by Glenn Stout
He has lost 12 pounds. He has to start eating, the campaign’s doctor has told him, to give his body a chance against the new bacteria he’ll be encountering in Belize in just four days. He twitches back and forth for hours over his decision, and finally, at 9:30 P.M., he gives in. He and his roommate order takeout.
A half hour later, in silence, Peter tears into a slice of pizza and Joseph lifts a spoonful of miso soup and a sushi roll to his mouth. Sushi tastes great. Sushi feels lousy. He tells his fellow strikers the next morning that eating just doesn’t feel right, and how much he appreciates their carrying on, then wonders what the consequences of his act will be.
Carlos and Smith, acting on a far larger stage, were immediately suspended from the U.S. team and banished from the Olympic Village, then received death threats at home and watched one door after another close when they applied for jobs. Carlos took a claw hammer to his furniture in the middle of the night to use as fuel to keep his family warm. “It was like I had cancer,” he says. The FBI worked up a 3,500-page dossier on Edwards, some of it coming from informants placed in his sociology classes. Joseph? He just takes a cyber-beating.
SCBIGTIME: What an idiot. If this cause is so important to him, he should organize charity events to contribute to those he feels are in need rather than attack job creators.
TOBY21155: Excuse me while [I] throw up . . . another brainwashed progressive.
MATTHEW055062: Sounds like he needs to fast for playing time, this fool sucks b— and he knows it!
CVILLEPSUFAN: Who cares? There will still be a college game on Thursday.
BRONCO-FORCE: doesn’t take this lying down: Honestly . . . how can some of you people sleep at night. He’s a young, obviously socially conscious athlete, who is doing something to stand up for what he believes in. Why do so many wish to see the me-me-me athletes of today, while scorning young men of purpose like this one . . .
Plenty of other fans and media members jump to Joseph’s defense. His roommate shakes his head. “If a walk-on player gets this coverage,” concludes Peter, “just imagine what a star could do!”
Joseph’s girlfriend, Kathy—half Norwegian, half German—can’t explain this to her countrymen. “It’s amazing in this country how much power sports gives you,” she says. “A football player! I didn’t think that would be of any importance. A football player!”
And Joseph? He’s still a little dazed by it all, astonished by the media storm and the admiring emails that came in, one from NFL Players Association president DeMaurice Smith, another from the leader of the Service Employees International Union expressing interest in helping the UVA workers form a union, and yes, even a response from Coach Reid saying that he hoped this wouldn’t drive a wedge between them and that he still had great respect for Joseph. “I feel more empowered,” Joseph says. “It inspired me. I want to commit deeper. This is how it goes with every major change in society. It requires activism. People don’t change without pressure. Athletes are so magnified and have such an opportunity to use that, but they don’t, and so the focus on them often gets put on the negative. It really works against them in the end. Sports are the main arena that black males are seen in, and there are so many intelligent ones, but they’re not heard from on these issues, so all you hear is dumb jocks or violent black men.
“Maybe I’m an idealist, but in a world where people are starving while others are making millions of dollars a year, it’s about the will to change it. It’s about people who don’t care. At the core of all great injustice is greed. It’s not an American problem. It’s a human problem. If my mother hadn’t gotten housing vouchers after my father left and moved us into a neighborhood with a high school that really cared about its students, it likely would have turned out very bad for me. The teachers in my previous school system were unqualified and unhappy people. How are you going to go to college attending schools like that? That’s not a merit system. That’s chance.”
What battles loom for the next Wonman Joseph Williams . . . and will we have to wait another 30 or 40 years for him to arise? Two issues fester right on sports’ doorstep, ripe and ready to burst. The first is the emergence and acceptance of the first openly gay athlete in a mainstream team sport. The second is the systemic corruption of college athletics, from the tens of millions of dollars being made by TV networks, conferences, and the NCAA on the sweat and toil of the college athlete to the absurdity that median spending on athletics by universities in major conferences is four to 11 times higher per athlete than that spent on education-related expenses per student and growing at double to triple the rate of academic expenditures, resulting in a net loss for all but seven athletic programs nationwide, even with all those TV revenues, according to the Knight Commission—a deficit that must be made up by increases in tuition or increased allotments drawn from state taxes or general university funds.
