Some of the details are a bit fuzzy, but I do remember sitting there and feeling like a giant hole had been cut out of my chest.

As I the rescue personnel checked on Mom’s body, I couldn’t move. It was almost an out-of-body experience as I felt myself sitting there, but it was like I wasn’t there.

I know, it sounds ridiculous, but I don’t know how else to describe it.

Having found Mom in her bed and desperately trying to bring her back, I knew her time had come and as the EMTs dutifully went about their tasks, I just sat there.

Staring.

Motionless.

While I wasn’t sobbing, tears, one after another, just rolled down my face.

Finally, one of the EMTs asked me if I could move so they could go about taking Mom out of her bed, but I couldn’t.

I couldn’t even offer an audible answer.

Then I felt two giant arms under me, lifting my 130-pound frame as if it was a box being taken out to the curb for trash pickup.

The bear of a man said to me, “Come on, Donnie... you did all you could,” and he carried me out of the room.

Rewind about a quarter of a century into the past.

As the flames tore through our house and having dove out a window after trying and failing to rescue our family dog, Tippy, I decided I wasn’t giving up.

I headed for the back door for one final shot of getting to Mom’s little terrier, but two giant arms wrapped me up, not allowing me to head back inside.

“You can’t go back in there, Donnie,” the bear of a man said to me. “You shouldn’t even have gone back and upstairs in the first place.

“By now, the smoke has gotten her. She’s not suffering. You did all you could to save your dog.”

The two absolute worst moments of my life — finding Mom after she had passed in her bed in her sleep and the fire that tore through our family home on East Erie Street in Jefferson — and there was one constant.

One man.

One guy who realized I was in shock in both situations and who was more than big enough to handle it.

But he was also compassionate enough to do so not only in a professional manner, but more importantly, in a caring manner.

The man in question?

Steve Febel, whose profile is the centerpiece of today’s sports section.

I first became aware of who Steve was when I was a punk kid who walked to Memorial Field for high school football games and through snow that seemed up to my neck to Falcon Gym for high school boys basketball games.

He was a member of the first group of seniors I knew at Jefferson, having moved there over Christmas break in 1975 from Middletown, Pa.

Back then, Steve was a bit leaner than he is now (weren’t we all?) and he was a decent athlete.

Not a star, by any accounts, but he was a contributing player... the kind of player any successful team needs as its foundation to get his hands dirty in order for its stars to shine and for it to emerge victorious as a collective.

Having graduated with his younger brother, Gary, who was a star and is now a member of the Ashtabula County Football Hall of Fame, I got to know Steve a bit better after he graduated in 1976.

While his job requires more responsibility and seriousness than most, they are not what Steve is. His duties require that of him and he does it well, but the best part of him is not his badge, his gun or his cruiser.

No, the best part of Steve is behind the shiny badge he wears on his chest.

It’s his heart.

Anyone who knows the guy will tell you what a good person he is, about his off-the-wall sense of humor and how’s he always willing to volunteer his time to help anyone if they need it. He came about those wonderful qualities honestly — he gets them from his parents and grandparents.

I can’t fathom the mammoth responsibilities that must come with being a policeman or a fireman or any type of rescue personnel.

Literally, they know they are putting their lives on the line every morning when they wake up, put on the uniform and go to work.

As was the case on March 25, 2000, when a 21-year-old gunman was walking through the streets of Jefferson firing at anyone he could.

How people like Steve Febel, Sheriff Billy Johnson, Tim Blon and so many others do what they do — and still function as normal, everyday people who will smile, shake your hand and ask how you and yours are doing — is beyond me.

As is the case with our educators, those who go off-the-charts above the call of duty to teach and mold our greatest resource — our young people — can we ever compensate them enough?

I know firsthand all my worldly possessions would never be enough to pay Steve Febel back for what he did for me on the two worst days of my life, two days separated by more than a quarter of a century, but gestures by this big-hearted man that took only a few precious moments.

And I would wager almost anything he doesn’t even realize it.

That’s not just the nature of Steve Febel’s job.

It’s his nature.

Badge of honor, indeed.



McCormack is the sports editor of the Star Beacon. Reach him at donmac@suite224.net.