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Chucky Mullins and Brad Gaines Story
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Chucky Mullins and Brad Gaines Story


Oct 1, 2014, 11:00 PM

I saw 29803_Tig® post about the ESPN story on Chucky Mullins and Brad Gaines below. It's a great story and it brought back memories to an article I read a very long time ago. I saved it for posterity and a good thing too as I can't seem to find it in its entirety on the internet anymore. Here it is for all of you. A tragic, wonderful, touching story.

------------------------------------

Eternal devotion

Sporting News, The, May 28, 2001 by Dennis Dillon

Born of tragedy, the improbable kinship between Brad Gaines and Chucky Mullins endures for reasons no one can comprehend.

Shortly after 5 a.m. on the first Sunday in May, Brad Gaines stands at the counter of a Waffle house in Hermitage, Tenn., shaking Tabasco sauce on an egg sandwich. In walks a man whom Gaines recognizes as a patron of his fitness center.

"Big John," Gaines says in a friendly greeting.

"You're up awful early," says Big John. "Must be going fishing."

Gaines smiles knowingly. He wraps up his sandwich, grabs a cup of coffee and heads out the door.

Three hours later, Gaines steers his blue Dodge Ram pickup onto a one¬lane road and turns off the ignition. He has arrived at his destination. This is no fishing hole. It's a cemetery in Ruseville, Ala., (population for the third weekend in August, when it swells to three times that size for the annual Franklin County Watermelon Festival).

Gaines has come to visit an old friend, Chucky Mullins. Many of us can't find the lime to drive just a few miles to the grave of a loved one. Gaines knew Mullins less than a year and a half, yet he has been making this 350¬mile round¬trip pilgrimage three times a year since 1991.

He always comes on the same three dates: May 6, October 28 and December 25. The Christmas trip has become a bit of a sore point between Gaines and his wife, Telisha, now that they have two daughters. The family celebrates at home on Christmas morning. Around noon, Telisha packs up the girls and the gifts and drives over to her mom and dad's house. That's when Brad leaves for Russellville.

It's not that Gaines dislikes his in¬laws. He just feels an obligation to visit Chucky. "Christmas is probably the most popular, coveted, important holiday of the year," he says. "I just want him to have somebody there on Christmas."

Last year, Telisha asked Brad why he couldn't go the day before Christmas, or the day after. He wouldn't compromise. "For the next 50 years, I'm going Christmas Day," he said determinedly.

Telisha doesn't understand. Neither do Gaines' parents, his brothers nor his friends. Nobody comprehends this unique kinship, which was born of tragedy and brought together two young men from diverse worlds. Gaines, who is white, grew up in a nurturing, middle¬class environment in burgeoning metropolitan Nashville and almost always has found success whether in athletics or business. Mullins grew up black in a hardscrabble Alabama small town. He straggled much of his short life and lost both his grandmother and mother when he was a young teen.

Nobody can understand because Gaines won't let them. It is a sanctum in his world that he keeps impenetrable. And it comes with a heavy cross, one Gaines has chosen to bear by himself for nearly 12 years.

Gaines gets out of his truck and gathers his materials: a large blue towel flung over his right shoulder, a smaller green¬and¬white striped towel in one hand, a plastic bottle of Clorox in the other hand and a bottle of glass cleaner hooked in the left pocket of his khaki shorts. He heads toward Mullins' grave, which nestles in a small valley and is bounded on the far side by a line of bushes and tall trees that separate the cemetery from a line of houses.

Dew clings to the grass. The sun, still rising, peeks through the trees. Birds chirp and sing. From the other side of the trees, sporadic sounds announce that Russellville is waking up. A dog barks. A woman coughs. A hammer echoes.

A distinguished-looking brown granite headstone marks Mullins' grave. A football is etched in each of the top corners; one bears a 38, his uniform number in college; the other is a 2, the number he wore at Russellville High. A color picture of Mullins, smiling and wearing a tuxedo (perhaps from his high school prom), hangs in the middle between the footballs. A vandal has gouged the picture around Mullins' left eye. The inscription on the bottom of the headstone reads: Chucky, Man of Courage.

Mullins' grave, covered by a large, brown granite ledger, is behind the headstone. Curiously, he was buried facing the trees. Next to his headstone is the headstone of his mother, Linda Louise Mullins, who died in January 1983. She was 32.

Gaines begins his ritual. With the blue towel, he wipes grass and dirt off Mullins' headstone. When he steps around to wipe the back of the marker, he bends down and picks up a picture frame, its glass broken into several shards. Inside the frame is an essay rifled "Chucky Mullins¬¬A Battle of Courage." The author's line reads: Bo Reynolds, 12th grade.

