Tom Boerwinkle, R.I.P.

Today I read that Tom Boerwinkle died.  Unless you're a fan of NBA basketball or a member of his family, you probably don't know who he was.  He's not in the Hall of Fame, he never won an NBA championship nor did he do something irresponsible or noteworthy like some NBA players and father ten kids by eight different women.  All he was was a decent NBA player and a responsible member of society.

Some reports are referring to him as the Biggest Vol, because he played his college ball at Tennessee.  To me and others of my vintage who grew up watching the Chicago Bulls in the 1970's, however, he was the pillar of that team, the seven-foot center out of Tennessee who wasn't flashy but solid.  He did his job and didn't seek the limelight.  His teams were good, but they never made it to the NBA Finals.  He has a couple of club records, but really that's about it.

He died, the article says, of something called Myelodysplastic syndromes, a form of leukemia.  Fans didn't even know he was sick since he'd been out of and kept out of the limelight since he retired.  From what I recall of him, he was an unassuming and gentle man, not one to blow his own horn or cause trouble on the court.  As I said, he was just a good, solid, professional basketball player.  He probably appreciated his size since it gave him his professional career, but I wonder how he felt sticking out in a crowd.

What his death means to me and the other Bulls' fans of his era is that his passing is a milestone in our own lives.  Whether it was Mickey Mantle or Walter Payton, or Ryan Freel or Korey Stringer, professional athletes have an impact on young children.  They mark them just as songs and games and foods do, so that when the child has become an adult, the memory of their childhood is recalled by mention of the player.  For me, the '69 Cubs will always do that, and the Bulls from the 70's have the same effect, because I was just learning to play basketball when Boerwinkle and his teammates competed.  It isn't hero worship, or the awe of celebrity.  It's just something the imprints a young person such that the mere mention of that thing -- in this case, a professional basketball player -- brings the person back to his childhood.

Boerwinkle died too young, sadly.  For thousands if not millions of Bulls' fans, his death reminded them of their advancing age, if not their mortality.  We never think about our age growing up, other than to hope for the freedom that adulthood brings us.  Years pass with us blissfully ignoring what awaits us.  Then one of our milestones from childhood rears up and jolts us unexpectedly, reminding us of of the impermanence of life.

(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles