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BOOTS ON THE GROUND BY DUSK: MY TRIBUTE TO PAT TILLMAN

Chapter 10

I would rather be ashes than dust! ... I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The proper function of a man is to live, not to exist.
-- JACK LONDON

Walking through Birmingham International Airport, I see my aunts Katie and Lannie waving from the end of the corridor. Lannie has flown in from New York to spend the week with us. It's good to see them. The drive to Katie's from the airport is surprisingly short. She lives just blocks from downtown in a wonderful two-story brick house with a wraparound porch. Birmingham is a very hilly city with an abundance of lush trees. As Katie parks the car, I can't help but think how much Pat would have appreciated the eclectic and historic houses that line the narrow street.

Grabbing my suitcase, I follow my aunts up the front walk to the porch. The screen door opens, and Katie's husband, Tom, comes to greet us. The first time I met Tom was at Pat's wedding, yet I feel like I have known him a long time. He has a calm, relaxed presence, and I'm glad to see him. Katie leads me to the guest room where I'll be staying. I recognize the four-poster bed that had belonged to my grandmother, and I feel at home. Once I put my suitcases down, Katie and Lannie show me around the house. The rooms have high ceilings, crown molding, and richly colored walls accented with books, paintings, and framed family photographs. The furniture is a creative and tasteful blend of old and new, wooden and upholstered. Lannie and I follow Katie into Tom's office, an inviting room with walls the color of cinnabar. A framed black-and-white photograph of a handsome young man sits on one of the bookshelves. As I get closer, I can see he is wearing a World War II-era uniform and standing aboard a ship. The young man is Tom's father, who Katie tells me was killed when a Japanese fighter plane flew into his ship. Tom and his brothers were little boys at the time. I had no idea Tom's father had been killed in the war; the knowledge is oddly consoling.

Katie makes dinner, and the four of us sit around the dining room table and talk. I tell them what we learned at the 15-6 briefing at Fort Lewis, and I go over some of the discrepancies between that and what we previously had been told. They are appalled at the inconsistencies. Katie asks me about viewing Pat's body. I tell them I have no regrets; I needed to see him one last time. Fortunately, I'm not haunted by the image of his lifeless form. When I think of Pat, I only see him alive and vibrant. I believe that is a testament to how vital he was. Katie's eyes well with tears as Lannie and Tom ask about Pat's memorial service, and Katie wants to know about Kevin's reaction to the banners. She had been at the house when his friends were planning to make them, but she had to return home before Kevin arrived. As Katie serves coffee, I begin to recount Kevin's return and the days before Pat's memorial. I begin at the funeral home.

By the time Marie's parents picked her up at the mortuary, it was twelve thirty a.m. Patrick, Richard, Mike, and I drove with Kevin to my house. The whole drive, I was nervous about Kevin's reaction to the banners; I feared he might be uncomfortable being welcomed home when Pat was never going to return. Others also were a bit worried about how he would interpret them. Before we could see the first banner, we could make out the floodlights in the distance. As we got closer, it was evident that Kevin thought there was something strange about the glaring lights. When the banner came into view, Mike, Richard, and I turned to look at Kevin. His dad watched from the rearview mirror. At first his brow furrowed in puzzlement, then he read the words "Every Day's Sunday, Baby," and he smiled weakly at the familiar baseball expression. "Thank you," he said, looking directly into Richard's teary eyes as we drove beneath the outstretched sheet.

"All your and Pat's buds did it," Rich said.

Kevin swallowed hard. "It's awesome."

We drove two miles down the road to the house. The moon was bright enough that we could faintly see the flags waving against the trees and a sign the Pelosis hung on their fence that read "We love you, Kevin." Kevin's eyes reflected how touched he was. He stared straight ahead as we approached our driveway and swallowed hard again when he saw the welcoming banner that read "NUB."

Slowly, we drove over the crest in the drive. Standing in the yard, illuminated by the porch light and the firelight from the burning barbecue, were fifteen to twenty friends of my sons, along with my mom, Judy, and Michelle. They waited silently and reverently for Kevin to get out of the car. As he walked toward them in his dress uniform, their faces showed numerous emotions: awe, admiration, respect, love, concern, and tremendous sadness. Guardedly, they surrounded him and said, "Welcome home, Nub." Kevin first hugged his grandmother and Judy, then each one of the friends. They gathered around the barbecue until nearly three a.m.

That night, I didn't sleep much. When I woke, I made a pot of coffee and laid out pastries and fruit that neighbors had brought over the day before. Quietly, I went outside and sat in the morning sun so I would not disturb anyone. Pat's visitation was going to be at one. I knew Marie had decided the casket would be closed and the visitation would be only for family and those closest to Pat, yet I found myself feeling anxious about there being a lot of people. People had surrounded me for days; maybe my brain was telling me I needed to be by myself. I sat listlessly for about an hour, and then Judy came out of the camper. I poured her a cup of coffee, and we talked until everyone else woke up and ate the pastries. We were all apprehensive about the day; very little was said as we got ready to go to the funeral home.

When Mike, Mom, and I arrived at the funeral chapel, a number of family members and friends were already there. I spoke to several people for a few minutes, and then Kevin and Marie walked me to the visitation area. The room was small, and I remember it being brightly lit from sunlight shining through frosted windows. There were six rows of pews on each side of the room. Pat's flag-draped coffin was placed in front of an unadorned white wall. We had asked that no flowers be sent to the mortuary, but one Japanese flower arrangement did arrive and rested on a pedestal at the head of the casket. I found it perfect in its simplicity.

I walked over and placed my hand on the flag covering the coffin, trying to grasp the reality that Pat's body was inside. Gradually, people started coming into the room. Some sat reflecting or praying in the pews; others stood quietly in their thoughts next to the coffin. More visitors came throughout the afternoon until late at night. There were many tears, but there was also a great deal of laughter. By early evening, Pat's friends were sitting on the floor in front of his coffin sharing stories about him, from lighthearted to very funny. Had Pat been there, he would have laughed the loudest. I can always imagine Pat's laugh when I hear something I know would amuse him.

Later on, Alex walked up to the coffin holding three-year-old Ryan in his arms. Ryan's brown eyes stared down on the strange, flag-covered box.

"Is Uncle Pat in there?" he whispered softly.

"Yes," Alex gently told him.

"Well, why doesn't he get out?"

Marie smiled at me with moist eyes and we said simultaneously, "Yeah! Why doesn't he just climb right out of there?" I was able to conjure the image of him doing that.

At the end of the night, Kevin, Richard, Alex, and Pat's dad brought in several cases of Guinness for those still at the funeral home to toast Pat. However, the funeral director told us we couldn't drink inside the premises. I was very upset by that. I wished we had brought Pat's coffin home to our front yard so we could have said our good-byes in the setting where Pat grew up, the setting he loved, and toast him properly. Instead, we gathered outside to toast him under the stars. I told myself his big spirit was unbound now; more of him was floating in the ether than in the confines of the coffin. Shortly after the toast, nearly everyone left. I remember standing next to the coffin, petrified to leave; I didn't want Pat to be alone. Suddenly, I was aware of Marie's pale, slender hand reaching out to stroke the casket. I knew then it was time for me to go.

Pat was cremated the following day, Friday, April 30, 2004.

On Saturday, I finally got a call from my brother Richard. He had tried to call several times, but the phone had been constantly busy, so the call went straight to the message machine, which was full. He had read the news in the paper on April 23. He said he walked around in a daze for hours. I felt horrible. I expected him to be angry, since he had been so upset when Pat and Kevin had enlisted, but it was too late for anger. Before we ended the call, he became more emotional. I told him I loved him, then I handed the phone to Kevin. They spoke for about ten minutes. At the end of the conversation, Kevin told me his uncle would call again soon.

That afternoon, Judy's husband, Neal, and her daughter, Christie, flew in from Atlanta. Judy and Neal used to live in San Jose, but they moved to Atlanta a few years ago. When Pat and Kevin were stationed at Fort Benning in Georgia, they often stayed with them during their leaves. Because Neal had been a Marine during the Vietnam War, Pat and Kevin felt a special bond with him. I was pleased and grateful that he was now here for Kevin. Judy picked up Neal and Christie at the airport, then came to the house for a while. Sometime in the late afternoon, they left to check in to a hotel, and when they returned, they presented us with a brand-new fire pit. Judy told me she was afraid Richard would eventually burn the elm tree down if he continued to burn wood in the barbecue, or he would dig that deep homemade fire pit in my front yard. That night, we burned our first fire in the new pit.

