts the tape. <br />
<br />
“It may take some time to find it on this old-school VCR,” Cameron says. <br />
<br />
He presses fast forward, then rewind, zipping through anonymous adolescents, seeking a face his students know from ESPN. <br />
<br />
While Mr. Cameron searches, let him tell a story about Suh's first month here. <br />
<br />
Grant High is home to 1,600 students. It's one of Oregon's scholastic gems, a magnet for racial and economic diversity. The roll call of alumni includes politicians and pro athletes, an astronaut and a Hollywood actress. <br />
<br />
“Mr. Holland's Opus” was filmed here. Beverly Clearly grew up here; her “Ramona Quimby” stories take place under the evergreens of Grant Park, which adjoins the school property. <br />
<br />
Ndamukong Suh — Mr. Cameron likes to say his full name — came to Grant not from one of the prestigious old homes nearby, but from a mile west. <br />
<br />
A week of classes passed and Suh still hadn't attended a football practice. Who cares, right? Well, Mr. Cameron happens to coach freshman football. <br />
<br />
You <i>have</i> to come out and play for me, the teacher told Suh. <br />
<br />
Well, Suh said, you'll have to talk to my mom. <br />
<br />
“So I give Mom a call,” Cameron said. “‘Mom, would you consider allowing this young man to play football for me? He'd be in good hands.' <br />
<br />
“And Mom says, ‘No. My son will not play football until he proves he can handle high school academics. Unless he is on honor roll, he is not going to play any sports.' <br />
“Mom would not budge. What a strong, strong woman.” <br />
<br />
Suh didn't quite make the honor roll first quarter and he never did play freshman football. But he soon hit the academic benchmark — and, sophomore year, Mom finally let him wear shoulder pads. <br />
<br />
“She was worried about her baby getting injured,” Cameron said. <br />
<br />
OK, OK. Here it is. Mr. Cameron stops the tape. <br />
<br />
Suh's exit interview. June 2002. <br />
<br />
Mr. Cameron gave the bridge students some bases to cover: What is your name? What did you learn this year? What are you going to do better? And, of course, what does your future hold? <br />
<br />
The boy's cheeks are full, his voice a little higher than you know it now. His T-shirt fits loosely. His eyes spend more time on the ceiling than the camera. His monologue lasts 52 seconds. <br />
<br />
<i>“My name is Ndamukong Suh. ... Freshman year has gone by fast.”</i> <br />
<br />
Teachers at Grant remember a good listener and a warm smile, but a kid too shy to say much. <br />
<br />
Suh couldn't shield his competitiveness, though. A classmate saw it in PE, when Suh got into a tussle with a peer. <br />
<br />
“It's like that quote by Roosevelt: Speak softly and carry a big stick,” said Beau Cumming, a 2005 Grant graduate. “That personifies him.” <br />
<br />
A head coach saw it when he walked into the weight room one Friday afternoon before a football game and found Suh alone, pumping iron. <br />
<br />
An offensive coordinator saw it when he called timeouts and listened to his star lineman make requests. “Let me pull,” Suh said. <br />
<br />
So the Grant Generals ran power running plays behind Suh, all the way to their first playoff win in a generation. <br />
<br />
Coaches all over school lobbied Suh to join <i>their</i> team. Mr. Cameron, the wrestling coach, tried to get Suh into a singlet — “He would've been a state champion wrestler.” <br />
<br />
Suh preferred basketball. <br />
<br />
“He reminded me of Charles Barkley,” Cameron said. “He knew how to use his body. He didn't outleap everyone, but he grabbed every rebound.” <br />
<br />
As a junior, Suh went out for track and field for the first time and qualified for the state meet in the shot put. Senior year, he won gold with a throw of 61 feet. <br />
<br />
By 2005, every million-dollar college coach in America knew his name. He chose Nebraska. In the summers, he came home to help with high school football camps. Grant athletes watched the 300-pounder sprint on the track. Wow. They thought big guys stuck to the weight room. <br />
<br />
The interview continues: <i>“Something that I did well was get good grades. Something that I need to improve on would have to be” — </i>Suh pauses<i> — “grades.”</i> <br />
<br />
And next year? What are you going to do next year? <br />
<br />
<i>“I'm going to get good grades next year as a sophomore.”</i> <br />
<br />
Coaches and teachers cheered him at Nebraska, but it wasn't until last fall that he became a celebrity to ordinary Grant students. They watched him wreck Missouri's offense (and Blaine Gabbert's ankle). Watched him tear apart Texas (and Colt McCoy's Heisman hopes). Heard his mom mention Grant High on ESPN. <br />
<br />
Each Monday, smiles rippled down that 150-yard-long hallway: Did you see what Suh did this weekend? <br />
<br />
Then in January, Suh came home. He sought out the security guard and hugged her — he always hugs Marci. He made his way to the center of the hallway. <br />
<br />
“Next thing you know,” said Diallo Lewis, head football coach, “kids were coming out with hall passes. ‘I gotta go to the bathroom. I gotta go to my locker.' Then coming up to him, ‘Hey, can I have your autograph? Can I get a picture?'” <br />
<br />
Suh's exit interview is quickly coming to a close. Just one more bridge to cross, one more question and you're on your way to 10th grade, Ndamukong: What will you be when you're 24?<i></i> <br />
<br />
This Thursday night, April 2010 in New York City, 3,000 miles from Grant High and the lush green neighborhoods of Portland, 23-year-old Ndamukong Suh will hear the NFL commissioner call his name. He'll saunter to the stage at Radio City Music Hall and take one more step toward wealth and glory. <br />
<br />
What will you be when you're 24?<i></i> <br />
<br />
That day, June 2002 in Mr. Cameron's Room 105, Suh didn't hesitate. He knew the answer. <br />
<br />
<i>“When I'm 24 years old, I'm going to be a pilot. </i><br />
<br />
<i>“Thank you.”</i> <br />
<br clear="all" />Dirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3685951597002236538.post-17321463698924636992011-08-31T20:02:00.000-07:002011-09-05T19:56:22.477-07:00The Congregation<div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em>(Published July 2005)</em></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">RANDOLPH, Neb. -- The sun has begun its descent in the western sky like a spiraling punt when the first pickup truck pulls in. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Each afternoon, a group of men old enough to remember Devaney walks into a Sinclair station in this map dot of 955. They fill their coffee mugs and gather at the booths toward the back. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sometimes three or four show up, sometimes 10 or 11. Sometimes they argue about who got more rain. Many times, they hash out Cornhusker football. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I think they can win 'em all," one gray-haired farmer says. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Look at their schedule. If he doesn't win seven or eight games this year, there'll be an uprising, I think," another man says of Bill Callahan. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And so it goes in towns from the Sand Hills to the Missouri. During the past week, I sought to discover why. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I found farmers who have counted on Lyell Bremser and Kent Pavelka to breathe life into a combine cab; knot-holers who emptied their piggy banks at the end of the week to see Bobby Reynolds; fans who applauded overmatched opponents as they limped through the North Stadium tunnel, men who wouldn't leave a 52-0 game in the fourth quarter if their wives were in labor -- Gotta see that fourth-string I-back, you know. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I talked to teachers and old Huskers, a preacher and an elderly woman; men who grew up perfecting the option pitch in their living room, who taught their kids to hate Oklahoma, then basic arithmetic. I sought counsel from the red-headed legend himself. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">A year after the worst Husker football season since JFK and a week before NU starts an important fall in its history, I talked to Nebraskans about their impenetrable love for a team and its game, a tradition as woven into the state's fabric as dirt clods and corn stalks. I listened as they pondered the future. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">* * * </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dave Watters pulls a chair to a booth at the convenience store. His hair is white as a preacher's robe. Watters, a 65-year-old retired school administrator in six Nebraska towns, now delivers sermons on Sundays. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I wish people would talk about their relationship with God as much as Nebraska football." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When Watters was a boy, he was student manager for the Guide Rock High School football team. The team used to pack "an ole rattly bus and trek down to Lincoln to watch the Cornhuskers." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"How can you grow up in Nebraska and not be a Nebraska football fan? I don't know of another thing besides agriculture that holds this state together in a social atmosphere." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I honestly believe that if the Big Red program goes down the tubes, kids in Nebraska will go other places to school. But I don't think it'll ever happen and I'll tell you why: People in Nebraska care too much. They're not gonna take many years like last year. I know it, and you know it, too." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">* * * </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I called a fullback, the one position where you could always pencil in a native son. If anybody can explain Nebraska football, surely it's a man who repeatedly slammed his skull into linebackers. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This one grew up at 648 E. Macarthur St. in Grand Island. He wound up catching passes from Joe Montana in Super Bowls. As a kid, Tom Rathman rounded up the neighborhood kids and imitated Huskers in his front yard. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I remember Johnny Rodgers was outstanding when he put the white shoes on. That's the one thing that stood out. Once he put the white shoes on, baby, it was on." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I call another fullback, a 10-year NFL veteran from Duncan, a man as strong as Chimney Rock who blocked for Barry Sanders during some of those Hall of Fame highlights. The fullback's career highlight: The 1995 Orange Bowl, when he scored two fourth-quarter touchdowns. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"It's kind of funny. I could win three Super Bowls, Pro Bowl 10 years in a row. People here in Nebraska just associate you with that game. I was just talking to a gentleman last weekend, and he's like, 'Oh my goodness, you're Cory Schlesinger.' And he asks me: 'What did you do after you graduated?'" </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">* * * </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I drove through railroad towns whose water towers display the high school colors, through counties where power lines are man's tallest creation and an empty gas tank means a 20-mile hike. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I found fans who would rather talk about Zac Taylor than their Honor Roll kid. Some see Steve Pederson as a visionary; some wouldn't let him use the phone if he'd run out 20 miles down the road. