Soon enough, she had worked out an arrangement with Coach Beez. Each Friday after practice, she would get 35 seconds—a full shot clock—to address the team with a rap. When the buzzer sounded, she’d have to stop lest the rap session last all weekend.
Jillian became expert at mentioning individual players. She knew their birthdays. She picked up on their unique traits, usually by listening to Bezold during practice. Tony Rack, for example, was a very good three-point shooter. Thus:
“There goes Tony, my three-point homey.”
She noticed the coaching staff’s practice exhortations: Box out. Stay tight. Rebound. If Bezold had gotten on a particular player during practice, she’d work that into the rhyme:
“Coach Beez mad, Malcolm sad. But it gonna be all right, yeah!”
Players were especially amused by those rhymes. Jocks aren’t sparing with the mutual ridicule. Jillian also knew who NKU’s next opponent was and would trash-talk that team. Soon the players dubbed Jillian’s shows Freestyle Friday. She’d begin working on that week’s rhymes a day in advance, then call Danny on Thursday nights to test them out. Poor Danny. He heard more bad tunes than the judges on American Idol.
The quality wasn’t important, of course. Jillian rapped with utter authenticity and transparency. She had no agenda beyond wanting to be one of the guys. The guys saw that, and the players who’d been uncomfortable initially with Jillian started asking her to feature them in that week’s rap.
By the time Jillian was a third-year manager, her rapping had become a highlight of Friday practices. The rhymes didn’t define Jillian’s role with the team though. They were her entry, but they didn’t allow for the whole Jillian Daugherty Show.
That first year, she became enamored with Tony Rack. He was a junior guard with a surpassing work ethic and desire to win. He was a crazy man. We say this in the nicest of ways. Jillian leaned on Danny Boehmker, but she worshipped Tony. Her relationship with all “my players,” as she called them, was important. Her affection for Rack was something more.
“I love my man Tony,” she’d say. After her first game as a manager, Jillian brought Tony over to meet us. “This is Tony Rack,” she said. “He’s my best man.”
Rack was a local guy, raised in the Cincinnati suburbs. He had attended Moeller High School, just across the river in Montgomery, Ohio. He’d never known anyone with a disability, let alone someone like Jillian. It was an uneasy pairing at first. Jillian made a point of buying her new best man snacks and drinks, which she’d present to him before almost every practice. It made Rack uneasy to the point where he asked Danny and Bezold to talk to Jillian about it.
“I didn’t know how to handle it,” Rack recalled years later. “I didn’t want to hurt her, but I didn’t want to take her money.”
Early on, Rack was the only player Jillian talked to. This embarrassed Tony who, despite his outgoing nature, was uncomfortable with the attention. Things changed eventually, as Jillian loosened up and other players became comfortable with her. But Jillian’s fondness for Tony never wavered, and she showed that by joking with him.
One game his junior year, Rack had just come off the floor after badly missing a three-pointer. It was late in a game NKU had well in hand. Jillian fulfilled her duties by fetching Tony a towel and a cup of water. But not without a dig:
“The way you’re shooting tonight,” she said, “you’re lucky I don’t pour this on you.”
Also in his junior season, Rack drilled a three-pointer at the buzzer to beat Kentucky Wesleyan in an NCAA Tournament game. It was among the biggest shots of his career. Just before the shot, during a timeout, Bezold walked to the far end of the bench where Jillian stood guard over the watercooler. “You’re going to draw up a play for Tony to take the last shot, right?” she asked the coach.
But it was during the bad times that Jillian was most instructive. Rack injured his shoulder as a senior. The pain was so intense he took a cortisone injection to numb it, and eventually even that didn’t help. On Senior Night, the pain was such that Rack cried during warm-ups. He started the game, then took himself out 30 seconds into it. “The only time I’d ever done that,” he recalled.
He never left the bench after that, and NKU lost the game. Rack was inconsolable afterward. He didn’t feel much like talking, to anyone. As he walked down the hallway from the court to the locker room, Rack felt a basketball thump him in the rear.
