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A City Grieves
Feb. 8, 2000
Kansas City spent Tuesday searching for ways to pay tribute.
Office lights in the BMA building formed a No. 58. During the day, car headlights burned. Fans' grief flooded talk-radio programs and poured into message boards on Internet sites.
In restaurants, taverns, offices and even at Arrowhead Stadium, mourners opened their hearts and said goodbye to Derrick Thomas.
The tears flowed soon after Kansas Citians clicked on televisions, radios and computers and called the newspaper to confirm the unbelievable. Thomas, one of the greatest Chiefs, had died from cardiorespiratory arrest.
Numbness then set in on what might be remembered as the most tragic day in Kansas City sports history.
We didn't lose a game, a championship or even a franchise. We lost more, a sports hero, a nine-time Pro Bowl selection, the cornerstone of a resurgent franchise. A man whose charitable contributions to the community cannot be calculated.
Kansas City had no choice but to accept and cope.
Again.
A city that grieved for Thomas after the horrible car accident on Jan. 23 that left him paralyzed now mourns his death -- just as it did for five other fallen active Chiefs since the franchise relocated in 1963.
As it did for high-profile Royals, such as manager Dick Howser and famed relief pitcher Dan Quisenberry.
As it did for boxer Randie Carver.
For a city with a small-market sports tag, Kansas City has suffered a major share of heartache.
"Here we are, a sweet little town tucked away in the middle of the country, and all these tragic things have happened to our guys," said Bill Grigsby, a Chiefs radio commentator since 1963 and a close observer of the area's sports scene for nearly five decades. "And that's how I see them, as our guys, our kids."
Grigsby covered them all for the Chiefs. From Stone Johnson, the back who broke his neck in a preseason game during the team's first year in Kansas City, through the operation-room tragedy of running back Mack Lee Hill in 1965, the drowning accident of running back Joe Delaney in 1983 and others who were under contract but didn't play in a game for the Chiefs.
"They're all shocking, but this one..." Grigsby said. "When somebody told me, I thought he was pulling my leg. It couldn't be true."
The last year brought an immeasurable amount of grief in the sports world. Some of the history's greatest and most popular athletes -- Joe DiMaggio, Wilt Chamberlain, Walter Payton and Payne Stewart -- died in 1999.
None hit Kansas City this hard. The gloom spread quickly.
Somber mood
At Maxine's Fine Foods on the city's East Side, the mood was somber. The restaurant's owner, Maxine V. Byrd, choked back tears as the news conference at Arrowhead blared from a tiny black-and-white television.
"I just can't believe it," said Byrd, sighing deeply. "He was a heck of a person when it came to helping and doing for other people. I don't think he knew the word `no.' "
Thomas was a regular customer at Byrd's restaurant at 3041 Benton Blvd. He often called Byrd while on his way to Arrowhead for morning practice. He would moan into his cellular phone, "I'm hungry," Byrd recalled.
Byrd said Thomas' favorite breakfast dish consisted of a mixture of scrambled eggs and cooked white rice that she prepared on the grill. Byrd served it with an order of pork sausage.
Thomas' infectious smile and Southern manners drew him to Byrd.
"He was respectful and always responded if you needed him," she said. "He was just a big kid, but there was something special about him."
Even when she would not hear from Thomas for a few days, he would show up unannounced, smile and say, "Hey, mama."
"His smile would light up a room," Byrd said.
Thomas often asked Byrd to prepare food for his teammates. Sometimes, Thomas asked that Byrd prepare meals for the opposing players to take with them on the plane after the games. She always obliged.
Dozens of photographs, newspaper clippings and posters featuring Thomas adorn the walls of the quaint and cozy corner restaurant.
Former Chiefs wide receiver Otis Taylor was there grieving over his friend's death.
"We were always praying that he would get better. We just hoped he would get back to Kansas City," Taylor said. "People here will remember Derrick as a great football player, a great human being and a man who has done a lot for the community."
Byrd said she was waiting a few weeks before she and others were planning to visit Thomas.
"My intentions were to get to Florida and help out his mom," Byrd said. "That was what I was waiting for, and I didn't make it."
`How can this be?'
Alan Lubert glanced at a television set while working at the Ronald McDonald house in Kansas City. The volume was turned down. The screen showed a picture of Thomas, which didn't surprise Lubert. Then he looked at the bottom of the screen.
"There was the `1967-2000' under his picture, and I thought, `Oh, no, how can this be?' " Lubert said.
Friends called friends. Family called family.
"I was baby-sitting for my 7-month-old granddaughter when my aunt called about 10:15 and said, `Oh my God, did you hear? Derrick Thomas died,' " said Ruben Estrada of Liberty. "I was floored. The last we heard, even though he was seriously hurt, it wasn't supposed to be life-threatening."