Our family and a number of friends sat around the flames, talking. I overheard someone cautiously ask Kevin what it was like to be in an ambush. I held my breath for a second, concerned about his reaction. He looked intently at everyone for a moment, and then very straightforwardly said, "It was frightening." I pulled up a chair and sat down as Kevin continued. Recalling the afternoon of Pat's death, Kevin said they were half expecting to get ambushed when they saw the nature of the canyon. He said everything seemed to be in slow motion. His M19 would not fire, and his rifle had jammed. He ended up firing his pistol. However, he said, he was aware of the ricocheting of bullets and was cautious because he didn't want to hurt any of his own men.

I worried about Kevin answering too many questions, but I realized it was probably good for him to talk. After a while, the topic changed. I was aware of the hum of conversation, but I wasn't really listening. Watching the flames, I started to think about how much Pat would love sitting by the fire when he got home, then I caught myself -- Pat wasn't coming home.

The next night, Steve White, a young Navy SEAL Kevin and Pat had befriended in Iraq, came to the house. He was going to be speaking at Pat's memorial the next day. Kevin said they weren't really supposed to hang around with the SEALs -- I guess it is like fraternizing with soldiers of a higher rank -- but he and Pat would sneak away to spend time with them and swap stories. It was clear that Steve's presence was a comfort to Kevin, and as the night wore on, I could see his company made Richard feel better, too. Kevin was expecting Russell Baer, the young soldier who was with him when he flew home with Pat's body. He wanted to introduce us to him, but Russell never made it to the house.

I remember very little about the morning of May 3, 2004, other than that I helped get my mother dressed, and I couldn't find the earrings Marie had given me for my birthday. Pat Dando, whose daughter-in-law is one of Marie's best friends, was the vice mayor of San Jose. She arranged for two limousines to pick us up shortly before noon and take us to the memorial service. Kevin, Richard, and Michelle got into one car, and Patrick, Mike, Mom, and I got into the other. When the car got to the bottom of the driveway, I could see the flags billowing at the sides of the road. We drove about two hundred yards when I saw twenty-one motorcycle officers standing at attention along the white picket fence beneath the row of flags against the backdrop of the Casa Grande, a Civil War-era structure. It was an imposing and touching sight. I stared at the floor of the car and willed myself not to cry. Once we passed the police escort, the officers got on their motorcycles and escorted us to the Municipal Rose Garden. On the way, we stopped to pick up Marie. She got into the car with Kevin, Rich, and Michelle.

The large garden displays more than a hundred varieties of roses and has a natural grass stage surrounded by a cathedral of redwood trees. Pat, Kevin, Richard, and Marie had their high school graduations at the garden. When we arrived, I was shocked to see more than a thousand people already gathered. We were taken to a nearby home, away from the heat and the commotion, to wait for the service to begin. There, we were introduced to Ms. Maria Shriver; Senator John McCain; Lieutenant General Philip R. Kensinger, Jr., head of the Army's Special Operations Command; and a Colonel Chen. Ms. Shriver was kind and very down-to-earth. Senator McCain was gracious and respectful. Both of the officers appeared to be sincere and compassionate; it was a comfort to have them there.

Just before one o'clock, we were escorted to our seats in the front row, facing the grass stage. Enlarged photographs of Pat were set up on large easels. Many of the pictures I had never seen before. As I looked at them, I could hear bagpipes in the distance. Pat loved bagpipes. The sound of the instruments gradually got closer until the bagpipers were walking down the aisle toward the stage. I held back tears as they walked past us and out of sight.

There were many wonderful speakers that day, but I was in a haze and therefore could not absorb everything that was said. However, since ESPN-TV televised the memorial nationally, there was a tape of the event, and a friend transcribed the speeches for me. So now, sitting with Lannie, Katie, and Tom, I am able to relate the memorial in detail.

All of the presenters spoke of Pat's character so eloquently. Yet what I appreciated most were the stories about Pat, many of which I had never heard. Jim Rome, host of a nationally syndicated sports radio show, The Jungle, was the first speaker. I knew he had interviewed Pat several times when he played for the Cardinals, but I had no idea Mr. Rome had such an appreciation of who Pat was. His speech was quite moving.

There are no heroes in sports. Athletes today are often referred to as heroes or warriors, when in reality, they're neither .... Athletes are urged to sacrifice, to go the extra mile, to pay the price, all in the name of winning because winning isn't everything, it's the only thing. As it turns out, winning isn't everything, and winning isn't the only thing. But risking your life for a belief is. ... Pat Tillman risked and ultimately lost his life because he wanted to make a difference. He felt it was his obligation and his responsibility to help improve the world in which he lived. Pat was not like the rest of us. Pat didn't see the world like the rest of us. When everybody else is asking "Why is life so hard?" Pat asked, "Why was life so easy?" ...

Charles Barkley once said, "I'm no role model; raise your own damn kids." Believe it or not, he's right. It's not his job to raise our kids .... I've spent my entire career talking to and talking about athletes. But I have never spoken to my three-year-old son Jake about a specific athlete ... and although he is not ready for this conversation, I decided quite some time ago the first athlete I would ever tell my son about would be Pat Tillman.

I can't wait to sit my son down and tell him how much I admired Pat, to tell him about that legendary Tillman intensity, his hunger, his desire. I can't wait to tell my son that it's not necessarily about being the fastest or the strongest or the most athletic because Pat was never any of those things. But nobody rated higher in those intangible qualities that you could develop: hunger, desire, courage, competitive spirit, integrity, honesty, selflessness, the things that make you a great athlete and a great man ....

Pat's the man we should all aspire to be, a man of honor, courage, patriotism, and loyalty. Money, material possessions, luxury cars, huge mansions -- these things meant nothing to Pat. Integrity, relationships with family, friends, and teammates meant everything.... I admire that Pat married his high school sweetheart, Marie .... Pat had the maturity and the integrity to invest in deepening the relationship that was already so important to him ....

I can only assume that Pat and Kevin were mortified by the events of 9-11, like all of us. Like the rest of us, they were probably furious, devastated, saddened; they wanted a piece of someone, wanted to do something to defend this country, to protect our families. Ultimately, of course, the horror and the shock and the devastation of the day began to fade some for those who were not directly affected. Certainly none of us, nor the world in which we lived, would ever be the same after the terrorist attacks, but we had no choice but to forge ahead. We gradually regained our sense of routine and normalcy. The terrorist attacks were no longer front and center in our minds. But not for Pat and not for Kevin.

It seems they couldn't shake those horrific images; they couldn't push them out of their minds, they didn't want to forget, they couldn't just go back to work. To Kevin, it was a no-brainer; he was going to quit the minor leagues, he was going to give up his dream to become a major leaguer. He was going to enlist and give everything he had to become an Army Ranger. To Pat, football was the farthest thing from Pat's mind. Shortly after the attacks, he did an interview with NFL Films, where he said, and I quote, "I play football, and it just seems so, Goddamn, it is unimportant compared to everything that has taken place. I feel guilty even having the damn interview."

Pat continued, "My grandfather was at Pearl Harbor, a lot of my family has gone and fought in wars, and I really haven't done a damn thing. I think of this, this kind of sounds tacky, but I've always thought about Pearl Harbor, and the people and the boats and the bombs kind of coming down, and what they were going through," Pat went on, "their screaming and the passion they exuded and how they lost their lives. I think of stuff like that. I imagine I'll probably have a few other things to think about now, maybe a fireman running up those stairs."

Imagine Pat, a guy who starred on the field in college, graduated in three and a half years with honors and set an Arizona Cardinal record, single-season record for tackles, despite being a seventh-round draft pick. Imagine him, of all people, thinking, "I haven't done a damn thing."

Of course, we all spent a few days talking about what we'd like to do to make it right. But Pat and Kevin made the ultimate commitment and sacrifice: They left behind the lives they had known and they went and they did something about it.

Let me take a few minutes to talk about Kevin. I had never met Kevin before about an hour ago, but I've heard all the stories about Kevin. Make no mistake -- he's a Tillman through and through. There are a lot of great football stories flying around about Pat right now, but if you go to anyone in the Cleveland Indians organization, they will tell you Kevin is one of the hardest, toughest guys they have ever had. Kevin was playing in a rookie league game in Burlington, North Carolina, one time, scorching hot day, doubleheader. He's busting it all day long.

