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CALGARY — The first day of San Diego Chargers’ training camp in 2001 and Dave Dickenson, the smallish, bookish-looking rookie recently of the Calgary Stampeders fold, is understandably nervous.
As luck would have it, he runs smack-dab into a six-foot-three, 250-pound, quick-as-a-cheetah honorary president of the San Diego Welcome Wagon.
“I’m kind of a quiet, shy guy anyway, as I’m sure you’ve gathered by now,” the Stampeders’ offensive co-ordinator is recalling. “I’d just got there. I understood the day I signed in San Diego they’d cut Ryan Leaf, another Great Falls (Mont.) kid.
“So I just wanted come in under the radar. Real low. Well, first guy I see is Junior, this great player, this iconic guy. He introduces himself and gives me a nickname right away — In the time I was there, he’d always be looking out for me, asking: ‘Hey, Dicks, you good?’
“And I remember him saying, that first day, kinda smiling: ‘I just hope you’re better than that last Montana guy we had.’
“Made me feel at ease, accepted, part of things, right away.
“It meant a lot.”
Dickenson spent only one year as a Charger but his memories of the warmth of nature and generosity of spirit, not to mention the unparalleled on-field tenacity, of the late Junior Seau are indelible.
“One day I was running scout team and he actually ripped my face mask all the way around, pretty much. But I didn’t have a problem at all with it because it was Junior.
“He didn’t mean to do it. But every snap he took, he was so intense. Everything had a purpose. And quick? Guys 250-pound aren’t supposed to be that fast.
“He ran his restaurant. He was so good team to the team. Didn’t matter who you were, he’d take care of you. My brother (Craig) went down there to coach (special teams, with the Oakland Raiders). So he took care of my brother. That’s the way he was.”
Five days after Seau, one of the greatest linebackers of the modern era and a man so outwardly brimming with life and its possibilities, was found by his girlfriend dead of a gunshot wound to the chest at his home in Oceanside, Calif., the lingering residue of disbelief still clings to Dickenson.
Seau’s death has been ruled a suicide by the San Diego County medical examiner’s office. A city has gone into mourning as people who knew the 12-time Pro Bowler, or felt they did watching him fly around the football field on Sunday afternoons from the safety of their living-room sofas, try in vain to make sense of the unfathomable.
“I was more than shocked,” says Dickenson quietly. “I am more than shocked. I understood he had that issue with his car” — Seau claimed to have fallen asleep at the wheel of his SUV before plummeting over a cliff in the San Diego area two years ago, and was fortunate to survive — “but just knowing the guy personally, how positive a person he was . . . it’s sad. SO sad. I just don’t understand it. I even texted Drew Brees, who I don’t talk much with. But I respect him. And we kinda went back and forth, wondering why anyone would do that.
“Suicide, to me, is hard because we always try to rationalize an irrational thought. For us trying to figure it out is just not worth it.
“There’s just no reason to me that you’d do it. But something’s going on. People make decisions none of us can understand. I can’t, at least.”
Seau’s tragedy has re-ignited the concern over head trauma in sports and its post-career affects. Seau’s ex-wife Gina told ESPN her former husband had sustained multiple concussions over a two-decade pro career:
“Of course he had. He always bounced back and kept on playing, He’s a warrior. That didn’t stop him. I don’t know what football player hasn’t. It’s not ballet. It’s part of the game.”
That ever-growing link hits home because Dickenson is no stranger to concussions, of course. Post-concussion symptoms forced him into retirement four years ago.
“Yeah, I am worried about it,” he acknowledges. “I’ve had my own issues there. And I’m not trying to say it was the reason (for Seau's troubles). But there's a lot of conversation. So I’m trying to be more proactive. But to me, football is the greatest game. It’s given me so much. The greatest things in my life are my wife and my kids. But football even helped shape that. That’s part of the reason I married my lady — she was such a sports fan. She’s moved with me six times. Imagine that. You’ve got to find the right person.
“Without football my whole life would be different. I like who I am and what’s transpired for me. So, yeah, I’m worried about it but I’ll do everything I can to stay on top of the information and hopefully I have good friends and family to support me.
“I think Junior did, but maybe he didn’t allow them to give him that support.”
Right now, more than anything, what Dickenson and countless others feel is confusion and loss. For a teammate and a friend. For a superstar linebacker who went out of his way to make everyone, even smallish, bookish-looking rookies from Montana, feel accepted; who’d look out for you, who'd ask ‘Hey, Dicks, you good?’
“The thing I’m most concerned about,” says Dickenson, “is the kids in that area. They just looked up to Junior so much. He was so important to so many people. You just hope that somehow somebody else can pick up the slack.
“Junior was a big guy on legacy, on how he was going to be remembered. He loved history. And now, gosh, it makes me even kind of sadder because I don’t know what people will remember him for.
“Hopefully, they’ll remember him as he was. I hope they remember all that’s he’s done for them versus . . . the way it ended.
“There was no better teammate, full of energy, loved the game like no one else, being part of the team, incorporated every single player in everything, no big ‘me’ stuff going on.
“I just can’t say enough good about him.
“I was sad when I heard.
“I’m still sad.
“And I will be for a long time.”