"The one person that has made the biggest impression on me was a young man named Roy Lee Mullins, better known as Chucky," the essay begins. It goes on to describe the details of Mullins' injury and the baffle he waged to try to regain his life. Gaines reads some of it out loud. He gets to one part¬¬"I realize that the suffering ... "¬¬and stops. Tears begin to roll down his cheeks. He finishes reading in silence and carefully lays the frame down behind the headstone. He wipes leaves and dirt off the ledger.

Now the real work begins. Gaines sprays Clorox on the top of the headstone and wipes it with the striped towel. He gets down on his hands and knees and sprays the solution on the front of the marker. Taking the corner of the towel, he meticulously wipes the dirt from the groove of every letter. He repeats the process on the ledger. Gaines works in silence, except for an occasional grunt that marks the physical effort he is expending. After that, he deans Linda Mullins' headstone. Then he sprays on the glass cleaner and wipes down everything one more time.

Still, he is not finished. Bending over, his calf muscles bulging, Gaines pulls grass and weeds from around every side of Chucky's headstone and ledger.

Finally, he sits down on top of a stone marker (Horace W. Wilson, 1900-1967) and gazes at Chucky's picture. He meditates and prays. Behind Gaines and to his left, about 20 yards away, a cat peeks out from a headstone and watches him.

After several minutes, Gaines stands up, picks up the towels and cleaning solutions and walks back to his truck. Until next time, old friend.

The first time Gaines came to Russellville was May 11, 1991, a Saturday. It was the day Mullins was buried. After a memorial service at the Russellville High gym, the funeral procession moved to the cemetery. Gaines stayed late. He stood on a hill, watching the caretakers until they had finished filling in the hole. Then, he walked back down to the grave. As he stood there, he felt a tug on the jacket of his suit. He looked down and saw a young, scruffy¬looking neighborhood boy standing next to him.

"Were you on his team?" asked the boy.

"Yes, I was on his team," Gaines replied.

The trip from Nashville to Russellville has own so familiar¬¬he has made it 31 times¬¬that Gaines can prepare an itinerary and hit each checkpoint to the minute. He has never missed a visit. One year, he had a meeting scheduled on the day he was supposed to go to Russellville, so he left Nashville at midnight, cleaned off Mullins' headstone by moonlight and was back in time for the appointment. Gaines doesn't need to mark on a calendar or write himself a note when one of his three visits draws close. That's because Chucky is always on his mind.

"Throughout the day, when I go to bed at night, when I wake up in the morning," he says. "It's never changed."

Gaines can't let go.

He carries a photo of Mullins in his wallet. And he's obsessed with the number 38. The last four numbers of his business telephone number are 3800. He owned a convenience market for about a year and named it "Touchdown 38." Many of his old T¬shirts, which Telisha now wears when she goes running, have 38 written on them.

When Gaines had to change telephone numbers because he moved to a different county a few years ago, he continued to pay for the old number, the last four digits of which were 4438¬¬Gaines wore No. 44 at Vanderbilt, Mullins wore No. 38 at Mississippi¬¬using it just for messages. He didn't want to lose the telephone number, just in case he moved back some day. He finally agreed to relinquish it only after Telisha called it one time and heard a message left by one of Brad's former girlfriends.

It has taken a long time, but Gaines slowly has started to open up and reveal some of his feelings about Chucky. He refers to their relationship as "a modern¬day Brian's Song." Last spring, he invited Telisha to ride with him to Russelville. But she was breast¬feeding Riley, who was only a couple of weeks old, and felt she couldn't leave her. Telisha hopes to accompany Brad when he makes his next trip on October 28.

Gaines, 33, is a family man. He is devoted to Telisha and adores 'his daughters, Taylor, 3, and Riley, 1. He is comfortable driving old, beat¬up vehicles like his track, "Old Blue"¬¬when the tailgate broke off from one of its hinges as he was driving down the highway one day, he pulled off the road and simply ripped it off the other hinge¬¬but makes sure Telisha and the girls travel comfortably and safely in a new minivan.

He is a businessman. He owns "Go Sports and Wellness," a combination state¬of¬the¬art fitness facility and rehabilitation center that is part of the Summit Medical Park in Hermitage, about 15 miles east of downtown Nashville. It is one of four health clubs he has owned over the last nine years. He peruses the business section of the newspaper daily, always on the lookout for property that he can turn into a profit¬making venture.

Gaines is happy with his life. It just didn't turn out the way he thought it would. He had always figured his career would be in football.

It certainly was in his pedigree. Buddy Gaines, his father, played both semipro football and baseball. Ray Oldham, his uncle, played 10 seasons in the NFL as a defensive back. Greg Gaines, his oldest brother, was an NFL linebacker who played for the Seahawks in 1981 and 1983-88. Chris Gaines, another brother, was a linebacker who played four games for the Dolphins in 1988 and three seasons in the CFL. Another brother, Jeff, was an all¬Nashville football player in high school. It figured that Brad, the youngest brother and perhaps the best athlete¬¬he set the career rushing record for Dupont High, playing mostly as a quarterback¬¬would follow that well¬trod path.

