Chapter 6

By late February, Mom and I both realized she wasn't going to beat this. The cancer had spread too far for even the most advance medical treatment. It became enough that Mom was comfortable. I decided there was no way I was going to South Bend, Ind., while my mother lay dying. The school graciously released me from my letter of intent — something they didn't have to do — and it looked like WVU might just get the top-ranked quarterback recruit in the country as a walk-on.

But the NCAA ruled I couldn't play football at a Division I school for a year because I'd broken my letter of intent. Notre Dame and Coach Walton sent a letter explaining the circumstance and asking the NCAA to reconsider. But they wouldn't — the first of many battles I'd wage with the NCAA. The overlords in Overland, Kan., ruled I could play Division II football — just as anyone who transfers from a D-I school could.

So, the first day of April found me at the small college in my hometown — not 10 blocks from my house — talking to the man who first noticed my abilities at the age of 10.

Wesleyan was a Division II contender in the early 1990s, but it was a private school and rising tuition costs had limited the number of scholarships to the point the Bobcats were no longer competitive in the West Virginia Intercollegiate Athletic Conference (WVIAC), let alone on the national stage.

I spent the better part of the morning talking to Coach Street. He spent the better part of the morning telling me there were better opportunities for me — even at the Division II level — than his moribund program.

"R.J. (he'd always called me that)," he said. "Don't get me wrong. I'd love to have you here. I'd love to have the opportunity to coach you for even a year. You'll be the best player I've ever coached, believe me. But be realistic. In a year, your mom's situation will have changed. I wish I could tell you it will be better, but the fact you're here tells me it probably won't be.

"In a year, you're going to be looking to move to a Division I school. You'll be doing yourself a disservice by playing here. We'll be a decent team. We're always a decent team. But there are schools 50 miles from here that stand a real shot of playing late in the playoffs. You could go to Glenville State or even Shepherd. They were both playoff schools last year."

I told him the truth.

"Coach, I'm not crazy about playing Division II," I said. "I'm not even crazy about playing Division I right now. But Mom's right. I'll drive myself crazy if I don't play. But if I'm playing anywhere in the fall, it's going to be right here. I give you my word, regardless of what happens, I will play here this fall. I am going to announce it this week so you can use it to recruit all those disgruntled Division I players that Glenville always gets. I think some of them wouldn't mind playing their last season here. And I think I'll give you a legitimate chance to win a few more games than the school is used to."

And that was that. I was going to play football at West Virginia Wesleyan College. I found I was strangely excited about it.

Not a week later, the NCAA reversed itself again and I was told I could play anywhere I wanted to in the fall. Coach Street called immediately to tell me there would be no hard feelings if I went somewhere else. I told him I appreciated it, but I'd given my word. I was playing for him in the fall.

During the spring, I refused to call Suzette. My mom's situation was wearing on me. She was depressed and had given up hope. She hated to get out of bed to do anything — and I didn't blame her. I wasn't dying and it was all I could do to get up some mornings. School was a blur. I was going to graduate in the top 10 percent of my class but that was no big accomplishment. At least I didn't have to take an athletic scholarship to Wesleyan, I'd get academic help.

Mrs. Crawford saw me sitting on my porch one day and came up and actually sat beside me.

"You doing OK, Jay?" she asked. "Suzette says you haven't talked to her since Christmas. Every time she comes down, you make yourself scarce. She's worried about you — and so are we. This is an awful lot for a boy your age to deal with by himself. Even a boy who shown as much maturity as you have in the past couple of years."

I had to do a double take. There was no way this could be Suzette's mom sitting beside me.

Then she smiled at me.

I'd seen her smile before, but only from a distance. She was truly a beautiful woman.

"Yes, I said you were mature," she said. "Things got away from me for awhile. Then when you and Suzette broke up, I assumed it was your fault. In my defense, no one stepped forward to tell me the truth until a couple of months ago.

"I've wanted to talk to you since then, but, well, I'm not very good at admitting I'm wrong. I was so worried when you two got so serious that Suzette would get hurt. I didn't stop to realize she was just as capable of hurting you. Then she did. In the worst way possible, too. I know you won't come to me if you need help. I don't think you'll go to Suzette either. You don't trust either of us to consider your feelings. But you can talk to Max (Suzette's father). He went through something similar when he was in his early 20s. I know he's wanted to talk to you about things, but it's not something you can just open a conversation with."

I smiled for a minute.

"So, Jay," I said mimicking Mr. Crawford. "Did I ever tell you I have a dead mother?"

Mrs. Crawford actually cringed.

"Oh, honey," she said, tears forming in her eyes. "That's not what I meant. I'm so sorry. I can't seem to do anything nice for you."

She started to get up, but I took her hand.

"Mrs. Crawford, just coming over here today was nice," I told her. "Suzette always said such wonderful things about you. I never got the chance to see that side. Our problems are my fault too. I didn't put forth much of an effort to get to know you. It's nice to know you and Mr. Crawford — and even Suzette — are next door when I need someone. I'm doing OK, though."

Mrs. Crawford gave me a half smile and told me Suzette was coming home later in the week for Spring Break. She hoped I'd spend time with her — not just for Suzette's sake but because I needed to have some fun. I told her Suzette should be spending Spring Break in Mexico having fun. She smiled again, then shrugged and left. My mom was sitting in her chair when I went inside.

"My ass," was all she said as I entered.

By this time my mom had a litany of pains. Half the time she was on so many painkillers her speech was slurred. But I was pretty sure the only pain in her ass was still me.

I asked what about her ass, and she glared at me. At least I think it was a glare, it could have just been glassy eyes. It still felt like a glare though.

"My ass, you're doing OK," she said. "I've decided something. You're going to call Wesleyan and tell them you've decided to go to Notre Dame. You don't need to stay here. I don't even want you to stay here. Go call them."

I looked at her and shook my head.

"Mom," I began. "I don't know exactly what you're on. But you must be on some high-level stuff if you think even for a minute I'm leaving you. I'm not 18 yet, but I will be in a couple of months. That means you don't get to make the college choice for me. Sure, you can kick me out of the house, but I'll do like Suzette did. I'll just keep showing up here unannounced."

I was trying to be flip, but my emotions caught up to me and tears came again and I crouched beside her chair and held her hand.

"Seriously. I'll have my whole life ahead of me. I have a few months with you. I'm going to be with you as much as you can stand me during those few months. If the few months turn into a few years, I'll still be right here beside you. You can bluster and you can fight it, but you can't get rid of me.