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BOOTS ON THE GROUND BY DUSK: MY TRIBUTE TO PAT TILLMAN |
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Chapter 11
I wake up to Katie and Lannie talking in the kitchen. Quickly I take a shower and dress. Once downstairs, I find Tom reading the newspaper, Katie cooking eggs, and Lan pouring muesli. "Good morning," all three say cheerily. "How about some eggs and fruit?" Katie asks. "That sounds great," I say, helping myself to coffee. We carry our plates to the cozy breakfast nook that looks out onto the tree-lined side street. "Did you sleep all right?" Tom asks. "Yes. I slept fine." "Katie was telling me how wonderful your friends are," Lannie says. "She said everyone she met at your house was so compassionate, even your principal and fellow teachers." "I have very special friends, and the people I work with have been amazing through all of this." "How is Carmen?" Katie asks. "She is a lovely young woman." Carmen Navarro, my assistant at school, has worked with me for two years. At twenty-six years old, she is one of the most innately wise individuals I have ever known, and she is magical with children. I have always felt she has been supportive of me, but the last few months I would describe her as vigilant. "Carmen is doing fine," I say. ''I'm very lucky to have her in my life. I hope she'll still be working with me next year." "Dannie, I read you went to a memorial for Pat in Arizona. What was that like?" Tom asks. "There were two memorials in Tempe. One was private and one was public. Both were wonderful tributes, but it was extremely difficult to go back there," I tell him. "I have such vivid memories of Pat in Tempe. Except for the last year and a half, he had lived in Tempe since high school." I begin to describe what it was like to go back to the city where we shared so many good times with Pat. *** After arriving at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport, I walked slowly on the moving sidewalk in a corridor that connects the Southwest terminal to the main complex. I had walked that corridor so many times coming to see Pat and Kevin during their years at ASU and when Pat played for the Cardinals. My stomach felt queasy as I looked out of the window at the familiar landscape. When I glanced over at Kevin and Richard, I knew they were feeling the same. Once outside we waited for the shuttle that would take us to the hotel. Maybe it was the heat, but standing on the sidewalk across from the terminal, I felt like I was in a grainy haze. I always had associated Arizona with fun and excitement, but not now that Pat is gone. We boarded a shuttle for the drive to the Tempe Mission Palms Hotel. This place holds many great memories for me, but one in particular stands out. It was in August 1994, when Pat began his first practice for Arizona State University. Once his phone was connected in his dorm, he called home about every other day; he was terribly homesick. After two weeks, he called to tell me he really needed his bike. I knew he would need it; his dorm was much farther from the campus than we had expected. I told him we would try to get it to him in the next week or so. Patrick told me he couldn't get away from work, so we decided I would drive the bike to Arizona. But Patrick didn't want me to drive alone, and Kevin and Richard both had their own football practice, so he suggested that I ask my brother to go. Mike said he could leave the upcoming Friday after he got off the late shift; we were going to surprise Pat. I let Pat believe the Arizona trip was tentative, and I assured him that if we couldn't drive there, we would ship the bike to him. "Well, I sure hope you come," he said. The night we were to leave, Patrick put bike racks on the car, and Mike and I left for Tempe as soon as we could. After we passed the Gilroy garlic plant, Mike's throat started to hurt. He believed it was some kind of allergic reaction from the heavy garlic fumes in the air. He felt so poorly that we stayed the night in a hotel and left the following morning. We got into Tempe around six p.m. on Saturday and checked into the Tempe Mission Palms Hotel, which is down the street from Sun Devil Stadium. I started to call Pat, but my brother stopped me. "Don't tell him we're here -- let's really surprise him," Mike said. "Let's call and tell him we couldn't make it. The Greyhound shipping station is across the street from the stadium. Tell him you've shipped the bike and he needs to pick it up there. We can be there when he shows up." "Oh, he's going to be so disappointed. I hate to do that to him," I said. "Dannie, it will be worth it." I picked up the phone and called Pat. "Hello," he said. "Hi, Pat." "Mom, hi. Are you here?" he asked anxiously. "No, we couldn't make it. We shipped the bike to you. It's at the Greyhound station. You need to get it tonight." "Mom, the Greyhound station is closed now," he said. "I really wish you could have come." I felt terrible playing this game with him. I could tell he was so disappointed. "Pat, I arranged for the bus station to stay open so you can pick up the bike. They're waiting for you." "But Mom, I'd rather keep talking to you." I looked pleadingly at Mike. "Don't tell him," he mouthed. "I know, Pat. I want to talk to you, too. Go get the bike