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.