My Unlikely Hero

I was finally able to watch the documentary on Brook Berringer that the Big Ten Network aired Saturday night after the Northwestern game.  I purposely waited until I would be home alone because, as Nick Bahe would say, I knew there were going to be some seasonal allergies moving through my living room for about an hour.  And I was right.

Many of you who know me may be surprised that I would be so interested in a documentary about a former Nebraska player, seeing as I'm not even a Nebraska fan.  However, my dirty little secret is that I used to be.  In fact, the first football game I ever remember watching was when Nebraska beat Miami for the national championship.  I was 7 years old at the time and I was a Nebraska fan because everyone I knew in the second grade was a Nebraska fan.

Something else happened when I was 7 years old though.  Besides becoming a football fan, and thus a Nebraska fan, I was also diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes.  I don't talk about my diabetes a lot, at least not seriously.  I make a lot of jokes and laugh when others make jokes as well, but let's be honest, its not funny.  And at 7 years old, all I knew is that I wasn't like the rest of my friends or classmates anymore.  All I knew was that my life was going to be different forever.  I was going to be different forever.

Now, if you remember much about grade school, being different was about as bad of a curse as you could get.  Different is bad.  Different is outcasted.  I was forever going to be different.  Needless to say, I didn't have a great year.  Sure, the hospital sends someone to your school and assures your whole class that you aren't contagious and they don't have to worry about being around you, but these are elementary school children, imagine how well that message really sinks in.  Here's a hint; it doesn't.

So while no one ever said anything, and no one ever did anything there was always the looks of concern as kids walked by you, and crossing to the other side of the hall so they didn't get too close to you.  They didn't really know what diabetes was anymore than I did, but they knew they didn't want to catch it from me.  People don't think you remember these kinds of things when you're 7, but I do.  The best part of my day was something that would mortify most school-aged kids.  My mom came up to school every single day to eat lunch with me because if I didn't eat enough, or ate too much, I could get really sick.  So my mom would sit with me, and make sure I ate the right amount of food and injected the right amount of insulin.  The only comfort I had during the entire day, was eating lunch with my mom at the back of the cafeteria, all by ourselves.

Because of all this, my mom sent me to a day camp that summer for diabetic kids on the off chance that being around lots of people that were different, would in turn make me feel more normal.  Well, for one of the few times in my life, my mother was wrong.  I hated diabetes camp.  That is, until one day while all of us diabetic kids were finishing up our disgusting diabetes camp lunches, we saw a very tall man walking towards us.

Now, when you're 7, every adult looks like a giant, but this man towered over even the other adults.  As he got closer to the picnic table where I sat, I realized I recognized that man.  I had seen him on television during the first football game I ever remembered watching.  He played quarterback for the University of Nebraska.  It was Brook Berringer.

I don't remember how long Brook spent at the camp, and I don't remember exactly what he said to me.  What I do remember, is that while I was sitting alone at a picnic table, the quarterback came and sat down next to me, national championship ring and all.  What I remember, is that as I sat and I'm sure said very little to this towering saint of a man, is that all of a sudden I didn't feel different anymore.  I didn't feel like an outcast.

Now, I know that Brook Berringer went and visited countless children and sick people in hospitals across the state.  But when I was 7, I didn't know that.  All I knew was that this guy played for Nebraska, I saw him on TV win a national title, and now he was hanging out with me.  He made me feel like he was there just to hang out with me.

As silly as it may seem for a 7 year old to have an epiphany, this small encounter changed my whole outlook and attitude on life.  I did everything I could to let who I was define me instead of the disease that I happened to have.  Brook Berringer changed my life at a very young age, just by showing up.

That season, I was the biggest Nebraska fan around.  Even as Tommie Frazier got the majority of the playing time at quarterback, I cherished every opportunity I got to see Brook Berringer play.  I remember after the season ended, being excited for the possibility that Brook might get drafted into the NFL.  Then one evening, as I was playing outside I happened to be listening to the radio (I did this a lot, we didn't have cable) and heard the news that Brook Berringer had died.  I ran inside to tell my mom and did my best to hold back tears.  I remember going to my room later and sobbing for most of the rest of the night.

