Freddie Steinmark Game Agains Notr Dame

The black-and-white photograph in the Alabama newspaper showed the handsome face of a University of Texas football player, brimful in inexplicable joy. The story told of a cancerous tumor, an amputation below the left knee joint, a cruel affliction that put a star safety on crutches for the 1970 Cotton Bowl against Notre Dame. In the shadow of gloom, Freddie Steinmark glowed, inspiring his national champion teammates with a strong, radiant spirit.

From her kitchen tabular array in Montgomery, Julia Alice Rice studied the Steinmark smile and story, a mysterious lump on her left ankle, swelling. The emerging details of Freddie'south osteosarcoma—bone cancer—gave her intermission. A xxx-year-old wife, mother and librarian, Julia Alice considered the growth, symptoms and hurting on her ain lower leg and wondered if she had the same affliction.

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The first diagnosis came back negative. A dr. removed a cyst, but the lump grew back. A second diagnosis, months afterward in 1971, revealed osteosarcoma. Surgeons needed to amputate but discovered a complexity. Julia Alice was 9 weeks significant.

The baby, doctors informed her, could not survive the performance. She needed to abort. "You tin can have my leg," said Julia Alice, a devout Southern Baptist, "but you tin can't take my baby." Doctors persisted. Julia Alice resisted. In the heated dorsum-and-along, she learned a grim truth. Even without an abortion, she stood a 1 per centum chance of surviving more than one year afterward the amputation.

Julia Alice had a husband, Norman Rice, a football motorbus in Montgomery, and a 3-twelvemonth-old son, Jim. Inside a year, the former would become a widower, the latter, motherless. Friends urged Julia Alice to abort.

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Eight hundred miles away in Austin, FreddieSteinmark waged his own fight. A five'ix", 160-pound safety out of Wheat Ridge, Col., Freddie had played the 1969 season with a tumor the size of a softball. Afterwards the amputation, he underwent chemotherapy while attending course and coaching defensive backs on UT'southward freshman football game team.

As the illness spread, Steinmark became the face of the American Cancer Social club, giving motivational speeches across the country. He played golf on ane leg, knocking drives 225 yards, and h2o skied. He played the pianoforte and proposed to the daughter he'd dated since eighth grade. Linda Wheeler said "yes."

Despite a gallant fight, his condition grew grave. On June 6, 1971, he died.

That same month, surgeons removed Julia Alice's left leg. Iv months later, Geoff Rice was built-in. Julia Alice lived to meet him walk, get married and male parent a daughter—44 more years. Geoff turned 44 on Oct. viii. Only earlier Thanksgiving, he saw My All-American, the inspirational film about Steinmark. Scene after scene tugged at his eye. The one where doctors evangelize the diagnosis pierced it. Geoff wept. "Freddie didn't save one life," he says. "He saved two."

The legacy of Freddie Steinmark cannot be captured in a motility flick. Information technology cannot be fully told in a book, and at to the lowest degree three have been written. He inspired President Nixon to declare War on Cancer. He moved Congress to laissez passer the National Cancer Act. Equally a result, the National Cancer Plant, which had a upkeep of $200 million in 1971, received $ane.5 billion for research over the side by side three years. That research changed lives, salvaged limbs, healed bodies. "There are and so many stories," says Sammy Steinmark, Freddie'southward younger blood brother, "I can't count them all."

*****

On his home Television set in Rochester, Minn., 12-twelvemonth-former Thomas Smith watched Freddie and No. ane Texas rally to beat No. two Arkansas 15–14 on Dec. half dozen, 1969, a thriller known equally "The Game of the Century." Weeks later, Smith watched in astonishment equally Freddie stood on the Cotton Basin sidelines, bundled in a wintertime coat, propped on crutches, left leg missing.

The image stuck. It acquired a young male child to think, to connect want with possibility. Even as a pre-teen, Smith imagined a career in medicine. He knew Rochester was the domicile of the Mayo Clinic. But what kind of doctor might he become? The reply appeared on Goggle box. "The movie of Freddie in his trench coat with one leg at the Cotton Bowl," Smith says, "always stayed with me."

Smith graduated from Michigan Land and attended Mayo Medical School, which is part of the Mayo Clinic, a leading cancer centre for osteogenic sarcoma. Later, he pursued pediatric oncology. "There were many reasons why, including the satisfaction of helping people at their deepest time of need and the scientific advancements being made in pediatric oncology," Smith says. "But I must acknowledge, the idea of helping a immature person like Freddie not merely live, but avoid amputation, was a very important factor in my selection."