Calgary Herald
[email protected]
© Copyright (c) Postmedia News
CALGARY — The first day of San Diego Chargers’ training camp in 2001 and Dave Dickenson, the smallish, bookish-looking rookie recently of the Calgary Stampeders fold, is understandably nervous.
As luck would have it, he runs smack-dab into a six-foot-three, 250-pound, quick-as-a-cheetah honorary president of the San Diego Welcome Wagon.
“I’m kind of a quiet, shy guy anyway, as I’m sure you’ve gathered by now,” the Stampeders’ offensive co-ordinator is recalling. “I’d just got there. I understood the day I signed in San Diego they’d cut Ryan Leaf, another Great Falls (Mont.) kid.
“So I just wanted come in under the radar. Real low. Well, first guy I see is Junior, this great player, this iconic guy. He introduces himself and gives me a nickname right away — In the time I was there, he’d always be looking out for me, asking: ‘Hey, Dicks, you good?’
“And I remember him saying, that first day, kinda smiling: ‘I just hope you’re better than that last Montana guy we had.’
“Made me feel at ease, accepted, part of things, right away.
“It meant a lot.”
Dickenson spent only one year as a Charger but his memories of the warmth of nature and generosity of spirit, not to mention the unparalleled on-field tenacity, of the late Junior Seau are indelible.
“One day I was running scout team and he actually ripped my face mask all the way around, pretty much. But I didn’t have a problem at all with it because it was Junior.
“He didn’t mean to do it. But every snap he took, he was so intense. Everything had a purpose. And quick? Guys 250-pound aren’t supposed to be that fast.
“He ran his restaurant. He was so good team to the team. Didn’t matter who you were, he’d take care of you. My brother (Craig) went down there to coach (special teams, with the Oakland Raiders). So he took care of my brother. That’s the way he was.”
Five days after Seau, one of the greatest linebackers of the modern era and a man so outwardly brimming with life and its possibilities, was found by his girlfriend dead of a gunshot wound to the chest at his home in Oceanside, Calif., the lingering residue of disbelief still clings to Dickenson.
Seau’s death has been ruled a suicide by the San Diego County medical examiner’s office. A city has gone into mourning as people who knew the 12-time Pro Bowler, or felt they did watching him fly around the football field on Sunday afternoons from the safety of their living-room sofas, try in vain to make sense of the unfathomable.
“I was more than shocked,” says Dickenson quietly. “I am more than shocked. I understood he had that issue with his car” — Seau claimed to have fallen asleep at the wheel of his SUV before plummeting over a cliff in the San Diego area two years ago, and was fortunate to survive — “but just knowing the guy personally, how positive a person he was . . . it’s sad. SO sad. I just don’t understand it. I even texted Drew Brees, who I don’t talk much with. But I respect him. And we kinda went back and forth, wondering why anyone would do that.
“Suicide, to me, is hard because we always try to rationalize an irrational thought. For us trying to figure it out is just not worth it.
“There’s just no reason to me that you’d do it. But something’s going on. People make decisions none of us can understand. I can’t, at least.”
Seau’s tragedy has re-ignited the concern over head trauma in sports and its post-career affects. Seau’s ex-wife Gina told ESPN her former husband had sustained multiple concussions over a two-decade pro career:
“Of course he had. He always bounced back and kept on playing, He’s a warrior. That didn’t stop him. I don’t know what football player hasn’t. It’s not ballet. It’s part of the game.”
That ever-growing link hits home because Dickenson is no stranger to concussions, of course. Post-concussion symptoms forced him into retirement four years ago.
“Yeah, I am worried about it,” he acknowledges. “I’ve had my own issues there. And I’m not trying to say it was the reason (for Seau's troubles). But there's a lot of conversation. So I’m trying to be more proactive. But to me, football is the greatest game. It’s given me so much. The greatest things in my life are my wife and my kids. But football even helped shape that. That’s part of the reason I married my lady — she was such a sports fan. She’s moved with me six times. Imagine that. You’ve got to find the right person.
“Without football my whole life would be different. I like who I am and what’s transpired for me. So, yeah, I’m worried about it but I’ll do everything I can to stay on top of the information and hopefully I have good friends and family to support me.
“I think Junior did, but maybe he didn’t allow them to give him that support.”
Right now, more than anything, what Dickenson and countless others feel is confusion and loss. For a teammate and a friend. For a superstar linebacker who went out of his way to make everyone, even smallish, bookish-looking rookies from Montana, feel accepted; who’d look out for you, who'd ask ‘Hey, Dicks, you good?’
“The thing I’m most concerned about,” says Dickenson, “is the kids in that area. They just looked up to Junior so much. He was so important to so many people. You just hope that somehow somebody else can pick up the slack.
“Junior was a big guy on legacy, on how he was going to be remembered. He loved history. And now, gosh, it makes me even kind of sadder because I don’t know what people will remember him for.
“Hopefully, they’ll remember him as he was. I hope they remember all that’s he’s done for them versus . . . the way it ended.
“There was no better teammate, full of energy, loved the game like no one else, being part of the team, incorporated every single player in everything, no big ‘me’ stuff going on.
“I just can’t say enough good about him.
“I was sad when I heard.
“I’m still sad.
“And I will be for a long time.”
Calgary Herald
[email protected]
© Copyright (c) Postmedia News
