The local television news uttered a foreboding refrain.
"When we return, some sad news about a local college football player."
At 13, I hadn't experienced much loss. All of my heroes were going to live forever, of course, and if one had to pass, it certainly wouldn't be anyone in college at that moment. I had been out of the house serving as a standard bearer for a local golf event put on by the Nike Tour, a minor leagues of sort that featured only a handful of unforgettable names. It was the age when 13-year olds didn't all have cell phones, and I wouldn't get my Nokia with the chewable antenna until a few months later. That fact established, it's easy to see why my grandmother couldn't reach me that day despite her frantic attempts.
I returned home to turn on that news broadcast. Before I knew it, the anchor had returned to deliver the news:
Brandon Rouse, a sophomore defensive end at Clemson University, died today of a cardiac event at the Astro Theater in Clemson. The Darlington native was 20.
I cried. Broke down, really. Brandon Rouse had been a special part of my life. Before games, he would promise to "bounce" for me when he'd make three-pointers, a promise that he followed through on with his customary dance move. I was a waterboy on his high school basketball team, which advanced to the Lower State Championship Game his junior year.
On the football field, he'd starred, doing enough to earn a scholarship to Clemson University. This was no small feat for a young man who escaped poverty in Darlington to earn his place among college football's elite. Like many of the players on that Darlington team, he'd taken the time to mentor me. As a young white kid, surrounded by a team of mostly black players, his impact shaped me in ways that other friendships could not.
When Brandon went to Clemson, he still somehow made me feel like an important part of his life. He dressed for a single game at Clemson, and afterward, he gave me his jersey and both gloves. All signed, of course, it was another promise he'd fulfilled. Perhaps Brandon took to me because I took to him. Perhaps it was because I was one of the only people to enter Clemson's stadium that year hoping to see him. As writer David Hood wrote shortly after his death:
Rouse was 20 when he collapsed Saturday night from a congenital heart defect. That's hard to understand. It shouldn't have been the first time his name was in the paper. It's not the end of his story, though.
The entirety of Clemson's team piled into chartered buses to attend the funeral in my hometown. Then-head coach Tommy Bowden spoke at the memorial service. Keith Adams, a major contributor on that team, embraced me in a minutes-long hug as I sobbed at the sight of Brandon's body.
Later, I spent time with his mother, talking about her son and the impact he'd had on me. I wore the jersey into her home, and I offered it to her. She wouldn't take it, and told me that if Brandon had given it to me, then he meant for me to have it. At 13, I understood that this woman had lost more than just her son. She'd lost the love of her life, and the great hope of her family. Her living room stood as a shrine to his legacy and his accomplishments, of which there were many in his young life.
Flash forward to 2011, and I found myself in a tent at the Houston Rodeo. There stood Reggie Herring, the former defensive coordinator at Clemson, and a man who I'd met many times as a child. I introduced myself to Reggie, and I told him that he'd once treated me with kindness when I was young. He was happy to meet someone who recognized him. Even as a linebackers coach for the Houston Texans, he's the sort of person who could have a meal at almost any restaurant in Texas without arousing suspicions of celebrity. Eventually, I asked him about Brandon, and what he remembered about my friend's passing. Reggie Herring had coached Brandon Rouse. He had recruited him. And Reggie couldn't recall the name.
Herring was horrified, of course, when I told him why he should remember Brandon Rouse. I don't blame him, really. He's coached thousands of players. But I couldn't help thinking that if my friend's college coach couldn't remember his name, then we were drifting dangerously close to allowing Brandon Rouse's name, and his legacy, to drift into the smoky abyss.
That's why, this year, for the first time, I'll be awarding the Brandon Rouse Memorial Scholarship, both as a means of celebrating my friend and doing something to help my hometown.
According to the New York Times, the average income in Darlington, South Carolina just more than $37,000. That doesn't tell the whole story, though. The town features an unemployment rate of more than 10-percent. 41-percent of its citizens are obese, and many live beneath the poverty line. Just more than one in every 10 citizens has a college degree. In many ways, it's typical of Southern rural areas, where the well-to-do make out alright, but the poor are sometimes neglected.
Darlington is a former mill town, and the remnants of that legacy dot its geography. Mill Hill houses the homes of those who used to depend on such industries. Many young people are born into untenable situations, and the social safety net has been ripped from beneath them. South Carolina routinely ranks at or near the bottom of educational rankings, including in metrics like "student performance." Throughout this area, many of the brightest white students are re-routed to private schools, with many more finding their way into Mayo, the high-performing magnet school.
To its credit, Darlington High School has been a bright spot in an otherwise struggling community. Under new leadership, the high school has provided more opportunities for students, and its teachers have been recognized as some of the best in the state. But a lawsuit just decided in the state's supreme court tells the story of how young poor kids are treated around this place. More than 20 years ago, nearly half of the state's school districts - 40 in all - sued the state for inadequate funding. They claimed that the state had failed in its duty, creating a so-called "corridor of shame," where students were neglected and their opportunity stunted. Darlington was not a part of that lawsuit, but two neighboring counties - Florence and Lee - were both involved.
Brandon Rouse escaped his upbringing, which was characterized by the love of his mother and the institutionalized lack of opportunity for people like him, through supreme talent. Most kids are not built like college linebackers, though, and most won't be able to use Division I talent to find their way to college. For many, college is a dream that even if they could achieve, they could not afford.
Because of this, I am awarding the Brandon Rouse Memorial Scholarship for the first time. This winter, I will award a scholarship to one young person, in hopes of helping that child pay for books or whatever other incidentals might go along with college. The scholarship will seek to honor, and celebrate, a young person who embodies the legacy of my friend. Brandon Rouse was brave, resilient, smart, and ambitious. His story has motivated me, and I hope that by telling it, I can motivate others to take action to help not only this community, but similar communities across the country.
I will be funding the initial offering, but in the future, I hope to raise funds, allowing whoever wants to contribute to be a part of some small solution in our town.
Brandon Rouse was a light in the world. He helped me bridge racial gaps, he elevated his mother and their household to something truly special, and he left behind a legacy that should be celebrated. Ultimately, his heart was so big that it burst. While he might be gone, with this scholarship, we can ensure that his story, and the story of struggle for many like him, will never be forgotten or ignored.