In his final at bat that day, Kevin steps out of the box and you could tell he wasn't just right. He was rubbing his leg. He steps back in, and he mashes, he hits one to the wall, but he could not get out of the box. The Indians assistant general manager, John Mirabelli said, "His leg just locked up, like a lead pipe. He then ... Frankensteined it to first base, where he collapsed with cramps and severe dehydration." Mirabelli, the assistant GM, said somebody brought him the tape the following day and said, "You have to see this." Mirabelli said upon seeing that tape, "It was the most incredible thing I have ever seen."

Kevin may not have left millions of dollars on the table the way Pat did to enlist, but he is every bit the hero that his older brother is, every bit the ass-kicker that Pat was. And I guarantee big brother is looking down right now every bit as proud of Kevin as Kevin is of Pat.

... I can remember Pat coming to one of my Jungle tour stops in Arizona. Understand we've done thirty-two of these appearance or tour stops nationally over the past fifteen years in California, Ohio, Texas, Florida, New York, everywhere. Some of the best of the best have come out for these events -- coaches, team owners, All-Stars, even Hall of Famers like George Brett and Nolan Ryan. But of all the athletes and celebrities who have attended, I have never looked as forward to meeting somebody as I did Pat Tillman. I told my wife, Janet, "We're going to Arizona; we're going to finally meet Tilly."

Janet, having heard Pat on the radio, was excited, as excited as I was. We were all fired up; we were going to finally meet Pat. Because Pat had that intangible "It," he had an aura, he had a presence. It's hard to explain, but you know it when you see it. It was rock and roll, he was a man's man and he did not disappoint, he lived up to all the hype that day. Pat freaking Tillman.

I'm proud to say I knew him, I'm proud to say I met him, and when his coach at Arizona State, Bruce Snyder, told me on my radio show last week, "Jim, Pat liked you. He liked coming on your radio show," that was as nice a compliment as I've ever received in this business. I'm going to miss Pat. I'm going to tell my son and my family about Pat. We're all going to tell our families about Pat. God bless Pat Tillman.

I sat in my seat in intense heat looking at Mr. Rome through a blur of tears. I had never felt such devastating sadness and intense joy at the same time. The stories he recounted about Pat brought him vividly to life. I could picture his face, see his body language, and hear his voice and thunderous, contagious laugh. I loved hearing the story about Kevin. Pat had flown to North Carolina to see that game. He saw his brother smash the ball to the fence and drag his leg to first base. I remember so well when Pat called to tell me about it. He said, "Kevin was fucking amazing!"

Maria Shriver walked to the podium next. First, she read from a letter from the governor, which noted he was visiting a military hospital in Germany, and the letter continued:

Pat had it all -- intelligence, movie-star good looks, a loving wife, athletic prowess, fame, a lucrative and promising career. Who among us could walk away from riches and a job we love and put ourselves in harm's way out of a desire, a need to do something for our country? Pat did, and so he left us with a brilliant legacy. I've been told Pat admired me. Well, let me tell you, it's the other way around. I am humbled because the fact is that Pat's story, Pat's life, his journey -- that's the real American dream, and he sacrificed it for us and for our country. That is my kind of hero.

Ms. Shriver then read from a letter she wrote.

Dear Pat,

I called your mom the other day to see how she was doing. Our conversation started off in a humorous way. She told me that you and I shared the same birthday and we were both in love with the same man. I thought you would want to know that she is holding up really well. We had a wonderful talk about you .... She told me how you always had a burning desire to give something back to your country. She told me that you and Kevin never had a moment's doubt about abandoning your brilliant careers for the ideal of service, to give something back.

Your mom told me there was another hero in this story as well -- your wife, Marie. Your mom told me how amazing she has been throughout your marriage, how supportive and how selfless. ... [Your mom] wanted to make sure that people knew about you and the life you led. And, believe me, Pat, they do, we all do.

We know not just about the football and the service, but about the big heart and the kind soul that made you the person you were. We know that when you took the class "Orientation to the Exceptional Child" in college, it wasn't just an academic exercise. We know that you met and befriended a student with Down syndrome named Duff, a student whose life you touched and changed forever ....

Pat, forty-three years ago, in his inaugural address, my uncle, President John F. Kennedy, who was speaking for his generation, a generation that had sacrificed and served, made a suggestion to all generations to come: "Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country." By your deeds, by the choices you made, Pat, you and so many other young Americans have lived those words. Pat, your family doesn't have to worry anymore. You are home, you are safe, and you will not be forgotten. You will live forever as an example and inspiration to all of us. As a mother and a wife, on behalf of Arnold and all Californians, in fact all Americans -- thank you. And may God rest your soul.

I smiled through tears at Ms. Shriver after she finished speaking. Senator McCain's speech followed; it was compassionate and thoughtful. He started out by saying he never had met Pat, but he described him quite accurately.

By all accounts he was quite a man .... He's remembered as a good son, brother, and husband; a loyal friend; an excellent student; an overachieving athlete; a decent, considerate person; a solid citizen in every respect .... But it was his uncommon choice of duty to his country over the profession he loved and the riches and the comfort of celebrity, and his humility, that make Pat Tillman's life such a welcome lesson in the true meaning of courage and honor ....

Pat Tillman understood his obligations, no better than his comrades in arms, perhaps, but better than many of his contemporaries. He must have known that such debts are not a burden, but their recompense earns us our happiness. So he volunteered to take his place in the ranks.

The senator closed his speech by saying "May God bless him. And may God bless us all." I remember thinking that the first three speakers had referenced God, yet Pat wasn't religious. However, that didn't prevent him from wanting to do the right thing or trying to make a better person of himself. I really don't know what Pat believed about our destination after death. I know Pat thought about it because he thought about everything. Yet, I doubt he dwelled on it; he was too busy living.

Steve White walked to the stage next. Kevin and Pat had a lot of respect for Steve, and they enjoyed their time with him and the other Navy SEALS they had met in Iraq. Steve looked so dignified in his Navy dress uniform. Several times in his tribute he was overcome with emotion and had to stop, and his voice broke in several places, but he was eloquent nonetheless. He started by telling a story about how Pat was offered a chance to get out of the Army early to go back to another team in the NFL and turned it down to complete his three-year commitment. Right after he made the decision to stay in, Pat "gets ordered to cut about an acre of grass by some nineteen-year-old kid" who outranked him. Steve then talked about serving with Pat and Kevin in Iraq.

I first met Kevin and Pat at chow hall right after the war started .... [We spent] a lot of times in the evenings out there enjoying what we could; those Arabian nights, they're pretty nice, a lot like California. And we'd talk about our past experiences, our friends back at home, our family, and then Pat and his conspiracy theories. Man, you could never get enough of those things. I couldn't get enough of his football stories, and on his part, he couldn't get enough of my SEAL stories, so we kind of evened it out the whole time; it was good.

We ended up leaving that place and moving into Baghdad for the duration there. And pretty much every night for the next three months if we weren't working, we were out drinking coffee and enjoying each other's company out there, getting to know each other .... The very first mission that we conducted over there we took a whole lot of fire coming in, and took some casualties right off the bat, and one of them happened to be a Ranger that we were working with. He happened to be the primary SAW gunner, which is a light machine gun carried by one man, and he was in Pat's platoon ... and now Pat, who was the secondary gunner ... for the duration, he was the number one guy, and he would go on every single mission from there. He was thirsty to be the best, he wanted to be the best SAW gunner, and he would thrive in getting every bit of knowledge that he possibly could from my guys, from his guys; he couldn't get enough. And take it from me, there is nothing better than having a bunch of squared-away Rangers on your side, and Pat definitely raised the bar for him and his guys, no doubt about it.

1976-dash-2004. That one little dash in there represents a lifetime. How do we spend our dash?

I got the news early on Friday morning about Pat's death. I'd been spending the day flying back home, and I watched the news on every layover, waiting for the word to break. Once I saw that it was out, I contemplated at that point calling Marie. I knew that there was going to be a lot going on and I didn't want to add to it. When my wife picked me up at the airport, she asked if I'd called. I gave her my reason, and she looked at me and said, "If the tables were turned right now, would he have called me?" That's the kind of man Pat was. I immediately picked up the phone.

