Chapter 10

A little before 7 a.m., I saw three nurses and a doctor enter Ilsa's room. They exited a few minutes later and I knew Ilsa was gone. When Katya walked out of the room, I wrapped her in my arms. I think she was surprised I was still there, but I wasn't going to force her to go through this like I had.

I had fought my emotions all night and I was determined to be as strong as possible for Katya. I let Ilsa's mother cry on my chest for as long as she wanted to and then we sat in the coffee shop for a few minutes before I drove her home.

I told her to give me a call later and I'd take her back to get her car, but she asked me to stay at her house for a while. Katya fell asleep with her head on my lap and I pulled a blanket over her and let her rest. As Katya slept, my mind went back to that August morning not long ago. I hoped my mom was proud of the little bit of happiness I had managed to bring Ilsa and Katya during the last days of the little girl's life.

Katya was embarrassed when she woke and she sat up quickly. She seemed disoriented. I knew the feeling well. You hoped and prayed the last few months, days and hours had been a bad dream. I saw the reality dawn on her face — and I knew that feeling well, too. She'd go through this every morning for the next month or so.

As with me and my mother, Ilsa was the only thing this woman loved in the world. They'd been through everything together for the last 12 years. Now, Katya was faced with a life of emptiness. She was only in her early 30s, but her life had never been easy. But it had never been this difficult either. She had a long road ahead of her — and not a lot to look forward to as a means to cope.

She worked as a bookkeeper for a small construction company. The pay was pretty decent, but there was no chance for advancement. Ilsa told me in her last few days that she was worried about her mom. I didn't admit it, but I was worried about her mom, too.

Katya took a shower while I ran out to get some food. She was looking a little better when I got back, but her eyes were still red from crying.

"I know you're going to want to be alone some," I told her after we'd eaten. "But I want you to know that you never have to be alone."

She nodded sadly, but I took her hand.

"I have something for you," I told her. "Ilsa had me write a letter to you, and she made me promise to give it to you afterward."

I handed her the envelope and she started to open it. I stood to leave, not only to give her privacy but because I knew I'd start crying as soon as she started to read it.

Katya took my hand and asked me to stay.

I managed to avoid crying outright, but a tear sneaked down my cheek as Katya read her daughter's words. Mostly, I just kept looked at my hands. I felt as if I was intruding on Katya and Ilsa's final moments together.

Katya read and re-read the words for the next few minutes. But she was smiling.

"She was my little angel," she said, tears starting to form.

Ilsa had her mother write a letter to me, too. She thanked me for being her friend. She was buried — with my Marshall hat — a few days later. I sat beside Katya at the funeral and stood behind her at the grave site. It was the sunniest day of the winter.

I spoke to Katya almost every day after classes started. A few months later she began going to a support group where she met a nice man. They married two Junes later and I learned last Christmas she was expecting another baby. If it is a boy, they plan to name him Robert James.

At her wedding, she thanked me for helping her get through Ilsa's death. I told her we helped each other.

"When I walked out of her room that morning," she told me. "I was going to kill myself. If you hadn't been standing there, I think I would have. If you hadn't spent so much time at my house that week, I might have, too. I have a second chance at life. You stuck with us. You were a friend to a little girl who had pushed every one of her friends away when she found out she was dying. You wouldn't let me give up when all I wanted to do was give up.

"I'm happy, R.J. I feel guilty sometimes because I'm happier than I've ever been. I'm happier than I would have been if Ilsa had lived."

I told her not to feel guilty.

"Your happiness was all Ilsa wanted to leave behind," I told her. "Your smile is her legacy. Please don't forget that."

Aaron was a much happier story. When Ilsa was close to death, I told him I'd be scarce for a while, but I hadn't deserted him. He knew why I would be spending less time with him and he even visited with Ilsa some himself.

He was a naturally cheerful boy who was determined to fight to the very end. I respected his courage and enjoyed his personality. We'd talk baseball, football and hockey. He knew the most arcane stats and had a new sports trivia question for me each time I'd visit.

The chemotherapy was tough for him. It sapped his energy and made him lose his hair. His dad shaved his head, too, and I joked there was only one cue ball on a pool table. I told them I'd offer to shave my head, too, but my hair was so thin I was afraid it wouldn't grow back. Aaron was so up-to-date on sports; it was he who delivered my latest dose of bad news in late February.

I'd been spending time with Katya and going to classes and study sessions. I wondered how I'd find time for everything when spring practice started in two weeks.

Aaron let me know I wouldn't have to worry about that.

I visited his room one afternoon and it was the first time I'd seen him cry.

"Hey, little guy," I said. "Are you OK?"

He glanced at me and started on a spiel about how unfair it was and how mad it made him.

I thought he was talking about his illness, but he'd been doing really well lately. They were talking about him going home in a couple of weeks.

We'd already made plans for him and his parents to be my guests at the annual Blue-White spring game. I hoped nothing had changed.

"C'mon, little guy," I said. "It's going to be alright. You're a fighter. You'll whip whatever comes."

