I say with an enlightened heart that I never knew Brock Olson. Not really.

The best way to say it is probably that I knew OF him. I knew him from the perspective of someone who watches him play, discusses him and writes about him.

I also knew, from observation, from the words of others (primarily coaches), and from the limited verbal exchanges I had with him, that he was a good person.

After his funeral last Tuesday, I learned so much more about this person who touched the lives of so many people in his 17 years on this planet.

I have mixed feelings about this Ñ itÕs enlightening to learn the things that made him special, that made him stand out, but at the same time itÕs sad that so often it takes someoneÕs death to make you truly see and appreciate a personÕs qualities.

The one thing that has struck me more than any other might seem fairly small to some people, but to me it makes a very important statement. To know that this 17-year-old boy collected *angels* spoke volumes to me. ItÕs one of the sweetest things IÕve ever heard. When the Leo Club members handed out many hundreds of pasta-and-wood angels to the people who filled the gym for the funeral, it just really hit home.

How many teenage boys are comfortable enough in their masculinity Ñ or, more to the point, their individuality Ñ to collect angels? I have great respect for boys and men who rise above societal gender roles to embrace thoughts and deeds that others might consider too tender, too sensitive, too Òfeminine.Ó

But Brock obviously realized that tenderness and sensitivity are not reserved for girls and women, and I think thatÕs part of what made his life as full as it was. He didnÕt have the limitation that comes with trying to fit into a predefined role, so he could follow his heart. He was an *individual.*

Another striking thing I learned at BrockÕs funeral was that his younger sister, Michelle, was his best friend, that they shared their hopes and dreams as only best friends can do.

That is so special and so unusual, especially for teenagers. My heart goes out to Michelle for losing both her brother and her best friend, but at the same time IÕm happy for her that she was able to have that relationship.

IÕve always regretted that I didnÕt take the opportunity to really talk to my brother before he died of leukemia in 1989. I was very optimistic through all of it Ñ the diagnosis, the chemotherapy, the bone-marrow transplant Ñ and his death took me somewhat by surprise.

During the illness itself, I was supportive in a friendly way without necessarily being emotionally supportive. To know his hopes and dreams, highs and lows during that time would have been something important to remember.

But the closest we came to that point was when we celebrated Christmas that year just before the bone-marrow transplant. Roger was leaving my parentsÕ house and turned and gave me a huge hug and said, ÒThank you,Ó in expression of his appreciation for agreeing to donate my bone marrow.

It may sound odd, but I could feel that hug when I thought about it for about the next year. I even started using his water-ski vest just because it made me really feel the hug. And I still wear his jacket sometimes, just as a way of acknowledging that his presence is still a part of the world.

I hope that as Michelle grieves for her brother, as his parents grieve for their son, as his friends grieve for their friend, as his coaches and teachers and other people Brock touched grieve for this lovely young man, that they remember this: The dead are only as gone as we allow them to be.

Brock will never again make a rebound, catch a pass or return a serve; his voice will never again resound from the stage, and he will never again stand in front of his beloved third-grade Sunday-school students, but the fact that he DID do those things should be remembered, and spoken about.

Too often, those who are lost from the world end up sort of lost from the lives of those theyÕve touched as we shy away from talking about them because it makes us Ñ or others Ñ uncomfortable or sad. I am as guilty of this as anyone.

This is one reason I write this, to put some thoughts of remembrance on paper, my best method of expression. To share those thoughts with as many people as I can.

And as I write this on my computer at work, thereÕs a little pasta-and-wood angel hanging from my monitor, a tiny reminder that I will cherish always as the memory of a boy I never really knew.

Not long ago, I listened to Frank Fee interview Brock on the Pirate Profile during halftime of a boysÕ basketball game. In the interview, Brock said he felt his true calling was rebounding, and that he felt scoring was Òalmost evil.Ó What he obviously meant that he felt that to score points was selfish.

He also mentioned that he wanted to be like Dennis Rodman without the hair or the personality.

His coach later told me that the Pirates couldnÕt afford a Dennis Rodman; they needed a Rodman who could score. Not long after that, Brock was getting double-doubles almost every game. Doing what was asked of him. He obviously saw that scoring wasnÕt selfish if it helped the team.

After I heard that interview, talked to Greg Garmen, and saw Brock responding to the call, I started thinking of contacting Brock for a feature story that would include elements of everything I mentioned above.

But with winter being the busy season it is, I put it off, figuring there would be time later. Obviously, there wasnÕt, and that makes it seem so clear that if we have things we want to say to people, things we want to do with them or for them, if we hold back, we may never get the chance.

My seventh-grade daughter called me, crying, for a ride home from school the day after BrockÕs death. I said to her, ÒI didnÕt know you even knew Brock.Ó She told me that she liked hanging out around the gym after school sometimes and that Brock would always say hello and share a few words with the younger kids. The last thing she heard, the day he died, was ÒSee you tomorrow.Ó

ÒTomorrowÓ was the last word I ever heard my brother say, spoken in obvious discomfort from his hospital bed.

We donÕt know what tomorrow will bring. That makes it important to make today count for something, and I think Brock Olson did just that every day of his life. He was secure in his faith, in the love of his family and friends, and in his abilities.

And in himself.