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I found DJ Dave, who works 30 weddings a summer. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I don't even need a Husker schedule," said Dave Triplett, a Lincoln disc jockey. "I know in the fall when the games are, and when they're not. I'm always booked when they're not." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"If we didn't have so many Husker games, we'd have more marriages." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I sifted through the Lincoln phone book, past 57 listings that start with "Husker" or </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Cornhusker" - who knew there was Cornhusker Bingo? </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I found a Texan who doesn't get the obsession - the poor guy works at "Husker Trucking" in Greenwood. A few years back, he lived in Lincoln. He listened to games to avoid traffic. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"If it was an 11 o' clock game, I'd try to be to work by 6. And then with 10 minutes left in the fourth quarter, I'd go home before the place went nuts. I hated it. Man, I hated it. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"It's the people that discuss every down of every game and they know all the stats, you know, get a life. And the people that remember the score of every game the last 20 years…Big deal." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Still, he develops opinions - "I really think Pederson should've hired Bo Pelini." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">* * * </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I called a 43-year-old from the Polish capital of Nebraska. Loup City's biggest fan hasn't missed a home game since Mike Rozier embarrassed UCLA in September 1983. He hasn't missed one quarter in 11 years. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I've been everywhere; from Seattle to Miami, from San Diego to University Park, Pennsylvania," says Wayne Blazey. "I've seen the Mount Everest of the football team down to the Marianas Trench, which was last year's losing season." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">His favorite fall Saturday: a 69-7 annihilation of Oklahoma in 1997, Tom Osborne's 250th career win. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"It was a day we were playing our greatest rival. And it was a day you saw all types of weather, a typical Nebraska day. And when the game was getting over, you had a rainbow over the stadium. And then the fireworks show. It was an experience you'll probably see once in a lifetime." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Blazey loves to store the dates and numbers and pictures in his head. Each home Saturday, he travels 143 miles to the old wooden bench in the East Stadium's fourth row, 32-yard-line. He savors that moment 77,000 roar in unison as the I-back breaks through the line, that ovation when the Blackshirts stop on third-and-1, those November afternoons when you huddle next to a stranger for warmth. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"From Harrison to Rulo, and from Benkelman to Dakota City, from Cody clear down to Superior, we're all part of Nebraska. It's a birth rite. If you're from Nebraska, you should be for Nebraska." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">* * * </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Here's one you gotta hear, says preacher Watters. There's an 86-year-old Bohemian widow from Superior straight from "the school of hard knocks." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But leukemia killed Ruth Geiger's only son at 15. She never had much use for football. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Geiger's kids and grandkids used to crowd around the TV on Saturdays, but Grandma was cooking or serving desserts. Then, maybe 10 years ago, the family convinced her to watch. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I haven't missed one since then," says the retired teacher. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Every Saturday, she grabs a bowl of pretzels and fills her thermal mug of non-alcoholic drink. She snags a red sweatshirt and lays before the TV a 3-by-5 foot rug - a miniature replica of the Memorial Stadium field. She rolls it up Sunday afternoon and brings it back six days later. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Between kickoff and the final play, "she would no more go out to eat with you than the man in the moon," said Watters, her sonin-law. "I'm not sure she knows what a first-and-ten is, but ... </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I try," she says. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">A year ago, she couldn't find the game on TV - Watters said she was "irate." After a Husker loss, Geiger doesn't let her visiting son-in-law out of the basement unless he's wearing a black tie. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Needless to say, she's a fine Christian lady who would never criticize, but she discussed thoroughly some of Callahan's positions," Watters says. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"She thinks they ought to bring Tom Osborne back to straighten things up down there." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">* * * </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So I called the slender doctor who walked the sideline for a quarter of a century and squinted into the sun and weathered Sooner Magic and rode atop shoulder pads after Schlesinger's touchdowns. Surely he can explain why men of faith and grandmas hold their breath during every deep pass. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I can't tell you for sure," Osborne says. "It just seems Nebraskans tend to identify with the football team. When the team does well, you feel better about things in general, and maybe about yourself. With some people it becomes pretty extreme, where Nebraska loses a game and they really go into almost a depression." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There's only one Division I football school here. Forty-two consecutive non-losing seasons and five national championships doesn't hurt interest, either. The passion intensified because rosters featured homegrown Huskers who became community celebrities, Osborne says. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Almost every little town in Nebraska can point to somebody in the last 15, 20 years that played at Nebraska." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Huskers always reflected the character of the state, said the congressman. Those pioneer pillars of work ethic and integrity were evident on the gridiron. Osborne said tradition can change, though. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Human beings can only stand so much pain. If you go through years and years of bad football and frustration, obviously you're going to turn your interests to something else. But I don't think it would die easily or quickly." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">* * * </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Last stop: Husker Bar II in Brainard, a few blocks from where the Makovica fullbacks played eight-man high school football. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jody Gans has owned the place since 1979. Her parents had owned the first Husker Bar in Dwight in the '60s. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Her dad attended games before the stadium was full every Saturday. Sometimes she tagged along. One Christmas, the family followed the Huskers to El Paso for the 1969 Sun Bowl. Her dad wore a Santa Claus hat and made the newspaper. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"When we talk about this, I get tears in my eyes," says 55-year-old Jody. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ten months after Gans delivered a baby boy, cancer killed her dad in '82. She took her boy to his first game in '86, using Dad's old tickets. His feet were so cold by the end that her husband had to carry him to the car - the kid wouldn't leave early. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"My husband can talk Nebraska football back to the '50s and '60s. My dad could do it. My son can do the same thing." </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Years ago, they had parties in the bar the night before games. Everybody wore red and sang the fight song. A dusty red hat her husband used to wear still hangs over the bar. Hasn't moved since the late '80s. A stack of NU media guides sits on a shelf to settle arguments. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She's noticed fewer debates lately. This generation's not as intense as the older one, Gans said. Maybe these coaching and offensive changes lately will work out someday, but it's hard to see right now, she says.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"There's been that tradition through Devaney, Osborne and Solich. It's hard to break that. I'd hate to see football go down the drain. It's something we've been proud of for 50 years." </span></div>Dirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3685951597002236538.post-45833945457877672782011-07-06T09:30:00.000-07:002011-09-05T19:56:59.199-07:00The Walk-on<em>(Published September 2009)</em><br />
<br />
<br />
Andrew might know. <br />
<br />
Why a kid who didn't crack the all-district football team as a high school senior drops his Division II scholarship to carry Mace and handcuffs around a Target parking lot. <br />
<br />
What prompts that 19-year-old living with Mom and Dad to rise before dawn and punish his muscles and joints because, six months later, there's a 2 percent chance he'll win a walk-on spot at Nebraska. <br />
<br />
How this man, a husband with bad knees and tuition bills, returns to the practice field every day to watch hot-shot recruits steal his chance again and again. <br />
<br />
When precisely a Husker career destined to end quietly turned a corner. <br />
<br />
Where to start in telling Matt O'Hanlon's story. <br />
<br />
Yes, Andrew would know. Best friends are good at knowing that kind of thing. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b><big>Tryout</big></b> <br />
<br />
Maybe start here, in a northeast Ohio steel mill, where Matt O'Hanlon's father burned scrap metal. At 26, he decided he didn't want to grow old with a torch in his hand. <br />
<br />
So he joined the Air Force and became an intelligence officer. Moved the family to Denver, where Matt was born, then Germany, then Bellevue. <br />
<br />
He taught his son to chase what he wanted. Don't settle. <br />
<br />
Competitive drive? Matt had it from the day he put on a uniform. <br />
<br />
On the soccer field, he had a propensity to draw an official's red card. On the T-ball diamond, he once fielded a ball in the outfield and sprinted to home plate to tag out a runner. <br />
<br />
As a sophomore at Bellevue East, O'Hanlon started at quarterback against eventual state champ Millard West. On a third down, he kept the ball on a play called “6G Keep.” <br />
<br />
West's all-state lineman, Nick Leaders, flattened O'Hanlon before he could reach the marker. <br />
<br />
O'Hanlon staggered to the sideline and East coach Jerry Lovell checked on his quarterback. “He had snot bubbles running out his nose,” Lovell said. <br />
<br />
You OK? <br />
<br />
Uh-huh, O'Hanlon said. <br />
<br />
Well, what play do you want to run to start the next series? <br />
<br />
“6G Keep,” O'Hanlon said. He wanted another shot at Leaders. <br />
<br />
No, no, Lovell said, that's probably not a good idea. <br />
<br />
O'Hanlon planned to walk on at Nebraska, but Steve Pederson hired Bill Callahan midway through his senior year, and O'Hanlon didn't receive any attention from the new coaching staff. <br />
