For my brother

It was a warm summer night in San Francisco, California, and the sky was crystal clear at SBC Park. In the Bay Area, clear summer nights are extremely rare as June, July, and August usually bring a fog so thick you can eat it with a spoon, but tonight was a special occasion.

I was sitting with my brother whom I hadn't seen in quite some time. We watched with gaping mouths as Barry Bonds went yard not once, but twice to lead the Giants to a thrilling victory. At one point during the course of those nine innings, I casually looked to my right and stared at my brother's beautiful face. I realized instantly that I couldn't have been more proud to be his older brother.

The details of the events that brought Jolly to me in California overwhelm the darkest of tragic tales, and need not be reiterated in

this letter. The resultant effects, however, left my brother drowning in sorrow. My only want and need was to give him air. I tried to deliver him from the pain that accompanied every dream and every memory he had about Logan. I explained that Logan was, and still is, with us at every moment. I needed to rejuvenate his spirit. I needed to show him that even without his best friend physically beside him, life will go on. Life will continue, no matter what. And so Jolly, Logan and I did just that; we lived, and even Jolly will tell you that we lived well. Jolly and I spent the greatest week of my life together under the California sky while Logan watched out for us from above. And for that I am truly blessed.

I felt great about the week we spent together. I felt like I made a difference in Jolly's life, even if it was only to help him forget the pain for just a short while. I knew in my heart and in my soul that Jolly would rebound from this tragedy and surge ahead with a newfound purpose that only he could define. I knew it would only take time, and I watched with anticipation as the days unfolded. I was optimistic about the future, and I expressed my optimism as summer turned to fall.

"Jolly, how's the team shaping up? Who's blocking on your offensive line? Any new guys? Are you going to take any snaps at QB?" I asked, anxious to hear his reply. "You know that state championship is not far off," I reiterated over and over, "and it sure would be nice to see your name atop the all-time single season rushing leaders in Montana." At this Jolly only chuckled. He never talked much about his records with me. When we talked about football he said only one thing. "This season, every time I touch that ball, I'll be running for Logan." When he turned away, I didn't. I stared at his beautiful face long and hard, and I couldn't have been more proud to be his older brother.

Weeks later, I found myself once again thousands of miles from my brother. I called him almost every day to check in, to see how he was coping with the times, and to find out about the buzz that engulfs the football team every fall. He told me I could tune in via the Internet and catch the games on the local radio station, so last Friday, that is exactly what I did. At 9 p.m. sharp I fired up my laptop in a small Internet cafe in the heart of Washington, D.C. and anxiously awaited the broadcast.

With headphones blaring, I listened intensely to every snap. Jolly was taking over the game. I sat in that cafe with a proud heart and a grin from ear to ear. I was thrilled for him. I was proud that he was doing what he loved most, and I was proud that he was doing it for the friend that he loved most. Then my heart skipped a beat and my stomach churned. The words coming from my headphones pierced my brain. The feeling was indescribable. I am not a very religious man but I prayed. I prayed that night more intensely than I have ever done.

"What happened to him Dad? Is he all right?" I whispered into the cell phone. "He tore his ACL, Mike. He's done for the season."

I was speechless. I didn't understand, and I still don't today. I don't know who would demoralize my beautiful brother by taking his best friend away from him forever. And I don't know who would turn around two months later and take away the one thing he was using to avenge Logan's death.

Jolly was running for you, Logan. You gave his life a purpose, where now he feels there is none. Today, I find it hard to speak encouraging words. I tell him that athletes get injured, and rehab is the name of the game. If you want it bad enough, it's there for the taking. But it's all up to you bro. As I look back on the last few months, I've learned that life's events will provide the uncertain tracks of an emotional roller coaster. My dad says, "as people, we tend to take for granted all the good in our lives, while we sit and dwell on the bad." I can't imagine worse times for my younger brother, but I hope that he can put the past behind him and realize that in the future lies some good. If you would like to help in Jolly's recovery, offer an encouraging word. He might not give you an elaborate response, but that just isn't his style.

I spoke to Jolly yesterday and he was extremely optimistic about the year to come. He plans on rehabbing his knee one day at a time until he is once again able to run the football down the field for his best friend. While those words reverberated in my head, I couldn't help but stare through the cell phone and see my brother's beautiful face, and I couldn't have been more proud to be his older brother.