Robert Parnell

Crack. Click. Stop. Rewind. Play.

R.J. Swindle sat in a recliner in front of his parents television set, remote in hand, watching a videotape replay of his major league debut with the Philadelphia Phillies. The last time he’d seen it was in real time, on July 7, 2008.

Crack. Click. Stop. Rewind. Play.

Swindle replays the fateful seventh pitch, a 55-mile per hour Bugs Bunny curveball, a second time. Each time it has the same unhappy ending: the 3-2 pitch to New York Mets All-Star third baseman David Wright lands in the left bleachers at Citizens Bank Park for a home run.

Swindle smirks, then rewinds the videotape one more time.

By this point it would be easy to start slapping labels on him: sadist, masochist. Have mercy on thy self son.

But Swindle’s not intentionally trying to punish himself. He’s trying to read his lips as Wright rounds the bases. “You can see me say something,” said Swindle. “Right after the home run you can see me saying, ‘Welcome to the big leagues!’”

Three pitches later: Crack. Another hit. Seven more pitches. Crack. A third consecutive hit. 17 big league pitches, three hits, no outs. OK, this isn’t fun anymore.

But Swindle was not about to sweat 45,000 restless, what-have-you-done-for-me-lately Philly fans and one mocking, shaggy, 300-pound, green mascot (Phillie Phanatic). Why should he, he’s dug himself out of deeper holes personally and professionally.

Swindle signed his first professional contract after being selected by the Boston Red Sox in the 14th round of the June 2004 major league draft. But before he could step on the field for Spring Training in 2005, he was released. Swindle had pitched the previous season with a herniated disc in his back.

When Boston heard the news, it nearly ended his baseball career before it had a chance to get started. The injury was a red flag to major league teams. In less than six months after signing his first professional contract, at age 21, Swindle was labeled “damaged goods.”

Swindle sat down with his wife Lindsey, their family and agent and decided if he wanted to clear his medical record he would have to have surgery to repair the herniated disc. He underwent surgery and tried to start over, but no one was interested. For the next two years Swindle bounced between Independent League baseball and the minor leagues, pitching for pennies.

“I had been going through the denial from all these teams and scouts, ‘you don’t throw hard enough, you won’t work at this level,’ being told all this stuff I couldn’t do,” said Swindle. “I’m never gonna play again. All those thoughts raced through my head.”

Friend and Foe

Former Charleston Southern teammate and 2005 ninth-round draft pick of the New York Mets Bobby Parnell is peddling furiously on a stationery bike in the middle of the team clubhouse at Turner Field in Atlanta.

Lounging across a black leather sectional in front of him is All-Star shortstop Jose Reyes, nibbling on a Nutty Buddy ice cream cone, eyes fixed on plasma TV showing Dumb and Dumber, giggling like awkward teenager. Reyes, 25, who grew up in Villa Gonzalez in the Dominican Republic, may be seeing the slapstick comedy for the first time.

Parnell isn’t laughing. The entire Jim Carrey comedy catalog was exhausted in the minor leagues.

Three years earlier Parnell was pitching for Charleston Southern University Bucs. His rise through New York’s organization has been surgical in comparison to Swindle’s journey. It’s happened so quickly as a matter of fact, that the former CSU pitcher is still trying to separate reality from fantasy.

“I don’t think it’s sunk it yet,” said Parnell. “I don’t think I’m going to realize it until I get home and sit down in that recliner at the house. Right now I’m still enjoying it, taking it all in.”

Since arriving in New York on September 1, Parnell says, “I definitely kept my eyes down and my mouth shut, but it’s definitely any adjustment to get to a point where you’re comfortable. You’ve gotta know you’re low man on the totem pole, you keep your mouth shut and you do what you’re asked to do.”

It’s that attitude that makes Parnell an enabler for the bizarro subculture that governs major league baseball clubhouses.

It didn’t take long, maybe a few minutes actually, for Parnell to get his marching orders from his mates. Mets reliever Joe Smith dumped backpack duties on Parnell. According to Parnell, “the guy in the bullpen with the least amount of experience, the low man on the totem pole,” carries the backpack to the bullpen before each game.

No big deal, right?

This isn’t just any backpack. That would be too easy. Rookies must be humbled.

For the final month of the season Parnell carried a bright pink Sleeping Beauty backpack filled with gum, candy, Band Aids — “whatever you need down in the bullpen so you don’t have to go back to the clubhouse” — across the diamond, through the outfield, by the wise-cracking fans and into the bullpen.

The backpack sits squarely in front of Parnell’s locker. He smiles, shakes his head and puts his new duties in perfect perspective.

“I’d rather be carrying a pink backpack in the major leagues than be in the minor leagues,” said Parnell. “If they told me this is the only way I could be in the major leagues, I’d do it every day.”