<br />
He reluctantly accepted a scholarship to South Dakota. A few weeks of fall camp crystallized what was in his gut: He was going to be a Husker whether they wanted him or not. So he packed his green Escort and headed home. <br />
<br />
“I just didn't want to go through my whole life with what-ifs.” <br />
<br />
That fall, as his friends started college, O'Hanlon was working 30 hours a week as a Target security guard. <br />
<br />
“I got to wear the whole outfit. I had my Mace, my handcuffs. Never got to use them, unfortunately.” <br />
<br />
At 5 a.m., he awoke daily to train. He polished his 40-yard dash and vertical jump. He waited. <br />
<br />
In January 2005, he enrolled at NU and inquired again about walking on. Assistant Scott Downing directed him to a tryout. O'Hanlon called every few days to double-check time and place. <br />
<br />
On a February night at Cook Pavilion, O'Hanlon got in line with 50 or 60 other wannabe Huskers. They were competing for one roster spot. <br />
<br />
He ran the 40-yard dash in 4.61 seconds. He finished a pro-agility drill in 3.91 seconds. He jumped vertically 38 inches. He walked away satisfied, but unsure. <br />
<br />
“I had put about six months of my life into a 20-minute tryout.” <br />
<br />
A week later, he was driving home from church when the call came. He walked in the house, concealed a grin and said to his family, “Well, I made it.” <br />
<br />
Not exactly. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b><big>Backyard ball</big></b> <br />
<br />
“When we first met, he didn't know how to tie his shoes,” Matt said. “He came over to me and asked me to tie his shoes. We just hit it off. <br />
<br />
“We were walking home that same day and just kept going the same direction. I was like, ‘Dude, you live right behind me.'” <br />
<br />
Only a chain-link fence separated them. <br />
<br />
Andrew's mom remembers on occasion looking out her back window and seeing a grade schooler hanging upside down. Climbing from yard to yard, one of the boys had gotten a foot stuck in the fence.<br />
Sometimes it was Matt, sometimes Andrew, sometimes you couldn't tell. <br />
<br />
When they weren't prying each other free, they were playing backyard football. <br />
<br />
“We'd play until the sun went down,” Matt said. Sometimes we'd play in the streetlights.” <br />
Andrew wanted to play for Florida State someday. Matt set his sights a little closer to home. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b><big>Scout team</big></b> <br />
<br />
He walked onto the Nebraska practice field in March 2005 and didn't know a soul. He didn't know the schemes or the coaches. And everybody was bigger and faster than he anticipated. <br />
<br />
What had he gotten himself into? <br />
<br />
That spring, he barely practiced. All that time. All that work. For what? To stand on the sideline for three hours and get two or three snaps? <br />
<br />
“I didn't know if it was something I wanted to do for the next five years.” <br />
<br />
O'Hanlon left the team for one day. He talked to Dad and future wife Abby. He decided to go back. Things didn't change much. <br />
<br />
Each time he worked his way up to third string, a new recruit jumped him. His role was “just scout (team) stuff. You just see where you're supposed to go from the arrows on the cards. I was just kind of a body out there moving around.” <br />
<br />
By the fall of 2007, Callahan's program was crumbling. So, too, was the will of a walk-on safety. O'Hanlon had made the kickoff teams, but he suffered from tendinitis in both knees. He'd go straight from the field to a half-hour ice bath every day. <br />
<br />
“I could barely walk after practices.” <br />
<br />
He told Andrew that he couldn't do another season under the same coaching staff. <br />
<br />
It was hard investing energy in conditioning and practice and meetings. But harder still to sit the bench believing that you were as good as the players on the field. <br />
<br />
It was time. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b><big>Taking a toll</big></b> <br />
<br />
In December 2002, Andrew went to the hospital with a nasty cold. <br />
<br />
The illness activated his immune system. Trouble was, his immune system didn't stop. It attacked his normal blood vessels, causing inflammation. <br />
<br />
Wegener's Disease ravaged his sinuses, his lungs, his kidneys. On Christmas Eve night, doctors told Andrew that he had to go into a drug-induced coma the next morning. <br />
<br />
Two weeks passed. He missed the holidays. Missed the bowl games. Missed the start of school. Missed the dozens of friends who stopped to see him. <br />
<br />
“It was hard,” Matt said. “He was just lying there.” <br />
<br />
When Andrew left the hospital in January, he had lost about 50 pounds. Slowly he gained strength. He rejoined the Bellevue East football team that fall; he was long snapper on a state playoff team. <br />
<br />
Of course, he missed a week to hobnob with Bobby Bowden, a gift from the Make-a-Wish foundation. <br />
<br />
The next two years, Andrew kept the disease under control with medication. He completed high school. He worked at the zoo. He took college classes. <br />
<br />
But his kidneys deteriorated. As Matt stewed over playing time, Andrew toted around a dialysis machine that did what his kidneys couldn't. <br />
<br />
Didn't stop him from sporting a tux for Matt's wedding in May 2007. Andrew was best man. He swallowed his Seminole allegiance and joined the groomsmen in donning Husker hats as they walked away from the altar to “Hail Varsity.” <br />
<br />
That fall, Andrew's spirit waned. He had goals, too, and they were feeling further and further away. <br />
<br />
“There were times when he'd call me and I could just tell by his voice he was just feeling terrible,” Matt said. <br />
<br />
The football season ended, Callahan was fired and Bo Pelini hired. Matt decided to stick around and see what the new guy was like. <br />
<br />
In January, Andrew got an infection in his left arm. On Wednesday, he went to the hospital with a high fever. <br />
<br />
Friday morning, the day before he turned 22, he died. <br />
<br />
Family and friends didn't get much out of Matt those next few weeks. Tom Osborne called to check in. So did Pelini. <br />
<br />
But Matt kept his grief inside — and his promise quiet. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b><big>Second wind</big></b> <br />
<br />
Every starting job was open, Pelini announced. Didn't matter if you were a four-year scholarship player or a first-year walk-on. <br />
<br />
Pelini was talking to a lot of people when he said it. He was talking to Matt O'Hanlon. <br />
<br />
When spring ball started the month after Andrew died, O'Hanlon actually got reps. He learned safety techniques he'd never been taught. He felt reinvigorated. <br />
<br />
He took another step after spring ball, when he had surgery on both knees, relieving his chronic pain. <br />
<br />
Tuesday before the season opener, Marvin Sanders named him starter at free safety. The same week, he learned he was eligible for 2009 — he never enrolled at South Dakota, so the NCAA didn't count 2004 against him. The next week, he got a scholarship. <br />
<br />
His first season as a starter came with adversity. He had never before played defense in a real game. He had a lot to learn. His education culminated in the last few plays of the Gator Bowl. <br />
<br />
What was he thinking on third-and-goal when he saw Clemson speedster C.J. Spiller streaking down the seam against linebacker Tyler Wortman with the Huskers leading 26-21 and two minutes left? <br />
<br />
“Oh sh--.” <br />
<br />
At the last moment, O'Hanlon knocked away the pass. He saved the game. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b><big>AP-24 </big></b><br />
<br />
Remnants of the past accompany him each day. On the back of his gold keychain, engraved is 2-20-05, the day he made the team. <br />
<br />
Most game days, O'Hanlon sticks eyeblack on his cheek. Under one eye, he writes in white marker “AP.” Under the other, Andrew Pawlak's football number, “24.” <br />
<br />
Growing up, Matt had another dream. This one, Andrew shared. The boys carried it through the high school hallways. They spoke of it often. <br />
<br />
They wanted to be teachers at Bellevue East. They wanted to coach football under the lights. <br />
<br />
Playing days are almost over now — only four months left in an odyssey that started in a Bellevue backyard. <br />
<br />
But a silent vow to an old friend endures. <br />
<br />
Keep going.Dirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3685951597002236538.post-75740215400724644242011-07-06T09:09:00.000-07:002011-09-05T19:57:38.918-07:00The Legend of Bubba<em>(Published December 2010)</em><br />
<br />
<br />
The stories rolled across the Kansas prairie like a summer thunderstorm. <br />
<br />
At first, they sounded like tall tales. Concocted in some Main Street coffee shop. But they kept coming.<br />
<br />
Could it be true? <br />
<br />
That a small-town boy with a name straight out of American folklore bounced off a gymnasium floor, caught an errant pass, turned 180 degrees in the air as he got fouled and dunked the ball over his head. <br />
<br />
That his baseball coach made him use a wood bat at practice so he wouldn't blast the elementary school parking lot beyond the left field wall. “You don't wanna kill somebody,” the coach said. <br />
<br />
That his own football coaches routinely gathered before each game to predict how many plays it would take him to score. Usually, one. He'd cross the goal line and point at his 98-year-old great grandmother. <br />
<br />
Kansans young and old call Bubba Starling the greatest high school athlete they've ever seen. A major conference Division I athlete in three sports — if he wanted to be. A 6-foot-5, 200-pound winning lottery ticket. You simply do not find 18-year-olds with his combination of size and speed. <br />
<br />
As word spreads, autograph requests from Vermont to California hit Bubba's mailbox — “Sign here, please.” Strangers who haven't seen a high school game in years show up to study his every move, wondering what the folk hero does next. <br />
<br />
But this was McPherson, Kan., an old railroad hub 160 miles from the legend's origin. And before that October night, few in McPherson had ever seen Bubba. <br />
<br />
Starling's team, Gardner-Edgerton, was No. 1 in the state's second largest class. McPherson was No. 3. Both were undefeated. The bleachers were full. <br />
<br />
A McPherson sportswriter, 36 years in the pressbox, calls it the greatest game he's ever seen, featuring the greatest player he's ever seen. <br />
<br />
Final score: 49-42. Bubba's team got the ball seven times. It scored seven touchdowns. He finished with 273 rushing yards, 118 passing yards and five scores. <br />
<br />
Time and time again, defenders had Bubba's jersey in their hands, only to watch him break free. By the second half, McPherson fans were calling third down “Bubba time.” <br />
<br />
There's one play they remember most. <br />
<br />
Starling took a shotgun snap, rolled left when he found nobody open, almost got sacked, danced a little farther left, got cornered on the sideline by five McPherson defenders, stiff-armed one, looped 15 yards into the backfield to avoid the other four, turned the corner, started running downhill toward the goal line, cut back to the left, broke three more tackles, ran out of fuel at the 10-yard line and got dragged down. <br />
<br />
The play gained only 30 yards, but it lasted 19 seconds. If only the quarterback would've cut toward the right sideline, he probably would've scored. <br />
<br />
