The Sports Family
By Bob Wilber
In 2016 my wife Barbara accompanied me to Edwardsville, Ill. for the induction of our 1977 Southern Illinois University Edwardsville baseball team into the school’s Athletic Hall of Fame. That club had earned our second straight berth in the NCAA Div. II World Series. Our 1976 team had been inducted a few years earlier. It was an eye-opening trip for her, and she was happy to admit it.
Barbara had really never been exposed to the inside of what many call the sports “fraternity.” I always hesitate to use that term, because as much as it literally means “brotherhood” and is usually represented by very upstanding young men bonded together in a common cause, it also brings up the juxtaposed images of the movie “Animal House” and all its drunken debauchery. “Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son,” were the immortal words of Dean Wormer at Faber College, after putting the Delta House Frat on Double-Secret Probation. I prefer the word “family.” It's much more accurate.
Barbara did her undergrad work at Penn State, and was a huge Nittany Lions football fan. She earned her Masters at Duke, and the same could be said about her loyalty to Coach K and the Blue Devils. But, apart from sharing a few classes with athletes, she never experienced the inner workings and relationships that come with high-level sports. It’s a mission. It’s a family.
Prior to our induction, we had a party at the beautiful home of our ’77 shortstop Dave Schaake, and the whole team attended. The conversations and laughs came as easily as they did when we shared the dugout and the bus rides in 1977.
And that brings up another point, and possible misconception. Many people hear Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days” as the soundtrack to these sort of get-togethers among old guys who once shared the sports mission together. They imagine us telling lies about how great we were, looking for any reasonable angle to make it all better than it was, and to make us feel better about how great we personally were, even if we weren’t. For us, and for most I think, nothing could be further from the truth.
Our conversations were about the fun we mutually had. The struggles we mutually went through. The joys of our successes, and those include the many great business careers we’ve gone on to enjoy and be proud of. In that house were bank presidents, CEOs, Senior VPs, Engineers, business owners, and other high-level executives. We are all enormously proud of each other. But, and this is key, it was never about us as individuals. I can’t recall ever hearing a former teammate from college or pro ball say, “Man, I was great. I was the best pitcher in the league and you guys know it.” Nothing like that. Ever.
After the party, and the induction ceremony the next night, Barbara said, “I get it. I never did before, but I get it now. You guys are family. You’re a fraternity of brothers. You’re bonded for life. It’s pretty amazing, and what great men you all turned out to be. This is a gift you all share.”
A gift. That’s exactly correct.
A couple of weeks ago, I began to “not feel like myself” in a few ways. I was wrapping up my second book and was on an enormously tight deadline. In the end, I had to buckle down and write two chapters a day for two straight weeks. I finished on July 4 and we celebrated by meeting friends for a 4th of July fireworks show. That night, Barbara said, “A lot of people asked me if you were OK. They said you were so quiet.”
All I could say was, “Finishing that book took a lot out of me. I’m definitely not me. I feel like I got run over by a truck and then two more big semis ran over me too, just to finish the job.”
My stomach hurt. My back hurt. My brain hurt. I barely ate and had no appetite. And the stomach pain got worse. I was sure it was an ulcer.
Magically, within 24 hours after finishing the book, most of the aches and pains went away. Stress is an evil thing. It will change you. It will hurt you. It was a relief to put it behind me.
I felt OK for the next couple weeks, but still not my outgoing self. And one night I felt a little feverish. I was just on the borderline of having a real fever. Maybe 99.9 or something like that. I’m usually around 97.9, or 98 at the most. That went on for five straight days, and I hit 101 once. The 101 number was enough for me to agree to see a doctor.
We did an exam, talked a lot, and set up a CT scan. I took a COVID test and when it came back negative the doctor said, “That’s good news, but it’s also bad news. That means you have an infection somewhere. We need to find it.”
Two days later, after they’d looked at the scan, another doctor called me (this was Wednesday, July 21.) She said, “We’ve studied the scan and it could be a lot of things, none of which are to be ignored. I need you to go to the ER at United Hospital in St. Paul. Pack a small bag. I’m sure they will admit you immediately.” I said, “You mean, like, tomorrow?” She said, “I mean right now.”
Those are chilling words.
Barbara took me over there, and they did admit me. The first thing they did, even before taking me to my room, was snake a tube up my nose and down my throat, all the way to my stomach. They would hook that up to a suction device after I got to my room. If this was an ulcer I’d had, they wanted my stomach empty in order to look at it. I can tell you without any reservation that if you are presented with the chance to have a tube stuck up your nose and down your throat, you might hope you can talk them out of it. It’s as awful as it sounds.
It turned out I stayed in that room for five days and four long dark nights, while a team of specialists and an army of nurses took care of me. I didn’t consume any food or have so much as a sip of water for four days. They wanted to basically shut down my digestive system to try to find the source of the infection.
They hooked me up with a tree full of IV drips, most of which were antibiotics. They took so much blood my two arms are pockmarked with bruises and needle marks. My fever disappeared. My white blood cell count returned to normal. All that was good, but they still hadn’t found the infection. We did another CT scan and that was more enlightening. An ulcer for sure, but also a possible small perforation in the duodenum and inflammation in various other places.
I finally felt good enough to get on Facebook to let everyone know. The response was more than I could have dreamed of. Family, friends, neighbors, and former colleagues from the racing industry. Phone calls and texts. Even flowers.
It was the sports family that made the biggest impression on me. It was overwhelming. Former teammates from high school, college, and pro ball. Even messages from guys I’d fought tooth-and-nail to defeat when we played against each other. All concerned. All reaching out. It’s a family.
My former SIUE teammate, who I also roomed with and played minor league ball alongside, Stan Osterbur, brought a tear to Barbara’s eye, which of course trigged more than one dripping from my eyes, when he wrote “Just tell me you’re going to be OK.” I promised him I would not let him down.
Dave St. Peter, the president of the Minnesota Twins, sent me a very kind and supportive email. The next day, I got an equally heartwarming note from NFL Hall of Fame quarterback Bob Griese. Bob has been a friend of the Wilber family since he and my brother Del (the founder of TPGF) were roommates and football teammates at Purdue. They also were both members of Sigma Chi, the sort of fraternity that runs absolutely counter to the madness of “frat boy insanity” as depicted in "Animal House.” As a kid, we’d visit them at Purdue and tour Sigma Chi. It was amazing. An old mansion full of smart young men dressed in suits. They ate in a formal dining room and filled a study area with their books every night. Talk about a brotherhood!
On my fifth day, after four nights of injections, IVs, and late night visits by nurses and doctors alike, they let me go. I feel basically fine now, but we still have more tests and more screens to run over the next weeks and months. The staff at United Hospital was amazing. When the doctors discharged me they were upbeat and encouraging. I had a follow-up video visit with my personal doctor this week, and he said “If you keep following orders like you’re doing now, you’ll be fine. Just stick with the program.”
I will. I have too many members of my real family, my friendship family, and my sports family counting on me.
It’s all family. I feel extraordinarily fortunate to be a part of all those groups, and to feel the support and care they send my way. I’m lucky. I got to come home after five days. Life can change in a second. It can change with a phone call that tells you to pack a bag and head directly to the ER. I won’t take that for granted anymore.
Sports formed my life, it is in my DNA. Just as importantly, sports continues to change my life, all for the better. And the time I was lucky enough to spend on the field is only a small part of it. It’s a family.