and call me as soon as you get back to the dorm." It's a long walk from the dorm to the bus station, and Pat told me he would call back in about an hour. "Mike, I can't believe I did that. He is so sad." "Well, he won't be when he sees you," Mike said. Mike and I had a drink at the hotel lounge, then drove to the nearby bus station. We parked, got out, and talked until I could see Pat walking toward us in the distance. We both quickly ducked behind the wall surrounding the parking lot. As Pat got closer, I could hear him whistling. When he walked by the wall we were crouched behind, Mike jumped up and said, "Hey, punk! You looking for a bike?" Pat was startled and reflexively jumped into a defensive position. I stood up. Instantly, a huge smile formed on his face. "Mom! Uncle Mike! You're here!" The three of us started laughing. Mike grabbed Pat and gave him a big hug, then I walked over and hugged him. "This is awesome! I can't believe you're here," he said with a giant grin. "How about some dinner?" Mike asked. "Sure! We're staying at the Mission Palms. Do you want to stay with us?" "That would be great," he said. "Let me call my roommate, Brian, and let him know I won't be coming back tonight." We ate dinner at Bandersnatch Brew Pub just down the street. Inside, the walls were brick and the lighting was dim. It had a very cozy atmosphere. We ate burgers, drank beer and Coke, and joked about the place being named after the fictional monster in Lewis Carroll's poems "Jabberwocky" and "The Hunting of the Snark." After too many beers, we all see our own Bandersnatch. After dinner, we went back to the hotel and talked for hours. Pat spoke about how much he missed Marie and that he couldn't wait for her first visit. He also missed Kevin and Richard. We had three bedrooms in our house when the boys were growing up. They would take turns being roommates. The last three years, Pat had his own room and his brothers shared. He told me he missed lying in bed listening to Richard, our family comedian, tell jokes to Kevin and hearing the two of them just goof around. Pat said he would be in hysterics, too. We laughed about how the boys had a communal clothing bin; even though Richard was four years younger than Pat and three years younger than Kevin, they shared clothes, including underwear and socks. The bins also served as a holding area for clothes left behind by their friends, and the boys had no qualms about incorporating them into their wardrobe until their rightful owners claimed them. Pat discussed how excited he was for Kevin's upcoming football season and told us he would miss playing on the same team with him. He said he was looking forward to his dad and Richard coming to Arizona to see his first college game. After driving so far that day, I should have been exhausted, but it was so great to see Pat that I didn't even feel sleepy. The next day, the team had its first night practice in the stadium under the lights, and Pat was pretty excited. Mike asked if we could watch, but Pat said he didn't think spectators were allowed, so we told him we would take him to dinner after practice. The night was beautiful, the temperature comfortable, and there was a wonderful breeze. Mike and I were going to kill time walking around Mill Avenue, but when we saw the lights of the stadium and other people going in, we decided to discreetly go in and watch. The stadium was so impressive, and we were excited to be there to see Pat practice. The dry lightning that began to light up the desert sky gave us an even greater thrill. We sat in the stadium opposite to where Pat was practicing so we would not embarrass him by being there, but he spotted us. Instead of ignoring us, however, he smiled and waved wildly. We waved back with pride. Mike and I stayed in Tempe for several days. The day Pat's classes began, we walked him to his first class. We were going to say good-bye then, but Pat asked us to stay until his class was over so we could all go to lunch. It was clear he didn't want us to leave. We agreed to wait. After lunch, Pat was extremely sad to see us go. I reminded him that his dad and Rich would be coming to his first game in a few weeks. As we were getting into the car, Pat handed me a note. With moist eyes, he told me to read it later. We hugged him and, with heavy hearts, drove away. I hung out the car window and waved until I could no longer see him. Once we got about ten miles out of town, I opened the letter and started to read it aloud.
My voice started to falter, so I put the letter down. "It's okay, Dannie. We can finish it another time." *** That memory faded as the airport shuttle pulled into the hotel parking lot. We checked into our rooms, then met up with Patrick, Marie and her family, and several of Pat's friends. We all went across the parking lot to one of Pat's favorite bars, Rula Bula, for drinks before we got ready for the private memorial that evening, but sitting in the bar felt empty. Without Pat it was not the same for any of us. We had time before the memorial, so we walked down to the ad hoc tribute to Pat that was outside the stadium. We passed Bandersnatch and saw it was boarded up. All of us were saddened. We had shared many meals with Pat there. "When did it close?" Rich asked. "April 22," Marie said drily. We later learned it