“I know,” Bubba says with not a hint of sarcasm. “What was I thinkin'?” <br />
<br />
Better question: What was Bo Pelini thinking? The Nebraska coach was in McPherson that night, along with his offensive coordinator, Shawn Watson, and Husker baseball coach Mike Anderson. <br />
<br />
Bubba Starling has committed to play quarterback in Lincoln in 2011. And if you listen to the people who've seen Bubba play, he has a chance to be the next Tim Tebow or Vince Young. The difference between 10-3 and 13-0. <br />
<br />
Just one problem. <br />
<br />
Bubba Starling is the nation's top high school baseball prospect, according to Baseball America. A potentially rare five-tool center fielder. And if you listen to the people who've seen him play, he has a chance to be the next Josh Hamilton or Carl Crawford. The difference between winning pennants and taking October vacations. <br />
<br />
So there's a drama brewing. Chances are, it'll go something like this: <br />
<br />
In January, Bubba will play in the U.S. Army All-American Bowl in San Antonio, his first taste of all-star football. <br />
<br />
In February, he will sign a national letter of intent to play for Nebraska. <br />
<br />
In March, he will make another run at a state basketball championship. <br />
<br />
In April, dozens of baseball scouts will tote their radar guns and clipboards to every game Bubba plays. They'll study his reaction to a called third strike. They'll note whether he runs out a ground ball. They'll look for the tiniest flaws in his swing. <br />
<br />
In May, Bubba will graduate from Gardner-Edgerton High School, leave the only town in which he's ever lived, move three hours north, start summer classes and work out with the Huskers. <br />
<br />
In June, he will be drafted by a major league baseball team, almost surely in the first round. <br />
<br />
In July, the kid who hasn't gone more than a week without organized sports since elementary school will return home to his dogs and his dock. For a few days, he'll embrace the sound of silence. <br />
<br />
Then in August, after starting preseason practice with the Huskers and wearing a red jersey to fan day, he will hole up with his parents in some Lincoln hotel room. <br />
<br />
Aug. 15 is the deadline for major league teams to sign a drafted player. <br />
<br />
If Bubba declines to sign, he'll suspend pro baseball for three years and focus on college football and college baseball. <br />
<br />
As the midnight deadline approaches, Starling's agent, the famous Scott Boras, will use every bargaining chip he knows to secure a signing bonus close to $10 million. No way Bubba gets offered less than $5 million, experts say. <br />
<br />
On one phone line, Bubba will have a general manager twisting his arm to give up college for a shot at the big leagues. <br />
<br />
“And then I'm going to have Pelini and Watson telling me they really want me to stick with football,” Bubba says. <br />
<br />
“It's going to be crazy.” <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b style="font-size: 14px;">Aura of Bubba</b> <br />
<br />
Yes, you've heard it all before. <br />
<br />
You're numb to the hype. Sick of superlatives. <br />
<br />
How many times have you read an article about a wunderkind who was going to be a star? And then wasn't. <br />
<br />
You have every right to stop reading right now, because this story starts like so many before it. <br />
<br />
But something strange is happening south of the state line. Why else would all these grown men start babbling like teenage girls at a Jonas Brothers concert? <br />
<br />
“I have seen the future star of American sports, and his name is Bubba.” That's from a New York columnist who watched Starling play a few baseball games this past summer. <br />
<br />
A former big leaguer, Brian McRae, says, “You don't see a guy that big run that fast and be that athletic. And he's got a lot of room to grow. Projecting where he's going to be when he's 22, 23 years old, it's kind of scary.” <br />
<br />
An ESPN recruiting expert says, “He really gives you hope again about today's youth, because you hear all these stories about kids getting into trouble and it's so few times where you have a guy like Bubba Starling where everything is so special about him.” <br />
<br />
The legend begins when Derek Starling leaves the womb weighing 10 pounds. His aunt sees his chubby little legs and stamps him with a nickname. <br />
<br />
In first grade, his teacher asks what he wants her to call him. He weighs the pros and cons in his mind. The nickname, he decides, fit his ornery personality better. <br />
<br />
Each day after school, his grandma picks him up and drops him off at the ballpark, where he's bat boy for the Gardner-Edgerton Blazers. <br />
<br />
Bubba dreams of eating up fly balls like Jim Edmonds. He dreams of hitting laser beams to all fields like Joe Mauer. The images come mostly from his imagination — his family won't get cable TV until he's 17. No video games, either. <br />
<br />
“If you want something to do,” his father, Jim, says, “go out and find a ball. Or I'll find something for you to do.” <br />
<br />
Those early summers, he plays on a coach-pitch team. Friends celebrate when they get a single. Not Bubba. He makes a habit out of inside-the-park homers. The third or fourth at-bat of every game, he switches to the left side and damned if he doesn't smash another. <br />
<br />
The competition in his small town is too easy, so he joins a traveling team in Kansas City. Of course, he isn't going to give up his other sports. One day he tells his coach, former Kansas City Royals catcher Mike Macfarlane, he's going to be late to practice because of a basketball game. <br />
<br />
Coach Mac jokes, “Don't even bother showing up unless you score 40.” <br />
<br />
The final horn sounds, Bubba looks at the stat sheet and, Yes! Forty on the nose. <br />
<br />
His freshman and sophomore years, he leads Gardner-Edgerton's varsity basketball team in scoring. He averages about 18 points, 10 rebounds and two dunks. (He has a chance this winter to break school records for career points and rebounds.) <br />
<br />
“He just has an aura about him,” said basketball coach Jeff Langrehr. “You can feel it when you walk into the gym. The whole gym is looking at him and whispering, ‘That's Bubba Starling.' ” <br />
<br />
If he wanted to play college basketball, Kansans say, the best coaches in the country would gift-wrap a scholarship. But if you think he should play for Bill Self or Frank Martin, you haven't seen him on a diamond. <br />
<br />
As a freshman, he's topping 90 mph on the mound, even though his coach calls his mechanics “horrible.” He throws a perfect game: six innings, 15 strikeouts. <br />
<br />
Sophomore year, with the temperature barely above freezing, he starts the season with back-to-back homers. <br />
<br />
“Add them to together,” coach Jerald Van Rheen says, “and it was really close to 1,000 feet. He just hit the crap out of both of 'em.” <br />
<br />
Bombs like those prompt Van Rheen to institute a wood-bat-only rule for batting practice to protect the kids walking out of Madison Elementary. <br />
<br />
A year later, Bubba is late joining the baseball team because of basketball. After just two bullpen sessions and a handful of practices, Van Rheen puts him on the mound in the season opener. The scouts in attendance “were foaming at the mouth wanting to see him throw.” <br />
<br />
Bubba pitches one inning. Throws 11 pitches. Hits 95 on the radar guns. <br />
<br />
A few weeks later, Bubba's standing in the left-center gap when a power hitter crushes a ball to right-center. Bubba takes off, covers 40 yards, leaps off one foot at the warning track and snatches the ball before it clears the chain-link outfield wall. <br />
<br />
Sitting in the stands is an old doctor who played against Nolan Cromwell in high school. For 35 years, Brian Sorell believed Cromwell, a world-class hurdler and former NFL All-Pro, was the best high school athlete he'd seen in Kansas. Until now. <br />
<br />
Baseball. Center field. This was Bubba's calling. He knew it. Everyone knew it. <br />
<br />
Then something unexpected happens. Bubba turns into a football player. As a junior, he makes defenses look silly, leading the Blazers to the state championship game. <br />
<br />
He can vertical jump 34½ inches. He can run a 40-yard dash, electronically timed, in 4.36 seconds. He can throw a football 55 yards with two knees on the ground — and 80 yards from two feet. But no number describes his greatest asset. <br />
<br />
He'd rather be hurt than be a loser. <br />
<br />
When his junior season ends, assistant coaches from the top football programs in America pack his voicemail like an undersized suitcase. <br />
<br />
Alabama. Oklahoma. Notre Dame. Miami. <br />
<br />
Bo Pelini's no-nonsense style suits Starling's values. His mom works at school as a secretary and one teacher says, “If he got out of line, she'd beat his butt.” <br />
<br />
Pelini and Mike Anderson get together and make a pitch: Bubba can play both football and baseball, sure. He commits. <br />
<br />
“You could make all the promises about playing both sports in college and he could say all the right things,” said ESPN recruiting analyst Jeremy Crabtree. “But everybody knew that the big elephant in the room was baseball.” <br />
<br />
Then the elephant grows. <br />
<br />
In June, Starling makes the Under-18 national team. But just barely. Twenty players make the cut. According to a coach, Bubba is No. 18 or 19. <br />
<br />
Then he starts hitting. He moves from the bottom of the order to the heart of the order. He stretches doubles into stand-up triples. He shows scouts and coaches what he can do when he focuses on baseball. <br />
<br />
There are six future first-round picks on the team, Team USA hitting coach Brian McRae says. Kids who'd grown up in Florida and California playing year-round. By summer's end, McRae says, the three-sport athlete from the prairie is as good as or better than all of them. <br />
<br />
Bubba becomes a national hit — just in time for his senior year of football. <br />
<br />
He'll finish the season with 2,417 rushing yards and 31 touchdowns, averaging 14 yards per carry. <br />
In October, a week after his 391 total yards at McPherson, Bubba travels to Lincoln for a Nebraska game. Gets goosebumps on the sideline. He comes home and tells a teacher, “I know I can play there.” <br />
<br />
“It's such a different level of competition,” Bubba says, “but I felt like I could easily see myself playing right now or playing next year on that same field and doing as good as them. If not better.” <br />
<br />
A week later, ESPNU brings the big cameras to Gardner. <br />
<br />
Against rival St. Thomas Aquinas, Bubba runs for 309 yards on 19 carries. In the third quarter, he absorbs blatantly late hits on back-to-back plays. When Gardner-Edgerton scores again to go up 48-17, Starling starts jawing. He points at the scoreboard and draws a penalty. <br />
<br />
“I just wanted to say some (expletive) to them,” Bubba says. “We don't like each other, us and Aquinas. We do not like each other at all.” <br />
<br />
In November, Gardner-Edgerton meets Blue Valley in a state semifinal. Jeremy Crabtree goes to watch. <br />
<br />
Crabtree, 36, is a Kansas native and one of the nation's most prominent recruiting insiders. He's evaluated hundreds of high school studs you've never heard of — and a few you have. <br />
<br />
Adrian Peterson. Vince Young. Mark Sanchez. No one, Crabtree says, has dominated more than Bubba. <br />
<br />
“He dictates what happens on every single snap. You can put all 11 guys in the box, but you're not going to stop him.” <br />
<br />
