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Mealer Brothers a Lesson in Courage
October 7, 2009
By Elizabeth Merrill
ESPN.com
WAUSEON,
Ohio -- They know they're not normal. A light dusting of
snow falls on Christmas Eve, and Dave Mealer is bouncing
around the house, cooking and entertaining and plotting
surprises. He has never dropped this much money on
Christmas, but hey, it's time to celebrate. His youngest
boy, Elliott, is going to play college football next
fall at Michigan; his family, his life, is so complete.
Twenty-five years of marriage, and Mealer is still
first-date gaga. He asks Shelly to walk by his chair,
just so he can stare and tell her how beautiful she is.
She tells him he's full of it. They have three strapping
boys, two dogs and a fine statuette collection that has
somehow stayed perfectly intact. Nobody in this house,
it seems, ever fights. Some people are born to be
doctors, or farmers, but the Mealers believe their
calling is to raise Blake, Brock and Elliott.
And what
men they've become. They're best-friend tight, closer
than Dave and Shelly could've hoped. Blake and Brock are
helping run the family concrete business; Elliott has
college ahead and a loving girlfriend he wouldn't dare
leave behind. She has a Christmas present to give
Elliott. It's a Bible. They climb into their Mercedes
that night and head to a family party, presents waiting
for them back at home. Before they leave the party later
that evening, before everything changes, Dave puts his
hand on Shelly's leg and looks into her eyes. "It is my
pleasure to be sitting with you tonight," he says.
Sometimes, when Dave hugs his boys, it's almost as if he
can't let go. Shelly worries about this, that things are
too perfect.
"People
don't hug and love on each other like this," she tells
her husband on several occasions.
"I'm just
afraid something's going to happen."
They're
just lovable, Dave would tell her. Nothing's gonna
happen.
The
accident
Life for
the Mealer family is divided into two eras. The first
happens in the years, days and hours before 9:35 p.m. on
Dec. 24, 2007. At roughly 9 o'clock, Hollis Richer
wanted to capture the moment with a family picture.
She'd been sick that night, throwing up in the bathroom
while Elliott, her boyfriend of two years, waited
outside with his ear pressed against the door. Richer
didn't care how she looked -- it was Christmas Eve and
she wanted a group shot for all of them to remember.
Shelly nixed it; she wanted to get Hollis home. So they
left a family party at a cousin's house in nearby
Stryker, and headed back to Wauseon.
The plan
was to go to midnight mass, like they always did.
Fifteen minutes, and they'd be home. Brock climbed into
the passenger seat of the SUV, next to his dad. Elliott,
who normally got a window seat in the back, offered to
cram his 6-foot-6, 280-pound body in the middle so that
Richer could have fresh air.
At 9:35
p.m., as the Mercedes approached the intersection of
Highway 2 and County Road 19 in northwest Ohio, a quick
flash of lights cut through the pitch-black countryside.
There were just nanoseconds to react. Ninety-year-old H.
Edward Johnson ran a stop sign and collided with the
Mercedes, which flipped and landed on the passenger side
in a ditch.
Dave
Mealer, 50, and Richer, 17, were killed. Brock, 23, was
trapped in the front seat with his right arm lodged in
the door and his dead father lying beside him while
Christmas music droned on over the radio. Brock
struggled for a few minutes to pull himself out, then
realized he couldn't move his legs.
Elliott
stumbled back and forth in the dark, holding Hollis'
hand, then ran to his brother's side and desperately
tried to free him. He tried to flip the SUV over. He
pulled so hard that he tore his rotator cuff. And then
Elliott was helpless, a strong, powerful offensive
lineman who couldn't save his family or his girl.
The next
few minutes were a blur of flashing lights, firefighters
and the Jaws of Life. Brock had a calm about him until
the paramedics asked if the man next to him was
breathing. Brock didn't know his dad was lying there,
motionless. He thought everybody had gotten out and was
OK.
Though he
stood 6-foot-2 and weighed 190 pounds, Brock was always
considered the runt of the family. He spent a good part
of his childhood having to line up back-to-back with his
little brother so relatives could marvel over how
Elliott was nearly taller than him. When the kid shot
past him in the sixth grade, Brock was almost relieved.
Now they could start comparing Elliott to Blake, the
basketball star of the family.
Brock was
the outgoing one, the middle kid who had his pilot's
license when he was in high school, the worker. And when
he played sports, the family says, no one was tougher.
He'd shoot the 3-pointers that made the coaches cringe,
then shake their heads and smile. To Brock, floor burns
were just as important as field-goal percentages.
And now
he had to just lie there, staring at his dad's leather
jacket, wondering, almost knowing, he was dead.
Blake
held Brock's hand at the hospital that night when a
state trooper delivered the news about their dad.
On
Christmas Day, doctors in Toledo told Brock and his
family that there was a 99.9 percent chance he'd never
walk again.
"There
was just a lot of crying," Elliott says. "I felt like I
cried for months."