I had the opportunity to go to Washington, D.C., now and then, and one of the most impressive sites there is the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. On the side of that tomb an inscription reads 'Here rests an honored and gloried soldier known only but to God.' And as we gather here today, here rests Pat, an honorable and gloried sportsman and soldier known not only to God but also to the many lives that he touched. He was absolutely one of the most remarkable human beings I've ever met. Whether as a dutiful son, a loving husband, or a faithful teammate, Pat's unencumbered zeal for life will never be forgotten ....

I've had teammates who are passed and are now guardians over the men who are fighting right now. Pat's joined them now. So when that little voice in your head tells you not to do the easy things but the right things, it's Pat right in your ear, man, it's Pat.

The real test of a man is not when he plays the role that he wants for himself but when he plays the role destiny has for him. Pat has more than passed his test.

The Silver Star and the Purple Heart that Pat has earned will be given to Marie at a private ceremony. The Silver Star is one of this nation's highest awards; the Purple Heart is rewarded for wounds received in combat. If you're the victim of an ambush, there are very few things that you can do to increase your chances for survival, one of which is to get off that ambush point as fast as you can. One of the vehicles in Pat's convoy could not get off. He made the call; he dismounted his troops, taking the fight to the enemy uphill to seize the tactical high ground from the enemy. This gave his brothers in the downed vehicle time to move off that target. He directly saved their lives with that move. Pat sacrificed himself so that his brothers could live. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the sons of God."

I, like everyone in the audience, was greatly affected listening to the young Naval officer speak. He was the first person to give us an account of Pat's death. All we had been told was that he was shot in the head getting out of a vehicle. I forced myself to stare straight ahead. I did not want to break down at Pat's service.

Darius Rucker, the lead singer for Hootie and the Blowfish, followed Steve to the stage and sang a wonderful acappella version of "America the Beautiful." Then came Jake Plummer, who was Pat's teammate throughout college and during his four years with the Cardinals. They had become very good friends. I smiled when Jake walked out to make his remarks wearing a suit and, in honor of Pat, a pair of flip-flops. Jake, who was now the quarterback for the Denver Broncos, said he was speaking on behalf of the teammates from the Cardinals and other players around the country.

As a teammate I was with Pat at Arizona State. I saw him come in on his recruiting trip with the long hair, some beat-up jeans and sandals; he really didn't look like he cared to be there much. But when he signed, I was happy. I could see something in the guy. I knew he was going to be a special player. As a teammate, he led by example. He was all-out, every play, whether it was practice or the game. He had an intensity that you can't describe ....

That was an inspiration to everybody that played ball with Pat; it was an inspiration to the fans that watched Pat. That's why he touched so many people, just by running down on kickoff cover and maybe getting the hand on the guy, and the PR guy for the Arizona Cardinals or Arizona State was a smart man, would say "Pat Tillman on the tackle" because he knew the crowd would go crazy -- whether he made the tackle or not.

He was fearless on the field, reckless, tough. He sprained his ankle his last year with the Cardinals, sprained it very badly. During practice I looked up and saw Pat running around the field on Wednesday. Most people would be in the training room, taking a break, getting out of the hot sun, saying ah, it's all right, I'm going to ice this down. He was out there because he felt his duty was to be on the field to be there with his teammates.

He was very courageous, he was unyielding, crazy -- if there's ever a crazier man I'll meet in my life I'll be hard-pressed that he'd be crazier than Pat -- in a good way. He was unbreakable and very unbelievable at times.

Another circumstance on the field I remember was him getting the ball on a kickoff. He wasn't supposed to, but he happened to catch the ball. He almost took it to the house, and I mean take it to the house by scoring a touchdown. When he got tackled he jumped up and looked around like, "What's the big deal, this ain't that hard." And that was Pat. I was laughing as I went out to take the offense out there and laughed the whole way out, just the fact that that he almost broke it and wasn't even supposed to be returning the kick.

He was a very caring teammate. He spent a lot of hours helping people that were hurt. A friend of ours a lot of people may know, Chris Gedney, he suffered from [ulcerative] colitis, was out of football for a couple of years, and Pat was at his bedside, he would go visit occasionally because he knew that it mattered, he knew that Chris was up there by himself and it was just Pat being Pat. He cared about everybody that he played ball with and was friends with ....

Before he left to go back for his last mission in Afghanistan he called to see how I was doing. And if that doesn't show the compassion and care of somebody, to call and check on me when I should be calling him to check on him -- that was Pat ....

He was thought-provoking, and loved to have a deep conversation with some Guinness, a cold Guinness, and he would make you think. You would walk away saying, "I've got to become more of a thinker" ... because the man was always thinking about everything. He liked to challenge your intellect in that regard also. If you argued with him you would usually lose because he was right every time .... He was so unique in so many ways....

I was in the store the other day, and I saw People magazine, and it had the cover of fifty most beautiful people in the world, or America, and there was a picture of Pat, and a memorial to him. And it was kind of ironic because I really looked and said, what is beauty? Is beauty a pretty face, a nice smile, flowing hair, nice skin? Not to me, it's not. To me beauty is living life to higher standards, stronger morals and ethics and believing in them, whether people tell you you're right or wrong. Beauty is not wasting a day. Beauty is noticing life's little intricacies and taking time out of your busy day to really enjoy those little intricacies. Beauty is being real, being genuine, being pure with no facade -- what you see is what you get. Beauty is expanding your mind, always seeking knowledge, not being content, always going after something and challenging yourself. Beauty is red, white, and blue, with stars and stripes, and beauty is why we're here today. To me, Pat was one of the most beautiful people to have ever entered my life as well as [the lives of] many others. Today and forever, let's remember what he was, let it filter through our lives so that we may become more beautiful inside and honor Pat in that way.

The last thing I want to talk about may be the saddest of all, or maybe the most disappointing, to me. Because we all know Pat through his career, ran a marathon, did a triathlon, gave up football to go join the Rangers -- he shocked us all. To me the saddest part is to not know what Pat had planned next. I was looking forward to seeing him come out of the Rangers and to see what he had on his plate, so I could sit back and laugh and smile and go, "Man, that guy is," like I said earlier, "crazy." The challenges he made for himself we will never know.

And I believe that to really honor Pat, we should all challenge ourselves. No more ''I'm going to do this" or "I'm going to do that." Do it. As Pat would say, probably, "Get off your ass and do it." Why, you ask, should we honor him this way? Because that's what Pat did his whole life.

I was so impressed with Jake's eulogy. He captured his friend as the young man I knew.

Alex then came up to the stage. He walked in front of the podium and poured a pint of Guinness into a glass, left it full in front of the podium, and then stepped up to the microphone.

There have been some extremely eloquent and powerful words said today about Pat Tillman the war hero, Pat Tillman the football player, and Pat Tillman that public figure. You know what, they're awesome words, and they're very, very much appreciated. But ... for those of us up at the front, his close family and friends ... we've lost our Pat.

So there's part of me that wants to step back and give up ... throw in the towel, chalk it up, whatever term you want to use, but ... you all out here know what the answer is, and it's a simple answer: There's no way that Pat would ever accept us giving up on life. There's not a chance because Pat's glass wasn't half empty; it wasn't even half full. Pat's glass was filled to the rim. It was overflowing with life.

And you couldn't feel any better about who you were when you were with Pat; you couldn't feel any better about life when you were with Pat. And he made you feel so good about yourself in so many different ways. Pat was good at just about everything he did, and living his life was absolutely no exception. If there was a manual on how to live life, Pat should have written it.

Pat surrounded himself with vast relationships, both broad and deep. And for those of us privileged enough to know him, we knew that our relationship with him was special and those relationships with Pat were absolutely genuine. He was big, and I'm not talking about how ripped he was, I'm talking about how big his heart was. And that heart was huge, and he spent his life filling that heart with friends and family like all of us.

It was a commitment, an absolute commitment, to be Pat's friend; he demanded -- he accepted absolutely nothing less than one hundred percent from you. When Pat asked you how you were doing, he looked you in the eye and listened to your answer .... He was a friend, he was a confidant; he was a friend who absolutely listened to what you had to say. There was no gray area with Pat, none. You knew how he felt about you.

