Shaun Powell

I'm a pretty emotional person, and it doesn't take much for me to lose it. MJ, Bird, Magic, D-Rod, Harp, Chris Jent: I lose it. Beatles songs, Dave Letterman, Bill Evans: I lose it. No more beer and Dominicks' liquor department closed ten minutes ago? I lose it.

This week, I haven't lost it. I've felt awful about not being able to shed a tear, but it hasn't happened. On Tuesday, I threw up; which I very rarely do, even considering the copious amounts of alcohol I consume. But no tears until I read this...

Shaun Powell, fine columnist for Newsday and (until late) the Sporting News wrote this for his paper and it's been sent out by the PBWA. I read it, and I lost it. All of us have brothers, in one form or another, and I'm not sure if any of us could have pulled it together long enough to write something like this...

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9-14-01

DAMN. This was one instance where I wished he had the instincts of Emmitt Smith, the peripheral vision of Gale Sayers, Spud Webb's ability to soar three times his own height, and a sudden burst at the finish, like Carl Lewis.

Had he possessed all four skills, we'd be sitting here right now, rehashing his amazing dash to destiny, and playfully wondering why he never showed anyone this before.

You see, I teased my brother because he wasn't the greatest athlete. In fact, I always reminded Scott that he wasn't quick enough to beat his brother out of the womb.

His identical twin, Art, squeezed ahead in the first official race of their lives. Minutes later, their mother gave birth to a backfield. Scott grew up, grew healthy, and yet when it came to sports, remained a kid -both in his approach and, unfortunately, his ability. He loved to take his turn with the Whiffle ball bat, no matter how often he whiffed, which was plenty. He played football in the backyard, always steering clear of the big old oak tree and never forgetting that any contact with the hedges meant he was out of bounds. Still, he was easy to tackle from behind and tough to throw to when you had to score before dinner.

And basketball. I mean, it was a little painful and a lot funny to see him put the ball through the hoop. A field goal is what they call it, and yet he stood a better chance of kicking one than swishing one.

So very early, it was evident that Scott wasn't going to be Scott Skiles or Scott Stevens or Jake Scott, not even Dennis Scott. He peaked quickly, around age 12, just past Little League and not quite long enough for junior high. Give him credit for recognizing his limits, and us for constantly riding him about them.

As it turned out, we weren't looking in the right place. His athletic ability was all in the fingers. They were as nimble as Walter Payton's feet. He used them to play the drums, so well he could put on a show with the bongos or a snare. His fingers could strum a guitar, too, so beautifully that you couldn't help but hum along. Mostly, he was best on a piano. Those fingers did gymnastics on the keys, bouncing between the black and the white, always in harmony, always in sync.

Music became his passion and a good part of his life. For many hours every day, while we were out playing catch, he was inside playing tunes. He and his brother were never discovered soon enough for us, but in time, some record labels did notice. He began producing melodies for singers during weeknights and playing the clubs on weekends. It supported him for more than a decade, until his fingers grew restless and discovered computers.

When it came to keyboards, he was no different on a Dell than a Steinway. In a remarkably short time, he knew just about every circuit, software, chip and chat room. He gained enough knowledge to create a new career. By now, you figured he'd left sports behind, when in truth, he knew it like never before.

I've met very few people who could carry such an intelligent and lengthy conversation about boxing, basketball and football, three sports that completely escaped him as a kid. He knew the Redskins would turn into a comedy troupe the moment Daniel Snyder bought them and became king. He knew about the WBC and IBF and more letters in boxing than I know in the alphabet. Plus, I can honestly say he was one of the few who didn't believe, from the start, that Chris Webber and Juwan Howard would make any Washington fan forget Elvin Hayes and Wes Unseld.

The last time we laughed hard was while we sat and watched the Wizards play. The game was hilarious enough. But we found humor in real topics that night: our kids, people we knew, things we did, stuff we saw on TV. It was a typical moment that captured his only mood. He was fun, peaceful, provocative.

He was also my little brother and best friend. Scott Powell arrived to work on time at the Pentagon on Tuesday. When the plane hit, a woman who sat across from him watched Scott jump over a desk.

Then, through the smoke, she was certain Scott saw the exit down the hall.

He tried. He just couldn't run fast enough, or far enough, into my arms.