That night, he fights calf cramps. He needs an inhaler on the sideline. But the Blue Valley fans cheer when Bubba is tackled after 8- and 9-yard gains. He rushes for 395 yards. It's not enough. Gardner-Edgerton loses, 45-42. <br />
<br />
As he walks off the field, it's hard not to wonder: Has Bubba Starling played his last meaningful football game? <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b style="font-size: 14px;">What's he going to do?</b> <br />
<br />
Last week, Bubba's baseball coach received an e-mail request from a prep school basketball coach in Wisconsin. The man has two sons and they want Bubba's autograph. <br />
<br />
Wednesday, he went Christmas shopping in his letter jacket. Two women approached him. <br />
<br />
“You're Bubba!” one said. <br />
<br />
Then she asked Bubba to sign the back of a blank check. <br />
<br />
Gardner, 30 miles southwest of downtown Kansas City, had about 3,000 residents when Bubba was born. But Kansas City keeps moving south. Now the number is approaching 20,000. <br />
<br />
It still feels like a small town. And small towns don't always cherish their star athletes, football coach Marvin Diener says. <br />
<br />
“A lot of times, people like to see those guys slip and fall. That's not the case here.” <br />
<br />
One teacher recalls receiving a phone call from Bubba at 11 p.m. after a football game. He'd just opened his ACT results and wanted to share the good news. <br />
<br />
Another teacher recalls taking his 8-year-old son to a football practice. Bubba sneaked away from the team to play catch with the kid. <br />
<br />
Three weeks ago, Gardner-Edgerton's student body surprised Bubba with a pep rally when he was named Kansas City's best football player. In his speech, he recognized his 98-year-old great-grandma who rarely missed a game (she passed away last week). <br />
<br />
Two weeks ago, Bubba heard about a girl in the hospital who'd been in a car accident. Her sister had died. Her mother, who worked at Gardner-Edgerton, was in a different hospital. Someone told Bubba after a Friday night basketball game that the girl wanted to see him. <br />
<br />
The next morning, he skipped practice, went to the hospital and held her hand. <br />
<br />
Bubba knows everyone's watching him. He can handle expectations. But the fanfare wears on him. <br />
He recently changed his cell phone number to get a little more quiet time. <br />
<br />
His father, Jim, says a Nebraska website recently misquoted Bubba talking about the draft. Persuading the Starlings to accept an interview for this article was not easy. <br />
<br />
When somebody in Gardner suggests they know his future plans, Bubba rages like he did after those cheap shots from St. Thomas Aquinas. <br />
<br />
“They say, ‘Yeah, he's going straight to the draft. He's taking the money.' They have no clue what I'm doing. I don't <i>know</i> what I'm doing yet.” <br />
<br />
Bubba is very close to Shawn Watson and talks to him about once a week. He sighed relief when Watson didn't get the head coaching job at Vanderbilt. And again when Pelini didn't go to Miami. <br />
Bubba considers himself a Husker. <br />
<br />
But the future is hazy, and Bubba knows it. Part of him wants to hide out for a few months, not play a sport at all, wait out the storm. <br />
<br />
There's a perfect spot a few miles west of Gardner, where you can turn toward the setting sun and see nothing but open fields. <br />
<br />
An acreage where the Starlings moved when Bubba was 6. One of the main selling points was a pond a couple hundred yards from the back door. <br />
<br />
A dock marks the west side, reaching 15 feet into the water. <br />
<br />
When Bubba was 10, he and his cousins built a ramp at the end of the dock. They rode their bikes off the edge and made a splash. <br />
<br />
He's not that young anymore. In the summer, he sits on that dock with his dogs, Tex and Bo. He sticks his feet in the water and casts a line. <br />
<br />
“I just like to get away.” <br />
<br />
Soon after the family moved in, they stocked the pond with small catfish from nearby lakes. Then a friend brought over a 20-pound flathead. The last decade, Bubba hunted that fish. <br />
<br />
Then last summer, he'd just come home from a baseball game when he saw his bobber — a milk jug — submerge. <br />
<br />
This is the big one, he thought. Could it be true? <br />
<br />
He reeled it in and, Yes! Forty pounds. <br />
<br />
Bubba remembers another night last summer, too. His uncle pulled up to the pond, beer in hand. They started talking baseball. <br />
<br />
Uncle Gary said, “Man, what would you do with all that money?” <br />
<br />
Bubba Starling had thought about it too many nights to count. He thought about it when fish were biting. He thought about it when fish were sleeping. He thought about it as cicadas sang lullabies under starlit skies. <br />
<br />
Months have since passed. The seasons changed and the temperature dropped and the pond froze over. <br />
<br />
But legend has it that an 18-year-old boy is still sitting on that dock, two dogs and a fishing pole at his side, watching the city lights creep closer. <br />
<br />
Wondering what a folk hero does next.Dirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3685951597002236538.post-35447020876266237562011-07-06T07:25:00.000-07:002011-09-05T19:58:18.299-07:00The Barber<span id="Zedo-Ad=980292_34_1_1_1;Domain=.zedo.com"></span><br />
<div class="mainStoryRightContent"></div><em>(Published January 2011)</em><br />
<br />
<br />
AUBURN, Neb. — On a Thursday in November, at a nursing home just before dawn, a 97-year-old man took his last breath.<br />
<br />
Elly Ingersoll hunted pheasants and chased golf balls. He loved Lawrence Welk and Golden Gloves. Before dinner, he drank a vodka and Coke.<br />
<br />
For 68 years he cut hair on the same block downtown. Businesses came and left. Faces and names changed. But hair keeps growing.<br />
<br />
<i>Start with the clippers. Outline around the ears. Taper it up. Scissors the top. Kick 'em out. </i><br />
<br />
Five steps, 15 minutes. But that's not why they came from all over southeast Nebraska to the shoebox of a shop in a 19th-century brick building.<br />
<br />
They came for the Ingersoll shortcuts.<br />
<br />
The unwritten tufts of wisdom. The unspoken clumps of truth. The strands that bind fathers and sons.<br />
Elly didn't have brothers or sisters. His wife, his dogs and his job were long gone.<br />
<br />
But there <i>was</i> someone sitting beside him that Thursday morning. His business partner, his only child, the boy who followed Elly from the fields of Nemaha County to the islands of the Pacific Ocean and, finally, to the smallest storefront window at the busiest intersection in Auburn.<br />
<br />
The next morning, just before Friday dawn, Joe Ingersoll climbed on his motorcycle and rode three cold miles. He unlocked the shop door and flipped the sign in the window.<br />
<br />
“Open.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Ingersoll shortcut: Predictability pays </i><br />
<br />
<i>Elly lived four blocks west of the shop. Walked up the hill to work, then back home for lunch. Up the hill in the afternoon, down at day's end, into the setting sun. </i><br />
<br />
<i>People drove by and offered rides. No, thanks.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Winter came and the weather turned cold, but he showed up at 8 on the dot and left at 5:30. Home only on Sundays.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Remember, every time a customer sees a “closed” sign, he looks for another barber.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Saturday morning in December. Bright and brisk.<br />
<br />
The shop door opens at 8:04 and the day's first customer discards his coat and plops down in the lone barber chair.<br />
<br />
Joe spins him toward a 3-by-5-foot photo of a pheasant hunter on the south wall. 1963.<br />
That's when Elly moved in and the photo went up. Same for the mirrors, cabinets and lights, even the hydraulic chair.<br />
<br />
Nothing has been replaced. Everything still works.<br />
<br />
No phone — walk-ins only.<br />
<br />
No women — too picky.<br />
<br />
There's a milk-house heater on the floor, a 20-inch TV in the corner, combs and brushes for sale on a shelf, starting at 50 cents.<br />
<br />
After each cut, Joe squeezes the used neck strip into a ball and puts it in a plastic container. At day's end, take the number of neck strips times $11.<br />
<br />
“That's bookkeeping.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Ingersoll shortcut: Don't talk money</i><br />
<br />
<i>A fella asked Elly how many heads come through the shop each day. Twenty? Thirty?</i><br />
<br />
<i>“Why?” Elly fired back. “You work for the IRS?”</i><br />
<br />
<i>When a customer who headed for the door forgot to pay, he used another trick. </i><br />
<br />
<i>“Hey, I think you forgot your change.”</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Outside, trucks rumble. Listen close and a bell rings at the drugstore.<br />
<br />
Joe dishes on the shake-up at the Police Department; three cops got fired. On the Christmas program at school; Joe's got two grandkids. On hunting season; Joe likes to shoot birds, but he's too soft for deer.<br />
<br />
He offers suckers to two kids. “You know where they're at,” he tells a boy in boots.<br />
<br />
Black-and-white photos adorn the walls. Grand Central Hotel in 1898. Downtown Auburn in the <i>'</i>20s, with Model A's lined up on the barbershop's street.<br />
<br />
Old motorcycle photos are Joe's favorites. Customers bring 'em as gifts.<br />
<br />
Joe has four bikes. His 500 Honda Shadow is a second barber pole. See it out front, you know he's here.<br />
<br />
By 11 a.m., the linoleum floor looks like a calico cat, a medley of black and blond and brown and gray. A lot of gray.<br />
<br />
Customers line up five deep, waiting more than a half-hour.<br />
<br />
“You're next,” Joe says.<br />
<br />
A man with thick salt and pepper on top sits in the chair and describes what he wants.<br />
<br />
Dead giveaway. He's new in town.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Ingersoll shortcut: Go the extra 10 blocks for the customer </i><br />
<br />
<i>Some nights Elly and Joe took their clippers and scissors to the hospital, some nights to the nursing home. Occasionally the mortuary.</i><br />
<br />
<i>One Saturday, Joe was at the shop when he heard a crash. He ran outside to an 85-year-old customer on the ground next to his walker. Joe skinned him off the pavement. Helped him back to his car.</i><br />
<br />
<i>“I'll come by your house after work, and we can do it there.” </i><br />
<br />
<br />
1922. That's when “Ingersoll Barber Shop” first appeared on a sign downtown.<br />
<br />
Maurice Ingersoll started it.<br />
<br />
His only child, Elly, joined him in '33. Competed with 17 barbers in town. Charged 35 cents a haircut, a dime a shave. In June 1943, Elly went to war. He cut hair on a ship in the Pacific.<br />
<br />
He came home to the barber boom: Postwar America liked its hair short. Elly gave 'em their money's worth. High and tight.<br />
<br />
He juggled long days at the shop with his new boy at home. Joe was Nemaha County's first baby of 1947.<br />
<br />
Joe didn't see Elly much in those days, especially on Saturdays.<br />
<br />
That was social night. Farmers came to town to sell eggs and cream and eat popcorn across the street from Elly's shop. Sometimes he cut hair <i>'</i>til midnight.<br />
<br />
Joe remembers one vacation — a trip to Colorado in a '52 Chevy.<br />
<br />
The old man sure was snug with a buck. He'd sooner miss a meal than eat at a restaurant.<br />
<br />
But Elly and his wife, Babe, caught every big band performance at the Eagles Club. Lawrence Welk's band came to Talmage, and the couple didn't miss a song.<br />
<br />