Actions speak louder than words. He's a war hero -- didn't talk about it. He's a football player -- didn't talk about it. But with his personal friends and family, he wasn't mushy, but you knew how he felt ....

He's affected those of us in the front but so many people here and around the world [as well]. I had a friend call me when he heard the tragic news and said, "Man, I spent just a few hours with that guy having a couple of beers and he changed the way I think about life, he made me want to be a better person." Now the key to this is, this was five or six years ago, this was before Pat was a war hero, before Pat was a football player, when he was just Pat. So he touched lots of people ....

And then there's Marie. His sweet Marie. The biggest place in that heart was for Marie. She owned it, and Pat knew ... that she was a champion .... And make no mistake, Pat felt absolutely lucky to have her, he knew she completed him. Marie humbled Pat, and ... as you watched them go through their lives together [it] was a thing of beauty ....

Pat had a wonderful sense of humor. We all thought so, and the person who thought he was the funniest was Pat. He thought he was hysterical, and he was, he absolutely was, and he loved his friends and his family because we laughed at his jokes. And as a running joke he'd elbow me and say, "See, I'm funny," and he was.

And he had an infectious and just booming laugh. I can't do it justice, but his head would roar back and his hands would go wide, knocking stuff over, and it would just be booming, his eyes would get all slanty, and he would use that laugh anytime anywhere, and damn the consequences.

If you were in a restaurant and the people were disturbed, he was looking at them going, "I don't know why you're not laughing, 'cause this is really funny." And the laugh came easily and often .... You couldn't help but laugh when you were with him. And you couldn't help but laugh at him. He had this Christmas sweater and pink slippers and a kimono, which he thought was cool. And he wore them together .... He had a wonderful sense of self-deprecation; that humor was amazing. Pat and my friend Todd are the godfathers for my son Adam. There's no godmother ... so Pat decided to come to the baptism dressed like the godmother; he came dressed as a woman. Now he changed [his clothes]. But that's Pat, making fun of himself ....

Pat was on a constant quest to improve himself. He was pleased with who he was, but he was always growing .... Dannie ... described it best. She said that Pat was deliberate about making himself a better person, and he really was.

And Pat's the kind of guy who talked to everyone. If you went running with Pat and Kevin, you were talking to everyone .... They said hello to everybody. You went in to get coffee with Pat, he was saying hello to the baristas, introducing you, you'd sit and have your coffee, and on the way out, he would make sure to look them in the eye and tell them thank you. That was Pat. People don't do that. But Pat did. And you couldn't help it when you were with him to want to be like that, to say please, to say thank you.

. . . Pat never met a topic that he didn't want to discuss. He'd call them debates or discussions, and he would develop an opinion opposite of yours just for the sake of discussing .... If you said it was left, he said it was right, if you said it was black, he said it was white. And he made sure to be educated so that he wasn't half-cocked, at least most of the time. And a great evening for Pat was spent with his friends and family and Marie having a couple of beers or coffee ... and discussing or maybe playing Trivial Pursuit and making sure that everybody on the team got their say.

... And Pat never told you what to do. But he certainly helped you find your way, even when you didn't know you were lost. And if he thought he should do something, he did it. "Ah, I'm going to do a marathon." Did it. Triathlon? Not just a triathlon, a half Ironman triathlon. Play in the NFL? "Sure, I'll be an All-Star." "I'm going to go join the Rangers." But ... when he decided to do something, he made the commitment, he put the effort behind it and he did all that it took to complete it. It wasn't easy .

. . . He was well read. Here's a man who read voraciously and he read anything and everything that he found interesting. He read the Economist, he read the Bible, he read the Koran, he read Mein Kampf, he read The Communist Manifesto, he read Thoreau. And as he read, he would underline passages that he found interesting.... You would often get letters from him, very eloquent letters, but you would often get articles that he'd cut out with something highlighted [with] "Hey, let's discuss ... "

He made you feel that he wanted what you had, not in a jealous way, no, in a way, because Pat was so confident and so secure and comfortable with who he was, [that] allowed him to be absolutely genuinely happy for you. And that's a gift.

... Pat Tillman was a war hero, Pat Tillman was a football star, and he was a larger-than-life person, he was absolutely all those things. But ... the best thing about Pat was his commitment to his family and friends ....

So would Pat let us give up? Not a chance. Would he let us give up on life? No. In fact it's exactly the opposite. And whatever cliche you can think of, he'd want us to seize the day, go forward, seize the bull by the horns, whatever one you want to put in there, that's what Pat would want us to do. So the single best thing about Pat is that he made you feel alive.... He made you challenge things, he made you appreciate everything every day, he made you appreciate your family and friends and respect them, he made you laugh, he made you think and made you want to be a better person.

Pat made you feel alive. Pat made you feel alive when he was here, and it's on us, to keep that going, and then he's never really gone.

Alex then walked in front of the podium, picked up the glass of Guinness, toasted Pat, and introduced Richard. I was struck by how tired and sad Alex looked. He was being very strong, but the pain in his eyes was obvious. Over the last several years, Pat and Alex had spent a lot of time together. I knew Pat was important to Alex and that he was feeling a profound sense of loss.

Alex walked off, and Richard walked up to the microphone. I was stunned. I didn't realize he was going to speak. I had given him a poem I wanted to have read; my close friend Julie Filippini e-mailed it to me. Julie was out of the country and unable to attend the service. I expected Richard to give the poem to someone else to read. He was so grief-stricken and angry; I didn't think it was wise for him to be up there. Marie was also concerned for him as she took my hand and squeezed it, knowing I was anxious for him.

I didn't do a good job of teaching my sons not to swear. The fact is, I did a terrible job. All three of them talked like stevedores, no matter the audience. After he took a drink from a pint of Guinness, I knew "f" bombs were going to fly. Richard had difficulty keeping himself composed. He was brief -- and unforgettable.

I didn't write shit because I'm not a writer. I just want to say it was really amazing to be his little baby brother, to be his Pooh [he starts breaking up here]. But I still have my Nubbin. [looking at Kevin] What up, Nub?

I'm not just going to sit up here and break down on you. But thank you for coming. Pat's a fucking champion and always will be. But just make no mistake, he'd want me to say this, he's not with God; he's fucking dead. He's not religious, so thanks for your thoughts, but he's fucking dead. Yeah, take care ....

He walked from the stage, then returned.

Sorry, Mom, I almost forgot. My mom wanted someone to read the poem [attributed to Mary Elizabeth Frye] and I'm ... not pawning that off on anyone, I'll do that.

Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on the ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there: I did not die.

Although Richard got a lengthy and supportive applause, I know there were people in the audience who cringed at his words. But oddly, I thought they were fitting -- they were from the heart. The following day, Richard received quite a lot of criticism in the press for what he said. However, Dan Bickley of the Arizona Republic described Richard's appearance in almost poetic terms with an understanding of his grief and his background.

In the midst of a ceremony dripping with flags, tears and special guests in smart suits, the little brother walked on stage.

He was wearing a plain white T-shirt and blue jeans. The resemblance was so striking that it looked as if he could've fallen off his older sibling.

Before Rich Tillman said a word, he took a deep pull from a pint of Guinness.

"I didn't write [squat] because I'm not a writer," he said.

Then he announced with only a trace of regret that, for all the heavenly overtones attached to this lovely memorial service, Pat didn't have a religious bone in his body. Thus, he couldn't be looking down with appreciation or disgust or any other form of expression we'd so eagerly like to imagine.

"He's ... dead," Rich Tillman said.

And there he was. Through his little brother's cameo appearance, Pat Tillman appeared in full view, complete with the candor, the nonconformity and the love of dropping cuss words at the most inopportune time. Especially when they can soil an elaborate broadcast.

I had no idea until after the memorial that it was broadcast on television; Richard didn't, either. Though, had he known, he wouldn't have changed a word.

Darius Rucker sang Pat's favorite song, "Desperado." The song was so beautiful but so painful to hear. Pat's friend Chad Schwartz followed Mr. Rucker. As Chad spoke, I was struck by the fact that Pat had given a eulogy for Chad's mother, Karen, Pat's "second mom," just seven months ago. Karen was an intelligent, warm, and generous woman. Pat liked and admired her. It was hard watching him as he sat at the kitchen table agonizing over what he would say. Now it was difficult to watch Chad as he paid tribute to Pat. Coach Lyle Setencich, Pat's ASU linebacker coach, lightened the mood. Pat was extremely fond of Coach Setencich, who coached Alex at Cal Poly University before Pat and several years later coached Marie's younger brother Paul at Berkeley. Coach Setencich started by mentioning them and other players he coached. Then he singled out several players in the audience, as if for support, and said to them of Pat:

You know that he was different, he was different. It would be almost mind-boggling to try to explain to people how he was. I need to tell you a couple of stories. He and I did not get off on a very good note. He was a safety his first year at Arizona State ... and I'm the new linebacker coach. And some of the coaches didn't feel he could play in the secondary so they moved him into linebacker. And I was brand new; I'd never met him before.

Pat comes walking into my office. He says, "Hey, are you the new linebacker dude?" I looked at him, I said, "Yeah, I'm the new linebacker dude." He said, "Well, I hope you know your shit because I want to be good." And I said, "Son, I know my shit." He said, "What do you think about my freakin' hair?" which is down to his waist ...

I said, "Well, Patrick ... young Pat, I'm a farmer, born and raised on a farm, and I've hunted all my life. And I've ... had Springer spaniels with short hair [that] could hunt like hell, and I've had long-haired Springer spaniels that couldn't hunt worth a damn. But you know, when I found one that could hunt, I didn't give a damn whether his hair was long or short, I just wanted it to hunt." He looked at me square in the face and says, "Coach, I can hunt." From that time on, I had a special relationship with Pat ... I loved him .... He was something special.

I want to tell you about this time he came into my office. We'd just hired a new recruiting coordinator named Robin Pflugrad. [Pat] walks down, cruises by, his hair swinging, he says, "Coach, who's the new recruiting dude down there?" I said, "Coach Pflugrad's his name." He said, "Can he recruit?" I said, "Well, I don't really know him, Patrick, but I don't think Coach Snyder would have hired him if he didn't think he could do a good job for us."

"Well, I got a list I want to show him ... " He comes up with this list, and I said, "Let me see it, Pat." He says, "This is what we need. We need a big tackle, a gorilla tackle, three hundred pounds, and then we need a rush defensive end who can come off the corner and raise holy hell with the quarterback. We've got two good running backs, but we need another guy ... we need a couple more guys; that's what we've got to have. And if we do, we're going to win the championship, we'll be national champions."

I said, "Patrick, you run down there and give it to him because hell, I'll probably get a new contract, at least get another year to work." And he runs down there and says, "Hey, recruiting dude, what's your name? Fluwind? Flu ... ? You ought to change your name," Patrick says. "I've got this list for you ... " [Pat went through his list and they did recruit those five players.] And we went and won eleven games, undefeated .... That was Pat, you know, most times he was right.

.. . He had this charisma about him, he had something. I'm going crazy at a linebacker, Derek Smith -- Derek's out there somewhere today [gestures toward the audience] -- I'm going nuts, and Pat would just say, "Hey, Derek. Hey dude, just line up over there, it'll be all right." Then he'd come back and tell me, "Hey coach, you shouldn't get so pissed off, you know that? I know what you mean, but you talk so goddamn much," he says, "no one can understand what you're saying, so just calm down; we'll be fine." That's how he was ....

The thing I liked most about Pat ... [was that] young Pat Tillman would look at all the football field a guy could look at and he could make all these plays, but he'd come into my office about ten, eleven o'clock every night because he knew I was in there; my wife was still teaching in California.

And we'd sit down, and we'd start talking about things, start talking about God. He wanted me to read a Book of Mormon with him, so I did. We talked about that for hours, we talked about Kosovo for hours, we talked about all the kids in the ghetto who couldn't read or write, all the poor people in the country. What was this country going to do about those things? What could he do about it? Four nights a week, every night, we talked about something .... It was amazing, sometimes till two or three in the morning. It was something special, hard to explain.

One of the things I want to leave you with: Pat chose to do what he wanted to do. He made his own decisions. I talked to him about it. He came back from Iraq. I said, "What's the deal, Pat?" He says, "They'll let me out to go back to the NFL. But Coach," he says, "I want to ask you a question; I signed up for three years. If you signed up for three years, what would you do? Would you leave early?" I don't want to answer that. He said, "Coach, I made a three-year commitment, I'm going three years. I'm not leaving." And that's the way it was. God bless Pat Tillman.

For a moment I sat stunned. I had no idea Pat had the ability to walk away from the military after his first tour of duty. Yet, I knew he would never have left Kevin, nor would he have broken his commitment to the Army or the Rangers. I knew Pat felt close to Coach Setencich, but I didn't know he would talk to him as often as he did. I thought it was wonderful that Pat felt comfortable enough with his coach to talk about important issues in life, not just football. And it was touching to watch the coach speak so movingly about him.

Two more of Pat's childhood friends, Jeff Bernal and Ben Hill, spoke. Ben went to kindergarten with Pat, and Jeff had been Pat's friend since they were seven years old. Both were in such shock, yet they were so articulate and moving. Another of Pat's coaches then walked to the microphone. Coach Dave McGinnis was Pat's defensive coordinator when Pat was drafted to the Cardinals in 1998 as a seventh-round draft pick. He later became his head coach. Coach McGinnis is a man with tremendous presence. Pat found him to be an excellent motivator and a good human being. He also has one of the most memorable and powerful voices I have ever heard. The audience sat transfixed the moment he started talking.

Pat Tillman was all that you've heard today: Honor, integrity, dignity; those weren't just adjectives in Pat Tillman's life; they were his life. Pat Tillman was the embodiment of loyalty and commitment. I experienced those firsthand very early on with Pat Tillman.

When Larry Marmie and I went to work Pat out before we drafted him over there on the practice fields at Arizona State University, a fifteen-minute session turned into a forty-five-minute ordeal because he wouldn't let us leave. He said, "Coach, you know damn well I can do it better than that, so let's do it again."

When Pat had a chance at free agency for a lot more money [$9 million for five years from St. Louis while he was making $512,000 with the Cardinals], I can remember standing there in the weight room when he came back from his visit. I said, "Tilly, what is it?" He said, "I'm not going anywhere." In his words, "How could I leave the organization and the coaches who believed in me and gave me a chance? That wouldn't be fair."

Martin Luther King, in one of his addresses, said, "The true measure of a man is not where he stands in times of comfort and convenience, but where he stands in times of conflict." There was never a question where Pat Tillman stood.

And if you wanted his opinion, all you had to do was ask him, and if you didn't want his opinion and didn't ask him, he'd still give it to you. The character of a man is a very valuable thing because it's very personal, it's something that every human being can mold within themselves. But the dignity of a character and the man is the ability to make a decision and stand by it. Pat Tillman dignified the word "character." ...

Pat appealed to everyone; everyone felt like Pat belonged to them. I can still see us up there in Flagstaff, coming off the field, and the people surrounding Number 40 for his autograph were the little kids, their grandmothers, the macho guy that wanted to be a linebacker, the young girl, the old girls. It's because Pat Tillman ... was a man that embodied everything, he was a man of many facets; he had an unbridled enthusiasm, a tremendous confidence balanced by a very genuine humility.

Pat Tillman has left us all a tremendous gift; it's his spirit, that unbridled unstoppable spirit of Pat Tillman. It's ours now ... he left it for us. The last words I ever said to Pat Tillman were "thank you," as he left our locker room. I know that we'll all leave here today saying thank you to Pat Tillman and to those young men and women that are protecting our rights and our way of life. God bless Pat Tillman, God bless America.

I could picture Pat saying his good-byes to his former teammates and his coaches. I could see the gentle and sincere expression on his face as he left people who were so important to him. Tears spilled onto my dress as the coach left the stage.

Pat's close friend Jeff Hechtle then stepped up and read a touching personal letter he wrote to Pat. Pat and Jeff were extremely close, and it was difficult for me to see how much pain Jeff was experiencing over losing his friend. I will never forget how Jeff supported us the long days after Pat's death leading up to the memorial. He was an anchor, and he was hurting as much as we were.

Following Jeff was Coach Larry Marmie. Pat had enormous affection for Coach Marmie. He had been Pat's position coach for two years on the Cardinals, and then his defensive coordinator for two years. Pat liked Coach Marmie from the start, but the feelings were not reciprocated at first. Coach didn't care for Pat's brash approach or his penchant for using four-letter words. However, as he got to know Pat better, he began to change his opinion of him, and they developed a strong bond. Once, after Pat died, he shared his respect for Pat's intellect with a friend by describing how Pat had memorized the entire playbook before his first training camp started and corrected the coach when he made a mistake: "For four years, I felt like I was playing checkers and Pat was playing chess," Coach said. I had to steel myself for the speech given by this very earnest person.

