The line stretched out the back of the meeting room as went inched our way forward, one at a time.

Friends from past and present of Ken Crandall were lined up to pay their respects to the former Jefferson point guard, who died unexpectedly at age 47 while running on the beach in Hollywood, Fla. on Oct. 11.

He was laid to rest in Florida, but Saturday afternoon was a precious gift from his family to those of us who new and loved him from back home to a chance to say our goodbyes.

One by one, we made our way past a collection of photographs and then shared a few moments with his mom, Dianne “Happy” Bowdler, his sister, Shellie, and his lovely wife, Elaine.

Everyone seemed to be doing a decent job holding ourselves together, but when Steve Locy, one of KC’s best friends and a fellow 1980 Jefferson graduate, struggled so hard as he narrated a slide-show presentation, our “defenses” weakened.

By the time close friend Ken Martin, Happy and Shellie had taken turns speaking for a few minutes, we were all struggling.

But when Elaine, the love of KC’s life, stood in front of us and courageously found the words to express what our friend had meant to her, we were done.

As I looked around the room and saw faces I had not seen in more than a quarter of a century, that familiar pang of sadness began to overwhelm me.

Then, I saw the look on the face of Pat Inman, seated at a table a few feet away. This remarkable woman experienced one of the greatest personal tragedies I’ve known so many years ago, but somehow, some way found a way to forge forward, to continue on while all seemed lost and to spend year after year giving of her time, her effort, her kindness.

The expression on her face was not one of sadness... it was more one of knowing.

And the words Diane VanSlyke, another 1980 Jefferson graduate, offered me a few weeks ago when she read of Ken’s passing, came back to me — KC would not want us to be sad, to be shedding tears, to be consumed by what all of us who knew and loved him had lost.

He would rather we be appreciative and thankful for the time spent together, for all of the memories... the many triumphs... the awful tragedies... that we experienced during his time here.

And he would be so thrilled so many whom had not seen each other for the better part of three decades, had been brought together.

Something good coming out of something so somber.

KC would have loved that.

And as I thought of Diane’s words and saw Mrs. Inman’s face, I understood — we’re not supposed to understand. Because there really is no comprehending when someone so spirited, so talented, so loved, admired and respected is taken in the prime of life.

We are supposed to do the right things in this existence, not because it’s the easy way, but because it’s the only way. To treat people the way we would want to be treated. To help those in need or less fortunate.

Earlier in the day Saturday, I was chatting with Frank, one of the “custodial engineers” at the high school in Jefferson. When he asked why I was all dressed up, I told him where I was headed later in the day.

His face lit up.

“You know, way back when, when I first started here, one day (Ken) he picked me up and gave me a ride to the school when my car was broken down on the side of the road,” he said. “I’m sorry he’s gone. He seemed like a really nice guy.

“He didn’t have to stop and offer me a ride that day. I know a lot of others sure as heck didn’t.”

To help those in need... that was KC.

As I walked out of the Community Center doors into the bright sunshine, the cool November air presented a stark contrast to the warm tears streaming down my face. And a paraphrase to the epilogue of the 1971 television movie “Brian’s Song” came to mind.

It was not how Ken Crandall died. It was how he lived... how he did live.



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