Both Swindle and Parnell, both former Buccaneers, are living their dreams. Drafted in 2004 and 2005 respectively, Swindle and Parnell account for two of the three players on the University short list of student-athletes drafted by major league teams. For the record, the third was former Charleston Southern pitcher Matt Coenen, who was drafted by the Detroit Tigers in 2001. Coenen retired after five seasons, reaching his peak with Double-A Mississippi Braves.

As Coenen’s career quietly ended in 2005, and while Parnell was still trying to come to grips with his status, Swindle had the same experience.

Draft Day

In June 2004, Swindle sat with family and friends in his parent’s living room, listening to the annual draft selections streaming off the Internet. As the rounds passed … seven, eight, nine … Swindle started getting anxious … 10, 11, 12, 13 … “They kept picking left-handed pitchers before me,” remembers Swindle. Then, in the 14th round, the Boston Red Sox number came up again and the room fell silent.

“It’s mind-numbing,” said Swindle. “Everyone was jumping up around me. I was just sitting there, shocked. I was hopeful it would happen, but until I actually heard my name … it was unbelievable.”

It’s July 7, 2008. Four years and change later, and less than a week after being promoted to the major leagues, Swindle is celebrating his 25th birthday from a major league bullpen in Philadelphia. You couldn’t buy a better birthday gift. Long summer days on the playground, childhood dreams of playing in the majors and one day, this day, it comes true.

The previous week had been a blur. Swindle had been promoted (for two days), sent back to the minors and promoted again. “The trainer came and got me,” remembered Swindle. “I walked in the office and coach smiled and said, ‘Congratulations, you’re going up!’ It was crazy. Everything was like in slow-mo. The dream comes true, right there.”

Swindle grabbed his mobile phone and started dialing. First call: His wife, Lindsey.

“It was late at night and I couldn’t reach her. She was at work. So I left her a message and waited,” said Swindle. “Because I didn’t want to tell anyone until I told her.”

Ten minutes … 20 minutes … 30 minutes pass. Swindle called again. No answer. “I left another message,” he said, then waited some more. He squirmed in his seat for about 15 minutes before he started calling his family, friends and agent.

Between calls he had an incoming call. It was Lindsey. When Swindle told her the news, she started screaming and telling every co-worker within earshot, and some not. His ears were still ringing, or at least he thought they were.

The phone in the bullpen is ringing. Phillies coach Roly deArmas picked it up.

“Alright R.J. get going,” said deArmas.

“I didn’t even warm up in Atlanta, so this was the first time,” said Swindle. “Your heart skips a beat.”

The warm-up lasted about a second, at least in the excitement of Swindle’s memory. Then, it was game on. Swindle jogged from the outfield bullpen to the mound. “There were 45,000 people all around me,” he said. “When you step on that mound and throw that first warm up pitch, it’s surreal.”

That’s about the time the legs give way. Butterflies have a funny way of doing that to you.

Two months later it was Parnell’s turn. “The first thought was, just relax and here we go,” added Parnell, who made his debut on September 15 against the Washington Nationals. “I didn’t really get nervous until I walked through that tunnel to the outfield door to run in.”

Sure, playing in front of thousands of screaming fans, pitching to the best hitters in the world, that’s why Parnell suddenly had a case of the jitters, right? “Ah shoot man, I was thinking, just don’t trip. Don’t fall,” remembers the Salisbury, North Carolina native in a thick Southern drawl.

Going for the Gold

Swindle reached new heights this past summer when he was selected to pitch for Team Canada at the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing.

“It was unbelievable,” said Swindle. “China, the money they poured into it, they pretty much shut down the whole city (Beijing) to host the Olympics. Then getting to pitch for your country was amazing. I wouldn’t have passed up that experience for anything.”

In China, Swindle was exposed to baseball fandom at a whole new level. “Every Asian team, they have drums and banners and whistles and bells, every game, every inning, every out, every pitch they are chanting and singing,” he remembered. “It’s was like a festival, like a circus. It was loud and non-stop.”

But it’s Parnell who deserves the Olympic gold medal for surviving the annual rookie hazing ritual. In mid-September, Parnell was one of a handful of New York Met rookies who traveled from New York to Washington in “a Michael Phelps bathing suit, swim cap and goggles,” said Parnell. “That goes up there with that pink book bag. They were going to make us wear flippers, but they didn’t do that. I left the clubhouse in it, on the airplane, then the hotel. That was a cold trip man.”

Mr. Smith Goes Deep

The cancer was winning. It was no longer a matter of if, but when. The tumors that had assailed Jim Valvano’s body were multiplying and beginning to rob him of the very things that defined him as a human being: energy, passion, hope.

And there he was, Gary Smith, on the sidelines of life and death. He watched as the life slowly leaked out of Valvano through a needle in his chest. As the chemo dripped in, life spilled out. Smith watched as another piece of Jimmy Vee died each day.

