Remembering Brady Cooper Freeman

Daniel Karp - karpdp@plu.edu

Brady's roommate, Sophomore

Through the early hours of April 26, we sat around and talked about the good times. In the background an Ipod performed like a jukebox as Don McLean’s 1971 hit “American Pie” cued up. The song triggered a chemical reaction in my brain, commencing me into a trance of reminiscence of the “Slightly South of the Border Phenom.” This bundle of words became his issued nickname for two reasons, his hometown, Tonasket, Washington, is 20 miles slightly south of the Canadian border and because of his phenomenal dedication. He was dedicated to the game of football, to school, and toward family and friends. When the term “uncommon” is sought out in a thesaurus, you may find synonyms such as “rare,” “unusual,” “scarce,” “special” and Brady Cooper Freeman. Uncommon is a word EMALs use in their journey to attain greatness, to set themselves apart from the rest, to be held to a higher degree. Few could do it like Brady Freeman.

I was not a teammate of Brady’s and because of his character, it wasn’t a prerequisite to witness his uncommonality. We were housemates and bathroommates. Strangely, we saw each other often in the bathroom. We regularly brushed our teeth and got ready for class next to each other. Occasionally we would even clean it. I’d often sneak in and scare him as he sung in the shower and then give him a hard time for taking so long.

Then there was the toilet paper debate. Do we check the dorms for loose rolls? Or do the usual, and steal from Murph’s loot. Last Friday, before his fishing trip, he managed to find three massive industrial size rolls. Unfortunately, I may never know where he found that gold mine.

We lived in a house with eight people, most of them football players. Our house is very tightly knit, doing everything together. It is a Brethren. It Is a Brotherhood. We are a Family.

While sharing a bathroom we saw each other’s vices. I tended to leave my dirty clothes in the corner, and Brady left his beloved Field and Stream magazines sprawled everywhere.

It was being roommates where the seven of us saw Brady exceed the expectations of his nickname. Brady was the type of guy who wasn’t a freak athlete, but through hard work he transformed his body into a physical specimen. He got the most miles possible out of his athletic vehicle.

All of us roommates are dispersed, working at Boy’s and Girl’s Clubs around Tacoma. Last summer, he would wake up with the sun and meet fellow lineman Kelley Totten at the practice field for conditioning. Then he’d ship out for another days work at the Club. The PLU community perceived Brady as a “usual” in the fitness center. When we’d see his massive presence there, we surely dished him a hard time, telling him he inherited Spartan chromosomes. The passion the man had for football truly resonated in his work ethic. From Brady’s perspective it was only what needed to be done to reach his athletic potential, his work ethic was “no big deal.” To us, his work ethic in the weight room and on the field was dedication, it was uncommon.

I met Brady three years ago. I was a senior in high school visiting my best friend Aaron Murphy, and the two football players were roommates. The gentle giant was diligently studying biology (for those who know Brady that was very common.)

Brady is one of the brightest people I’ve ever met. He was a true student-athlete. Our house would always ask him “how?” questions. “Brady how does oxygen get in your blood?” “Brady, I know the megaladon is your favorite animal, but what is it?” or “Brady explain to me the periodic table of elements in your own words.” Just like Bill Nye, he always had an answer, even if it was “Dude, it’s just simple angles and vectors.” Sometimes his responses were completely made up, but they sounded so legitimate we didn’t know the difference.

His dedication to school was unreal. He studied for hours and hours, receiving very high marks. Brady was an academic model for us. I can honestly say he’s rubbed off on me. I often consulted him for chemistry and biology. We’d discuss tests and teaching styles from the likes of professor Carlson, Fryhle and Yakelis. From him I learned the work has to be put in. Whetheror not I got the same results was a different story.

Our group went to San Francisco for spring break. We all bought knock off Italian dress shirts in Chinatown. While sporting our GQ modeling shirts, Brady and I began discussing school again. He was flirting with the idea of medical school. My reply was simple, “You have all the tools, so just do it. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Until April 25 I didn’t realize my best friends live under the same roof as me. I’m still amazed at how close we’ve grown the last couple years. It was then that I grasped the effect Brady had on all of us. During that tragic evening, I’d never seen so many men cry, I’d never seen so many football players cry. People who could efficiently “lay hat,” people who could dance on the gridiron, people who bounce up after getting absolutely annihilated, people who chew nails and spit railroad spikes.

In the bathroom we shared, I found a pair of earrings Jocelyn had left. I cruised over to her house to hang with her roommates and drop off her belongings. To my surprise, they too were laughing and telling Brady stories. Some I a’dn’t even heard.

Like any big multi-vitamin, the early departures of Jocelyn and Brady are immense pills to swallow. In fact, so immense I refused to swallow it. It was stuck, aggravating the back of my throat raw. Then there was a knock on the door. It was the 11-year-old neighbor kid. Every once in a while we would all play catch in the street with Josh and his young buddies. When I opened the door he looked distraught, asking what happened to “Brady, the right –tackle.” That single and simple question forced me to accept reality and spill tears as I told Josh. The oversized pill was swallowed, scouring the rest of my throat, just as glaciers once carved through Eastern Washington’s landscape.

Later that evening, the seven of us were hanging pictures of Brady on our wall, when roommate Kyle Edwards presented a handout from his first-year football binder. It was the sketch of a sweaty, exhausted and expired EMAL on his knees praying. The sketch had huge arms, immense legs and a sharp jaw line. His jersey tattered. The EMAL’s number was 62 and at the bottom read “EMAL Total Release.” The sketch not only resembled Brady and wore his number, but also defined him to the tee.

The tears on this paper, the letters left on our doorstep, and the reactions to Brady by his teammates, classmates, roommates, friends and neighbors, reveals the magnitude of the impact he had on us. His dedication to PLU football, school and friends will be missed. Not only by us, but by the patients who had yet to approach him and students Jocelyn had yet to teach. Together, they were going to immeasurably benefit society. The fact that they departed this Earth together is poetic. The Lord knew they did everything together, this occasion was no different. Brady wasn’t made by the mold nor did he break it. He set the gold standard. There are molds, and then there are Brady molds. Unlike it was for Don McLean in 1971, April 25 2008 was not “the day the music died.” It was the day the music’s rhythm became a part of our souls. The music’s cadence will continue to echo through us by our actions, our services and our attitudes. Tim and Rhea Freeman, thank you for blessing us by raising “The Slightly South of the Border Phenom,” he was genuinely uncommon.

Right to left: Brady, his older brother Tucker, and twin brother Boone pose in front of a family campfire.