On Sundays, Elly, Joe and the German shorthairs jumped in a '64 Chevy pickup and went hunting.<br />
They hit the Golden Gloves in Omaha — Joe Tess' to eat fish, then to the fights. Fifty years straight.<br />
Business slowed in the <i>'</i>60s. Damn the Beatles and their long hair. A lot of shops closed.<br />
<br />
“We <i>'</i>bout starved to death,” Joe says.<br />
<br />
Elly moved a few times but didn't lose his job. He never even left the block.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Ingersoll shortcut: Or go the extra 10,000 miles </i><br />
<br />
<i>An Auburn soldier in Iraq received a care package stocked with beef jerky. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Adam Wenzl dug a little more and found a bottle of Kessler whiskey. Wenzl shared with his friends, then wrote a thank-you note home. </i><br />
<br />
<i>His unit, Wenzl wrote, had voted Joe Ingersoll the best barber in Nebraska. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
Elly was bugging Joe that summer of 1968. Join the Navy. Better than being on the front lines in a jungle.<br />
<br />
Finally, Joe gave in. He drove to Omaha and enlisted. He came home and opened the mail to find his draft notice.<br />
<br />
He spent a few months in the Gulf of Tonkin, cutting 40 to 50 heads a day. He never set foot in Vietnam.<br />
<br />
Joe wasn't much of a sailor. His best friend, Doug Boldt, cut hair in the same barbershop on the USS Arlington.<br />
<br />
Doug remembers Joe ducking a brawl one night in Guam because, as he put it, “I'm a lover, not a fighter.” He recalls Joe getting misty in his barber chair reading “Where the Red Fern Grows.”<br />
<br />
“Lifer,” Doug called him, because Joe was anything but.<br />
<br />
“Boar-ass,” Joe fired back, because, well, Doug liked to eat.<br />
<br />
In December '70, Joe came home. He walked into Elly's shop wearing scruffy sideburns. When he walked out, they were on the floor.<br />
<br />
“Dad put the whitewalls on me.”<br />
<br />
Joe took over the shop's second chair, but picking up clients wasn't easy. Elly knew what they liked. Joe didn't dare ask a customer for direction.<br />
<br />
So when a regular sat down, Elly flashed signals to help.<br />
<br />
One finger for the No. 1 guard. Two fingers for the No. 2.<br />
<br />
At 65, Elly retired to give Joe most of the work. Elly went out to the golf course. Three days later, Joe walked in the shop and Elly was cutting hair.<br />
<br />
“What the hell are you doing?” Joe said.<br />
<br />
So much for retirement. Elly worked another 23 years.<br />
<br />
But slowly, the son took over.<br />
<br />
He learned to shoot the breeze. Memorize names, where a customer lives and where his kids go to school. Some nights Joe got home and felt more like petting the dog than talking to his wife and daughter.<br />
<br />
He learned to perform through adversity. There used to be apartments above the shop. Occasionally a toilet flushed and dripped on Joe's bald head. “It wasn't near as funny then,” he says.<br />
<br />
He learned to deal with weirdos. Like the guy who hadn't seen a barber in 18 years. He walked out with a big plastic bag full of hair.<br />
<br />
He learned to welcome new faces. Like the day a boy hopped up in Joe's chair, the same place his great-great-grandfather once sat. Five generations.<br />
<br />
He learned to appreciate old faces. One guy told the best hunting stories. Joe went out and bought a tape recorder, stuck it under his chair and asked for his greatest hits.<br />
<br />
The guy died a few years ago. Every once in a while, Joe finds the recorder and pushes “play.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Ingersoll shortcut: Bite your tongue </i><br />
<br />
<i>In 68 years, Elly never ran anyone out of the chair. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Not worth it in a small town. About the time you make an enemy, you're sitting next to him at the firemen's social.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Most of the time, Joe listened to his dad.</i><br />
<br />
<i>One time a husband came in with his wife. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Joe pulled out the clippers and outlined around the ear. The wife started pacing, sighing and groaning each time a hair hit the floor. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Finally, Joe had heard enough.</i><br />
<br />
<i>“I grabbed the cloth off the guy and said ‘Hit the road.'” </i><br />
<br />
<i>We will not recommend you to any of our friends, the woman declared.</i><br />
<br />
<i>“If they're all like you,” Joe said, “I don't want 'em.”</i><br />
<br />
<br />
When Elly started, customers were talking about the New Deal. When he finished, they were talking about the new millennium.<br />
<br />
Downtown changed. Stores started closing early on Saturday.<br />
<br />
The industry changed. Fathers don't take their boys to barbers anymore. Mothers take their boys to beauticians.<br />
<br />
About that time, Elly likely hit a milestone. Do the math: 25 heads a day, 300 days a year, 68 years. That's just north of half a million haircuts.<br />
<br />
In 2001, Elly was closing in on 88. He started working just two days a week.<br />
<br />
One Saturday he walked into the shop to find a customer in Joe's chair, and another five or six waiting.<br />
<br />
Who's next, Elly asked.<br />
<br />
“I'm gonna wait for Joe,” said the man in the first chair.<br />
<br />
Elly looked at the second man. Waiting for Joe, he said.<br />
<br />
Elly went down the line and each young face said the same thing. He walked past his empty barber chair, went into the backroom and took off his smock.<br />
<br />
“Guess you don't need me anymore,” he told his son.<br />
<br />
And he walked out the door.<br />
<br />
Without the shop and without Babe, who died the same year, Elly found a new routine.<br />
<br />
He drove his white Park Avenue to Casey's for coffee and doughnuts. At 1 p.m. he walked to the first tee at Auburn Country Club. He liked to fish balls out of the lake. Golfers worried he'd fall in and drown.<br />
<br />
Every night Joe finished at the shop and stopped by the house. He fixed Elly's dinner, paid his bills, mowed his yard, gave him a trim once a month. No one cut Elly's hair but Joe.<br />
<br />
Last winter, Elly ventured out and got stuck in a snowdrift. He got a room at the nursing home.<br />
<br />
In October, 60 years after Elly and Babe and a 3-year-old boy moved into a new house, Joe sold it. He didn't tell Dad.<br />
<br />
One night at the nursing home, Elly fell. Broke his hip. He took more pills the last three weeks of his life than he did his first 96 years.<br />
<br />
The first Wednesday of November, Joe closed the shop. He walked into Dad's room at 10 a.m.<br />
<br />
He sat in the recliner next to the bed. All day. All night. Into Thursday morning.<br />
<br />
<i>2 a.m.</i> Elly labored to breathe.<br />
<br />
<i>3 a.m.</i> Joe held his hand.<br />
<br />
<i>4 a.m.</i> I love you, Joe said. “I probably hadn't ever told him.”<br />
<br />
<i>5 a.m.</i> Elly was gone.<br />
<br />
But hair keeps growing. And the next day, just before dawn, Joe went to work.<br />
<br />
<i>Start with the clippers. Outline around the ears. Taper it up. Scissors the top. Kick 'em out.</i><br />
<br />
Sunday afternoon, a table at the visitation displayed Elly's old razors and shavers. “In the Mood” bounced off the chapel walls.<br />
<br />
Monday morning, Joe put on his only suit. At the chapel there was barely an empty seat. Joe sat front row. Two old friends sang “How Great Thou Art.”<br />
<br />
At Sheridan Cemetery, sunshine hit the fallen leaves, a medley of brown and blond and red.<br />
<br />
At the minister's cue, Joe's old partner on the USS Arlington fulfilled his duty. He walked to Joe holding a folded piece of fabric.<br />
<br />
“For Elly's service to his country in World War II, the United States government and a grateful nation present to you the flag for which our comrade served.”<br />
<br />
Then he saluted Elly Ingersoll's only son.<br />
<br />
When it was over, after the tears had dried and the crowd had gone home and the light started fading, Joe turned to his old shipmate, who drove five hours to the funeral.<br />
<br />
“Well, we didn't do too bad, did we, Boar-ass.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Ingersoll shortcut: Sometimes hair can wait</i><br />
<br />
<i>Joe used to work six days, like his dad. Not worth it. On Mondays and on Saturday afternoons, now he schedules grandkids.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Elly spent too many days in that shop, he says. He missed too much.</i><br />
<br />
<i>“But that's just the way that generation worked. Every buck counted.” </i><br />
<br />
<i>A few weeks after the funeral, Joe didn't show up for work. One day, then the next.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Down at Darling's Cafe, a rumor started: He had called it quits. Locked up for good. </i><br />
<br />
<i>When Joe came home from his hunting trip, he started getting questions. </i><br />
<br />
<i>“Kinda ticked me off.”</i><br />
<br />
<i>He found the source of the rumor and straightened him out. </i><br />
<br />
<i>When he retires, he'll let you know.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Joe pulls the apron off of a middle-age man, and thick brown tufts fall to the floor. The day's last customer hands him a check.<br />
<br />
Joe balls up the neck strip and puts it in the bowl. One for each head. Times 11. Open the cabinet. Write the total in a pocket notebook.<br />
<br />
Into his dustpan he gathers strands of Auburn. Dumps them in the garbage can.<br />
<br />
Off goes the smock, on goes a jacket and camouflage hat. He changes shoes and pours out his cold coffee.<br />
<br />
As he walks to the door, he tugs one light string, then another, then a third. Dark.<br />
<br />
He flips the sign on the window. “Closed.”<br />
<br />
He locks the door behind him. 5:01 p.m.<br />
<br />
Winter's coming and the weather's turning cold.<br />
<br />
He straps on his helmet and climbs on his bike, turning right at the light and accelerating down the hill.<br />
<br />
Dad's road home.Dirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3685951597002236538.post-20202317348262336512011-07-05T18:57:00.000-07:002011-09-05T19:58:53.568-07:00The Other Kiffin<em>(Published July 2009)</em><br />
<br />
<br />
The garage door opens at 5:15 a.m., and Chris Kiffin steers his Lincoln Aviator north toward Highway 2 and Memorial Stadium.<br />
<br />
At this time of day, the summer sun is still sleeping, the air is still cool. At this time of day, there isn't much competition for the road. He can cover the nine miles in 13 minutes — “I've got all the lights figured out.”<br />
<br />
<i>Over the railroad tracks and left on green.</i><br />
<br />
He's 27. He's a paid coaching intern for Bo Pelini's football program. He's brother to Lane Kiffin, the publicity magnet at Tennessee, and youngest son of Monte Kiffin, one of the finest defensive minds the NFL has ever produced.<br />
<br />
Chris is just a wee bit less famous. But he has spent most of his life on the football fast track. He's got a story for every stop.<br />
<br />
At 7, his dad came home with a surprise. C'mon. Lane and Chris jumped in the car, and Monte drove them to a hotel. They sneaked in a back door as Herschel Walker — Herschel Walker! — was breezing through his first press conference with the Minnesota media. The Cowboys fleeced the Vikings on the trade, but Chris got a new favorite player.<br />
<br />
<i>By the old apartment complex on his left.</i><br />
<br />
In high school, one of his unofficial duties as a ball boy in Tampa was signing some of Warren Sapp's fan mail. Big W, big S, big 99. “I had it down pat,” Chris said. In exchange, Sapp ordered Nike warmup outfits for him.<br />