had shut down in October 2003. The private memorial service organized by the university was quite touching. Professors, coaches, players, and others who knew Pat were there, and the speeches were eloquent. Sports newscaster Jude LaCava presented a video on the jumbo screen of three interviews with Pat I had never seen. Clips of his plays were shown, accompanied by touching yet haunting music. Seeing Pat speak on the big screen was joyous and heartbreaking at the same time. After the memorial, we spoke with many guests. One of Pat's professors brought Duff McDougall, a classmate Pat had befriended. I spoke with Duff, and he told me Pat was a special person and a good friend to him. The public memorial was the next day, May 8. Speakers included Arizona governor Janet Napolitano and Arizona State University president Michael Crow, along with coaches and teammates. I remember smiling when Derrick Smith, who had played with Pat at ASU and was then playing for the Washington Redskins, recounted speaking to Pat on the field when the Cardinals played in Landover in 2001. Derrick asked Pat how he was doing. Pat told him he was fine, but his legs were a bit weary because he had spent hours the day before walking the National Mall, visiting all the memorials and looking at monuments. While listening to the speakers, I glanced over to the left corner of the field. My throat constricted. I could see Pat, ten years ago, smiling broadly and waving his arms at Mike and me as we sat in the stands watching his practice. I remember how excited he was to be playing, how hard he had worked to get to that point, and how hard he continued to work through college and the pros. *** It was in the spring of his seventh-grade year that Pat decided he wanted to play football instead of soccer. Many of his close friends had played in the Police Athletic League (PAL), and he wanted to also. His dad and I were a bit nervous about injuries, but we agreed to it. He had a lot to learn, but he loved the camaraderie and contact. One weekend in early fall, Patrick went to San Diego for a legal seminar, and I took Richard and Kevin to Kevin's soccer tournament in Fairfield, three hours north of San Jose. Pat stayed with his good friend Chad Schwartz because he had a football game. We drove to Fairfield on Friday right after school. At about midnight, I received a call at the hotel from Chad's mother, Karen, a nurse, that Pat had broken his ankle at practice. She told me it was a minor break and not to worry. I felt terrible for Pat. I knew he probably wouldn't be able to play for the rest of the season, and he would be upset. I told Karen I would be at their house in a few hours, but she discouraged me from driving. She said I should wait until morning. I took her advice and got some rest. At around six thirty a.m., I left Kevin in the care of his coach and his wife and took Richard with me to get Pat. Richard and I walked into Karen's house to find Pat lying on the couch in a full leg cast. Even though he was heavily drugged, it was clear he was in great pain. Tears filled my eyes and a knot formed in my throat as I looked at him. I turned my gaze to Karen. Seeing my pained and confused expression, she sympathetically explained that one of the big tackles had fallen on Pat's leg during a play, and he actually had two serious breaks in his right tibia. She apologized for not telling me on the phone how bad his breaks were, but she was afraid she wouldn't be able to keep me from driving home in the middle of the night if I knew the truth. She worried that I would have an accident, and there was nothing I could do anyway. I was sick that I hadn't been with Pat when his leg was set. I knelt next to him, and through his pain he gave me a weak smile. "Hi, Mom," he said. The knot in my throat got bigger as I tried to hold back tears. There was no way I could get Pat to our house in our Volkswagen Rabbit; he couldn't bend his leg. Karen told me her husband would drive him home in their van. Richard and I went ahead to prepare a place for him. We made a bed on the couch so he wouldn't be isolated in his room. Richard, who was nine, had recently had a cast removed from his arm, which he'd broken in a skateboard accident earlier in the year. He was feeling his brother's pain. As Pat rested on the couch, his leg throbbing and his stomach sick from codeine, Richard sat on a stool next to him, tears rolling down his face, rubbing Pat's arm and trying to make him feel better. Days later, I learned from various people present that when Pat was injured, he had lain on the field for a very long time, as the ambulance took an unusually long time to get to him. A friend, Art Herbig, was watching another team practice at an adjacent field. His own son had just recovered from a pretty serious back injury, and he was keeping an eye on his practice when he learned Pat had been hurt. He told me he hustled over to Pat, who was lying on a mat in terrible pain, his leg obviously broken. Art bent over to give comfort. Pat looked up at him with glassy eyes and told him he was all right, then asked, "Mr. Herbig, how is Artie's back doing?" It took more than four months for Pat's leg to heal enough to be out of the cast. He had lost a lot of weight, and his leg had lost a great deal of muscle. He was very anxious to