There were 1,000 party guests, probably more. A bachelor party for a friend. Spectacular setting–a winery on Middle Bass Island, maybe 6 miles into Lake Erie off the Ohio shore. A perfect spot, a perfect night.
It was the summer of 2000. Joe Jurevicius would soon begin his third season as a New York Giants wide receiver. Joe had grown up just outside Cleveland on the lakefront, so he was familiar with the island. One of the Browns’ offensive linemen, Steve Zahursky, would also be coming to the party. Joe couldn’t wait.
There was a terrace, where many party guests mingled. It was elevated, oh, perhaps 20 feet above the ground. Joe was not on it. About 100 other guests were.
When it collapsed.
Joe couldn’t grasp what was happening. Human beings were plummeting, screaming. He saw huge chunks of concrete falling, landing atop them. The only way he could describe it: “There was chaos.”
A large man, 6 feet 5 inches and 230 pounds, with large hands and a white knight tattooed on his arm, Joe did what he could. He began pulling bodies to safety. He personally rescued several. But there was this other young guy, Mark Reighard, who at 29 was only a few years older than Joe.
Joe held his hand. He was holding it when the stretcher came, when someone else was trying to resuscitate the fallen man. Mark Reighard died.
There were a reported 75 injuries that July night, but only a single death. Joe Jurevicius witnessed that one. It taught him how precious and fragile life can be, how “very, very important it is for everyone to make the best of every day.”
He swore he’d never forget.
Plenty of talk
On the first official day of Super Bowl week, the star receivers from both teams have shown up to soak up the sights and the lights. Jerry Rice and Tim Brown of the Oakland Raiders are much in demand. Keyshawn Johnson of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers is flapping his gums. So is his teammate, Keenan McCardell.
Joe Jurevicius isn’t here.
Not this first day, anyway. He is in Ohio with his wife and child–because his child is ill. Because life is precious and fragile. Because football is only a game.
A week before training camp began, Joe married his sweetheart, Meagan Dewey. It would be his first NFL season since leaving Penn State playing for any team other than the Giants.
Tampa Bay signed him as a free agent. Joe had caught only two touchdown passes for the Giants in three seasons. But he was tall and a quick study, and he had an unselfish attitude. Joe’s the kind of guy who says things like: “There is such a thing called blocking. There is such a thing called diversion routes, to get other people open to score touchdowns.”
Joe likes to bring up his upbringing. He is a Lithuanian from what he calls a blue-collar family. The white knight tattooed on his right bicep is Vytis, an ancestral folk hero, a symbol of valor who rides a white steed and carries a silver sword. A reminder of his roots.
As for the name Jurevicius, it’s a noble one, too, as rugged an NFL name as any since Butkus and Nitschke. It is usually mispronounced “Jur-ah-vish-us” by the TV announcers, when in fact Joe’s family prefers Yer-a-vish-us. But his name doesn’t get called that often anyway, so it doesn’t bother him. It sure did get called once on Sunday afternoon in Philadelphia, however.
Third-and-2 from Tampa’s own 24-yard line. Bucs trailing the Eagles 7-3 in a fight for the NFC championship. Brad Johnson drops back to pass. Can’t find anybody. Suddenly sees tall No. 83, waving the right arm with the white knight tattooed on it. Throws, connects, watches Jurevicius go 71 yards to the Philadelphia 5.
“One catch and he’s Superman,” Johnson would say afterward. “That one catch is going to go down in Tampa Bay history.”
Indeed, without it the Bucs might never have gone on to win 27-10 and go to a Super Bowl for the first time. Lucky for them Joe showed.
Because he nearly didn’t.
A day before the game, Joe Michael Jurevicius was back in Ohio with his newborn, Michael, this blue-eyed marvel to whom Meagan had given birth on the previous Tuesday, a month prematurely. This poor infant who wasn’t looking very strong.
Joe wasn’t sure he should play. He missed three days of practice. His coach, Jon Gruden, left the decision entirely up to him.
What made up his mind was this:
“Michael’s been fighting all week. For everything he’s been through, the least I could do is get on a plane, try to put everything behind me and play football. My family pushed me out the door. When my kid gets healthy and looks back on all this, I want him to be proud of this moment.”
Even so, Jurevicius wasn’t sure.
Not until he telephoned the hospital before the game and a nurse told him Michael “was a fraction of an inch better.”
A game of inches. Sometimes that’s what life is, as well as football.
“That was all I needed to hear,” Joe said. He’d go out there and play his heart out.
Reaching a goal
Then came this week. Super Bowl week. A week he’d fantasized about ever since catching passes and playing defensive back and doing the punting for Mentor Lake (Ohio) Catholic High, on two state championship squads. A game a guy needs to be both physically and psychologically prepared to play.
Mixing his metaphors, Joe said if he “could bottle what I went through and make a roller coaster out of it, I’d be a billionaire. I’d have every theme park in the world coming after me.”
By Tuesday morning, he was in town to play.
“My wife said he opened his eyes last night, and I just hated to miss that,” Jurevicius said.
But still he would play one more game, do it for his son. “I mean, that’s why we have babies, right?” he asked.
“If my son wasn’t as stable as he is right now, there might be a question. One day he’s better, the next hour he’s better, the next hour something needs to be done. That’s all I can ask for. My son’s a fighter and he’s given me inspiration, and now I have work to do.
“When you picture a baby, you picture them being held and tickled and everything else. I don’t like seeing this with anybody’s kid, let alone mine. Having tubes in him, monitors on him, that’s a very tough thing to take. But this is the last week of work. By next week my son will probably be tired of seeing me.”
He dreams the white knight’s dream, of saving lives, of brighter tomorrows. Maybe he will be a hero come Sunday, maybe just another man standing on a field of battle, tired and hurt. For a week, he can take it. He can even joke about it.
“My next battle,” Jurevicius said, “is for him [Michael] to say `Dad’ first before he says `Mom.'”
How people pronounce the name Jurevicius can never compare with that. Dad will do just fine.
