My Cheerleader

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.