Pat was all about family .... In my mind, Pat Tillman was the guy we all want to be like. Pat lived life on his terms, he walked away from the comfort and the material things that most of us desire, he sought out danger for what he deemed to be a greater good, Pat was true to his heart ....

Here's somebody that embodied the very concept of a role model. Fiercely unique, a strong dislike for the easy way out. He was caring, he was thoughtful, and he was soft. Pat was soft in the heart. He was humble yet confident, reserved, but he was hard. You wanted this guy on your team, and it didn't have to be a football team. You wanted him on your team in anything you were doing.

Some people wonder why Pat did what he did; there had to be some other reason other than he felt it was the right thing to do. But simply put, that was his motivation. This past weekend a lot of teams around the National Football League had minicamps.

We had one, in St. Louis, where I now work. Everywhere I looked I saw Number 40; I saw him sitting in the meeting room, I saw him on the field, I saw him in the dining hall.

One of my favorite memories of Pat was in the summer in Tempe, Arizona. Could be anywhere from 100 to 120 [degrees]. And usually after we got done with our minicamp work then, Dave McGinnis and I had us this little jogging trail that we would run almost every day on Warner Road. And so many of those days we'd be somewhere into our run, and here came Pat down Warner Road, 105 [degrees], windows down, didn't have any airconditioning -- didn't want it in his jeep -- windows down, long hair flying, he'd stick his head out the window, he'd say, "Pick it up Coach, pick it up, faster, pick the pace up, keep on going." I'll miss that.

It was fun coaching Pat, it was challenging coaching Pat, it was an honor to coach Pat. I learned a lot from him. Players are usually trying to earn the respect of their coach; I found myself trying to earn Pat's respect. "Greater love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends." Pat's earned his crown of glory.

God bless all the men and women that serve our country in our armed forces, and all those that have in the past.

Coach Marmie's voice broke with emotion several times. I could feel the coach's pain, and I bent my head down several times for fear my looking at him would cause me to cry. It is so clear why Pat had such admiration for this strong yet gentle man.

During Leland High School's 1993-94 title-winning season, Terry Hardtke was head coach; Pat played both offense and defense. Pat had known Coach Hardtke for years; his son B.J. was one of Pat's friends growing up. Terry already had been to the house and to the visitation. One evening he sat with Judy and me inside the camper that was parked in my driveway, and we talked about Pat and his friends for several hours. I knew he was struggling with Pat's death, and he was worried about his son losing his friend. He began his comments at the memorial by telling a funny -- and typical -- story about Pat. This was a story that had been reported numerous times, but the coach wanted to set the record straight.

We were in a play-off game ... and at the half we were leading fifty-five to nothing; there was a running clock going on to make it easier to get the game over with. As we went back on the field in the second half, I went up to Pat and I said, "Pat, you're done for the day. I don't want you to play any offense, and play no defense." And he looked at me, real quizzical look, and he said, "Okay."

And as I am getting prepared for the second-half kickoff, my offensive coordinator turns to me and says, "You know, Pat's back there ready to take the kickoff." And I looked in astonishment and saw him back there, and he got the kickoff and of course ran it back for a touchdown.

And as he came off the field, I looked at him and all I could do is this [indicating "come here" with his index finger], and he came up to me very confidently and said, "You mentioned nothing about special teams." You know, he was right, [and] so that we didn't have any more misinterpretation of words, we claimed his helmet and his shoulder pads ....

[Another story] has to do when he was a freshman in high school, and he tried out for the baseball team. As a freshman he wanted to play varsity baseball, and Pat was a catcher. He was an outstanding ... probably one of the best ones in his age group, he was an outstanding baseball player, this undersize catcher guy....

And the final decision came down that he was not going to make the varsity baseball team. And so he was cut from the varsity and was going to be on the frosh-soph team. And he was not happy with that. In fact, he quit baseball at that point in time. And I came to him and I said, "You know, I really wish you wouldn't do that because I think you will have a great opportunity and a great future in baseball."

He says, "No, coach, I'm going to get into the weight room tomorrow and I'm going to become a football player." And ... in my wisdom, I said, "Pat, that's probably a bad decision because if you're going to play a college sport it's going to have to be baseball; it certainly won't be football." So you folks don't have to ever listen to me again.

Terry read brief, touching letters from his sons, and then asked us all to celebrate Pat's life as Pat would have if he were there. He walked quietly off the stage as Zach Walz approached to address the crowd.

Zach went to a nearby private high school, Saint Francis. He and Pat played football at the same time but never against each other. Pat first met Zach at a basketball game when they were high school seniors. Pat went to Arizona State and Zach to Dartmouth, and later they were both drafted by the Cardinals. Zach began his speech with reminiscences from high school.

Pat's star even then shined quite a bit brighter than most others. He was a free-spirited, fast, feisty kid with a Fabio haircut. A long blond mane draped over the top of his shoulder pads. If he wasn't laying bone-jarring hits on running backs, you might witness him doing front flips on his way into the end zone.... He terrorized his opponents week in and week out and swiftly earned the reputation as one of the state's top players. My friends and I naturally admired him .... Not only was he the best player in our section, but he seemed like a cool guy. He was modest, fun, and he had this enthralling presence about him that can only be described as real. ...

I remember it like it was yesterday, the first time I walked into the Cardinal facility. I was fresh out of the snow in New Hampshire, a pale, frightened, and undersized former Ivy League linebacker, surely not the most imposing figure. I was in a new city in a new state, I had no friends ....

I walked into our first meeting in the main lobby. I glanced across the room and the first person I saw was Pat. I went over to him, we shook hands, and he said in classic Tillman fashion, "What's up, dude? It's good to see you again, man." I was surprised he remembered. I don't think I ever told him how much he eased my fears ....

The Cardinals assigned us as roommates that very first day, which would last for the next five years until the final day that both our careers ended simultaneously. Every training camp, every home game, every flight, every restaurant, every practice, every meeting, every away game, every ordinary non-football day, he was my closest friend, he was my teammate ... and I consider myself one hell of a lucky person.

In almost all sports, rookies have certain responsibilities to their veteran teammates, certain weekly chores that must be fulfilled. As a linebacker, our job was to bring the veterans breakfast every morning of every practice day prior to our seven thirty a.m. meetings. I was already having a hard time waking up at six thirty to make it on time. Now I had ten angry veterans demanding I bring them food at the crack of dawn. Needless to say, it took a little coaxing for me to get acclimated.

One day after practice, only seven weeks into our rookie season, our veteran group of linebackers slowly circled around me. They were trying to conceal some rolls of tape in their hands. It wasn't too hard to figure out what they were up to. I blanked on breakfast duty for the first half of the season. As punishment, they walked me over to the end zone, and in just a shade under five minutes, I found myself firmly attached to the big yellow goalpost.

The entire team went inside to eat as I was stranded outside in the Arizona sun, embalmed with white training tape. To make matters worse, a few lingering reporters and cameramen caught wind of the ruckus and were able to capture the story for the following day's newspaper. At one point, I was feeling pretty confident that I was going to be left out there for the better half of the afternoon.

Then, I saw Pat leaving the locker room and walking out toward me on the field. Despite repeated threats that he too would be taped up or dunked in the cold pool for freeing me, he continued forward. And remember, we were rookies, the lowest member of the food chain; our foremost goal was to not piss anyone off and do as were told. Even after I pleaded with Pat, "Don't do it, please Pat, it's not worth it, man, really, it's not worth it, I'll be fine," he still untied me. We walked back inside and finished our lunch. And that was that. I was free. Pat, on the other hand, was prepared to accept his fate, but strangely, nothing else came of it.

Although it may seem like a relatively meaningless story to some, it was the countless number of these minor accounts of Pat that best reflect the character and principle by which he conducted his life. He never turned his back on anyone -- not his friends, not his family, certainly not his country.

Pat wore his emotions on his sleeve. If something bothered him, you'd know about it. And if he had the opportunity to fix it, he would dive in headfirst without even a second consideration. He was a charismatic leader; he was a fierce competitor. He was firm in his beliefs and he commanded respect.