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If Freddie developed osteosarcoma today, doctors could probably save his leg and life. When Smith attended medical school in the 1980s, treatment began irresolute. Instead of amputating commencement, doctors started patients on chemotherapy. So they surgically removed malignant tissue. Every bit medical procedures advanced, surgeons replaced cancerous bone with titanium rods to save limbs.

New treatments have produced dramatic results. "We accept a cure charge per unit that approaches 80% and a need to dismember in only ten% of patients," Smith says.

He has treated hundreds of young patients withosteogenic sarcoma and other bone cancers, some of them athletes. Smith ofttimes shares Freddie'due south story. "I take many survivors, many of them in their 20s and 30s, starting their own families," he says. "Freddie fought not simply for himself just for other young people with OGS (osteogenic sarcoma). I recollect the survivors I see today are a directly event of Freddie's persistence and determination. He has inspired me since I saw outset saw him on the sideline in the Texas-Notre Matriarch game 45 years ago."

​

*****

Julia Alice forgot Freddie's proper noun. Time caused that item to disappear only not his face or story. It seemed as if Freddie imparted his fierce, tin can-practise spirit to a wife and mother in Alabama. Julia took her boys to the pool and swam with her prosthetic. She took Geoff to a skating party and strapped on a pair of roller skates. She left her job at the library, became a special instruction managing director, served equally a church building deacon and cheered at her son's ball games, sometimes on one leg, generally on 2.

"When I was immature, I thought everyone's mom had an artificial leg," Geoff says. "Later on all, mine did, and in my mind, she was no unlike than any other mom."

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The family moved to Birmingham and the boys grew up. Julia Alice shared $.25 and pieces about the Texas football player who saved ii lives with little reaction. Jim and Geoff nodded and idea that was cool, then ran exterior to play. Jim did not care to know more until his late 20s, when marvel drove him to the library. Who was this football game player? What became of him? Jim brought a name and moving-picture show home to mom. "Freddie Steinmark," Julia Alice murmured. "That's him."

Jim returned to the library with an idea. He would gather more information on Freddie, enquiry his mother'southward journey and surprise her with a book. He would contact the Steinmarks and tell them how Freddie had saved his mother and brother. An athletic ticket managing director at Eastern Kentucky, Jim had a primary's in sports administration but regretted non majoring in journalism. Writing his female parent'south story would exist an chance and satisfy a longing. Years passed. The plan stalled.

In 2013, Jim, now a marketer, told Julia Alice nigh the surprise that had non materialized. She suggested they collaborate. Jim resumed the enquiry simply suffered a stroke in January. After he recovered, Julia Alice fell ill. Before Jim could interview her, she was hospitalized with a rare lung affliction, unrelated to bone cancer. A non-smoker, Julia Alice died on Aug. 6, three months before the release ofMy All-American.

*****

Steinmark receives his alphabetic character for the 1969 season.

AP Photo/Ted Powers

In the southward end zone of Darrell M. Imperial–Texas Memorial Stadium, beneath a behemothic scoreboard dedicated to Freddie, 67-twelvemonth-old Tom Campbell shakes his head, eyes turning moist.

Why me, Lord? Why did you take Freddie and not me?

Campbell played with Freddie. A defensive back who made game-saving interceptions confronting Arkansas and Notre Dame, Campbell has no answers after 44 years. Freddie studied difficult, played difficult and didn't drink. He went to Mass every morning. Whatever his flaws, they are non easily recalled.

My All-Americanscreenwriter and manager Angelo Pizzo was unable to comprise sin into the story of a saint.

"I researched everything—talked to all the players, all the family," Pizzo says, standing near Campbell during Texas-Kansas on Nov. seven. "And I couldn't detect notice anyone to tell me one bad affair about him."

Twelve years ago, Campbell lost a sales job with Xerox. Shocked at the layoff—"I hadn't washed anything incorrect," he says—Campbell did non fall autonomously. He found another task and moved on. Freddie, he says, pulled him through. "I've had tough times my whole life," Campbell says. "Merely I was prepared. There was never any quit in Freddie."

