Soul Survivor

"Devard, calm down," she says. "He'll be all right."

"No, Mummy.... I hate these coaches! I hate them!"

Half the team is in the waiting room, crying, praying, trying to console Devard. An E.R. doctor enters.

Devard sees his face.

Devard knows.

His 18-year-old twin is dead.

His hands go to his chest, as if it's happening to him. He starts ripping off his shirt because he can't rip off his skin and rip up his heart. He whirls, glimpses a mirror and jerks his head away. Seeing himself is seeing Devaughn!

He collapses and sobs. Devaughn always told Devard he'd never go anywhere without him. But he had, he had, he had....

At the memorial service, Bowden—who had never lost a player in all those decades of mat drills-apologized to the Darling family and said, "I hope this won't hit anyone the wrong way...but he's the first player I've coached in 47 years who actually worked himself to death.... He said, 'I will not quit. I will the before I give up.' That's a great virtue. I don't have it. Oh, God, what a role model You have created for us to follow."

Devard walked into their bedroom when the service ended, and at the bottom of his goals poster he wrote: First-team All-American. At the funeral he wrapped his arms around Devaughn's helmet and hugged it to the end. Someone else hadn't died. Half of him was dead.