But instead of a career, Gaines had only a couple of cameos. In the summer of 1996, he was invited to the Eagles' training camp as a free agent, but he lasted only two weeks. In 1994, he played running back for the Shreveport entry in the CFL before suffering an injury late in the season.

Gaines' zeal for football had diminished long before then. Chucky robbed him of it. How could he feel that same fervor about the sport when Chucky lay there in a hospital bed¬¬paralyzed, helpless, his athletic body withering away?

"It's not the same," he says of his feelings about the sport that had been a coat of arms for the Gaines family. "That passion is not there anymore. It's just a sport. It's a great sport and I love it, but ..."

Gaines first noticed the signs late in Vanderbilt's 1989 season. His mind wasn't on football during practice one week, and he performed poorly in a game against Virginia Tech. After that game, Vanderbilt coach Watson Brown got down on his knees in front of Gaines in the locker room and implored him to snap out of his melancholic mood. Gaines couldn't do it.

After only one day of practice the following spring, Gaines decided to forgo his senior season and declare for the NFL draft. At the time, it was portrayed that he was less than pleased that the Commodores had brought in a new offensive coordinator and were switching to an option attack, which meant he would be more of a blocker than a receiver after leading the SEC in receptions (67) in 1989. But that wasn't the real story.

"My head was just so screwed up," he says now. "People didn't realize that. I think I just kind of wanted my life to move on and to maybe get a different setting."

He went to Indianapolis, where he participated in an NFL Scouting Combine for junior-eligible players, including Jeff George, Junior Seau, Emmitt Smith and Rodney Hampton. Gaines thought he performed as well as anyone in the tests. George, Seau, Smith and Hampton all became first¬round draft picks in 1990, but no NFL team called Gaines' name. Funny thing was, he didn't care.

Gaines tried to reclaim his college eligibility, going so far as to file a lawsuit against the NCAA, but his efforts were rebuffed. He finished his academic work and got his degree in P.E. corporate wellness. All the while, the specter of Chucky's condition was his albatross, and he suffered in solitude, blaming himself.

"Now, I know it wasn't my fault," says Gaines. "I had that guilt by association. I probably should have had professional help, but of course I was not going to do that." He had grown up in a house full of boys, all four were athletes, and a father who rarely bared his soul. "You just learned to be tough," he says.

So Gaines kept his feelings locked inside, refusing to share them with anyone, not even his mother. It wasn't until Betty Gaines read A Dixie Farewell, a 1993 book written by Nashville Tennessean sports columnist Larry Woody that tells the story of Mullins and Gaines, that she realized the depth of Brad's emotions.

"I sat and read that book and I just bawled," she says, "because I didn't know my son was hurting the way he was."

Guilt held a suffocating grip on Gaines' heart for a long time. During those first couple of months after Chucky's injury, he couldn't sleep at night. He wandered around the Vanderbilt campus at 3 and 4 in the morning, asking himself questions that had no answers. In the rare moments when the self¬reproach would ease up, grief or dejection would engulf him. "I went through those feelings of `look what I did,'" Gaines says.

The one thing that lifted Brad's spirits was seeing Chucky and the infectious smile that was a fixture on his face. They visited at Baptist Memorial Hospital in Memphis, where Mullins recovered from his accident; in Birmingham, Ala., where Mullins did his rehabilitative work, and in Oxford, Miss., when Chucky, in an electronic wheelchair, returned to Ole Miss and resumed classes in the fall of 1990. They talked often on the phone. Sports, girlfriends, favorite songs¬¬they never mn out of topics.

Then, one day in early May 1991, Gaines picked up the newspaper and was stunned by what he read. Chucky had slipped into a coma after a blood dot had lodged in his lungs. Gaines immediately telephoned Carver Phillips¬-Phillips and his wife, Karen, had become Mullins' legal guardians after Chucky's mother died¬-and learned that Chucky had been taken back to Baptist Memorial Hospital. Gaines told his mom he was leaving for Memphis. Betty Gaines begged Brad to let her and Buddy go with him.

"Mom, I don't need anybody to go with me,' he said. "It's something I have to do. I just want to be there with him."

For three days and three nights, Gaines kept a vigil at Chucky's bedside, talking to him, even though his friend couldn't hear him. "Once we got him in there, we couldn't get him out," says Phillips, whose family embraced Gaines as if he were one of them.

Finally, doctors told the Phillipses that Chucky was never going to come out of the coma He was brain dead. After much agonizing, the family agreed to allow doctors to disconnect the life-support system from Chucky on May 6. The Phillipses and their friends said their goodbyes first. Then it was only Brad and Chucky left in the room.