get himself in condition to play football in high school the following fall. He started running with Kevin's soccer team, the Outlaws, to get back in shape. It was late December, and Kevin's team still had several tournaments left in the season. Kevin's soccer coach asked Pat if he would be interested in playing on the team in order to get into condition, as well as help the team, which was short a player due to an injury. Because of Pat's November birthday, he was eligible to play in two different age divisions. Pat agreed to play for the remainder of the season. Kevin was delighted. Pat practiced with the team for several weeks and decided his leg was strong enough that he could participate in the Fresno tournament. Kevin was a right wing, and Pat was made a forward. Every time Kevin got the ball, he would look for his brother and pass it to him when he was open. Each time Pat struck the ball with his still-fragile leg, I cringed. In the final game, time was running out, and we were down points. Kevin was running downfield and picked up the ball on a perfectly placed pass. He dribbled it around several players, then passed it to an open man. That player kicked the hall hard over to Pat, and I feared Pat would hurt his leg as he struck it for the shot on goal. However, the ball came in high. Pat could tell the ball might go out of bounds if he waited for it to hit the ground, so he ran at full speed and punched the traveling ball with his crotch. The ball soared into the goal. I don't remember if that was the final play or even if we won the game. I just remember the look of extreme satisfaction on Pat's face when he scored. After five long months, he was thrilled to be a contributing member of a team once again. That night, my brother called to find out how the tournament went. Richard answered the phone and excitedly said, "Uncle Mike, Pat scored a goal with his nuts!" By the time Pat started high school football practice in the summer of 1990, his leg was stronger than ever. Although he was considered small for a football player, he was determined to do well. One of his junior varsity, and later varsity, coaches, Don Swanson, told me he remembers the first time he saw Pat when he was playing on the frosh-soph team; he described him as a midget playing corner. That year was a learning year for Pat, as he had played so little football. He developed skills, learned plays, and took a great interest in conditioning. He worked out in the school weight room, and he, his brothers, and their friends would lift weights in our family room while they talked about life. By the end of the season, Pat seemed satisfied with his play, but he mentioned to his dad and me that his buddy, Jeff Bernal, told him he was a terrible blocker. That was something he said he would have to work on. He wanted to play on the varsity team his sophomore year, but there was a rule that players had to be fifteen by the start of the season; Pat wouldn't be fifteen until November. He had to accept the fact that he would be playing junior varsity the following year. Pat's quality of play improved a great deal by the time he started to play varsity his junior year. All of his teammates played solidly and looked forward to their senior season. Over the course of the spring, Kevin, a sophomore, decided he would go out for football, too. During the summer double-day practices, when they practiced twice a day, they had a terrific time. By the time school started, they'd been doing more with each other and with each other's friends than they had since early middle school. They worked out together, ran together, and stayed up late and talked together. In the mornings, Pat would drive Kevin to school in our old, copper-colored Rabbit. Of course, they always seemed to leave the house with very little time to spare. If they didn't find a parking space in a matter of minutes, they would be late. A friend of mine who lived near the school told me several times she saw Pat angle the nose of his car into a tight parking space on the street. The front of his car would be close behind the bumper of the car parked in front of him, while the back stuck out into the street. He and Kevin would jump out of the car, grab their backpacks from the back seat, lift the rear end of the car into the parking space, then run like hell to class. Through the hard work and tenacity of the players and the coaches, the 1993-1994 season turned out to be exceptional. Leland High School won the Central Coast Section Division I championship. Pat earned Co-player of the Year honors for the Central Coast Section. He played hard and performed well. In one memorable game, he caught a punted ball and ran it back for a touchdown, only to have the play called back for a penalty. It was punted to him again, he scored again, and there was another penalty against Leland. A third punt, another catch, another touchdown; this time it counted, and the Leland crowd went wild. At the end of the season, Pat was expecting to be actively recruited. As it turned out, while he got a lot of encouraging letters, there were not many recruiting offers. The college recruiting process was very distasteful to Pat. It involved turning down universities that wanted him and being rejected by those he wanted to attend. As good a player as he was in