Watch. That’s all he could do. It was a surreal experience. Then, when Valvano had the energy, he would listen to the legendary college basketball coach spill his fear, his pain, his regrets, his entire heart, to leave one final message to the world.

“He wanted to make amends, resolve some things with the world, and I knew that I was his voice for that,” said Smith, a senior writer for Sports Illustrated, who now calls Charleston home.

It was a heavy burden for any human being, let alone a transient reporter. All of this was foreign territory for Smith, who was thrust into the life of a man on the brink of death.

“That was without a doubt the most wrenching story I worked on,” said Smith. “Just the times in the middle of writing, feeling the emotions come up and well up. Having spent a lot of time with his daughters, his wife, knowing what all of them were facing and about to face, it was tough.”

Maybe it was the urgency with which Valvano spoke, or the eerie frailty of a body that once hovered at the rim, cutting down the nylon net in celebration of an NCAA nation title at North Carolina State, either way the reporting led Smith into a head-on confrontation with his own mortality.

“You realize your own vulnerability and fragility,” said Smith. “There was nowhere specific to take it, but it was something you just walked around with, wrapped around you for those couple of months and beyond.

“It’s really like going ‘into the tunnel’ with somebody in that situation. There’s no way around it. If it’s not affecting you in someway, you’re not feeling it, it’s going to be hard for the reader to feel it or the writer to write it.”

Valvano’s story, As Time Runs Out, is one of 20 chronicled in Smith’s new book titled Going Deep: 20 Classic Sports Stories.

But, forget the title. Labels are deceiving. Smith is not a sportswriter, but a storyteller, a translator of human emotions.

“I’m a writer that happens to be writing about sports,” Smith confessed. “It just happens to be the stage. A lot of our moral tales play out on that stage (sports). There’s a lot of paradox about that relationship. I’m trying to write about people and understand people that happen to be in sports.”

His subjects often lack the marquee qualities of Tom Brady, Derek Jeter or LeBron James, not by coincidence but by design. It’s one of the qualities that’s made Smith a four-time winner of the National Magazine Award, the magazine writing equivalent of the Pulitzer Prize.

In 2001, George O’Leary stepped on the ethical foul line, setting off buzzers all over the country. Five days after O’Leary was named head coach of Notre Dame’s football program, he was fired for “padding his resume.” The allegations, and subsequent firing, set off a media firestorm and temporarily benched the coach.

Smith steered his way into the belly of the controversy, saddling up next to O’Leary, watching, listening and observing the polemic coach.

“His whole career was in question,” Smith remembers, “and what he was going to be able to do and how the world was going to see him. That gave him enough motive to take a chance with me coming into his world in hopes that, maybe, people would see that he is something more than those couple of sentences on that resume. Then they can make their decisions. But they won’t be hanging on the meat hook of two sentences on a resume.”

This is what Smith does, arguably better than any magazine writer today. He observes. He listens. He does not judge, he reports, and through his writing he allows you and I – the readers – to respond.

Smith described the O’Leary story as a “challenge,” one which you have to develop an intimate relationship with a stranger’s mind. “It’s like you’re trying to get in their head at a certain moment and then have every little detail about what was going on, what they’re seeing, what they’re thinking,” he said.

The means to that end can be a tedious and sometimes painstaking mental process for his subjects.

“I try to warn the person before I start,” he said. ”I am going to take a lot of time, I am going to ask you a lot of details and you may hate me by the time it’s over.

“I’ve tried the patience I’m sure, of the people I do stories about.”

The result: Lying in Wait, another one of Smith’s critically-acclaimed short stories has re-published in Going Deep.

The finished product is as close as you will ever get to bringing human emotion to a piece of paper.

“Each person is a whole new treasure chest,” Smith explains. “Everybody, in their own way, is an extraordinary story. Even the ordinary is extraordinary. When you start to looking into it … what makes each person who they are is usually pretty fascinating. I kinda get caught up in that and it just carries me.”

Sports, having some how become the realm in which Americans derive their strongest sense of community, has become the stage where all the great moral issues are played out, often rough and ugly, right alongside the games.

Those are Smith’s words, not mine. He authored that statement 12 years ago, a commentary he believes stands up today.

“It’s the quickest way to feel belonging in America and it’s also a place where we play out a lot of our great questions; a lot of ethics questions come into play … questions about ego, culture, your background, how you were raised, values you’re raised with,” he said.

“It sets off an endless discussion. When you look at human behavior that way … that’s the stage we use – sports – a lot of our big, ethical questions that really signify a lot more about America and about people. It’s a great lense. It’s a great laboratory for that stuff.”

In Damned Yankee, a 1997 featured article in SI, Smith chronicles the life of John Malangone, a catcher in the New York Yankees organization and supposed heir apparent to Hall of Famer Yogi Berra.

But this, as it plays out, is no boy wonder tale.

