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Tomorrow, as you probably know, is the 20th anniversary of the death of Hank Gathers. To those a few years older than me, Gathers conjures memories (other than his death) of a next-level athlete. To those younger than me (I am approaching 29), Gathers’ story is one that hasn’t been retold all too often; it isn’t as hallowed as Len Bias’, but it’s just as tragic and scary.
Gathers was special because there was no other player like him prior to his arrival in college basketball. He was a hybrid before such a term entered into the common lexicon of sports pundits and wannabes.
Leading the NCAA in scoring and rebounding, both in skill and physical appearance, Gathers was our first LeBron James. He was 6-7 and not done expanding his future-NBA-player frame.
There have already been a few columns and feature stories penned on the 20 years passing since Gathers died, but I’d like to share how I found out about it: as a 9-year-old that was given no warning about what sudden death can look like. I had no idea what the West Coast Conference was, that it canceled the rest of its tournament and gave LMU the auto bid to play in The Tournament. I remember finding out about Bo Kimble and the Elite Eight run five years later, as CBS did a piece on Gathers during the weekend that UCLA would ultimately end up winning the title.
Yet I find it eternally mystifying how well I can recall the night I saw a man I knew nothing about fall to the ground and cease to exist.
The vision of the sideline camera catching Gathers as his battery died out has remained, against my will, burned in my memory. We see things as young men and women that terrify us to our core; that refuse to leave our heads in the following years when all we want to do is find the ability to fall asleep.
In less time than it takes to tie two shoes Gathers went from soaring above every player on the court to being parallel with the maple.
I remember the night. It was, I think, the very first sleepover I ever participated in and it was near the end of 1990, nine months after Gathers body had gone cold and newspapers had used hundreds of thousands of inches to inform the nation of his story. My buddy just down the street, Cameron Westcott, said I could come over. We drank grape soda and tried to fit too much pepperoni pizza in our mouths. (Again, I can’t explain to you how I remember these details; I only know that I do).
Cameron’s dad had a Macintosh (not a Mac), and the thing hypnotized me. There was some simple game he had on it that entertained us boys longer than it should have. I remember leaving the computer room and coming around the corner, into the living room that smelled of new hardwood floors (Cameron’s father had built the house himself). Just as I did, the highlight of Gathers collapsing on an ESPN year-end flashback began.
I’ll never forget the image. A title card — MARCH 4 — flashed in big, white letters behind a black background. Then, immediately, came the highlight of Gathers throwing down an alley-oop. The camera angle was from the baseline. It panned away from Gathers as he jogged back up the floor after giving the Loyola Marymount Lions a 12-point lead on Portland in the first round of the West Coast Conference tournament.
And then, just past half court, the lens caught him just as he collapsed less than five seconds after dunking the ball. There was instant yin and yang. In less time than it takes to tie two shoes Gathers went from soaring above every player on the court to being parallel with the maple, losing his ability to fly, dribble, walk, run, talk, sleep and live.
He had hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Basically, his heart resembled his body: it was thick and worked hard.
It is unbelievable to me how much I remember about that 20-second span of my life. It’s one of the first memories I have of college basketball, and it’s a terrifying one. I don’t even have the stomach to find the video right now, which I’m sure is on YouTube; it’s burned in my memory and scared the hell out of me. To this day, I think I’ve only seen the highlight once or twice since.
If and when I come across the highlight this week, I’ll immediately change the channel. It will happen on instinct.
I didn’t want to seem stupid, so I didn’t ask anyone around me why the man who just dunked the ball died. I took in the moment and let it scare me away from basketball in the short-term (and I was a boy who was as influenced by Michael Jordan — at that point still yet to win a title with the Bulls — as anyone).
Gathers would’ve been 43 this year. It’s always saddening and somewhat bewildering to think about those who have past and how old they would be and what they would be like; part of you can’t imagine such a scenario because of its impossible nature.
Earlier this season we’ve seen two players die because of similar conditions. Two decades after an overworked ticker took Gathers away, the minuscule threat of losing other athletes remains a constant, colossal, invisible threat.
Every year since I saw Gathers die on a 16-inch television screen, March 4 has not come and gone without me silently acknowledging what that day meant.
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