Elliott's dreams
How could
an 18-year-old kid who'd lost so much even think about
football? How could he rehab a shoulder when his heart
ached so much harder? See, Elliott was always the
sensitive one. He always wondered about the kid who
didn't have lunch money or the boy who was being picked
on at school.
Years
ago, Elliott was the one being picked on. The smaller
boys would gang up on him and grab him by the neck so
they could show off for the girls. Elliott was too nice
to fight back. Grade-school cliques didn't really matter
to him. By the time he was 7, he knew exactly what he
was going to do. He told his dad he was going to play
college football, even though his town, Stryker, was too
small to have a team. "You can do it," Dave would say.
"Whatever it takes."
The
Mealers moved to Wauseon, in part, so that Elliott could
play football. And when Pee Wees started, Dave washed
his boy's uniforms, got him dressed and sat on a hill in
his car while the kid practiced.
"My dad
always told me if you don't have good dreams, you have
nightmares," Elliott says. "That's something I always
held on to. Think positive. Shoot high."
With
Richer, Elliott aimed for the moon. She was smart and
sweet and led Elliott to God. They'd hang out at the
movie theater, next to the Wal-Mart, and when Elliott
wrapped Richer in his arms, she felt safe.
For
Valentine's Day, she made him a "Love Box" full of bible
passages to read when he was down or needed motivation.
Though they were young, and had plans to go to different
colleges hundreds of miles apart, Elliott and Hollis
knew they'd stay together and get married someday.
Richer
was sleeping on his shoulder when the Skylark struck
their SUV.
"I don't
mean to make this sound so special," Elliott says. "But
the relationship we had, for a high school couple, was
different than anything else. I believed that when she
was still here. I'm not saying we were perfect . . . It
just the relationship we had was a very deep
relationship for a high school couple."
"Miracle Mealer"
Three and
a half months. That's how long Brock Mealer would lie in
the hospital, clinging to that .01 percent chance. He
wouldn't accept that he'd be in a wheelchair for the
rest of his life, wouldn't let anyone speak of it. Just
after the accident, Brock lost circulation in his right
leg for a week. The leg turned blue and cold, and
doctors thought it was most certainly dead. Then one
day, the circulation inexplicably came back. It was a
miracle, Brock says. A sign he had to keep pushing.
He was
transferred to a hospital at the University of Michigan,
and in late January '08 moved his legs in a therapy
session. Elliott started calling him "Miracle Mealer."
And suddenly, the brothers started pushing each other.
Elliott would call and tell Brock about his early
morning training, and Brock would laugh and boast that
he was up and working out an hour earlier.
"He
pushes me, and I push him," Elliott says. "To this day,
I can't understand him; I can't figure him out. He's
always got a smile, always got the best attitude. I
don't know how that couldn't inspire a person.
"When
somebody would ask me how he's going to handle it, the
description I would give them is that if it were going
to happen to one of us, if you asked me who could
actually get through it, I have no doubt that Brock is
the best one to handle that situation. Not that I wish
that for him . . . He's just always had the
determination."
By
springtime, Brock started standing with the help of
braces. Michigan coach Rich Rodriguez introduced him to
the team during a practice. The Wolverines were kneeling
with their helmets as Rodriguez told Brock's story. At
the end of it, they rose to their feet and gave him an
ovation.
Rodriguez
was just two weeks into his new job when he got the call
about the Mealers. He hadn't met Elliott or the 100 or
so others on Michigan's roster. But he called Mealer to
tell him that no matter what happened, even if he
couldn't play, he'd always have a scholarship at
Michigan.
The
family -- Ohio State die-hards before Elliott committed
to Michigan -- immediately fell in love with Rodriguez.
For Brock, it wasn't hard to do. A few months after the
wreck, the coach visited him in the hospital during the
Super Bowl. They promised to someday run out of the
tunnel into the Big House together.
"Having
him around the team, to me, is some pretty neat
motivation for all our guys," Rodriguez says. "I'm
inspired every time I see him. When you see him so
positive, you think, 'Geez, why should I ever feel sorry
for myself?'"
Finding love
Lauren
Sarnacki used to have a little bit of a crush on Brock
Mealer. They took a hockey class together at Ohio State,
and Sarnacki used to catch herself looking at the tall
guy with beautiful blue eyes who'd stand in a
freezing-cold ice rink in short sleeves. The last day of
class, they shared a few beers together at a bar called
The Thirsty Scholar. And then Sarnacki and Mealer went
their separate ways.
She was
at her family's home in Florida on Christmas Day when
she heard about what happened to the Mealers. She stayed
up all night crying, and couldn't figure out why she was
so deeply affected by a guy she hardly knew, and a
family she'd never met. She vowed to visit Brock once
she got back to school, because anybody who'd been
through that much, she figured, could use a friend.
"I was so
nervous," Sarnacki says. "And I don't know why I was so
nervous. From the second I saw him, I know that was what
I was supposed to be doing at that moment. I met his
[family], and just instantly fell in love with all of
them. I thought I'd only stay a couple of hours, if
that. I stayed until 1 o'clock in the morning playing
board games with Brock, just having an awesome time.
