Christine Flowers is an attorney and a columnist for the Delaware County (Pennsylvania) Daily Times and can be reached at cflowers1961@gmail.com.
Coming to within one game, one fanatical cheer, one breath of the Super Bowl is normally a beautiful thing. Especially for a Philadelphian.
But, after I learned of the tragic death of Tyler Sabapathy, the young Temple University student who was fatally injured while celebrating the Eagles’ NFC Championship win, I went from euphoria at our victory to devastation about this senseless, immense loss.
It is, of course, a tragedy for his family, the inexplicable twist of fate that robbed parents of their child. But it is also a gut punch for the rest of us who shared in the crazy exhilaration of the moment, some of us in real time in the frantic atmosphere on Broad Street and others from comfortable seats in front of the TV.
How can we go from such joy to such sorrow in the infinitesimally small fraction of time that it took for a flag to detach from its pole, sending the young man hurtling to the ground? What horrible, ironic and cruel hand directed that shift in momentum and emotion?
And, of course, I know the proximate cause: the unbridled euphoria of youth.
When you are on the sun-splashed side of life with decades in the distance and infinite opportunity in your line of vision, casual risks are part of daily life. You don’t do the rash things like jump in front of speeding trains or play Russian roulette, unless you truly are suicidal.
But your conception of risk is distorted, inversely proportionate to your conception of invincibility. You do crazy things because you have faith in that youthful armor that will protect you from harm.
Until, with tragic frequency, it doesn’t anymore.
I once knew a young man who, at my teen age, went for a joyride with friends.
I don’t know the exact circumstances, whether it was excessive speed or excessive alcohol or a combination of both, but the car in which he was a passenger crashed into a wall. He suffered permanent and debilitating brain damage.
I remember seeing his mother take him for walks around the neighborhood in his wheelchair. He was so handsome, and forever frozen in a state of suspended childhood. A life, cut in two because of a moment of recklessness.
All of us have similar stories, some even closer to home.
We think “if only he hadn’t taken that dare” or “if only she had said no to that last drink” and mourn the consequences of irresponsibility. I am not a parent, but I fully understand the fear each mother has when she sends her son off to college, hoping that 18 years of care and feeding, of tending lovingly to this human treasure, will insulate him from harm.
I understand the frustration and the sense of impotence a father has, praying that his daughter will not be influenced by people he doesn’t know and can’t control.
And I can imagine, in the smallest of degrees, the pain of Tyler’s family, as they bring their beloved boy home for the last time.
Actually, I can’t imagine it. It’s a suffering too large to encompass in a brain that hasn’t experienced the loss firsthand. But, if I multiply my sorrow by a million degrees, I can arrive at an approximation of their agony.
On social media, I announced that I don’t know if I can celebrate the Super Bowl in the shadow of this death.
Many friends, trying to be supportive, said things like, “Life goes on” and “Tyler would have wanted us to celebrate as he did” and “He’ll be watching the game from heaven.”
These are good people who say these things, but they have no idea how callous they sound. A life is infinitely more important than a game, even one as important as the Super Bowl.
Their hearts might be in the right places, but their ears are deaf to the cruelty of their words. There are no celebrations in cemeteries.
I suppose I will be able to muster some enthusiasm for the game.
I am an Eagles fan, after all, and this is a sort of thing that doesn’t happen very often. After all, it took almost five decades before I experienced my first — and, so far, only — championship. I truly bleed green. My team, my life.
Except that’s not as true, now. My team, sure.
But life is much more precious than Vince’s trophy.
And, if we do win — and I hope we do — my heart will be caught in a vice of sorrow, limiting my joy by the memory of what was lost.
Reader reactions, pro or con, are welcomed at civiltalk@iniusa.org.
