Pat Tillman: No words, lasting message

This article was originally published on Saturday, April 24, 2004:

The news had just come down. Pat Tillman was trading his Cardinals red for Army green.

I gulped. I picked up the phone.

"Hey, Pat, how are you doing?"

"I'm doing great, dude. And I really appreciate you respecting the fact that I'm not going to talk about this with anyone. Not even off the record."

And that was the end of that.

But I was one of the lucky ones. Before we hung up, I was able to say thank you.

The gut-wrenching death of Ranger Tillman is now echoing across the country, from the redwood forest to the Gulf Stream waters. In death, his remarkable sacrifice resonates a hundred times louder than his initial decision to walk away from the comfortable life and $3.6 million sitting on the table.

Here in Arizona, the sense of loss is both chilling and profound. It was here that he climbed light towers to meditate while a student at Arizona State. It was here that he rode his bicycle to the Cardinals' training facility because, well, that was a little more challenging than climbing into the leather seat of an SUV.

It was here that we grew to appreciate his fierce uniqueness, his constant state of restlessness and his utter contempt for the easy way out.

There was no one else in the world like him. But he was also one of us.

Arizonans will remember this dark Friday in the same way you remember where you where when President Kennedy was assassinated. Or when those planes hit the World Trade Center. And it hurts even worse here because most of his adoring public wasn't as lucky as I.

Most people never got to say thanks.

We'll try anyway, even after the fact, and if Tillman is looking down on us today, it's probably with a certain amount of disdain. During his journey into history, he shunned all publicity. Members of his inner circle were sworn to secrecy. He may have come off as Spicoli in shoulder pads, a surfer dude with a sailor's mouth. But he was a brilliant student, a marketing major who graduated with honors.

More than anyone else, he knew the value of his story. But he wanted to be just another soldier, and he'd hate this special treatment, especially when other soldiers will sacrifice their lives in the coming weeks with much less fanfare.

This will make him very angry, and given his deep love of salty words, the angels will have to learn to cover their ears.

It brings to mind another story. This was the day I interviewed Tillman and reminded him that not only had he made his mark in the NFL despite his smallish size and overwhelming odds, he had also become more popular than his golden boy teammate, Jake Plummer.

"Dude," he said. "Don't make it seem like I've made it, because I haven't accomplished (spit)."

Of course, Tillman never had our perspective. In the 21st century, we are forced to paint our athletes in unflattering colors, from steroids to end-zone dances, from appalling greed to self-glorification.

Tillman broke the mold, restored hope and floored everyone with an act of unfathomable conviction. It is why people were moved to tears on Friday, why memorials popped up across the Valley, why Plummer was spotted in the weight room in Denver, sitting on a bench with his head down, barely able to speak.

Maybe we'll never know the moment Tillman changed from Cardinal to Patriot, but after the news of his initial decision came down, I wrote that Osama Bin Laden had better watch his back. Judging from the smattering of details that emerged on Friday, Tillman may have been part of a special operations unit trying to snuff out the al-Qaida leader.

Maybe he was getting close. Maybe too close for comfort, which is the way Tillman preferred life, even though a great man is now dead.

Alas, we'll never hear his side of the story. But that's OK. Had he returned safely from his three-year commitment, he may never have said a word. And what we do know about Ranger Tillman, American Hero, is more than enough.