Who knows? This Wonman Joseph Williams, after all, has two years of eligibility left at UVA and plenty of time after that to consider his next stand. “There needs to be a radical revolution of the way we view sports, especially on the amateur level, in America,” he says. “I’d love to be a part of it if it ever happens. But it’s hard for an athlete to say he’s going to protest for the sake of athletes at large, because most of us have just four years, and we want to win now and to get playing time now.”
But the biggest looming battlefront, the one that cries for athletes at the ramparts yet transcends sports, the one that will require the most heroic investment from athletes because they’re the ones reaping the status quo’s richest rewards, is the very cause, says Edwards, for which Joseph just laid his stomach on the line. “The problem of the 21st century is going to be the deepening economic disparity, about the have-mores and the have-nones. What this young man in Virginia did spoke exactly to that.”
The old, gray warriors from the 1960s and ’70s, they’re watching, they’re waiting. “Sure,” says Walton, “there are people just retreating to their mansions on the hill and pulling the ladder up behind them, but the great thing about any group dynamic is that it always comes down to one guy. And we all have the chance to be that guy. The one with the willingness to stand tall for those who can’t. It still comes down to: do you care, and does it really matter? I do, and it does. And I salute this young man for standing tall.”
Carlos isn’t holding his breath. “The people who do these things start building the courage of others to think about taking a stand too,” he says. “What this kid did might bring a light to other athletes. But it won’t start a stampede.”
It’s the morning after the end of Full Harmony’s hunger strike. He and athletes all across America are pulling on their sweats and hurrying to weight rooms, to conditioning and agility drills, to classes. Don’t peer at them, these determined young men and women on college and professional teams, and ask where their social conscience and voice have gone. Look at us. We’re the soil from which they grow. If we don’t change, they can’t, and so the first revolution that would have to occur is the one that no one’s talking about.
Our next Wonman Joseph Williams, the ground-changing one, would have to be so bold and so radical even to consider attempting that revolt. Then he’d have to pray that enough other athletes, among the 99 percent who aren’t going pro, understand deep inside. They’d stop pumping iron, refuse to run sprints, quit reporting to gymnasiums and practice fields, stop being entertainment, demand to be reunited with the student body, insist that the runaway developmental-compression train slow down long enough for them to find out who they are besides athletes. Long enough for them to expand. They’d sit down not for money—a real concern as well—but for time and for space. To be human-being-student-athletes.
Yes, that’s hard to imagine. The whole edifice is likelier to collapse first, from forces outside of sports: excesses of all kinds have a way, eventually, of being leveled.
There’s no whiff of that this morning in the world of sports. Joseph’s blinking the sleep out of his
eyes, wolfing down a bowl of cereal, heading to a rehab workout. Everything’s back to normal, nothing unusual to report. We return you to your regularly scheduled programming. There’s still a college game on Thursday night.
PATRICK HRUBY
Did Football Kill Austin Trenum?
FROM WASHINGTONIAN
ON THE DAY he took his own life, Austin Trenum ate cheesecake. He was 17. He loved cheesecake. He loved the Beastie Boys too, and SpongeBob Squarepants and the silly faux-hawk haircut he spent months cultivating and two minutes shaving off because, well, that’s what teenagers do. He loved his little Geo Metro convertible, neon yellow and as macho as a golf cart, a gift from his grandfather, the two driving all the way from Texas to Austin’s home in Nokesville, Virginia, a close-knit community of 1,354 in Prince William County.