What the . . . ? He wasn’t in the mood. He turned around quickly. This could be a problem.
“You’re still my home dawg, Tony Rack,” Jillian said. “Even if you’re hurt, I still got your back.”
JILLIAN TOOK LOSSES HARD too. A few times in her first season, Kerry and I had to counsel her not to let her emotions flow during the game. “You have a job to do. You can’t be getting upset,” we’d say.
But the disappointment never lasted with her. Once the game was over, it was over. “With her, it’s in the moment,” Rack said. “That’s the way it should be.”
Jillian would get very concerned about how the players felt. That’s why she tossed the ball at Rack. It was why, before every road game, Jillian figured when the team would be on the bus, from the hotel to the gym, and called Danny’s cell phone.
Jillian didn’t go with them for the roadies because everyone had a roommate, and she was the only female. That disappointed her more than anything. Still, she guessed the team needed her so she lent her support long distance, either with a pep talk or a rap. Danny put her on speakerphone. The bus got quiet whenever she called. On the rare occasions Jillian missed the timing for the call, players would wonder what happened. A few times, Danny called her from the back of the bus.
Not long ago, I asked Tony Rack what Jillian had taught him. They were together two years. Not a day passed when Jillian didn’t talk about her best man. Eventually, the feeling became mutual. “She gave me the realization that everyone is a role model,” Rack said. “No matter what I was doing, someone was watching. Like that cussing after I missed a shot.
“People always watched her, too,” partly, Rack allowed candidly, because of her disability. “She was always doing her best, on her best behavior. I think she felt the eyes on her.”
Kevin Schappell is an assistant coach. He attended Loveland High, where he was a local star, before Jillian got there. But he knew about her by the time she got to NKU. Assistants do the bulk of the recruiting of high school players. Teams that don’t recruit well don’t win, no matter the competence of their coaches.
“Any connection you can make with a recruit and his family helps,” Schappell said.
One year, the mother of NKU’s most coveted recruit had a nephew with Down syndrome. Schappell got Jillian to help with the recruiting process. The family met her, and she talked about her job, her classes and the life she had on campus. “The mother broke down in tears,” Schappell said. And the player signed with Northern Kentucky.
Kindness builds. Respect is established. Jillian becomes part of the team, and the human transaction Bezold hoped would happen did occur.
“Open your eyes and you will see the good in everybody,” Bezold said. “Jillian shows my players that everyone has something to contribute. They need to know the importance of taking care of people. I can tell them that. But I’m a 45-year-old guy. For them to experience it is irreplaceable. That’s what college is, a place to give these kids as many experiences as possible. That’s how they grow. We have all kinds of kids here. Country kids, inner-city kids. Kids who’ve never seen anyone that doesn’t look like them. They need that exposure. Basketball is basketball.”
Jillian gave the players another prism through which to see the world. Her optimism and agenda-free friendship let them know that while basketball was temporary, how they chose to live their lives was indelible.
Jillian’s duties expanded with her confidence. She went from filling water bottles and folding towels to washing practice uniforms. She learned the codes to all the locker-room doors. During p
ractice, she’d slip over her arms what looked like a big foam shield. As players dribbled, she’d whack them with the shield to simulate a persistent defender, albeit one that was a full two feet shorter than they were.
“Box out!” she’d yell, sometimes too zealously. Bezold would rein that in on occasion, especially if the team was practicing fast breaks. “Stay tight!” “Rebound!”
On most school days, Jillian was in Bezold’s office by noon, after her classes had concluded, studying or reading on his couch, waiting for practice to start. She’d have a Ryan story, or a tale of something that had happened at home. Dave Bezold knew more about our family than we did.
As the players grew to enjoy her, they embraced and protected her. They sang “Happy Birthday” to her. She invited them to a summer picnic at our house. Several made it. A year after Rack graduated, he called her to wish her happy birthday. Upperclassmen would break in the newcomers: “That’s J-Dawg. Treat her with respect.”