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​Campbell and Pizzo are wearing Freddie'south orangish and white, No. 28 bailiwick of jersey. A host of family unit, friends and erstwhile teammates are, also. On this mean solar day, Texas is rededicating the scoreboard to Freddie, which was named for him in 1972. A few feet away stands Ted Koy, a running dorsum who played with Freddie and later with O.J. Simpson in Buffalo. Koy is a recent prostate cancer survivor. He names a growing fraternity of one-time teammates who take beaten or are contesting cancer. "My life was blessed," Koy says, "because I knew Freddie Steinmark."

A roar goes up. Texas safety Dylan Haines has intercepted a Kansas pass belatedly in the first quarter. Haines sprints downfield, a wink of Freddie in the 36-thousand return to the 4-yard line.

Simply Texas offered Freddie a scholarship. Nobody offered one to Haines at Lago Vista Loftier, just north of Austin. No one thought he could even play Partitioning Ii or NAIA football. The son of a former Longhorn defensive lineman (John) and hurdler (Sandra), Dylan walked on at Texas in 2012, never expecting to play a down. Only he'd already had a brush with Freddie.

Dylan sprained an talocrural joint his senior year and considered sitting out a game. Sandra establish a magazine story near Freddie and stuck it in her son's able-bodied bag. Subsequently reading the piece, Dylan suited up, played both ways and scored a touchdown, despite a pronounced limp. "I decided if this guy could play with cancer in his leg," Dylan says, "I wasn't going to let a sprained ankle keep me out."

Three years after Dylan walked on at Texas, new autobus Charlie Strong recognized a playmaker. Dylan earned a starting spot and a scholarship. Early in his first game concluding season, Dylan picked off a North Texas laissez passer and heard his mother screaming. She hasn't stopped. He intercepted three more passes in 2014, returning one for a touchdown, and leads the Longhorns with five picks this season.

*****

Sam Spud used to play lacrosse and basketball for Valor Christian Loftier in Highlands Ranch, Col., the same schoolhouse Stanford running back Christian McCaffrey attended. Once during practice, Murphy and McCaffrey jumped for a rebound. Tater came downward on the floor, McCaffrey'south foot came downwards on Potato's caput. The concussion Spud sustained was minor compared to the diagnosis that followed the summer before his junior year: ewing sarcoma in his right leg.

He underwent 12 weeks of chemotherapy, surgery to remove the tumor and 24 more weeks of chemo. Reconstructive surgery on his leg came afterward. In that location'south no trace of cancer today. Thomas Smith considers Murphy, a University of Kansas freshman, a success story. Murphy, 19, has been cleared to play golf. He hopes to play intramural basketball in Feb.

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Every bit he battled os cancer, White potato learned most some other immature athlete from Colorado with a leg tumor: Freddie Steinmark. Tater discovered he had friends who attended Freddie'due south school, Wheat Ridge High. Now Murphy had someone with whom he could identify, a role model who could inspire him. "Freddie saved more than hundreds of lives," White potato says. "It'due south more similar thousands. Maybe millions. People become checked because of Freddie. He changed the way the medical customs looked at cancer."

Geoff Rice was an unremarkable athlete. Sam Potato made the varsity lacrosse team as a freshman. Geoff saw reserve duty for the Homewood Loftier (Ala.) baseball team as a senior. His career highlight was going 2 for 2 i game at Birmingham's Rickwood Field, the oldest professional ballpark in the U.S. Dizzy Dean pitched there. The Pittsburgh Pirates held spring training at that place. The Detroit Tigers, Kansas Urban center Royals and Chicago White Sox had Double A teams that played there. Geoff Rice collected two singles in ii at-bats at that place.

Geoff works in the claims section for an automobile insurance company in Birmingham. He and his wife and xiv-year-old girl live across the street from his brother, Jim. "Information technology'due south not that I've lived an incredible life or became a bully athlete or rock star or motion-picture show star," Geoff says, "but I have a family that loves me and I dear them."

His mother and brother never got to write that book. The family unit never got to tell the Steinmarks how Freddie had touched them. But not long ago, Geoff got to thinking: Maybe he could send a note to Bower Yousse, co-author of the biography, "Freddie Steinmark: Faith, Family unit, Football game."  Yousse wrote back, "I will gladly share your story with Freddie's family."

The stories keep finding their style to SammySteinmark. A pediatric oncologist in Denver. A lacrosse actor in Richmond Heights. A walk-on at the University of Texas. Onetime Longhorns in Austin. A family in Birmingham. When Nixon declared war on cancer, he didn't know the bravest soldier would all the same be fighting long after they were both gone.

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Source: https://www.si.com/college/2015/12/03/freddie-steinmark-texas-longhorns-cancer-legacy

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