For years, decades, Malangone wrestled with the demons of a childhood episode that controlled every aspect of his being through his formative years, his short baseball career and his adult life. Malangone and Smith met at that fork in the road, and the journey begins.

“He was anxious to get it off his chest but it was real scatter-shot, so getting it all, it took a real sheep dogging effort,” remembers Smith. “If I had come to him five years earlier before he told the secret then it would have been probably hopeless. I doubt he’d have spilled it to some reporter at that point in his life and it took the right circumstances to all come together for him to finally do it. He wasn’t quite sure how to get me there to the ultimate reality but he was flinging stuff out there all over the place.”

Smith is relaxed, but seemingly ready to move on. With the release of Going Deep he has been the interview subject more than he’d like recently and confesses he’d rather be interviewing than being interviewed, reading Milan Kundera or researching his next story idea. “I’m more interested in pieces of life where I’m learning and growing myself,” he adds.

Well, most of the time.

The setting for his next Sports Illustrated story is Chicago. Not just Anywhere, Chicago. No. Just when you think you’ve got a beat on this SI writer, he surprises all sports fans with a change up.

“I just spent four days in the bleachers at Wrigley and watched the Cubs and the Phillies play,” Smith said. “I just hung out with some crazy people and it’s just wild and different. It was a lot of fun.”

Four days in the bleachers at Wrigley Field, reporting? It is the equivalent of covering a frat house keg party, a 180-degree turn from his work featured in the new book.

The Northside of Chicago is full of emotional highs and lows. The Cubs are the pride of the National League in 2008. It’s the 100-year anniversary of the Cubs last championship. Cubbies fans aren’t sure whether to laugh or cheer or celebrate … or brace for another huge disappointment.

Dramatic? Maybe.

Educational? Not so much.

What could you possibly “learn and grow” from in that setting?

“Sometimes it’s good not to learn,” Smith replied. “It’s good just to have fun.”

(as published in the Charleston City Paper)

The Devil is a Liar

Robert Quinn can’t tell his story. He’d like too, but he can’t. The fact of the matter is he doesn’t remember it – or parts of it anyway. For the better part of three months his actions are mere snapshots in the mind’s eye.

Enter: Steve LaPrad, head football coach at Fort Dorchester High School and one of Robert’s surrogate storytellers. Where there are breaches in Robert’s memory it is family, friends and coaches who step up and fill in the blanks, like the day last Fall when he blacked out at school.

LaPrad was in his office, a modest, windowless frame enclosed by cinder blocks, thumping to the soundtrack of Jay Z., Mary J. and Kanye, courtesy of the weight room it’s backed up against. But the din of music, laughter, grunts, groans and free weights clinking next door could not contain the sound of students shouting and racing toward the coach’s office from the end of the hall.

Robert blacked out and collapsed over a trash can while walking to class with his girlfriend. The entire episode was caught on campus security cameras. He’s walking, talking, he stumbles, his knees buckle and he’s down …

By the time LaPrad arrived, Robert was sitting in the school nurses office.

“What’s wrong Robert?” asked LaPrad.

Don’t ask Robert, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t even remember falling into the trash can outside the cafeteria. All Robert remembers is walking with his girlfriend, suddenly feeling light-headed and – boom – out go the lights.

“Have you eaten anything today?” LaPrad asked.

Robert shook his head no.

“Robert, you’re six-foot-five, 245 pounds and you haven’t eaten anything?” LaPrad asked in surprise.

The nurse rolled her eyes at the coach.

Robert’s mother Maria Quinn had just arrived home from a company meeting in Atlanta when the call came. She rushed to the school and found Robert in the nurse’s office, sipping apple juice. If Maria hadn’t known from the nurse’s phone call, she’d have never been able to tell by looking at her son that he’d just passed out. There were no tells. He looked fine.

Robert’s morning started with a headache, just like many of his mornings during the summer of 2007. The pain had become chronic and the pressure was like a vice grip. But Robert wasn’t concerned, he just kept popping Advil and Tylenol.

“I thought they may have just been migraines,” said Robert’s father James Quinn.

First headaches, then dizzy spells and now black outs. These were no longer isolated incidents. The symptoms were escalating and they had begun affecting Robert’s quality of life. His right eye began to twitch and was “getting weak” remembers Maria. She also noticed his eyes changing color. Some days the whites of his eyes were yellow, other days they were bloodshot.

Robert spent the morning at the doctor’s office. In the waiting room, Maria asked Robert if he’d gone for the CT scan appointment she had scheduled weeks earlier. Robert said no. “He missed it,” she said, shaking her head now. “He chose to go to work instead. I think we would have found out something then.”

After a complete checkup, Robert checked out. He was told to take two days off, no football, not even practice. “Everything was fine,” said LaPrad. “So everybody was under the assumption that he didn’t eat anything and he passed out.”