"Not me," he said. "You."

"What about me?" I asked. "I'm a fighter, too, you know."

My boxing stance brought a small smile.

"R.J.," he said. "The NCAA ruled you couldn't play this spring. A couple of SEC schools filed a complaint about your eligibility."

I knew the second part was right. Coach Brown had told me they had. I knew the first part was a possibility, but I thought it was a distant one.

"Are you sure, Aaron?" I asked, but I knew if anyone would know, it would be him. "Well, crap."

"It's BS," Aaron told me. "Bunch of jealous jerks. You wouldn't go there, so they went to the NCAA. It's another reason for me to hate Auburn and Vanderbilt."

I told him it probably wasn't jealousy because if either one of them wanted me I might have gone there instead. Aaron looked scandalized — someone would pick another school over his beloved UK.

"How bad is it?" I asked. "Is it just the spring or is it a whole season?"

He told me it was just the spring — for now. I'd been fighting with the NCAA for almost a year. They balked about my decision not to attend Notre Dame — even though the school was supportive of my decision. They changed horses mid-stream when I announced I was going to Wesleyan — even though I didn't appeal their decision.

Now they switched sides again. I knew I could appeal their ruling. But the hearing and ruling would take forever and it could jeopardize the fall season.

"Well, little guy," I said. "What do you think I should do?"

I wasn't patronizing Aaron. I really wanted his input because he'd spent hours on the internet researching my case. His dad was a lawyer and Aaron would pepper him with questions when he'd learn some new fact or find a reference somewhere.

"Well, it's just spring practice," he said. "But Coach Brown usually goes with whoever wins the job in the spring. You got two choices, I guess. You can fight this, win the job, and maybe be suspended for the entire fall. Or you can sit out the spring, lose the starting job and maybe spend all fall on the bench."

I told him there was a third and fourth option we needed to look at.

"I fight this, win the job, win the appeal and we live happily ever after," I said. "Or I don't fight this, win the job in summer and we live happily ever after."

Aaron agreed Tom VandeVender was a nice guy and a decent quarterback, but if I was as good as everyone thought I was, I should be able to beat him out.

We decided to talk to Coach and Aaron's dad and make a decision in three or four days.

Coach Brown was honest. He told me the suspension included all team activities. I couldn't attend practices. I couldn't attend team meals. I couldn't attend study sessions.

"It will be extremely difficult for you to play in the fall without spring practice," he said. "Even though you'll have a year of college experience, you'll essentially be a freshman again. At the same time, I firmly believe the NCAA is going to penalize you for, in their eyes, spurning the most storied program in college football. It'll be now or later.

"I want you to be able to practice in the spring, but that's not realistic. I think you have a legitimate chance to start in the fall if you practice. I think we should appeal part of the suspension. I think if you'll accept the no practice part, they might let you participate in meetings and study sessions like they do the Prop 48 recruits.

"As it stands right now, you can't even have a copy of the playbook to study. This meeting might be a violation of your suspension for all I know. The university attorneys are on it, but I think you should retain private counsel in case the university's interests and your interests, um, diverge at a certain point. I have some names if you need them."

I told him I'd already spoken with a lawyer and I told him my attorney had said much the same as he had.

"I wanted to talk to you first," I said. "The appeal is all ready to go. I'm asking to be allowed the same courtesies as any member in good standing with the university would have when affiliated with a team — essentially the ability to sit in meetings, attend study sessions and watch practices from the sideline."

Well, as Meatloaf once sang, Two out of Three Ain't Bad.

The NCAA agreed I could do anything with the team accept attend practices. It wasn't all I'd hoped for, but better than I expected.

Aaron's dad, Rick, filed a federal lawsuit on my behalf alleging the NCAA's "arbitrary and capricious ruling had placed an undue restriction on my future earning capacity since the ruling came after my transfer and was a direct reversal of a previous ruling allowing a penalty-free transfer." My lawsuit said the NCAA's decision could adversely affect my potential NFL career because my suspension might keep me from starting for three years and lower my NFL draft potential. Essentially, the NCAA was interfering with interstate commerce and denying me due process by suspending me for spring after they had told me they wouldn't.

I thought it was ridiculous, but Rick told me it only cost $100 to file the suit — like most lawyers, he conveniently left out the $175 per hour I insisted I pay for his time — and it would let the NCAA know I wasn't going to be its whipping boy.

"At the very least," he said. "The fact you filed a lawsuit against them will make them think twice about suspending you for anything in the future.

"I'll be honest. You'll be playing in the NFL before this gets to court — if it gets to court. But the fact that this is hanging over their heads will open them up to a litany of public scorn if they try anything else.

"If they pick on you again, we'll call a press conference and announce the NCAA is singling you out for standing up for your rights."

"You have to understand, R.J., most of the country is on your side," Aaron said. "ESPN ran a poll last night and almost 70 percent of the voters said the NCAA was wrong to suspend you because you stayed home to take care of your mom."