“She never fails to do something enjoyable,” Boehmker decided. I’d asked him too, what does Jillian teach?
“Just to slow down sometimes,” Danny said. “She’s a reminder that today is here. Let’s not waste it.”
We meet in our lives any number of people who profess to love us and care about us. Some might actually mean it. With Jillian, there’s never a doubt. The players knew that. Eventually. All of them.
Jillian validated Bezold’s belief in helping others to the betterment of ourselves. If you love someone, Jillian said, they’ll love you back.
A few weeks after Tony Rack’s final game at Northern Kentucky, I got an e-mail from his parents:
When NKU lost its basketball game in the NCAA tournament, it brought an end to their season. It was also the end of our son Tony’s basketball career. A career that lasted 14 years.
After the loss, our family and friends were sitting in the empty bleachers with Tony. It was a very emotional time for all of us. Then a small little angel came walking across the gym floor. It was your Jillian.
She told him she enjoyed being on the team with him and she was glad they became good friends. Jillian turned to me and said, “Don’t be sad about today, be proud of the way Tony Rack played. He always tried his best.”
She turned back to Tony and said “Tony Rack, I am going to miss you.” Tony was still sitting in the bleachers and looked almost level to her and said, “Jillian, I am going to miss you a lot, too. You worked as hard as anyone on this team. Your encouragement inspired me in ways you will never know.”
Jillian said, “Tony, our bus is waiting to take the team back to NKU. Are you ready?” He looked over at us and said, “I am now. Let’s get on the bus together.”
I cannot tell you how much her words meant to us. Sometimes God sends a little angel to get you through the hard times. I cannot even remember the score of that last game, but I will never forget Jillian’s kindness.
Back at the arena, Jillian is tossing dirty practice uniforms into an industrial-size washing machine. “I can’t wait for Friday,” she says to Danny. “It’s going to be my best rap ever.”
Danny smiles, knowing what he knows. Today is here. Let’s not waste it. “I’m sure it will be, J-Dog,” he says.
CHAPTER 27
Jillian Turns 21
A love that takes us out of ourselves and binds us to
something larger. We know that’s what matters.
—PRESIDENT BARACK OBAMA, AT A MEMORIAL
SERVICE FOR THE FAMILIES OF THE SLAIN
CHILDREN OF NEWTOWN, CONNECTICUT
Jillian celebrated the rest of us all the time. Every so often, the rest of us celebrated Jillian. She turned 21 on a Sunday in October. We let people know we were going to note the milestone by gathering at a local sports bar, where well-wishers could watch the guest of honor drink her first beer, an event she’d anticipated for months.
“I can’t wait until I get my first beer,” Jillian would announce at random moments. That made for interesting conversation with her teachers, friends and parents of friends. Jillian was not deterred.
It was to be an informal affair. Beer, appetizers, football on the big screens. Come when you will, go when you like. We figured 20 to 30 people would be there: Kelly, his girlfriend, Ruby, both sets of grandparents, longtime family friends, people from the neighborhood. The restaurant pulled together two eight-top tables and assigned us one server for the four hours we intended to stay.
Close to 70 people showed up.
Friends, family, neighbors. People we didn’t know and had never seen. They just dropped by. “All these people are here because of you,” I said to Jillian, a few hours into it.
“I don’t know what to say, Dad,” she said. “I love my life.”
I tried to summon some significance beyond the obvious. I looked for the water pressure behind the eyes. Jillian was 21 years old and thriving. An outward display of emotion seemed the way to go. It didn’t happen. Twenty-one was like graduation, like Jillian’s first day at Northern Kentucky.
The pride we felt on Jillian’s major days was the same we felt with Kelly’s. We’d planned for them, we’d worked for them. We’d expected them. Jillian did the rest. When they occurred, we noted them and celebrated them. At that point, tears would have been something of a conceit: Look what we’ve done for our 21-year-old with a disability.