‘Big Quinn’

Robert Quinn is a 6’5,” 245-pound teenager. In 2007, the rising Forth Dorchester high school senior student-athlete was on the football radars at Alabama, South Carolina, Auburn, Florida, Maryland, Rutgers, Tennessee, Clemson and North Carolina. Scouts were popping up everywhere, scholarships were on the table.

When it came to football, Robert Quinn wanted to be Deion Sanders, his boyhood idol. He admired the nine-time All Pro football star’s talent. He was inspired to reach the same heights as Sanders on the field. His work ethic was unmatched. Robert Quinn was always the first to practice, never missed a workout, “100% all the time, whether it’s in the weight room or practice,” bragged LaPrad.

But, off the field, he is the polar opposite of Sanders. He lacked Sanders amour-propre. He does not possess the ham gene, a quality that earned Sanders the off-field nickname Neon Deion. He’s a “big baby” describes his mother, a soft-spoken, quiet kid who would fade into the woodwork of a room if it weren’t for his obvious physical presence.

“There’s not a kid in this school he didn’t talk to, from the special ed. kid to the most popular girl in school,” said LaPrad. “Everybody loved him. Everybody respected him. To this day I don’t think Robert Quinn has got an enemy in the world.”

“He’s never belittled anybody on the football field or the wrestling mat – ever. He’s never tried to embarrass anybody. Even when he was so much stronger and so much faster, he’s never done anything for anybody to have any fuel to want to get back at Robert Quinn.”

That was Robert Quinn before last summer, before the headaches, the dizzy spells and the blackouts.

‘He just wasn’t Robert Quinn’

As the Fort Dorchester coaching staff huddled over the summer months, Robert Quinn was the least of their worries. His presence alone on the Patriots defensive line had opposing coaches preparing schemes to run away from him. The strategy created a unique challenge for LaPrad and his staff. The coaches offered alternatives: move Robert to the other side, move him to linebacker, scheme against the schemes. Get ahead of the opponents strategy, all because of Robert Quinn.

But, as camp broke, Robert’s condition spilled on to the field. He was now on his heels, runners were zipping by him untouched. He was playing uphill in scrimmages and, initially, it excited LaPrad. He was convinced this was a sign his offensive line has improved from the year before. But, as Robert continued to stumble and miss tackles, the vibe faded.

“We could see that things weren’t right. He wasn’t making plays,” said LaPrad. “I’m like, ‘What in the world is going on?’ I see (on film) he’s reaching in, he’s not putting his pads on the guy. I see guys running right by him and he’s not seeing them. He just wasn’t Robert Quinn.”

Robert Quinn had been reduced to an average high school athlete. LaPrad watched his shining star dimming right before his eyes. The Fort Dorchester head coach had been around long enough to know the signs. He’d seen this pattern – erratic behavior and performance – and it left him pondering: Did Robert Quinn have a drug problem?

It was difficult to even think it, let alone make himself believe it. Coach LaPrad knew Robert, it wasn’t his nature to turn to drugs, but this is high school and peer pressure was in play. Maybe, just maybe, for the first time, in a moment of weakness, Robert gave in. He made the wrong choice, he tried drugs and now it was a problem. He had to know. Not for himself, but for Robert, for his family, for everyone who saw Robert Quinn as a role model.

LaPrad pulled him into his office, closed the door and asked Robert Quinn flat out: Are you using drugs?

Robert denied he was using anything stronger than Tylenol.

“What’s wrong? Are you happy? Are you having fun?” Coach asked.

Robert loved football. He pleaded with LaPrad, he’d turn it around. Just watch, you’ll see.

Were there problems with his girlfriend? Robert had dated the same girl all four years in high school. They cared for each other and never had problems. Was there trouble at home? Were there problems he wasn’t telling his parents about? No way. The Quinn family was as close as a family gets. They took care of each other.

“It just went on every scrimmage, every game,” confessed LaPrad. “Does he not want to get hurt? Was he injured? Had he lost his desire? Does he have so much pressure at home about the scholarship? I talked to his parents. Our coaching staff talked to him. We don’t know what’s going on.”

LaPrad questioned himself. He began believing maybe it was him. Maybe he was failing as a coach. Did he miss a warning sign? Did he have headaches? Did he not want to tell me? Did he not want to miss practice? Did he not want to let the team down? I am doing an awful job coaching this kid he thought. Why can’t I motivate this kid? I got this stud and I can’t get him to play 100%. What is wrong with me?

Fort Dorchester had changed defensive coordinators. The team adopted the 3-4 defense. “I started thinking, is this too confusing for him?” said LaPrad. “Is this defense not the defense for Robert Quinn?”

Exhausting every possible option, LaPrad approached his defensive coordinator Fred Hamilton, an experienced high school and college coach.

