playoff scoring average would nearly match the regular-season average of the all-state point guard who at this moment was back in Fennville, in a lonely chapel, surrounded by Trappist-cut walnut, wearing his warm-up jacket.
No, Xavier didnât know what was next. What he knew was this: six minutes remained in the second quarter, and the season was still perfect, and the Blackhawks needed someone to step in for the boy they would bury tomorrow.
Xavier stood up.
CHRIS BALLARD
Mourning Glory
FROM SPORTS ILLUSTRATED
Â
W HY DID HE TURN onto Lappans Road?
Thatâs what Zach Lucas wondered as he watched the silver Honda S-2000 driven by his best friend, Brendon Colliflower, veer to the right on the way back from the senior prom just before midnight on Saturday, May 5. Everyone knew the faster route was Downsville Pike, with its wide lanes and broad shoulder.
Oh, well
, Zach thought,
who knows with Brendon?
After all, Brendon wasnât like most kids in Williamsport, a town of about 2,100 in the northwest corner of Maryland, just across the border from West Virginia. Hemmed in by interstates, itâs a place young people dream of leaving, a town on the way to everywhere but seldom a destination. Here U.S. flags dot porches, families swim in the muddy green Potomac River by the power plant, and jobs have been scarce since the leather tannery shut down eight years back. Itâs a baseball-mad hamlet where adults sit in their pickup trucks beyond the left-field fence at Williamsport High and where the local newspaper streams Little League state tournament games on its website. A place where someone like Brendon, the 2011 all-county pitcher of the year, can become a hero.
Brendon was the rare high school ace who âpitched backward,â relying on his precipitous curveball rather than his fastball to start off each hitter. But more than that set him apart. Tall and skinny, with fine, almost elfin features, he wore crisp Nike T-shirts and spotless Air Max shoes while his friends sported sleeveless camo and cutoff jeans. He went to all the parties but didnât drink, seeming both younger and older than 17. On Saturdays, when the other baseball players trolled for catfish, dips wedged into their lower lips, Brendon instead wandered the banks, hurling rocks over the hulking power plant. Life was too short to sit on a plastic bucket all day.
On May 5, though, he wanted to stretch out the night forever. So if Brendon took a longer route back from Shepherdstown, West Virginia, if he dallied for the sake of dallying, it was with good reason, for Sam sat next to him. With dark blond hair and large blue eyes, Samantha Kelly was homecoming queen and the star of the volleyball team. She mingled with adults as easily as with teenagers and took to Twitter not to gossip but to post maxims such as
Donât be afraid to stand up for what you believe in
. That sheâd chosen Brendonâthe kid whoâd never had a serious girlfriend, whoâd been shy and a bit of a goofball much of his lifeâcame as a surprise to many. She attended all his games, and she was the only girl allowed when the players gathered at the Waffle House on Saturday mornings to eat syrup-drenched chocolate-chip waffles and fire spitballs. Brendonâs teammates teased himââSheâs too good for you,â theyâd joke, or âYou better wife her upââbut they all saw how happy he was.
Now, driving home from the prom with Sam, she in a blue strapless dress and he in a white suit with a powder-blue tie, Brendon must have been exhilarated to rocket through the countryside, windows open to the warm spring air. From Lappans he turned left onto Sharpsburg Pike and then left again onto Rench Road, which wound through darkened farmland, with only grass and trees abutting the white lines. As they crossed the railroad tracks, Brendon accelerated. If he saw the yellow sign at the top of a small hill, the one that read
No, Xavier didnât know what was next. What he knew was this: six minutes remained in the second quarter, and the season was still perfect, and the Blackhawks needed someone to step in for the boy they would bury tomorrow.
Xavier stood up.
CHRIS BALLARD
Mourning Glory
FROM SPORTS ILLUSTRATED
Â
W HY DID HE TURN onto Lappans Road?
Thatâs what Zach Lucas wondered as he watched the silver Honda S-2000 driven by his best friend, Brendon Colliflower, veer to the right on the way back from the senior prom just before midnight on Saturday, May 5. Everyone knew the faster route was Downsville Pike, with its wide lanes and broad shoulder.
Oh, well
, Zach thought,
who knows with Brendon?
After all, Brendon wasnât like most kids in Williamsport, a town of about 2,100 in the northwest corner of Maryland, just across the border from West Virginia. Hemmed in by interstates, itâs a place young people dream of leaving, a town on the way to everywhere but seldom a destination. Here U.S. flags dot porches, families swim in the muddy green Potomac River by the power plant, and jobs have been scarce since the leather tannery shut down eight years back. Itâs a baseball-mad hamlet where adults sit in their pickup trucks beyond the left-field fence at Williamsport High and where the local newspaper streams Little League state tournament games on its website. A place where someone like Brendon, the 2011 all-county pitcher of the year, can become a hero.
Brendon was the rare high school ace who âpitched backward,â relying on his precipitous curveball rather than his fastball to start off each hitter. But more than that set him apart. Tall and skinny, with fine, almost elfin features, he wore crisp Nike T-shirts and spotless Air Max shoes while his friends sported sleeveless camo and cutoff jeans. He went to all the parties but didnât drink, seeming both younger and older than 17. On Saturdays, when the other baseball players trolled for catfish, dips wedged into their lower lips, Brendon instead wandered the banks, hurling rocks over the hulking power plant. Life was too short to sit on a plastic bucket all day.
On May 5, though, he wanted to stretch out the night forever. So if Brendon took a longer route back from Shepherdstown, West Virginia, if he dallied for the sake of dallying, it was with good reason, for Sam sat next to him. With dark blond hair and large blue eyes, Samantha Kelly was homecoming queen and the star of the volleyball team. She mingled with adults as easily as with teenagers and took to Twitter not to gossip but to post maxims such as
Donât be afraid to stand up for what you believe in
. That sheâd chosen Brendonâthe kid whoâd never had a serious girlfriend, whoâd been shy and a bit of a goofball much of his lifeâcame as a surprise to many. She attended all his games, and she was the only girl allowed when the players gathered at the Waffle House on Saturday mornings to eat syrup-drenched chocolate-chip waffles and fire spitballs. Brendonâs teammates teased himââSheâs too good for you,â theyâd joke, or âYou better wife her upââbut they all saw how happy he was.
Now, driving home from the prom with Sam, she in a blue strapless dress and he in a white suit with a powder-blue tie, Brendon must have been exhilarated to rocket through the countryside, windows open to the warm spring air. From Lappans he turned left onto Sharpsburg Pike and then left again onto Rench Road, which wound through darkened farmland, with only grass and trees abutting the white lines. As they crossed the railroad tracks, Brendon accelerated. If he saw the yellow sign at the top of a small hill, the one that read
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