<br />
<i>Past the spot where the old diner used to be.</i><br />
<br />
In college, he spent summers at USC during the Trojans' span of 45 wins in 46 games. He was living with Lane, working out with Matt Leinart and Reggie Bush, observing staff meetings and film sessions. He played pick-up basketball with Pete Carroll and his assistants.<br />
<br />
“He gets those head coach's calls, just like Bo does here,” Chris said.<br />
<br />
Fast track? Shoot, the youngest Kiffin had seen more football before his 24th birthday than most coaches see before their retirement parties.<br />
<br />
Then, just as he was getting a chance to show it, he slipped. One night of partying in Tampa three years ago altered his course.<br />
<br />
As 31-year-old Lane was riding the Trojan horse to an NFL head coaching job, Chris was trying to figure out how to defeat a foe that had nothing to do with football.<br />
<br />
In the end, an underdog team of 10-year-olds gave him a lift.<br />
<br />
Now he's here, pulling into the parking lot at Memorial Stadium for players' 6 a.m. workouts, which he helps oversee. That's part of a job devoid of glamour.<br />
<br />
Summer camps for high school kids. Conditioning runs. Position drills. Transferring game plans to the playbook.<br />
<br />
Defense has always been his thing, but at Nebraska he works with the running backs. NU has four interns, in addition to two graduate assistants. They don't say much, but they're always around.<br />
<br />
Chris knows the scene. He was born in Raleigh, N.C., during the only head coaching stint of his dad's career. Monte got fired before Chris' first birthday, and the first moving truck arrived.<br />
<br />
On to Buffalo, then Green Bay — “I don't know if that's the right order,” Chris said.<br />
<br />
Then Minnesota, where Chris cheered from the seats as the Twins won the World Series in 1987. He had birthday parties on the Metrodome turf.<br />
<br />
To New York, where he remembers rats in the house.<br />
<br />
Back to Minnesota and another World Series. The Twin Cities felt like home, so the next move, in 1996, was hardest.<br />
<br />
Tampa.<br />
<br />
Chris showed up before his freshman year of high school. Monte interviewed prospective high school coaches.<br />
<br />
“I didn't really have a choice where I was going,” Chris said.<br />
<br />
Dad settled on an all-boys Catholic school. It wasn't easy making friends. The Kiffin name didn't buy him a seat at the lunch table, nor did the Bucs tickets he'd try to give away to peers. Nobody wanted to see the dreadful franchise.<br />
<br />
But there was a ton of coaching talent on Tony Dungy's staff: Herm Edwards, Mike Tomlin, Lovie Smith, Rod Marinelli. Along with Monte, they laid the groundwork for a team that eventually won a Super Bowl.<br />
<br />
Chris could explain Monte's famous Cover 2 in his sleep. And he studied the pieces: Derrick Brooks, John Lynch, Warren Sapp. Those guys practiced 'til it hurt.<br />
<br />
Seeing it up close was Coaching 101, and Chris didn't even have a diploma yet.<br />
<br />
On to Colorado State, where a scholarship from Sonny Lubick awaited. He played four years at defensive tackle between those summer trips to USC.<br />
<br />
In Los Angeles, he watched Carroll, whose style contrasted Dungy's, build extraordinary bonds with players. He resurrected the downtrodden Trojans in just two years.<br />
<br />
That was Coaching 202, and Chris didn't even have a degree yet.<br />
<br />
On to Moscow, Idaho — home of the Vandals — and a student assistant position. “Smallest town I've ever been in,” Chris said.<br />
<br />
Then back to Tampa.<br />
<br />
Finally, after six years away from home, Chris was going to spend fall weekends with his dad.<br />
<br />
<b><big>Destination: Lexington</big></b><br />
<br />
The job title was assistant to the director of quality control. Didn't fit on a business card, but it was a big gig for a 24-year-old. Chris was still a few days from signing his contract.<br />
<br />
On July 22, 2006, he and Monte went to a Devil Rays' game. They came home, and Chris walked to a bar to have a few drinks. He ran into some old friends from high school. Saturday night turned to Sunday morning.<br />
<br />
They sang karaoke. They emptied shot glasses. They left for a buddy's condo and drank some more. A few hours later, Chris was walking home in the rain. Drunk. He opened an unlocked minivan door, sat in the passenger's side for a few moments.<br />
<br />
A cop caught him walking away from the van.<br />
<br />
Chris was in trouble.<br />
<br />
He eventually pleaded no contest to misdemeanor trespassing and paid a $340 fine. Not before the damage was done.<br />
<br />
Not before the state charged him with burglary, alleging he entered the vehicle with the intent to steal — nothing was missing from the van.<br />
<br />
Not before the whole thing hit the media — he lost his chance with the Bucs.<br />
<br />
Not before strangers on message boards blamed Monte.<br />
<br />
“They made comments like, it makes sense when you have a workaholic father that works 24 hours a day and doesn't give you a father figure,” Chris said. “Stuff of that nature was just totally untrue.”<br />
<br />
Ed Orgeron, the Mississippi head coach and Lane's former colleague at USC, flew to Tampa to meet with Chris. He started reading the Alcoholics Anonymous book and suggested Chris go to rehab. Chris didn't want to tell Coach O no.<br />
<br />
He spent 28 days in California. He bought in to the idea of sobriety, but couldn't shake the question: Is this for me?<br />
<br />
Where could he go to figure it out? How 'bout Denver?<br />
<br />
His cousin's wife had died while Chris was at Colorado State, so it was just Danny Murphy and his three kids. Chris could help. He watched the kids after school. Took care of the house.<br />
<br />
“He's got maybe the biggest heart of all the Kiffins,” Danny said. “And I know them all pretty well.”<br />
<br />
Every night they played a different game: basketball, Wiffle Ball, cribbage. Chris loved Stratego, the capture-the-flag board game in which he could assess personnel and call the plays.<br />
<br />
When he wasn't at home, or working golf course maintenance, Chris devoted himself to staying dry.<br />
He attended AA meetings almost every night.<br />
<br />
But there was time to think, too. And Chris wondered sometimes why Lane, almost seven years older than him, was on the fast track to stardom and he wasn't. It wasn't envy or jealousy, Chris said — “I'm his No. 1 fan.”<br />
<br />
But did Lane have something he didn't?<br />
<br />
Orgeron called in 2007, asking Chris to come to Mississippi as a graduate assistant.<br />
<br />
On to Oxford, where men at the spring game dressed in blue blazers and women wore long, white dresses and big hats.<br />
<br />
The Ole Miss coaches' offices bustled and Chris thrived. Players gravitated to him, seeking his technique tips. Assistants laughed at his wit.<br />
<br />
Then came July and a short coaching vacation. Suddenly there was no task. Chris felt bored. Worse, he felt alone.<br />
<br />
“A lot of pressure builds up when you don't know if you're an alcoholic or not, and you're trying to stay sober, and you don't know if you're doing it for other people or not,” Chris said.<br />
<br />
Driving home from a workout one afternoon, he stopped at a gas station and picked up a 12-pack of beer. He took his first sip in almost a year, then finished six or eight beers.<br />
<br />
The next day, he stopped at Applebee's and drank again.<br />
<br />
He was never a “drink-from-the-bottle guy like you see on TV.” He didn't wake up with the shakes and ease it with a shot of vodka. But once he started drinking beer, he kept drinking.<br />
<br />
Those few days scared him. He hadn't done anything illegal, he said. Hadn't gotten into trouble.<br />
<br />
“I thought that it could get out of control.”<br />
<br />
So he went to see Orgeron, who looked at Lane's little brother like a son. Chris didn't want to tell Coach O no. He didn't want to waste another chance. But he didn't trust himself.<br />
<br />
He quit. Packed his bags and headed north.<br />
<br />
“A lot of thinking goes on when you're driving across the country,” Chris said. “Am I making the wrong decision? What's the future hold? Where am I going?”<br />
<br />
After 900 miles, he stopped at Johnson Lake outside Lexington, where Danny and the kids were staying at the family cabin.<br />
<br />
He pulled up and received a consolation prize:<br />
<br />
Hugs.<br />
<br />
<b><big>172-pound tank</big></b><br />
<br />
He went back to Denver with the Murphys, back to playing games. He got a job at an elementary school tutoring homeless kids. He stuck to the routine.<br />
<br />
But the questions still ate at him. Am I an alcoholic or not? Am I any different than a 25-year-old in Denver or Boulder or Tampa who likes to go to bars? If so, how? Why?<br />
<br />
There were alcohol problems in his family tree. He had started drinking in high school, like a lot of kids in Tampa. But it never interfered with where he wanted to go. Now it was like meeting a linebacker in the hole.<br />
<br />
The guilt of drinking — and wanting to drink — was crushing his spirit.<br />
<br />
He decided to change strategy.<br />
<br />
“I wanted to see if I could do it like the average person, and still live my life in other areas the way I wanted to.”<br />
<br />
Instead of abstaining from alcohol, Chris felt he was better off to focus on drinking responsibly.<br />
Instill self-discipline. Identify potential problem situations. Surround himself with positive influences.<br />
Fill his time with activities.<br />
<br />
Like football.<br />
<br />
Days after he showed up at Johnson Lake, Danny recruited him. His 10-year-old son had a youth football team and Danny was head coach. But the Warriors needed an offensive coordinator.<br />
<br />
It was a good team and the kids thought it was cool to have a 25-year-old coach. The Warriors made a run all the way to the Super Bowl, and that's about as far as anybody figured they'd go. Their next opponent, the Spartans, had beaten them 35-7 in the regular season.<br />
<br />
The key was the Spartans' defensive tackle, a peewee version of Warren Sapp, a kid named Hayes. He wore No. 72, Danny said — “and he weighed 172 pounds.”<br />
<br />
A few nights before the game, Chris and Danny skipped a Stratego match, sat down at the table and formulated a battle plan.<br />
<br />
Chris would call the play, wait to see where Hayes lined up, then signal to his troops at the line of scrimmage. If the tank lined up right, the Warriors went left, and vice versa.<br />
<br />
First play, it worked for a touchdown. Second play, it worked for another touchdown.<br />
<br />
Hayes eventually got his revenge. He injured Chris' quarterback. He took down the running back, too. Danny keeps a photo of the play on his living room wall.<br />
<br />
“Hayes just engulfed him. The only part of our guy you see in the picture is his little foot.”<br />
<br />
In the fourth quarter, the Warriors trailed, but still had a shot. Three failed running plays into the line brought up fourth down, 20 yards from paydirt.<br />
<br />
Chris called time out. His quarterback couldn't throw. His running back couldn't run.<br />
<br />
He called a trick play, a distant cousin to Eric Crouch's touchdown catch against Oklahoma:<br />
“I left, 27 power, Z reverse, Y throwback.”<br />
<br />
The 10-year-olds didn't really understand the lingo, so Chris dumbed it down: Sweep to the halfback, who reverses the ball to the wide receiver. The tight end on the back side is going to slip behind the defense. And the wide receiver is going to throw deep.<br />