high school, there wasn't much interest in him by most colleges because he was considered small at 5 feet 11 inches tall and 195 pounds. Coaches didn't believe he could transfer his talent to the college level because he would be competing against much bigger players. When Pat interviewed with Coach Bruce Snyder at Arizona State, the coach asked him what he thought of the recruiting business, and Pat, characteristically honest, said, "It sucks. Nobody tells the truth." Sometime shortly after Pat accepted the last scholarship ASU had to offer, Coach Snyder talked to Pat about the possibility of redshirting, which restricts players from playing their freshman year in order to extend eligibility. Pat didn't want to stay in college for five years just to play football. In the conversation with the coach, Pat told him, "I'm not redshirting. I've got things to do with my life. You can do whatever you want with me, but in four years, I'm gone." His freshman year, Pat played on special teams, units that are on the field during kickoffs, free kicks, punts, and extra point attempts. In his first ASU game, Pat made his first college special teams tackle in front of the stands where his dad and Richard were sitting. We would go to Pat's games whenever possible. Phoenix is about a ten-hour drive from San Jose and about a two-hour flight. Pat's sophomore year, 1995-96, he rotated in as linebacker. That year, Richard and I flew to Arizona for the UCLA game. We were so excited to be going. Unbeknownst to us, the time of the game had been changed because it was being televised, and it started earlier than our schedule indicated. We got into a cab and told the driver to take us to Sun Devil Stadium. The driver turned around and said, "The game's almost over." He said he had been listening to it on the radio, and ASU was losing by a wide margin. Richard and I looked at each other and our jaws dropped. We asked the driver to turn on the radio again, and just at that moment, the announcer said, "Pat Tillman on the tackle." Rich and I were thrilled, and we pressured the driver to get us to the game quickly. We arrived at the stadium and hustled out of the cab. We heard thunderous noise coming from the field. Our tickets were at will-call, but the window was closed, so we ran straight to the gates. The stadium personnel weren't going to let us in, but I told them we had the game time wrong and we had just flown in. I pleaded, "My son is playing." The two employees looked at each other, shrugged, and opened the gate. We walked into the stadium, and the crowd was going wild. The whole game had turned around. Rich and I slid into an aisle and stood in front of some empty seats. Everyone was on their feet screaming, yelling, and waving. We got to see ASU beat UCLA 37-33. Because the game turned around once we landed in Tempe, with more than some amusement, Rich and I took credit for the victory. That same year the ASU Sun Devils played the Nebraska Corn huskers in Lincoln. Patrick and my brother went to that game. They enjoyed seeing the city of Lincoln and watching the game in historic Memorial Stadium, often called the Sea of Red because of the devoted fans clad in Corn husker colors. ASU got clobbered; the final score was 77-28. The following year, ASU played Nebraska on September 21 in Tempe. The whole town was excited about the game, but no one had forgotten the butt-kicking the Devils got the year before. It was a new season, however, and now both teams were nationally ranked in the top twenty, Arizona State at seventeenth and Nebraska first. The season was young, and neither team had a loss. Patrick, Richard, and I arrived in Tempe early in the morning. We met up with Kevin, who had received a baseball scholarship to Arizona State and joined Pat in the fall of 1996. We could feel the tension and excitement. Huge banners had been hung all over town to pump up and support the team. By midafternoon, we started to notice how many Cornhusker supporters were walking on Mill Avenue and on Fifth Street, in front of the stadium. A Sea of Red was forming in Tempe. We anxiously passed the last few hours before the game people-watching around the stadium. Richard proudly sat with Kevin in an area reserved for the ASU baseball team, while Patrick and I sat midway up in the stands looking over the thirty-yard line. It was thrilling to see the stands so packed with fans, although clearly, the Nebraska fans outnumbered ours. When the Cornhuskers entered the field, it appeared their players outnumbered ours as well. I joked with Patrick that their side of the field looked like an illustration from The Cat in the Hat. Every time I looked out at the Nebraska side, I saw more players coming out of their tunnel. I didn't think teams could bring so many players to away games, but evidently the conference rules for the Big 12 were different from ours in the Pac 10. After the first quarter, ASU was winning 9-0. In the second quarter, Pat got a safety after tackling the quarterback, Scott Frost, in the end zone after Frost fumbled the ball on a miscued play. I jumped up like a maniac cheering for him. Everyone was excited that the Sun Devils were playing so well and keeping the Huskers from scoring. By halftime we were ahead 17-0. The ASU fans were excited, but this was Nebraska; anything