A few days later, I gathered as many dandelions (I thought they were flowers) as I could from my front yard.  I gathered them together in a special place and said a prayer for Brook Berringer at my own version of what I thought a memorial service was.  I thanked God for letting me meet Brook Berringer and I prayed that God would help me not to be sad anymore because I knew he was in heaven now.  I also wrote a letter to Brook Berringer's mother.  Brook had no idea about the impact he had on my life, but I felt like she should know how much he had meant to me.  Even as a 8 year old I knew it was important to tell her that.

After the death of Brook Berringer, I stopped being a Husker fan.  I know it sounds odd, but it just didn't feel the same watching them anymore.  I think rooting for Nebraska just made me sad that Brook had died all over again.  To me, Brook Berringer was Nebraska and cheering for them was too hard.  So I did the only thing I knew to do and I started cheering for someone else.

One thing that never changed was the legacy that Brook Berringer had left on my life.  I never felt like an outcast because of my diabetes again, no matter the situation.  As a 7 year old, that was the greatest gift that anyone could have given me.  I only wish that I had gotten the chance to tell him thank you myself.  Maybe someday I will.

October Miracles

For the majority of the last 20 or so years of my life, if you asked me what my favorite sport was, the answer would have been baseball without hesitation.  However, over the last few years, as I've gotten busier and games have gotten longer, I felt myself drifting away from the game I once loved so much.  Don't get me wrong, I still enjoy baseball, but if given the choice between baseball, basketball, and football, America's pastime is probably coming in third place.

Still there is something about baseball that never really lets you go once it grabs a piece of your heart as a child.  That fact is never more evident than during October when the grizzled veterans who play the game appear to be transformed by the desperation of the postseason back into the children who originally fell in love with the game.  The joy of victory and the agony of defeat is no longer mitigated by the entirely to long 162 game grind of a regular season and can be seen on every face in every crucial moment.

If the magic of October had ever been in doubt, that doubt was removed on Tuesday night when the Kansas City Royals turned in a game for the ages in defeating the Oakland A's in extra innings.  You know the story already so I won't bore you by rehashing the details except to say this; after 29 years of futility the Royals took every punch the A's threw and refused to be turned away so quickly in their return to baseball's grandest stage.  It was one of the best baseball games I had ever seen.

As I was watching that game, I was reminded of one of baseballs other unique features; its ability to act as a time machine.  More so than with any other game, watching baseball has the tendency to take us back to a different time.  Some people go back to the first baseball game they ever saw or played.  Some people go back to a time they were watching a game with their dad or grandpa.  On Tuesday night, I was taken back 10 years ago to my parents living room where I sat alone watching every game of the 2004 Boston Red Sox postseason.

10 years is a long time in almost any way you look at it, but there are some things that seem to defy time and feel like they happened yesterday no matter how many years have passed.  For me, the Boston Red Sox playoff run of 2004 is one of those things.  I remember nearly every detail of what happened and how I reacted.  I even remember the hat that I refused to take off because I was convinced of its mystical powers which obviously were leading the Red Sox to victory.

10 years is a long time.  I was 17 years old.  I was still 7 months away from graduating high school.  I was 3 years away from meeting my future wife.  I was 8 years away from getting married.  I was 9 years away from getting my dogs.

10 years is a long time, but every now and then I get taken back a decade to October 2004 like it was just the other day.  The nice thing about reliving the 2004 Red Sox is that it is filled with only joy and none of the stress that originally accompanied that time in my life.  I don't get sick to my stomach thinking about how Mike Mussina almost threw a perfect game against Boston in Game 1 of the ALCS.  I don't hang my head in shame as the Sox get pounded 19-8 in Game 3.  I don't pace and wring my hands as Games 4 and 5 go extra inning after extra inning waiting for a hero to emerge.  10 years later, I only have to experience the emergence of that hero, and the ecstasy of winning 8 consecutive games as my favorite team made history, slayed their demons, and won their first World Series in 86 years.

Baseball may never mean as much to me as it once did and that's ok because that miracle in October of 2004 will always be there.  And ever year, when October rolls around, I will remember that no matter the odds, anything is possible.