Austin loved his parents, Gil and Michelle, and his younger brothers, Cody and Walker. He loved his girlfriend, Lauren. He loved cheering for the girls’ volleyball team at Brentsville District High School, smearing his chest with paint and screaming his lungs out alongside his lacrosse teammates; loved sneaking out of his chemistry class to sing “Bohemian Rhapsody” with his friend Carmen in the band room; loved fishing and paintball, roller coasters and blasting “Sweet Caroline” with the top down.
He especially loved football. Loved watching the Dallas Cowboys. Loved playing for the Brentsville varsity team—fullback and linebacker—taking hits and delivering them, seldom leaving the field, eating two Hostess cherry pies before every game. He was a handsome kid, green-eyed like his mother, six feet tall and 190 pounds, growing stronger and more confident all the time. Under the Friday-night lights, in his beat-up helmet and shoulder pads, you could see the man Gilbert Allen Austin Trenum III was becoming.
It was Sunday, September 26, 2010. Michelle Trenum woke up around 8:00 A.M. Gil was out of town, returning that afternoon from a weekend drill with his Navy Reserve unit in New Jersey. Walker, 10, their youngest, was on the living room couch, hiding under a blanket. He jumped up when Michelle walked in. Boo!
“Austin’s awake,” Walker said. “He’s in the basement playing a video game.”
That’s odd, Michelle thought. Austin never got up early on Sundays. Not voluntarily.
Michelle made her sons breakfast. Austin drove his other brother, Cody, 15, to a lacrosse game and cheered from the sidelines. He took more pride in his siblings than himself; he was that kind of brother. On the way home, he teased Cody. “You did good,” Austin said, before delivering the punch line. “You surprised me!”
Back at the house, Austin ate lunch. And cheesecake. While Austin surfed the Internet, he and Michelle talked about Adam James, a Texas Tech football player who had allegedly been locked in a dark electrical closet by the school’s head coach, Mike Leach, after suffering a concussion. The story, which ultimately ignited a media firestorm and led to Leach’s firing, began when the injured James showed up to practice in sunglasses and street clothes; Austin joked with his mother that he should do the same, just to see how his high school coach, Dean Reedy, would react.
Austin then turned serious, balancing on one foot to mimic a neurological test.
“Am I going to be out all week?” he said. “I don’t want to be out all week. Do you think I’ll be out two weeks?”
“You’ll just have to see,” Michelle said.
During a football game the previous Friday night, Austin had sustained a concussion. Brain trauma had been in the news. There were reports of retired NFL players suffering from depression and dementia linked to their hard-hitting careers. There were congressional hearings, some of them dealing with high school football. In the coming months, the sport would be engulfed in a full-blown health crisis. Austin’s parents were mostly unaware of the controversy. They had both grown up in Texas, where football was king, where getting your bell rung was just a part of the game. Almost a badge of honor.
Gil and Michelle had been in the Brentsville High bleachers on Friday night, chatting with friends, a full moon overhead. Neither of them saw the hit, but Gil spotted their son standing with his helmet off, touching his index finger to his nose at the direction of team trainer Richard Scavongelli. Just like last season. Good grief.
On the sideline, Austin was dazed, slurring his words. During the drive to the emergency room, he was alert enough to call Lauren, his girlfriend. By the time he was standing in line at Prince William Hospital, shirtless and sweaty, he seemed fine. He cracked jokes, flirted with the nurses who brought him a sandwich and a soda. He begged a doctor to let him leave, asked if Lauren could come back to the examination room.
A nurse asked if he wanted Tylenol.
“The last time you got a concussion, you got a headache,” Michelle said. “Are you sure you don’t want it?”
“Mom, I’m fine,” Austin said. “I don’t have a headache. Except for my normal football headache. I get them after every game.”
The medical staff gave Gil and Michelle a sheet of instructions: Watch for vomiting and clear fluid coming out of Austin’s nose, signs of a more severe brain injury. Limit their son to “quiet activities” for the next 24 hours. Wake him from sleep every few hours to check for evidence of intracranial bleeding, such as confusion and extreme drowsiness.