could happen. When the final whistle blew, ASU had beaten the number-one-ranked team in the country 19-0: one touchdown, two field goals, and three safeties. Coach Snyder said he had never been in a game where three safeties were scored. There was absolute, delightful pandemonium. Patrick ran from the stands to see if he could find Pat before he went into the tunnel. I sat mesmerized by the scene before me. Everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion, exulted expressions on the faces of the Arizona fans. They flooded the field to congratulate players, and a mass of them took down one of the goalposts and carried it out of the stadium. The following day, the Arizona Republic said it was recovered somewhere on Mill Avenue, more than four blocks away. Arizona State went undefeated in the regular season, ensuring its Rose Bowl berth by beating Cal Berkeley 35-7 on November 9 in front of a record crowd of 74,963 fans. Again, the fans went wild. Kevin, in his excitement, still had the presence of mind to grab a handful of turf from the field. He later purposefully arranged the remnant below the front-page newspaper photo of the field after the win, framed it, then presented it to Pat just before he left for Pasadena in Southern California to play in the Rose Bowl against Ohio State. I was born in Columbus, Ohio. My father, his brother, and his sisters went to Ohio State. My uncle's wife had been Woody Hayes's secretary until the coach's dismissal in 1978, and members of my mother's family continued to be huge fans. Everyone was so excited that Pat would be playing the Buckeyes in Pasadena; they all said they were switching their loyalty for the upcoming game. Kevin, Richard, and their friends went to Pasadena early to share as much Rose Bowl mania with Pat as possible. Patrick, Mike, and I got there just before the Rose Parade. The crowds were overwhelming, but the display was magnificent. Once in the Rose Bowl, all I could think about was how proud my dad would be that Pat was playing his alma mater in the prestigious bowl game. ASU was coming in ranked number two in the nation, and OSU was ranked number four. If the Sun Devils won the game, they could be national champions. Both teams played exceptionally well, and fans on both sides were treated to a thrilling game. With just over a minute left, the Devils were ahead 17-14. Pat was playing so hard and so well I was beside myself with excitement for him. In the last seconds, the Buckeyes scored the winning touchdown. I looked painfully and hesitantly up at the scoreboard at the final score, 20-17. Pat took the loss better than the rest of us; his team played well, he had played well, and it was a fantastic experience. Altogether, 1996-97 was a remarkably successful year for Pat, in football as well as in academics. He was named the All-Pac-10 Academic Player of the Year for his solid grade-point average, and he won two other academic awards. On the football field he had the most interceptions, fumble recoveries, and pass deflections of anyone on the team. He also won the Defensive Player of the Year Award, which was renamed in his honor. Only one other player, Scott Yon der Ahe, had more tackles than Pat did that year. Pat's last college game his senior year was played at the Sun Bowl in El Paso. ASU defeated Iowa 17-0. Pat had a great season. He was named the top defensive player in the Pac 10 and ASU's most valuable player. He was a second-team All-American, and he was picked to play in the East-West Shrine Game. He had more tackles than anyone on the team, a team-high forty-seven unassisted tackles, three interceptions, and four sacks. He won All-Pac-10 honors again along with four other academic awards. As hard as Pat worked on the football field, he may have worked harder in the classroom. Pat spent a great deal of time studying and preparing for classes. He went to summer school for two summers to ensure he had sufficient credits and to keep from losing sight of his priorities. He graduated summa cum laude in three and a half years with a 3.86 grade point average. For all the excitement in Pat's life, he always craved and indulged a need for solitude. At home he found it by climbing the eucalyptus tree in our backyard and sitting high in its branches, where he could think. At Arizona State, it was a two-hundred-foot-high light standard at Sun Devil Stadium, which he would climb all the way to the top. He would sit on the platform taking in the Arizona landscape, alone with his thoughts. Pat's goal his senior year was to get drafted by a professional football team -- not for the money, but because he absolutely loved to play, and he wanted the challenge of playing at that level. In February 1998, the NFL combine was held at Notre Dame University in Indianapolis. This is a major event for college players, where the best players in the country are invited to workout for the coaches of all the NFL teams. Being invited to the combine pretty much assures a player of being drafted by a professional team. The combine is a prelude to the football draft in April. Pat did not get invited to the combine. I knew he was disappointed, but he didn't talk about it too much. He did indicate that his best chance for the draft was the pro workout at Arizona State about two to four weeks before the