His career
as official fan started at birth. We
(okay, I did it) drug him to his dad’s games and soon we added Tate’s events to
his calendar. And he did not like
it. At all.
I
vividly remember a four year old Scott groaning and telling me he didn't want to go
to Dad's games. I was dumbfounded. What? He didn't WANT to go
to a ball game? How could he seriously not want to go to a ball game?
Had he been switched at birth? We were Senftners. We do ball
games. I recall telling my mom the poor kid had no idea what was ahead of
him.....the travels to Bison, Buffalo, and weekly trips to Mobridge for
baseball were the norm for us. I'd load the boys up in the forest green
Taurus, grab the "ball game bag", and shove ham sandwiches in their
little hands and off we'd go down Highway 20 listening to Jock Jams. We were regulars at Panther games.
We spent hours in the car and in the bleachers. Yet Scott wasn't
really a fan of this life we were helping him lead. As the seasons marched on, Scott was a
fixture in the Panther section and managed to appear in a few pep rallies/state
tournament send offs when the cheerleaders needed him….unlike his brother, he
relished this role and thus began his role as cheerleader extraordinaire.
Many of you that will read this have had the pleasure (?) of
watching Scott in the stands at various Charger events the past ten years. No matter how hard I try to tag his
boisterous, loud nature to the Senftner side of the family tree, it is no
secret he is all Daughters. My much
loved, much missed Aunt Birdie once shared that Scott reminded her a lot of my dad-- always up for something fun, a bit of a
show-off, and right in the middle of the action. We are loud folk. And funny…just ask us. J The old saying that you can’t run
from DNA rings true with Scott Robert.
A young Scott made
his first television appearance napping peacefully nestled on Grandma Alice’s
lap during a Panther GBB state appearance. (I know many local opponents (and officials)
dream he would sleep during our games now.)
He has since progressed to Santa
suits, duct-taped argyle vests, net heads, Christmas carols, directing the
student body in the school song, barking, and posing for the camera guys at
state tourneys (and the camera crew obliging by showing his antics on the
broadcast) are part of who Scott has
become these past 18 years. During televised state tourneys, my cell phone
often comes alive with text messages sent from fans watching the games or him. A few years ago I threatened to come sit next
to him if he didn’t stop flexing on TV and I finally told the SDPB camera guy
to quit feeding the “monster”. The
camera man laughed. I didn’t. And the band uniforms—what basketball fan can
forget the band uniforms purchased at the local pawn shop in Huron for the 2012
Championship game? But one
thing I can say about Scott, he has been there.
And almost always cheering…..
It is no
secret our last few years have been a roller coaster of loss and deep
sadness. What I often fail to remember
is that I’m not the only one missing Tate, and I think sometimes, without
realizing it, I believe I cornered the market on the magnitude of his terrible
choice. Sometime throughout the fog that
swiftly settled in following Tate’s death, I heard something on a morning
television show about the movie “Lincoln” soon to be released. The panel was discussing the movie’s peek at
the difficulty of Lincoln’s life as he fought his way through a challenging
public, political career and the struggles he had at home after losing their
son. His wife, Mary Todd, spiraled into
a world of deep depression after losing her son. They discussed how she lost interest in her
surviving children and felt inept as their mother, unable to do justice in
raising them. Still lying in bed, I
rolled over to pay better attention.
This was me—us, our family. I had
spent the last couple weeks wrapped pretty tight in my bed—sometimes moving to
the couch on” good” days. Mark returned immediately to school, his team,
the practices—his safe places. He was
Abe. (The panel said Lincoln used his political career as an outlet for his
grief) I don’t think Mark’s team will
ever truly grasp their huge role in his life at this time. I was not back to school yet, afraid of my
fragility in a room of beautiful young first graders, who didn’t need to witness
my sadness and unexpected flow of tears.
I was emotionally and physically drained. There
were “things” to do after the funeral—paperwork, correspondence to the hundreds
who had so generously shared our loss with food, memorials, and acts of
kindness we could never repay. I was
Mary Todd.
And Scott? What was Scott doing during this time? Truthfully, and sadly I must tell you, I
don’t remember a lot of what Scott was doing.
Monday, January 7, 2013—the first day back from Christmas vacation, two
days following Tate’s funeral Mass, a day normally filled with new Christmas
clothing and a pretend sense of teenage dread while they proclaimed vacation was over, my dear Scott climbed the
stairs, stood outside my closed bedroom door and said “My stomach doesn’t
feel very good.” My pathetic counter was “If you don’t want to
go to school, I don’t care honey. It’s
okay.” That was it. One of my life’s greatest gifts, the only one
left, was standing right outside my door
following the worst week of his young
life proclaiming to me he felt ill, and
I basically said “oh just go do whatever you want.” I remember it like it was yesterday. I didn’t
respond “Oh, I’m so sorry. What can I
do?” or “Do you need me to get you something?” Not ,”How are you doing?” Or “I’m here if you need anything.” Nope.
I didn’t even get out of bed. A few minutes later, I heard the shower
trickle on, which was soon followed by the rattle of the door as my brave, beautiful,
broken boy headed off to school. I spent the rest o the day sobbing in
bed.
The days and
weeks that followed are a bit o a blur.
Scott continued on with his basketball season and I dutifully followed
his games. I had never missed anything
of Tate’s and despite many days wanting to retreat to my bed, I donned my
Charger gear and found a spot in the bleachers.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go to his events—remember we do ball
games—it was just so difficult to be out and about. Scott continued to muddle through the day to
day task of being a suicide survivor—a terrible role, for anyone, but
especially a sibling. We didn’t talk
much about it—about anything actually.
We made small talk, went to school and games, and moved into what I call
“survival mode”. The laundry piled up,
meals were sporadic and sparse, and I spent non-ball game nights draped on the
chair or the couch watching television sometimes seeing the news twice in one
night—once at 10 pm and the rerun at 12:45 am.
Scott never questioned, complained or commented on the disaster his life
had become. He appeared to be doing
well. Tate’s suicide was very public—spalshed
all over the newspapers and television stations. Bloggers callously commented on his
decision. Facebook and Twitter were
alive with posts and hashtags offering support and love. I believe Scott was tiring of the sympathetic
looks and sad faces from people who would have done anything to fix our
situation. Scott wanted everyone to
know he was “fine”. So he smiled. And he cheered….loudly. For kids in the hall at school, for his dad’s
team who made a post season run and made it back to the state tourney, for the
younger Charger teams—Scott became the official noisemaker in the Charger crowd
and SBHS hallways. He seemed to be
“cheering” away his sadness or stuffing the tragedy down deep somewhere it
could not take over his life. Scott
cheered.
In a few short hours, my favorite quarterback
will take the field for the 9A State Championship game under the big lights at
the DakotaDome. It was his brother’s
biggest dream to play in this game. But this is Scott’s moment…..and while he’s
had plenty of time in the spotlight as of late, this was huge for him, because
he had spent years in the shadows---dutifully following along as part of Team
Senftner—Mark’s posse, Tate’s brother, my “baby”.
I awoke this
morning thanking God for the lessons Scott’s faith and attitude have taught me
the past few months/years. I reflected
back on how much my mom would have loved this season, and how proud Tate would
be to see his dad and brother living his dream by taking the field in the
Dome. And even though two of #12’s biggest fans will not be here today, I want
him to know I will be here…..and I will be cheering.