Heading home, the Trenums stopped at the Chuck Wagon, a restaurant around the corner from their house, where the Brentsville High players gathered after games. Austin’s teammates recounted his sideline exchange with Scavongelli.
SCAVONGELLI: Do you know where you are?
AUSTIN: Yeah. This is my field!
SCAVONGELLI: No. Do you know what school you are at?
AUSTIN: Yeah. My school!
SCAVONGELLI: Do you know who you’re playing against?
AUSTIN: No.
This is my field! Everyone laughed. They laughed at the way Austin had gotten emotional on the field too, cussing out one of his buddies, something he never, ever did.
On Saturday morning, Austin attended football film study; that afternoon, he went fishing; in the evening, he took Lauren to a Sugarland concert, a belated celebration of her birthday. They sat on the Jiffy Lube Live lawn, taking pictures under the stars. When Austin got home, he texted Lauren good-night. The next day, he was sitting in his family’s dining room doing homework, texting her again about meeting up two hours later to watch a Redskins game.
Austin was a good student, ranking in the top 6 percent of his class. He planned to study chemical engineering in college and was deciding between Virginia Tech and James Madison. The former had a better football team; the latter, he deduced during a campus visit, had better-looking girls. As Austin studied for his Cold War history class, Michelle went online to check his academic progress. There was a problem. He hadn’t turned in two papers. Michelle was upset and lectured him about slacking off.
Gil came home around 2:30 P.M. Michelle gave her husband a kiss and cut him a slice of cheesecake. She told him about Austin’s schoolwork. Austin looked irritated—almost angry. That was out of character. Michelle saw his jaw clench. His mouth moved. She was stunned. Did he just call me a name? Austin stared straight ahead.
“If you don’t finish your work,” she said, “you can’t see Lauren tonight.”
Gil and Michelle went outside. Cody and Walker were on the living room couch, watching a football game. At some point, Austin went upstairs.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with Austin,” Michelle said. “He shouldn’t disrespect me like that.”
“He’s a teenager,” Gil said. “I’ll go talk to him.”
Gil went inside. He passed the kitchen table, where his cheesecake sat untouched. He walked up the stairs, the same stairs where Austin would ambush Walker when he came home from school, peppering him with foam darts from a toy gun. The door to Austin’s room was open.
Michelle Trenum heard her husband scream.
On her way to the hospital, Patti McKay made a deal with God. Not Austin. Please. Take me instead. The boy was like a
second son. Every summer, the McKay and Trenum families vacationed together at a lake in Maine, where the kids would play King of the Dock—wrestling for control of a wooden swimming platform, tossing one another in the water, Austin always making sure the younger children won their share.
When her cell phone rang, Patti was in her sister’s garden, kneeling in the dirt. It was Cody, panicked. Austin wasn’t breathing. Gil was trying to resuscitate him. An ambulance was on the way. What should they do?
Keep performing CPR, Patti said.
A cardiology nurse, Patti suspected a subdural hematoma. A brain bleed. Which was odd. She had just seen Austin, about 90 minutes earlier, pulling up in her driveway—the top down on his little yellow convertible, Cody in the passenger seat.
Austin had been grinning. He had a gift with him, a Snickers cheesecake.
“Here, Ms. McKay,” he said. “Look what we brought for you.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Okay.”
“No, really—how are you feeling?”
“I’m fine. My headache is almost gone.”
Patti had been at the game on Friday night, standing with Austin in the Brentsville High parking lot, holding his arm to help him balance. But today his gait was normal, his hands weren’t shaking. She called the emergency room, professional instincts taking over. You’re getting a boy who had a concussion two days ago. You need a neurosurgeon. If you don’t have one, have a helicopter ready to evacuate. Arriving at Prince William Hospital, she didn’t see a helicopter. She saw Rob Place, the Trenums’ next-door neighbor.