“Coach, I don’t know, he’s just not getting’ after it,’” Hamilton told LaPrad. “He (Robert) says he’s confused. I think he’s thinking so much, he can’t play.”

LaPrad asked Hamilton if they should change back to a 4-3 defense.

“It’s so easy coach, it’s what he’s been doing for three years,” Hamilton said.

“Robert kept telling us, ‘I’m confused, I just can’t get it,’” said LaPrad. “That’s not like Robert, he’s very coachable.”

In the film room LaPrad watched as opponents ran by, at and through Robert. The word was getting around: Robert Quinn is no longer a threat. “He was just a normal, a little bit above average high school football player,” said the coach.

LaPrad was desperate for answers. As the film ran the Patriots coach never took his eyes off Robert, waiting and watching for something, a sign – anything. That’s about the time LaPrad spotted Robert turning to a teammate asking for direction. The Patriots coach snapped off the projector.

“Why is Robert asking the defensive back for help?” he asked. “He’s a leader on our team. Tell me? What’s wrong with him?”

The coaching staff sat in silence, shaking their heads. No one had a clue, let alone an answer.

‘He looked like someone scared the crap out if him’

Re-enter: Maria Quinn, Robert’s mother and another surrogate storyteller of this tale.

Saturday, October 13.

Robert was just a few short blocks from home visiting his girlfriend. It was 2 a.m. when Maria called him. The message was simple: It’s late. Get home. Robert and his father were leaving for North Carolina the next morning. She hung up and waited. Five minutes, 10 minutes, 20 minutes, no Robert. She called again but Robert had already left.

As any parent of a teenager knows, this is when you hit the panic button. Worry consumed Maria. Where could he be? He was minutes from home. She couldn’t wait idly while the answer came in the form of a police officer knocking on her front door, so she jumped in her car and started driving around the neighborhood.

Robert had turned the wrong way at the stop sign and was wandering aimlessly on neighborhood streets. How could that happen? These were the same streets where he learned to ride a bicycle, where he skateboarded through his youth, yet none of it looked familiar. Robert Quinn was lost in his own backyard.

He remembers starting the car. He remembers pulling to the stop sign. Then the lights went out. He doesn’t remember making the turn. Robert blacked out again. The next thing he remembers was bright headlights in front of his car. Those were Maria’s headlights.

Tears started rolling down Robert’s face as he followed his mother home. What … just … happened? He tried to remember. His memory was a blank. The harder he concentrated, the more frightened Robert became. The last 10, 12, 15 minutes or more of his life were in a vacuum. He looked around him as he drove, seeing nothing but ditches surrounding the neighborhood where his mom found him. His thoughts of ‘what could have been’ frightened him. He could have been in an accident – or dead. He asked himself, “What is going on with me?”

“He got out of the truck and his eyes were so red,” Maria said. “He looked like someone just scared the living crap out of him. He just started crying.”

That night, Robert lay in bed, afraid to close his eyes. He didn’t want to face the darkness again. If he closed his eyes, what would happen? Would he wake up and remember anything? Would he wake up – period? He could cope with an occasional dizzy spell; even the headaches were tolerable compared to this.

Robert’s athletic instincts would suggest a blitz, and like so many of the opponents who feared Robert coming around the corner he would wrap his arms around the problem and tackle it.

But Robert knew this, whatever it was, was out of his league. He couldn’t predict it and he certainly couldn’t control it. He knew it and those around him were starting to see it too. Robert was losing the battle to an unknown force.

Maria lay next to her son that night. She was sure he was telling the truth and that frightened her. But she couldn’t understand how? How could Robert get lost in his own neighborhood? Teenagers forget a lot of things. They forget to clean their rooms, take out the trash or what time you told them to be home but never – ever – how to get home. On foot or by car, he knew every street, sidewalk and shortcut through the neighborhood.

She knew something was wrong. The symptoms were starting to pile up. They were no longer just headaches, but symptoms to a larger, more serious problem. She saw the fear in his eyes.

‘Black Out’

October 28.

Robert’s father remembers waking up that morning to the sound of a thud.

“I walked in the bathroom and he (Robert) was on his knees,” he said. “About two minutes later I heard him fall again.”

But what does Robert Quinn remember? That’s where it gets tricky.

He remembers waking up before sunrise. He remembers walking, in the dark, to the bathroom. He remembers feeling “light-headed,” but thought maybe he just got up too fast. That’s when he blacked out — the first time that morning.

Robert dropped to his knees on the bathroom floor. It may have lasted a moment, or five minutes, he can’t remember. He couldn’t judge time. When he finally got back to his feet, he was still light-headed.

On his second trip to the bathroom, Robert blacked out again, this time he collapsed against the wall. His father heard the second thud and found Robert collapsed on the floor between the door and cabinet. He began slapping his cheek, trying to wake him up.

James and Maria rushed him to the hospital where doctors put Robert through a battery tests. An MRI revealed “something was there” remembers Maria.