NFL draft, when coaches from several NFL teams came to ASU to see the seniors workout. Two of those coaches were the defensive coordinator for the Arizona Cardinals, Dave McGinnis, and his defensive backs coach, Larry Mannie. The team's general manager, Bob Ferguson, who, I've been told, loved to see Pat play, was also there. There were a couple of offensive players who would be drafted for sure, and the two coaches also wanted to sec Pat work out. Pat had been playing linebacker in college, but he was considered too small for that position in the pros. The coaches worked him out as a safety. Pat told me the two positions were very different, as were the skills required. He said he worked really hard, but he wasn't sure he did well enough. The NFL draft took place April 18 and 19, televised live from Madison Square Garden in New York. The draft is designed to balance talent to make the sport more competitive. Each team gets one pick per round, based on where they finished in the last season. The teams who finished last get to pick first. The wait is nerve-racking for the players. In the 1998 draft, rounds one through three took place the first day, and rounds four through seven the second day. I remember watching portions of the draft with Pat at Marie's parents' house. Pat was in good humor about the whole thing. He really wanted to play on a team, but he knew he was considered too small. He also knew there were coaches who had learned not to underestimate him. While watching the draft, Pat received a call from someone on the Oakland Raiders indicating that team was going to pick him in the seventh round. We all waited. In the seventh round, before Oakland picked, Pat was drafted by the Cardinals. He was number 226 out of 241. I thought to myself, "There are a lot of dumb coaches out there." At least there were a few smart enough to see what Pat had to offer. That was Pat's first hurdle. His next challenge, in his mind, was making the starting lineup. He succeeded in earning his starting position, and he played very well. The Cardinals went to the playoffs that year. Pat encountered some frustrations and disappointments with regard to his play at times, but he continued to strive to be a team player and work hard on his skills. In 2000, he broke the franchise record for tackles with 224. Pat had played football in Arizona for eight years, and the admiration of the fans was plainly evident in the speeches at his memorial. As the final speaker concluded, twenty-seven doves were released, representing the twenty-seven years of Pat's life. A single white feather drifted to the ground, landing at my feet. Patrick picked up the feather and handed it to me. I held it tenderly in my hand. *** "Dannie, how wonderful Pat has had so many tributes," Lannie says when I finish telling them about the memorial. "I know. They have been wonderful and we appreciate them. Pat would be so honored. But sadly, when the tributes are over, we are back to feeling hollow." "Well, I understand that," Katie says. "Someday, though, those tributes will bring you happiness." "Maybe," I say, trying to be polite. I pick up my breakfast dishes and take them to the kitchen. For five days, Katie, Tom, and Lannie have kept me very busy. They have taken me to the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute, Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, and Kelly Ingram Park, all located in the Civil Rights District. We have seen a play, gone on a hike, taken leisurely walks in the neighborhood, and sat talking and drinking Chardonnay beneath the fans of their cozy front porch. I have enjoyed getting to know my cousins -- all of whom are at least sixteen years younger than me, the youngest being a month younger than Kevin -- and meeting their small children. Several nights ago, I sat up with Lannie until one or two in the morning talking about our families, our childhoods, our friends, and about life and death. Now Lannie has to return to New York. I'm also scheduled to return home, but Alex informs me there is a function in Decatur, Alabama, at which Pat will be honored. I decide to stay. Katie and Tom tell me they would like to accompany me. We meet Patrick and Alex in Decatur, where we are treated to a catfish dinner in a rustic local eatery where large, sweating pitchers of cold sweet tea are placed on the table and you can serve yourself soft ice cream. We then go to nearby Huntsville, where we are given an interesting tour of the NASA center. In the evening, we are taken to a lovely reception, where we meet the many people who organized the tribute to Pat. The following day we are given a tour of the historic district of Decatur before attending a July Fourth celebration, where Pat is presented with the Audie Murphy Patriotism Award. Sitting on the stage looking out at the people in the audience, I feel the same vulnerability I felt at Pat's memorial service. I try to cloak my sadness and discomfort behind a genial smile. It is an honor for Pat to be so graciously recognized, but I don't want the award. I want Pat back. Katie, Tom, and I drive back to their house. The next day, standing in front of the terminal of the Birmingham airport, I thank them for showing me a wonderful time. I hug them both, then wave good-bye as I walk through the terminal doors. |