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More tragedy than triumph
Posted: Tuesday March 21, 2000 01:54 PM
CHARLOTTE, N.C. -- Perched on his uncle's shoulders just off the court inside the Charlotte Coliseum, little Bobby Ray Phills III reached forward and tugged on the rope with all his might. As he pulled on the cord that hoisted his father's number to the rafters, the writing on the back of the tiny Hornets jersey Trey was wearing became clear. RIP Daddy, it said. Wednesday night, the Hornets officially retired guard Bobby Phills's No. 13, less than a month after Phills was killed in a car accident near the arena. Phills was the first NBA player to die during a season, and the first Hornets player to have his number retired. Phills was the team's co-captain. He was a tireless worker in the community. He was only 30 years old. It was, to say the least, a gut-wrenching ceremony. As they entered the arena for the Hornets-Cavs game, fans were given cards bearing a plastic replica of Phills's jersey and a summary of his 8 1/2-year NBA career, including quotes from friends about his intelligence, character and infectious smile. At halftime Phills was honored with a video montage. Highlights from his career and off-the-court scenes ran first in blazing technicolor and then were frozen in black-and-white and accompanied by words like, Husband, Father and Teammate. Phills's wife, Kendall, who has been the epitome of class and dignity throughout this tragedy, spoke briefly before handing over a personal check for $100,000 to the Bobby Phills Educational Awareness Foundation. Phills's teammates donated another $135,000. "Dr. Martin Luther King had a dream and so did Bobby," said Kendall. "That every child would reach their highest potential. Bobby has achieved the ultimate dream: He is an All-Star in heaven forever." Two minutes later, the lights were back on, the players were out of their sweats and back on the court and the clock was ticking down the time before the second half. Sometimes it's scary how quickly life moves on. As players were introduced back into the game, their faces appeared on the JumboTron, where they morphed into steel-framed robot-like characters. This is how we like to view our athletic heroes -- as larger than life, as society's indestructible warriors. That's why it's so painful to see someone like Phills or Chiefs linebacker Derrick Thomas cut down in his prime. But if you lose control of your Porsche while racing a friend on a side street at more than 100 mph, as police say Phills did, you die. If you crash your car while racing down an icy highway trying to make a flight without your seatbelt on, as Thomas did, you die. It doesn't matter if you've been to nine Pro Bowls. I'll never forget the first time I had to cover a story like this. Kristin Renneker played basketball and soccer at a high school outside of Cincinnati. Kristin was only 17 when, on Jan. 3, 1992, she was killed in a car crash that rocked an entire community. At the time, I thought: athletes are supposed to experience triumph, not tragedy. At least this kind of thing happens only rarely. Boy, was I wrong. I thought of Kristin Renneker Wednesday night. I thought about what a profound impact her death, and the brave way her family members conducted themselves afterward, has had on my life. So maybe it was the small crowd that turned out at the Coliseum, or the people ignoring the halftime ceremony to listen to the Duke or North Carolina game on the radio. Perhaps it was the stupid Hornets mascot wearing the black No. 13 patch, meant to honor Phills, on the back of his teal head. Or seeing the same patch on a giant brick meant to aggravate opponents while they shoot free throws. Or maybe it's that we barely have time to mourn Phills before we bury Thomas. Whatever the reason, I was struck by a chilling thought -- stuck, as we all are these days, in a sports world filled more with tragedy than triumph. When, I wondered, did the ritual of mourning athletes become so, well ... routine? Sports Illustrated staff writer David Fleming explores the sometimes weird and wacky side of sports every Thursday. Click here to send an e-mail to Flem, or address it yourself: flemfile@aol.com. The opinions expressed here are solely those of the writer.
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