<br />
He rehearsed it in the huddle with each kid.<br />
<br />
“You couldn't put the whole thing together in a movie,” Danny said.<br />
<br />
As soon as the quarterback handed off, Hayes crushed him. As soon as the running back handed to the wideout, he got smushed, too. But the wideout had just enough time to let it fly.<br />
<br />
“Not one person,” Danny said, “was covering the tight end.”<br />
<br />
Final score: 22-20. Super Bowl champs.<br />
<br />
Chris had never called plays for any team before that season. He hasn't since.<br />
<br />
Later, there was a team banquet. Each kid received a big trophy. Danny wanted Chris to stand up in front of parents and speak about each player. No way, Chris said.<br />
<br />
Danny forced him. You want to be a big-time head coach someday, this is the kind of thing you've got to do.<br />
<br />
Lane's a former quarterback. He could do 1,000 press conferences, Danny said. Chris is more like a lineman, quicker to deflect attention. Like Monte.<br />
<br />
OK, Chris said. So he brought a chalkboard. Before a crowd of 75 or 100, he drew up Xs and Os and mapped out the final touchdown, then he explained each kid's responsibility.<br />
<br />
His first press conference. It took about 15 minutes.<br />
<br />
“Talking football's a lot easier for me than talking about other stuff.”<br />
<br />
<b><big>Film session</big></b><br />
<br />
His cousin was begging him: Chris, send your résumé to Lincoln. Get back in the game.<br />
<br />
By December 2007, Bo Pelini was starting the Nebraska football reclamation, and Chris had “a little more spring in his step,” Danny said.<br />
<br />
He was harnessing his drinking problem. He was filling his time. This was a smart move, especially with a network of relatives in Lincoln. And it was a full-time coaching job.<br />
<br />
“I just have a hard time seeing Chris putting on a suit and tie and going to sell copiers or something,” Danny said.<br />
<br />
Chris' only memories of Lincoln were attending football camp in high school. The trains outside Harper Hall kept him awake.<br />
<br />
“I was like, there's no way I'm going there,” Chris said.<br />
<br />
He finally applied. Then he asked his dad to make a recommendation. To call Pelini, whom Monte had recommended to Frank Solich in 2002.<br />
<br />
“I know my dad knows deep down my qualities as a coach. He's seen me work.”<br />
<br />
Bo did his homework and liked what he heard. Chris got the job. He's had it for 16 months.<br />
<br />
“Chris is a natural-born coach,” said Husker offensive coordinator Shawn Watson. “You can tell it's in his bloodstream. It comes really easy for him. It's been a real blessing for us.”<br />
<br />
At Nebraska, Chris found a boss whose leadership ability reminds him of his dad. Pelini tells players about his days as an assistant with the 49ers in the 1990s, when nobody knew who he was. He tells stories about Jerry Rice, just as Chris remembers Warren Sapp.<br />
<br />
“It just reassures me,” Chris said. “I'm on the right track. I can do this.”<br />
<br />
He still treats alcohol with caution, but he doesn't attend AA meetings. Occasionally, he has a few beers. He has proven to himself he can impose limits.<br />
<br />
It comes down to this, he said: When he climbs into his Lincoln Aviator after work, where is he going? To a bar, or to the tennis court?<br />
<br />
“Today, sitting here right now, I don't think I am an alcoholic. I think I need to manage my life in a way where I don't put myself in situations to get in trouble or harm anybody or harm myself.”<br />
<br />
After this season, Chris intends to send out his résumé again. He wants to be a Division I position coach. He wants to recruit kids. To advance, he'll have to move again, which won't be easy: “I'm the happiest I've ever been.”<br />
<br />
He won't leave Lincoln alone.<br />
<br />
Angela Timmons is a former Creighton basketball player and an NU assistant coach under Connie Yori. On her first date with Chris Kiffin, she listened to him detail the places he'd been. And why.<br />
<br />
Next weekend in Lincoln, they're getting married.<br />
<br />
It's going to be a small party — Chris didn't want anything big — but Lane will be there. Monte, too. Their visits to Nebraska are rare.<br />
<br />
In fact, Monte hadn't been to Memorial Stadium on game day since 1976, his last year coaching the Huskers. But last fall, the Buccaneers had a bye week, and Nebraska had a date with Kansas. Monte climbed aboard a plane.<br />
<br />
He grew up in Lexington. Listened to the Huskers on the radio, then went out to the backyard and pretended to run like Bobby Reynolds.<br />
<br />
Kids didn't go far from home in those days, so when the Kiffins approached Lincoln from the west, Monte anxiously awaited the moment when he could spot the state capitol on the horizon.<br />
<br />
“I thought it was the Empire State Building,” Monte said.<br />
<br />
When he got to Lincoln, he waited some more, two hours in line for a spot in the south end zone, the knothole section. Entry fee: 25 cents.<br />
<br />
Last fall, 60 years later, Monte didn't pay a dime.<br />
<br />
Chris showed him the Osborne complex. He introduced him to the Tunnel Walk.<br />
<br />
Before the game, Chris took him to the field, where the howling wind tousled Monte's thinning hair and made him growl that he'd forgotten his hat, where a sea of red can still tweak the nerves of a 68-year-old man, even one with a Super Bowl ring.<br />
<br />
“It made me so proud of my son,” Monte said.<br />
<br />
A few months earlier, Monte had passed through town en route to a class reunion. Chris drove him southeast on Highway 2 toward his new house.<br />
<br />
They were coming up on 27th Street when Monte pointed to an old apartment building, a post pattern from the highway.<br />
<br />
“Oh my gosh, that place is still here.”<br />
<br />
<i>You know</i>, Monte told him, <i>when I was exactly your age, I was a graduate assistant helping coach Bob Devaney's defense.</i><br />
<br />
<i>After games, I drove out to Johnson's Cafe on 14th and Highway 2 and had dinner with your aunt and uncle. Then I'd go back to the office, pick up the can of film and drive home.</i><br />
<br />
<i>To that apartment building.</i><br />
<br />
<i>I'd shut off the lights, point the projector at the living room wall and study every play deep into the night.</i><br />
<br />
<i>This was the road I traveled.</i>Dirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3685951597002236538.post-36201291641141477392011-06-28T15:11:00.000-07:002011-09-05T19:59:26.205-07:00The Bat boy<em>(Published June 2011)</em><br />
<br />
<br />
Weekdays in June, Charlie Peters puts on his green and yellow uniform and catches a ride to the little diamond on Grover Street. <br />
<br />
He’s 13. Shy with blond hair. Still waiting on that growth spurt. He plays left field or second base. Sometimes he pitches. <br />
<br />
Tuesday, Charlie skipped Little League. <br />
<br />
Something came up. Old friends in town. You know how it is. <br />
<br />
He put on his garnet and gray and caught a ride to the massive diamond on Cuming Street. He reported for duty. <br />
<br />
Eight years ago, on one of those June days when little boys run through sprinklers, Charlie was lying in a Children’s Hospital bed, hooked to tubes. <br />
<br />
Out of the blue, about a dozen college kids stopped by his room to say hi. They stayed more than a half hour. They played make-believe baseball in the lobby — they didn’t have a ball. Charlie took his home run cut, then rounded the bases. <br />
<br />
The college kids were from South Carolina. They were baseball players. In town for the College World Series. Trying to capture an athlete’s dream: a national championship. <br />
<br />
Charlie had bigger challenges. <br />
<br />
In April 2003, he started having tummy trouble. Doctors didn’t know what it was, but his tummy kept growing and growing until it looked like a bowling ball. Finally, the diagnosis: <br />
<br />
Burkitt’s lymphoma. <br />
<br />
The tumor was doubling in size every 24 hours. Cancer had spread to his abdomen, his liver, his blood. If he makes it through the next 48 hours, the doctor told Charlie’s parents, he has a chance. <br />
<br />
Charlie fought it off. <br />
<br />
When South Carolina players came to his hospital room, he was a few hours from discharge. Coach Ray Tanner asked if he’d like to come to Rosenblatt Stadium the next day and be the Gamecocks’ honorary bat boy. <br />
<br />
Charlie made a poster for the South Carolina dugout and wrote a message on it: “Never give up.” <br />
The game was long, and bald Charlie was weak. <br />
<br />
“He could barely stand the heat,” said Charlie’s mom, Jenny. “He kept wanting to sneak back up and sit on my lap for a little bit and then go back down.” <br />
<br />
Soon Charlie was back in the hospital. The doctor said his chances weren’t good. <br />
<br />
It went on like that most of the year. Finally, in November 2003, Charlie was free of cancer. <br />
<br />
The Gamecocks went back to Columbia and hung Charlie’s poster in the training room — “Never give up.” They returned to Omaha in 2004, and Charlie gave them the beanie baby he clung to in the hospital. His good-luck charm. <br />
<br />
A few years passed. Charlie went from elementary to middle school. In 2010, South Carolina qualified again for the College World Series. Charlie missed the first game. And the Gamecocks lost. <br />
<br />
Coach Tanner called and said, “Where’s my Charlie!” <br />
<br />
Next game, Charlie showed up with another poster. It showed a picture of him as a sick 5-year-old. And a picture of him as a healthy 12-year-old. His handwritten message: “I never gave up.” <br />
<br />
South Carolina won six straight games and took home the national title. <br />
<br />
Coach credited Charlie as an inspiration. He was on the field during the championship celebration. The T-shirt he wore each of the six wins? He framed it. <br />
<br />
South Carolina baseball was a force again this spring, top five in the country. Two weeks ago, the Gamecocks clinched the super regional. Charlie ran up and down his street, shouting. <br />
<br />
Coach Tanner provided CWS tickets for Charlie’s family. <br />
<br />
They sat behind the dugout Sunday night. After the win, Charlie sent Mrs. Tanner a text message asking about Tuesday’s game. Could he go into the South Carolina dugout before the next game? <br />
<br />
Karen Tanner did one better. Tuesday morning, Charlie got an invitation to be bat boy. <br />
<br />
He entered his bedroom — a “South Carolina emporium,” according to his mom — and put on his Gamecock colors. He showed up at TD Ameritrade Park and waited through a rain delay. <br />
<br />
At the conclusion of a South Carolina at-bat, Charlie sprinted from the dugout to home plate, careful not to run into the umpire. <br />
<br />
He grabbed the bat, jogged it back to the rack, then returned to his post and waited with the Gamecocks’ regular bat boy — they alternated batters. <br />
<br />
South Carolina continued its hot streak, beating Virginia 7-1. That was good baseball, Charlie said. As for the bat boy? <br />
<br />
“I don’t think I messed up.” <br />
<br />
Suddenly the Gamecocks look like they’ll be in Omaha for a while. They don’t play until Friday.<br />
<br />
Today they’ll practice. They’ll rest. Maybe catch a CWS game on TV. But first, they’ll take a trip to Children’s Hospital. <br />
<br />
And Charlie Peters is going with them.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><b>Contact the writer:</b></b> <br />
402-649-1461, dirk.chatelain@owh.com <br />
twitter.com/dirkchatelainDirkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08829598097024085334noreply@blogger.com0