He was there.
Somehow, the distance had been less than he remembered.
He reached over to the wooden handrail and pulled himself up. Three steps up, then the doorknob. Suddenly he was inside. Inside! Is there any better place? The furnace was off, but the kitchen still felt like the bowels of a volcano. The stillness was disturbing. He took off his boots, struggling with his hands of stone. He turned on the kitchen faucet and jammed purple fingers beneath warm water. It stung. The pain was magnificent. He flipped on the overheard light. It was so much fun to look at all the things he owned. He did not care that everything in the room looked fuzzy and distorted. He walked into the bedroom and turned on another light. Everything was in its right place. He peeled off his winter clothing until he was almost naked, recovering his body with a terry-cloth robe and fresh wool socks. The house was silent, except for an exterior wind that no longer mattered. He passed by the bathroom and turned on another light; before he slept, he would take a forty-minute shower. The house would become a sauna. Back in the kitchen, he opened a can of tomato soup and poured it into a saucepan, cooking it rapidly over a high blue flame. He did not mind waiting for it to cook. He loved watching it. When it was nearly boiling, he poured saltine crackers directly into the pot and moved it onto the counter. He began boiling water for coffee, fantasizing about how it would feel inside his mouth, down his throat, inside his stomach. He peppered the soup heavily and attacked it like a murderer, shoveling massive spoonfuls of thick red slime into his jowls. Trails of hot soup rolled down his chin, splattering like gunshots upon the tile floor. He was still standing up. He didn’t need a chair. Horace glanced back at the water on the stove and saw that it was starting to bubble. He was five minutes from coffee. It was the greatest goddamn night of his life.
FEBRUARY 11, 1984
Storm victim excelled on sports field, in community
by Bruce Montrose Bismarck Tribune
While all 20 area deaths from last week’s killer blizzard can technically be classified as individual tragedies, no town was hit harder than Owl. The sleepy central North Dakota community lost a stunning six residents to the storm’s wrath, including a teacher and four high school students. Among those students was Chris Sellers, arguably the best athlete in Lobo history.
But he was far more than just an athlete.
“Once in a lifetime, you come across a person like Chris,” Owl head football coach John Laidlaw said. “He was the most dominating football player I ever coached. Lots of people know that. What people don’t know is that he was probably a better person than he was a player. We’re all still in shock here. He was the consummate quiet leader.”
Sellers was socializing with friends in a remote area outside of Owl when the storm struck last Saturday. Listed at six foot eight and 255 pounds, Sellers was a force of nature, comparable to the storm that eventually killed him: He set school and state records for quarterback sacks in 1983, recording a mind-boggling 23 sacks in nine regular season games. He was equally skilled on the basketball floor; prior to his death from exposure, Sellers was averaging 28 points, 17.5 rebounds and nearly six blocked shots a night for the upstart Owl cagers (13–2, ranked #9 in the most recent Class B poll).
“From a basketball perspective, Chris will be impossible to replace,” said Owl basketball coach Bob Keebler. “But what I will remember even more than his rebounding is the way he always showed concern for his teammates, even those who did not have much to offer the program.”
Sellers, who had collegiate scholarship interest from Nebraska, Minnesota and
see Owl Standout,
continued on page C11
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book exists because of Brant Rumble and Daniel Greenberg. I would also like to express thanks to Susan Moldow and Nan Graham for their long-standing support.
Melissa Maerz, Bob Ethington, Rob Sheffield, Alex Pappademas, Greg Korte, Patrick Condon, Michael Weinreb, David Giffels, Eric Nuzum, Jim and Amy Carlile, Chad Hansen, and Dennis Sperle all read early versions of this manuscript and helped me immensely.
This book could not have been written without my wonderful mother and father, Laura and Tom, Bill and Nan, Susan and David, Teresa and Steve, Paul and Mary Anne, Rachel and Matt, and all of their respective kids. I’d also like to thank Adelaide Wodarz for driving me to baseball practice in 1982 and being a nice person.
I must also express specific gratitude to James Corcoran, whose book Bitter Harvest was the central resource for at least one chapter of this book.
Downtown Owl Page 26