Robert was immediately sent to the Medical University of South Carolina, where it was more tests, more blood work, CT scans, MRI’s. As he was shuffled from one room to another, family, teammates, player’s parents and friends poured in to the hospital waiting room.

Maria called LaPrad and told him what happened.

Coach LaPrad raced down I-26 for the hospital with one particular meeting he had with Robert replaying in his mind. They were in his office watching game film and coach stopped the projector.

“Robert, why aren’t you putting your head on the ball?” he asked.

Coach LaPrad was always giving Robert a hard time about the size of his head, so Robert waited for the punchline, but it never came. He was serious now.

Robert shrugged it off. He didn’t have an answer.

In hindsight, the warning signs are now clear to LaPrad.

“The whole year, he never did that (put his head on the ball),” said the coach. “It’s weird now, knowing something was wrong with his head. But for some reason the boy never stuck his head on the ball all year long. Isn’t that weird?”

This explained everything.

Football was the furthest thing from LaPrad’s mind as he pulled into MUSC. It was almost embarrassing to think all the time, effort and energy he and his coaches put on football. Who cares about changing defenses now? All LaPrad could think was, what if something bad happens to Robert? Hindsight creates guilt, especially when things go south.

‘Why me?’

It was 9 p.m. when the doctor arrived at Robert’s room, results in hand.

That “something” was a brain tumor, no bigger than the size of a dime.

Until that moment brain tumors were reserved for other people; it would turn up in a movie, on television or a co-workers family, but not Robert Quinn. He was an athlete. He looked healthy. He was just a teenager for goodness sakes.

Doctors told the Quinn family fluid was building up in his brain as a result of the tumor. That explained the dizzy spells and blackouts, the memory loss, the “confusion” and the headaches. What hadn’t made sense now did. The questions that lingered for three months now had answers.

“She told me I’d never play sports again,” said Robert.

That Robert remembers clearly. He looked at his mom, but Maria’s eyes were locked on the doctor. He looked at the doctor. Her words were like daggers shooting through him.

“Most people don’t make it in here alive,” said the doctor. “Most of them are already in a coma, so he’s blessed to be here.”

Robert’s eyes filled with tears. He didn’t feel blessed, he felt cursed and scared. The dream that started with a game of catch on the backstreets of North Charleston with childhood friend Toby Mack were seemingly spoiled. He’d never play football again. No Shrine Bowl. No All-American Bowl. No college scholarship. You could certainly throw out any NFL dreams. He wouldn’t be able to defend his wrestling title his senior year of high school. Tears rolled down his face.

Robert Quinn had been playing football all his life. By the seventh grade he was playing organized football. Then, during his freshman year of high school at Fort Dorchester, Robert started growing physically. He didn’t stop until he was 6 feet, five inches and weight 245 pounds.

“I didn’t know how to deal with it,” admitted Robert later. “I looked at my mom and asked ‘Why me?’”

“I told him, the Devil is a liar,” Maria said. “I told him, Robert, let’s just get through tomorrow and see what happens. We’re gonna pray about this.”

Maria held it together as long as she could. She walked out into the waiting room in tears and collapsed into the arms of Tonya Hall, the mother of one of Robert’s teammates, and Coach LaPrad.

“I was at a loss for words,” said James Quinn. “My concern was his health, his life. If he could weather that and stay healthy, the other stuff will take care of itself.”

October 28 ended with another thud.

Brain tumor: not funny, but in hindsight, anyone who saw Robert Quinn in a hospital bed laughs. Take a moment and imagine what a manchild that size looked like, lying in a children’s bed at the Medical University of South Carolina.

“He looked like King Kong in that bed,” remembers LaPrad. “They didn’t have a bed or a hospital gown that fit him.”

“Hey coach! It’s the biggest bed they got!” said Robert, smiling ear-to-ear.

It was one of the few laughs all day.

That night, Maria was at Robert’s bedside, as she had been when he was cleared by doctors in September, and again when he blacked out driving home two weeks earlier. She never left his side, sleeping on the floor of his hospital room. She could have gone into the waiting room, but she didn’t. Maria would stay awake every night until Robert would fall asleep. In the peace and quiet, she’d watch her son as he slept.

The next morning Robert was rolled into surgery. The procedure would determine whether the tumor was benign or malignant. A waiting room full of players, family and friends waited.

It would be days before Robert Quinn learned his fate. The days in between are where hope and fear collided. Waiting became a psychological battle. Will I live? Will I die? Robert tried to stay optimistic but, at times, fear set in and “until that final answer came out, he got depressed,” remembers Maria.

Hoping for the best and fearing the worst, Robert resigned himself to playing football again. “If I’m going to go, let me get back to playing until I do,” he said.

