RIP Brandon Clarke

Today, I cried for a second time this week, over the death of a man I’ve never met, and I feel no shame.

There’s an old saying about falling in love that people tell you when you haven’t been on a date in awhile, or another promising relationship fizzled out faster than 1st round playoff exit. “There’s someone for everyone, don’t give up.”

What’s the saying for when you found the right thing, had it, appreciated it, loved it, and then it’s ripped away, leaving a feeling of tragedy only Shakespeare could love.

That’s why I’m crying again. Me, a newly-minted, 26 year-old man, just finding my footing in life again, after having felt unsteady for so long. A little, but deep joy, has been taken from our world so suddenly.

I grew up loving basketball more than any other sport. John Wooden is my favorite 20th century philosopher, Bobby Knight, my favorite comedian, Ed Pickney and Thurl Bailey, my favorite underdog prize fighters, Connie Hakwins and Darryl Dawkins, my favorite names, and nicknames of all-time.

I only played through the 10th grade, but that was more than enough time to have a few hot shooting nights, and an ast/to ratio no average-sized white pg should be proud of, and most importantly, fall in love with the game. (For example, the time I kept score for a whole season of meaningless AAU basketball when I was 8, because I had broken my arm in practice, but couldn’t bear the thought of quitting on my teammates)

By 2016, I had become a full-fledged fan of all things college basketball, and naturally I gravitated towards the nearest, easy team to root for, Gonzaga. (It also helped my grandparents had watched every single televised broadcast of GU since the Adam Morrison year)

I remember enjoying the Kyle Wiltjer and Kevin Pangos teams, even earlier with Elias Harris, and the enigma known as Austin Daye, and certainly the Final Four/NCCG run in 2017.

But my die-hard fandom began in 2019, when a highly-touted transfer named Brandon Clarke, played for GU and absolutely knocked my socks off, night in and night out.

He’s a basketball coach’s pipe dream, plays his butt off, jumps out of the gym, always hustles, wants to learn, and wants to make the right play.

“How is this guy not going to make it, as a great, new-school 5 in the NBA,” was what I constantly wondered to myself, watching that him that entire season at GU. I will literally never forget his dunk-filled domination of Baylor in the second round of the NCAA tourney. Athletic and competitive superiority at its finest, but most importantly, a classy guy in victory and defeat.

When he was drafted, initially by OKC, and then traded to Memphis, I was just wowed by the fervor he entered the league with, winning Summer League MVP, and making me a regular watcher of Memphis Grizzlies basketball, of which I had no previous need or desire to watch.

Then came the injuries. As a veteran of the injury game myself (5 separate breaks of left arm before age 10), I checked my phone constantly for updates on how BC was doing, whether he was close to playing again, and if he was, where I could watch.

Because if he was playing, I HAD TO WATCH!

I was immensely excited to see him try and run it back with the Grizzlies again and this new core, and if that didn’t pan out, maybe he would be like his former GU teammate Zach Norvell and end up coaching one day, or more akin to Kelly Olynyk, Father Time on the sideline, the sage competitor, with all the tips and tricks to win loose balls and close games. All that I was ready and excited for.

Then the news came on Tuesday that he had passed away.

Tears followed soon after.

I imagine when you get hurt over and over again as a high-level athlete, it probably feels like a soldier who has dealt with, and not succumbed to their bout PTSD after being discharged from service for injury, not for lack of ability.

You feel aimless, without purpose, that no one can be there for you all the time, except you. And that only thing you want to do, you can’t do because your body is broken from doing it. But how am I supposed to hold me up, by myself?

And if I can’t come back from devastating injury again, what then, wait to fade into nothing and be forgotten? I don’t know why Brandon Clarke is dead, that just makes me sad. The thought that, selfishly obviously, I won’t get to see him ever play basketball again, sucks. It was just something that made me wildly happy, and it’s gone now.

Death is opportunity to open up to yourself and others and be honest. It is a painful reminder to be kind as much as you can possibly bear it, and remind people that make you happy, that they do absolutely make you happy.

I’m still sad as I’m finishing this, but I’m just a bit dryer around the eyes, as I have remembered so many of the things I loved about watching Brandon Clarke play, and what they taught me about life. This is what sports do, this is why we love them. We laugh, we learn, we cry, we cheer, we love. I think somebody much smarter than me once said something about that being a full day.

RIP Mr. Brandon Clarke, I will never forget the joy and passion you played with, because it gave me hope when I had very little to enjoy on this earth. Thank you…