It wasn't supposed to be like this at all. Thomas had paid the price with his football career. He had to live knowing that his friend Mike Tellis died in the accident.
And although Thomas wouldn't suit up for the Chiefs again, he would be on the sideline, always a Chief.
"Thinking I wouldn't see him again on the field was one thing," said Paul Haake of Kansas City. "Now, the idea of not seeing him at all...It just hasn't sunk in."
Haake was at his Sprint PCS office in Kansas City when the news spread.
"It went through like a wave," he said. "People told each other as they passed in the halls, coming out of meetings. I turned on the radio and heard grown men and women getting very emotional."
Arrowhead scene
They came quietly to Arrowhead Stadium. Teary-eyed. Wearing red jerseys with the number 58 on their backs. Folks drawn together with grieving hearts.
They stepped around the television cameras and photographers, wanting only to leave a tribute to a man who gave them many exciting Sundays simply playing a game.
The memorials began growing around 11 a.m. when Cedric Osborn, 19, knelt to tie down three mylar balloons bobbing under a bright February sun.
"I had to come, you know," said Osborn, who works security at the stadium. "I met Derrick once. His mom was here at every game. He was so nice to me. He didn't have to be, but he was."
People hugged each other. And cried. Many stood silently and prayed.
"Everybody thought he'd get better," said Steve Weissman. "This is horrible. The whole city is sad."
The tragic lesson
As much as she pleaded, Georgia Stean couldn't get her son, Jeff -- a former high school heavyweight wrestling champion from Bonner Springs -- to use his seat belt.
That changed on Jan. 23, the day Thomas' car skidded off the road in a snowstorm. Tellis had died on the scene. Now two are dead from the accident.
"That day he started buckling up, and now it's habit," Stean said. "I imagine that's true everywhere. If something good can come from this, it probably caused a lot more people to buckle up."
Friends grieve
In Independence, 14 grieving friends tried to remember Thomas' life in a spontaneous wake.
"It doesn't seem real," said Mike Wooderson, 30, owner of The Locker Room sports bar at Missouri 40 and Noland Road. "We all knew he was going to walk again. The question was not if he would, but when."
Six television screens around the The Locker Room glowed with scenes of Thomas sacking quarterbacks. In one booth, a signed red Chiefs jersey, number 58, was mounted under glass: "To my guys at Cheers," it read. "Best Wishes, D.T."
Thomas hung out there a lot. After practice. After a game. Even during the offseason.
Sometimes he even poured drinks or ran the blender for milkshakes. In here, Thomas wasn't just a great football player. Here, Thomas was a person. A friend. Even family.
"He would go out of his way to make other people feel comfortable," Wooderson said.
"When you first met Derrick, he was a very shy person. But he realized his effect on people. He knew that, so he tried real hard to make people feel special. He brought out the best in people."
From the montage of football players on the screens, suddenly just one image stood out: Thomas' smiling face and warm brown eyes. All talking stopped at the bar.
People stared. It was a rebroadcast of a 1991 special on Thomas. He was laughing. Then staring solemnly at the camera, as he talked of his childhood. A baby-faced little Derrick, age 10, appeared on the screen.
Fourteen people sitting around two tables laughed.
Almost as quickly, they cried.
Some held each other. Others told more "remember when he..." stories.
Once, Thomas met a 60-something fan at the bar. She was so thrilled to meet him, she gushed: "You're better than 007." For weeks, Thomas' new nickname was 007.
Or the story about the maintenance workers tarring the street in front of Thomas' Independence home -- they painted his number, 58, in tar on his driveway.
There was also the story about how Thomas delivered teddy bears to sick children at Children's Mercy Hospital and the University of Kansas Medical Center.
"There was no press, no television cameras, no radio," said Pat Calton, a recruiter for the National Guard. "Derrick didn't want any publicity about it. He didn't want people to think he was doing it for that. This was just for kids.
"It took him eight hours to deliver all those bears. Afterward, he turned to me and said, `I do this to give back, you know?' And that's the way he was."
For Chris Shropshire, 27, Thomas' death was very personal. The two became friends after Shropshire was hired as the assistant equipment manager for the Chiefs, five years ago.
"On the Sunday of his accident, I stopped by and saw him in the hospital," he said.
"Derrick teased me and said hi to me, in a special way that he did between the two of us. It's personal, or I'd share it. Anyway, I knew after that it was going to be OK. Then, this happened."
As the friends talked, again Thomas' smiling face filled the large-screen television.
"I've had my ups and downs, but I'm still a good person, and I'm proud of that," he said in the 1991 interview.
His friends whooped and cheered, "Yeah, Derrick!"
Then they wiped away more tears.
from kc star
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