Brad hugged Chucky. He held his hand. He said a prayer. He cried. Then the doctors came in and asked Gaines to leave the room while they detached the machinery. Gaines went outside, lay down on the hospital's helicopter pad and wept uncontrollably.

Gaines put a lot of miles on his car over the next few days, driving back home to Nashville, then to Oxford for a memorial service for Mullins, back to Nashville and then to Russellville for the funeral. He had a lot of time for self¬reflection.

He thought about those first few weeks after Chucky's injury. He realized back then that he needed to learn more about Mullins: Who was he? What would his future be like? Did he blame Gaines? Finally, during Christmas break in 1989, Brad worked up the courage to drive to Memphis and visit Mullins in the hospital.

As he got off the elevator on Mullins' floor, a phalanx of Mississippi football players and coaches lined the hallway (Ole Miss had beaten Air Force in the Liberty Bowl the night before). People parted as he walked past them wearing his Vanderbilt jacket. "That's Brad Gaines," he heard them say.

Gaines met Carver Phillips for the first time, at the nurses' station, and asked if he could visit Chucky.

He wasn't prepared for what he saw when he walked into the room. There was a halo apparatus around Mullins' head. Machines were hooked up to him. Tubes were coming out of his body. As Gaines reached down and rubbed Mullins' arm, Mullins tried to tell him something. He could barely talk above a whisper, so Gaines had to bend down and put his ear close to Chucky's mouth.

"It's not your fault."

October 28, 1989. Homecoming in Oxford. Ole Miss vs. Vanderbilt. SEC rivals, a packed stadium, a gorgeous fall afternoon. Vanderbilt coach Watson Brown, standing on the field before the game, looks around and thinks to himself, "Man, this is what it's all about."

As he goes into the tunnel to the locker room after pregame warmups, Brad Gaines, a 6¬foot, 225¬pound junior running back for Vanderbilt, has a soda dumped on him by an Ole Miss fan. It's a reminder of why Gaines dislikes Mississippi. When he was in high school, Gaines made one of his five recruiting trips to Mississippi (he also visited Alabama, BYU, Texas and Vanderbilt) and he hated his weekend in Oxford. He couldn't put his finger on it; it just didn't seem like the right place for him.

Coach Billy Brewer leads Ole Miss onto the field. Next to him is No. 38, Chucky Mullins, a 6¬foot, 175¬pound red¬shirt freshman defensive back whose spunk and determination had persuaded a skeptical Brewer to offer him a scholarship. Mullins isn't real fast, but he's a hitter. He plays mostly in nickel situations. Brewer calls him "a great glue player. He holds your team together."

Early in the game, Vanderbilt moves to the Ole Miss 12, where it faces third¬and¬goal. Gaines lines up in the slot on the right side and runs a vertical route down the middle of the field. As he gets to the 5¬yard line, he stops, whirls around to his left and looks back toward quarterback John Gromos. Mullins, anticipating the play, moves into position.

Gaines leaps for the pass and as he catches it, his momentum carries him backward toward the goal line. He gets his right foot down, then, just as his left foot touches the ground, he feels a helmet in his back. Mullins, his head down, hits Gaines between the 4s on his jersey. The impact snaps Gaines' head back and the ball comes loose. He crawls after it, fearing he has fumbled, but it is ruled an incompletion.

As Gaines gets back to the huddle, he notices that play has stopped. Mullins lies on his back, motionless. Five minutes go by. Then 10 minutes. Finally, Gaines walks over to an official and asks what's going on.

"He can't move," the official says. Gaines feels his heart drop. After a long delay, Mullins is strapped to a spine board and taken off the field on a stretcher.

In the locker room after the game, Gaines asks a reporter about Mullins. "They think he broke his neck," the reporter says. "They life-flighted him to Memphis. They think he's paralyzed."

Later, Gaines finds his parents, who have driven down from Nashville for the game. He tells them what he has learned about Mullins and breaks into tears. With a heavy heart, he boards the Vanderbilt team bus.

Two men, two worlds. Two lives changed irrevocably because of one tragic collision.

It would destroy one man's body. It would torment the other man's Soul.

Dennis Dillon is a senior writer for THE SPORTING NEWS.

COPYRIGHT 2001 Sporting News Publishing Co. COPYRIGHT 2008 Gale, Cengage Learning

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Re: Chucky Mullins and Brad Gaines Story


Oct 1, 2014, 11:18 PM

I watched it last night too. One of the best I have seen.

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Wasn't long ago that southern schools were proud without a conference patch on their jersey.


Oct 1, 2014, 11:24 PM

Great story.

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Well said. +1...***


Oct 1, 2014, 11:39 PM



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Either way, Rudy was offsides


Oct 1, 2014, 11:30 PM

And the Waterboy should've been flagged for targeting.

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