Yet he also was a loving son, husband, a brother, and friend to thousands. He had an intoxicating passion for life and an unquenchable thirst for personal, intellectual, and social improvement. Tilly always acted in the way he knew was right, and to him, it was always worth it.

I found this article in my closet a short time ago. It's entitled "Cardinal Linebackers Adopt Military Path," dated Sunday, December 13, 1998. After making it to the play-offs in 1998, in an act of solidarity, our coach bought us personally engraved silver-plated dog tags. I'm actually quoted in this article saying, "We do consider ourselves soldiers, and these tags are kind of something we can stay close to as we go out and battle these last three weeks." Other quotes: "It's something we talk about all the time. We consider ourselves soldiers and play through pain, adversity, and things like that." "Coach looks at us like soldiers who go out there and lay it on the line every time we're on the field in practice, games and in meetings."

Listen to these words: soldiers, battle, lay it on the line, adversity. What the hell do we know? Indeed, our intentions were noble, but this article, with these metaphors, how hollow they now ring, and how hollow similar comparisons will forever ring from this point forward.

When I saw Pat this last December in Los Gatos, somehow this story leaped into my memory. Immediately, I expressed to Pat there could be no greater honor for me as a proud friend than to be able to wear the dog tags of a true soldier. I begged Pat for the symbol of his ultimate commitment so that I could forever carry it close to my heart and wear it with the utmost pride. His name inscribed on two metal cards is an inspiration to us all and evokes a magnitude of patriotism that only he could stir up.

Two weeks later, Pat sent me his dog tags in the mail. Words can hardly describe what they mean to me. It is often very difficult to not feel a sense of worthlessness in the presence of Pat. I felt compelled to give something back to him as he and so many others continue to sacrifice so much more. But that was the last time I saw Pat.

And now the only thing I can give back is to wear his name with honor, and willingly provide unconditional and unwavering love and support for his wife, his family, and his fellow servicemen and women. But the final promise, and no matter what the end shall bring, we will continue to turn the wheel of progress, that Pat insisted, for as he once said, "If we're not getting better, we're old news."

And although I'm holding these dog tags in my hand today, I assure you this: This is the farthest as they will ever be from their place around my neck. For as long as gravity pulls, they will hang down close to my heart, the place where Pat Tillman has permanently emblazoned his mark.

I look forward to the day when I can pass these dog tags on to my son, then he too can share what's it's like to walk tall with pride, knowing the man around his neck to which he humbly pays tribute made this world a better place to live.

Someday I can share with him stories about that man, my old friend Tilly, as Richard so eloquently put it, the biggest effing champion I've ever seen. Although Pat is not with us in body, somewhere down the road, our souls will cross paths again, and you can count on it buddy.

Zach's speech was incredibly impressive and moving. He was so articulate and poised. I recalled how he had called me after learning of Pat's death. He was so grief stricken and shocked he couldn't speak. He had to call another time. I felt so helpless. I didn't know how to comfort him. There just weren't any words. I had never heard about Pat cutting Zach down from the goalpost. It didn't surprise me, though. Pat was never afraid to stand up to people he thought were in the wrong. I remembered so well the evening in the Los Gatos bar, when Zach told Pat he would be honored to wear his dog tags. I saw the expression on Pat's face. He was so touched that his friend would want to support him. I could only imagine how touched he would be by Zach's words that day.

Paul Ugenti, Marie's younger brother, also spoke, as did his father. Pat's father was the last speaker. I commended him for speaking; I would never have been able to do that. He wore dark glasses, but you didn't have to see his eyes to recognize the pain reflected on his face. He lost his composure when he spoke about losing Pat but regained it by thanking the people of New Almaden and the Tempe-Phoenix area of Arizona, as well as the San Jose police and fire departments.

I miss my son; it's only been a week, and it ain't getting any better.... The last few days have not been very pleasant, but they would have been a lot worse if we'd have been bothered by things that I didn't want to do. There's a lot of folks that have been helpful to us. The San Jose police department kept us nice and quiet and secure and gave us our week to just stay with each other and deal with the friends of the family ... same with the fire department ....

... I want to thank anybody involved in the military, especially the Rangers, there's at least one SEAL I'm aware of; outstanding human beings.

I don't know a lot about what happened to Pat, and a lot of the details I really don't care about. But it's important to me to know that the situation was bad ... and Pat was unlucky, it's unfortunate, but Pat was doing his job. And I don't even know what the Ranger motto is, but I'll bet you a buck that he upheld it. And I'll find out what the stuff is later on, but I know enough to know that Pat was going at it the way he always went at it.

Following the speakers, three soldiers in military dress approached Marie, Pat's father, and me, and presented each of us with a flag. I will never forget looking into the beautiful olive-green eyes of the young soldier who stood before me. They were filled with sadness. I instinctively stroked his wrist as he placed the flag in my hands. The bagpipes once again had begun to play, and we were escorted out of the garden.

We were driven back to our little community of New Almaden. Friends and family members gathered at the Casa Grande, the historical structure down the road from the house that is surrounded by lawn and a variety of giant trees. The scent of eucalyptus soothed and comforted me. Friends had set up an abundant buffet, and tables were set up for people to eat and talk. I was so exhausted by the time we reached the reception that my memory is vague. But sometime during the evening, military personnel arrived and very hastily presented Marie, Patrick, and me each with Pat's Purple Heart, Silver Star, and an abridged Silver Star citation.

The evening after the memorial service, a small gathering of several of our closest friends and family members came to our house, along with Steve White and the young soldier with the olive-green eyes. His name was Russell Baer. Immediately I recalled the name. Pat and Kevin had each written to me about befriending a young man, about Richard's age, who wrote beautiful poems. I learned he had been about twenty to thirty meters behind Pat on the ridgeline, and he had helped Kevin escort Pat's body from Afghanistan to San Francisco.

After some light conversation and a meal, Pat's father asked Russell to tell us what happened the night Pat died. Russell was visibly uncomfortable with the question, but he proceeded to tell us what happened. He told us that once Pat got out of his vehicle he sought out Bryan O'Neal. Sergeant Matt Weeks indicated that several fire teams were to move up the ridge. Pat and O'Neal ran up the steep incline. Russell said an Afghan Militia Force soldier followed Pat and O'Neal toward the enemy that was firing on the second serial. Baer said the fire team to which he was attached was to the left of Pat and O'Neal. He said Pat, O'Neal, and the Afghan were taking fire, and Pat positioned O'Neal behind a rock to get him out of the line of fire. He said O'Neal was frightened. Pat calmed him down and told him where to orient his fire. He told O'Neal he had an idea and he was going to get some guidance from Sergeant Weeks. Pat ran across the ridgeline to ask Weeks if he was in a sound position and to see if he could take off his body armor and try to move toward the southern ridgeline. Weeks told him his position was fine and he could advance the enemy, but he was to leave his body armor on. Pat said okay and returned to O'Neal.

The enemy fire became more intense, and Pat and O'Neal were firing back. Pat got hit repeatedly in the legs and as he went down, he was shot in the head. Tears streamed down my face as I listened to the story. It was gut-wrenching to learn Pat had been seriously wounded before he was actually killed. I quietly got up and walked to my room.

***

After I finish talking about the memorial, Katie, Lannie, and Tom sit reverently for several minutes. They don't know what to say. I tell them I don't need for them to say anything. I thank them for listening, then I excuse myself and go upstairs. I lie down on my grandmother's four-poster bed as Russell's account of Pat's death plays in my mind. I learned from Kevin shortly after we were informed of the fratricide that Russell was told by his superiors to keep his mouth shut when he accompanied Kevin home with Pat's remains. Russell was placed in a horrible position. He knew Pat was likely killed by his own troops, hut he didn't know exactly what happened, as Pat's position on the ridgeline was obscured to him. Being ordered not to tell us what he knew was bad enough, but his situation was complicated by the fact that at the memorial service, the Army presented a narrative that wasn't true. He was so distraught by the Army's deception and having to keep what he suspected from us that he didn't return to Fort Lewis as ordered, and he was threatened with a court martial. Now I wonder what parts of his version of Pat's death were true. Did rounds repeatedly strike Pat in the legs? Was his body hit? Did he suffer? Softly, I cry myself to sleep.

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