A source of strength

As time appeared to be moving in slow motion, the news broke and the phone started ringing, emails filled inboxes, letters and cards were in arriving in the mail. Complete strangers reached into cyberspace and poured out their hearts.

Robert,

I don’t know you at all. I am a 23-year old college student (UNC Chapel Hill) … I am pulling like crazy for you to make it through this … life is so very fragile and events like these help put things into perspective … I, personally, have wasted precious hours worrying about things that, in the end, do not matter at all … I think we need to live each day like it’s our last because life is that fragile … Tell those people you care about how you feel whenever you can … I am sure you love football as I loved my sport, lacrosse. I shattered my thumb playing my freshman year and realized that I needed to make the painful decision to walk away from the game. Don’t give up hope.

– Matthew Wiesmore (10.31.2007)

Robert Quinn was high on the recruiting roster at the University of North Carolina and when the news got back to Butch Davis, the Tarheels head football coach immediately picked up the phone.

Davis knew what Robert and his family were going through. In 2006 he was diagnosed with cancer in his mouth. The memories and the fears were still fresh in his mind. When he was diagnosed, he didn’t know if he was going to live or die. He started putting together a bucket list in the event it was the latter.

“It puts you in a fraternity of people when you can say you’ve successfully beat cancer. I’m a cancer survivor,” said Davis. “Having gone through the chemo, the radiation, you go through the same fears, same anxieties.

“When I talked to his mom and dad and we talked to Robert about it, it wasn’t like there was this big, pink elephant in the middle of the room and no one wants to talk about it,” the North Carolina coach continued. “We did talk about it. Hopefully it helped us bridge a personal relationship that’s not all about tackling and sacks.”

Davis had recruited Robert and an athletic scholarship was on the table, but that would surely be pulled back until his health status was determined and he was cleared to play football. 

“Your health has nothing to do with whether we’re going to continue to recruit you,” Davis told Robert and his family. “When we make a commitment and say we want you to come to North Carolina, you’ve got a scholarship no matter what happens. If you can never play again you’re still going to be offered a scholarship because of your character and integrity.”

The mood was lighter as Robert waited for the results. A couple days after his surgery he had more unexpected guests: clowns. It was Halloween and MUSC was alive with costumed characters. Like it or not Robert was thrown into the spirit of the holiday. The clowns wrapped him in toilet paper and the manchild was now The Mummy.

Meanwhile, the letters and cards were piling up. A get well card from the Gamecocks and Steve Spurrier, a fax from Nick Saban at Alabama, a pile of handmade cards from fifth graders in North Charleston, a letter from his former fourth grade teacher Mrs. Nix, a signed card from John McKissick and football archrival Summerville and a handwritten letter from Hanahan High School senior Jessica Smith.

Dear Robert Quinn,

Hello! You probably don’t know me, but my name is Jessica Smith and I am a senior at Hanahan High School. I heard what happened to you and I just want to say, I will keep you in my prayers … Everything happens for a reason, so keep your head up. I should know, my house was destroyed in a fire my eighth grade year …

Love,

Jessica Smith

Robert Quinn found out he had fans. Not football fans, but “life” fans. The cheering that once reverberated from the bleachers was now showering him with encouragement in letters, cards and emails. Even his opponents, the men he’s left flat on their backs on the football field and wrestling mat, reached out in support. All the kindness he poured into people he came in contact with, started coming back to him. Their support said something about Robert Quinn. It confirmed the message scrawled on the red, white and blue banner that that hangs outside the front doors at Fort Dorchester High School. It reads, “Patriots Show Respect!”

“Sometimes when you lose a really good athlete it hurts you,” said LaPrad. “But when you lose a really good athlete that everybody respects, and everybody cares about … they lost a teammate and they lost a friend. Sometimes you may have a great athlete on your team, people respect his athletic ability, but you may have 10 or 15 people who don’t really care very much for him.”

Serendipity

The next day the doctor revealed Robert’s biopsy results. The tumor was benign. Maria’s prayers were answered. Robert’s were too. He’d play football again and months later, on Signing Day, he made it official: Robert Quinn would play college football for the University of North Carolina Tarheels.

Maybe its serendipity, or maybe pure coincidence, but as Robert Quinn sat in the football offices at the University of North Carolina he looked out the window and there it was: The UNC Lineberger Comprehensive Cancer Center.

“If you look out my window, it’s about 175 yards from here,” said head coach Butch Davis. “I told him (Robert), if anything ever reoccurred, you are going to have access to the best medical facility in the country.”

In September, Robert started his first game at linebacker for UNC. He has come so far, but he is never apart from his experience. Robert Quinn is the only known active Tarheel playing with a brain tumor and he is reminded daily of his journey, when he glances in the mirror and sees the scar. The mark has become a source of strength and a humbling reminder of the gift of life.

“Just don’t take anything for granted,” Robert says today. “Life is very special. It’s not mine. It’s a gift from God.”