"I
remember thinking that night that there is something so
special about him. I'm a big believer that God sends us
signals when there's something he wants us to pay
attention to."
She'd
come nearly every weekend, driving three hours from
Columbus, Ohio, to Ann Arbor, in the snow, with gas
prices well over $4 a gallon. Initially, Brock wasn't
looking for a girlfriend. He was focused solely on
walking again. They eventually fell in love.
Brock was
released from the hospital on Easter Sunday 2008, went
back to Ohio State to get his undergraduate degree,
enrolled in grad-school classes and learned to drive a
car with hand pedals. On Father's Day, Shelly wanted the
boys to go to the cemetery with her. Brock said he
couldn't.
He says
he won't see his dad's grave until he can walk there on
his own without braces.
On the
team
Of course
they worried about Elliott at Michigan. He'd asked coach
Rodriguez not to treat him any differently, to ride him
when he screwed up and praise him when he did well. But
it was impossible not to wonder what was going on inside
of No. 57's head.
He got
that number, by the way, with his big brother's help.
Rodriguez asked Brock if there was anything he could do
for him, and Brock said sure, could you hook Elliott up
with No. 57? It was the year their dad was born.
So
Elliott was in a new environment, but he carried all
these reminders with him. The "Love Box" sat in his dorm
room at Michigan; his Facebook page still said he was in
a relationship with Richer.
"At first
when we became roommates, I worried sometimes," says
Michigan tight end Kevin Koger, a childhood friend of
Mealer's. "I'd never lived with him, and he stayed in a
lot. I thought, 'Is he depressed?' After a while, I
figured that's just his personality. He likes staying
in, ordering a pizza and watching a movie."
Mealer
sat out the 2008 season and rehabbed his shoulder. By
the time the Wolverines gathered for two-a-days this
past summer, it was clear that the 299-pound redshirt
freshman was strong and ready. He made his collegiate
debut in the season opener against Western Michigan,
playing left guard on the final drive of a 31-7 victory.
Every time he enters the game on special teams, during
field-goal attempts and extra-point attempts, Brock,
Blake and Shelly well up with pride.
It's a
great diversion that brings the family together each
Saturday. Shelly is convinced that the No. 57 is twice
as big as every other number on the field. It's
practically all she sees. And every time Elliott leans
in, or moves his body so precisely, she feels as if
she's looking at Dave.
There are
pieces of him in each boy, and all around their house in
Wauseon. Shady, the family's Shar Pei, still sits in the
driveway every night waiting for him to come home. Some
nights, Shelly still dresses up when she leaves,
thinking she'll run into him somewhere around town. She
knows that sounds crazy.
"If
you're the one to [die], you don't have to say goodbye
to anybody," she says. "You don't have to hurt. Here,
we're aching every day. I mean, they're the lucky ones.
They get to go to heaven.
"I know
Hollis would've grabbed my husband's hand and said,
'Come with me, David. I know all about this place. Come
follow me. We'll go find Jesus."
Elliott's vision
The dream
is crazy, but so clear and real to Elliott. He's sitting
in the upper deck of a large, dark, gymnasium when he
spots Hollis near the court. She's basking in bright
light; she's cheering like she used to for Elliott. They
meet near the end of the game, and Elliott is bawling
and asks if he can come with her. Hollis whispers in his
ear. "Once you tell your story," she says, "you can
come."
He
wonders about the blur between dreams and messages.
Shortly after he had that dream, Pat Williams, the
senior vice president of the Orlando Magic, asked if he
could include Mealer's story in a book. Since the
accident, Elliott has gone to high schools and
Fellowship of Christian Athletes gatherings, speaking of
loss, faith and hope.
"I don't
know how many people I have to tell, or what my story
is," Elliott says. "I have to tell my story first, and
then I'll get my dream."
At the
game
It is
late on Saturday afternoon, and the sun turns to rain
and the clouds break again before Michigan State pulls
out a wild overtime win against the Wolverines. It's
Mealer's first road game, first college loss, and
there's a crush of fans outside waiting for the players.
A girl wearing a Michigan State jersey is looking for
her boyfriend, who plays for the Spartans. Fathers wait
for their sons.
Mealer
walks out of the tunnel and sees Brock, who has a
Michigan sticker on his wheelchair.
After
every game, win or lose, the brothers could always count
on one thing -- that Dave Mealer would be standing
outside the locker room, ready to wrap his giant arms
around them. Shelly Mealer would joke that she was
jealous, that Dave was always the first one who got the
hug. Sometimes, it seemed, he didn't want to let go.
"Keep
your chin up," Brock says to Elliott.
It's
exactly what Dave used to say. They share a quick hug,
and Elliott climbs on a white bus while Brock watches
them drive away, somewhere closer to where they should
have been.
Elizabeth Merrill is a senior writer for ESPN.com. She
can be reached at merrill2323@hotmail.com. |
