I write this column a year and a half too late. I don't know why I did not send a thank you note in August 2006. With these few lines of type, I hopefully will make amends.
Eighteen months ago, a friend and I embarked on a 4,000-plus mile road trip that would bring the summer to a close. On the second day of the adventure, we drove from Kansas City to my friend's uncle's farm in rural Kansas, about 140 miles.
Growing up in a household that bled Notre Dame blue and gold, I demanded that we take a detour to Bazaar, a small Kansas town of less than 100 people. In 1931, the small plane carrying Fighting Irish football coach Knute Rockne crashed into fields just southwest of that town. One of the first people on the scene was 13-year-old Easter Heathman.
Seventy-five years later, I drove into Bazaar looking for any indication of the crash site that struck down one of the giants of a golden age in sports.
No sign was to be found, so we turned around. Again. And again. The fifth time we drove through the town, I asked for directions.
A Bazaar resident informed me that a monument stands to mark the crash site, but it was not accessible from any road. Irish fandom is not so easily extinguished. She said an older fellow takes people out to the site, but the beating sun and the Kansas horizon converged closer by the minute.
Shortly thereafter, we anxiously pulled into a roundabout driveway that supposedly housed the man that could take us to the memorial.
Twenty seconds after knocking, Heathman came to the screen door. I had thought about making up a story more compelling that just a fan wanting a complete stranger to take him to an obscure field to see a chiseled piece of rock. In the end, I went with honesty.
"Hi, we're from Iowa, and I grew up a big Notre Dame fan," I said pleadingly. "We've been driving around the area for nearly two hours looking for the Rockne memorial and were told that you're the man to see."
After sizing us up, Heathman said, "Well, it's getting pretty late."
My heart sunk. I just dragged my friend an extra 60 miles for another three hours in a search that would end in vain. Then Heathman's next words made my road trip.
"But I suppose if you've been looking that long, you deserve to see it. Come on in the house."
We stepped into a modest home-turned-football shrine. In a corner of the kitchen, he brought out newspaper clippings from decades past. I noticed a slew of Notre Dame memorabilia the university sent him over the years. He shared a few stories with us, and I admired all the keepsakes.
"Well, we should probably be going up there," said the 89 year old as he probably had a thousand times before.
With Heathman behind the wheel of his minivan, we reached a couple of gates and then a field filled with cattle, finally coming upon the spot where Rockne's plane fell to the ground.
Last week, Heathman died at age 90. Though I only enjoyed his presence for a couple of hours, he showed a warm kindness to strangers that I hope someday to exhibit.
Whoever takes over as the memorial caretaker has some shoes to fill. Maybe this clipping can be added to the pile in his kitchen.