The smaller moments elicited tears though. The little wins prompted them.
“I’m a big girl now,” Jillian had said that morning on her birthday.
“You’ve been a big girl for a while,” I said.
“Now I’m official,” Jillian said. And then this:
“Dad, I’m so happy now. I’m your little girl, and I get to drink beer. Thank you and Mom for being the best parents to me. You guys are the best. I know I’m going to move out soon, and I will miss you guys. But I will always love you.”
“Thank you, Jills. You’re moving out?”
“Well, not right away, Dad. But soon. I know you’ll be a wreck.”
“Probably,” I said. “And Jillian?”
“Yeah?”
“One beer today.”
My mother and father sat quietly in the back, away from the thick of the festivities, which were centered around Jillian’s high-top table. They’d come from Florida for the party. They’d moved to the gulf coast in 1982, when my dad was 49 years old. He’d worked for the federal government for 25 years. He’d had enough. My mother’s parents had retired in Bradenton, and she wanted to be close to them.
I was 24 years old when they moved; my brother and sister were 27. Eventually, my sister moved to the same town, but my brother and I stayed north, he in Maryland, I in Ohio. A family, separated by a thousand miles. Absentee love. The distance created a regret my mother has only recently expressed. Five grandchildren have grown up seeing their grandparents only for a few days in the summertime and on the occasional Christmas visit. Love was given and received on the telephone, in thank-you notes, in well wishes after graduations and traditional holidays. It was abiding but fleeting.
More than 30 years after my parents moved to Florida, they wish they hadn’t. At least not so soon. Being closer to one part of the family meant more distance from the rest of us. My mother never got to know her grandchildren. “I missed out on all of it,” she said.
She and my dad had planned to stay an hour or two at the party, then retreat back to our house. They aren’t big on socializing and are less enthusiastic about large crowds. Instead, they stayed the entire time. My father, whose affinity for grandparenting was tepid at best, was genuinely moved by the occasion.
“Write about this,” he said. “People need to know how this works.”
How this works. What an apt phrase.
Jillian embraced all her family, even the members who weren’t related to her. Sometimes, especially those people. Dave Bezold and Danny Boehmker. Evan Stanley and Tony Rack. These weren’t simply friends to Jillian. They were essential relationships
, as defining and meaningful as any she had.
Jillian had the basic support of a nuclear clan. Most of us have that, whether out of love or obligation or both. Jillian inspired a larger family.
These were people who, from a distance, made her life better. They came together on days such as this one, not out of obligation (they had none) or love (not in the literal, family sense), but because they knew she genuinely appreciated their presence. And because wishing Jillian well made them feel better about themselves.
This was how it worked.
Kerry’s parents, Sid and Jean, were part of the Jillian posse. They lived close enough—in Pittsburgh, not quite five hours away—to come for birthdays and Christmas and special moments in between. My parents loved from a distance. On this day, they realized a little of what that distance had caused them to miss—especially because I wasn’t great at getting my kids down to Florida on even a semi-regular basis.
Jillian would always have a strong, blood-related family. We were her base camp, from which further exploration was possible. The legions of other family members allowed her to roam. They broadened the confidence we instilled. Without them, Jillian would not be Jillian.
Her 21st birthday would go on for a week. Every day, someone would give her a present or take her to lunch. The basketball team sang “Happy Birthday” to her. An assistant coach baked cupcakes for her. In the middle of the seemingly endless tributes, I asked her, “Do you know why people are always so nice to you?”
We were in the car, on the way to NKU, where the women’s basketball coaching staff was taking Jillian to lunch that day.
“Because I’m a good person?” Jillian answered.
Yes.
Back at the sports bar, a man named Bob Young said, “Thanks for inviting me.” I’d met Bob once before. He’s a regular contributor to the blog I write for the Enquirer. He’d never met Jillian. He’d read about the party and had brought along his college-age son. “What an inspiration Jillian is,” he said.
An Uncomplicated Life Page 25