Part Three: The poster on the wall

In another installment of our award-winning "heartfelt features" series, which perfects the long-standing journalistic tradition of writing dramatically about some stuff, we examine the damage fantasy sports is doing to American society. Today's story is the last of a three-part series.

The posters on the wall are the only sign anything is amiss, at least at first glance.

The apartment is well-kept, with dishes arranged in cleanly-dusted cabinets and a sanitary bathroom with a pleasing aqua blue peppered throughout. As single-bedroom units with a male tenant go, you could do much worse.

Affixed to the wall in David Benson's home office is a poster of Brian Westbrook, running back for the Philadelphia Eagles. It's one of those wall decorations a 10-year-old boy might have on his bedroom wall, with bulky lettering over an image of Westbrook cutting upfield.

The same poster can be found in Benson's bedroom. And another in the living room. And a different poster -- also of Westbrook -- can be found on the kitchen ceiling.

Suddenly, an onlooker becomes aware of other Westbrook references -- three identical bobbleheads atop the entertainment center, a photo on the desktop computer wallpaper, the Brian Westbrook jerseys hanging in the closet.

"First round pick, every year," said Mark Melheusen, a neighbor with whom Benson participated in an annual fantasy football league. "It never mattered what pick he had or what conventional draft strategy tells you. He always took Westbrook."

Harmless enthusiasm? Hardly. Witness the fixating madness of David Benson.

WEST OF EDEN

Benson doesn't currently reside here, instead sitting in a Bowie prison, awaiting the outcome of an appeal after being sentenced to five years for a parole violation. Benson sheepishly admits that he's made a handful of mistakes, and says he hopes he can get another chance.

"I never meant for any of this to happen," he said in an exclusive interview with Flotsam Media last week. "Especially the pain I caused Brian; that was totally out of line. I just lost touch with the things that were really important. I think Brian is a great guy, and I wish I had exercised better judgment."

He speaks as if he knows Westbrook, but the truth is, the two have never had a conversation. But Westbrook knows Benson, and the relationship is far from friendly. Benson's constant correspondence, in-person confrontations, and comments in public forums have gotten him to this crossroads.

"Everybody has a guy -- we call him the Sugar Daddy -- that they draft year after year," Melheusen said. "Nobody's ever taken it this far, though. David just let fantasy sports go way too far."

THE FAN

Nobody in the fantasy league is sure why Benson became so attached to Westbrook. It wasn't as if 2004 -- the first year of the league -- was the ideal year for the birth of such an obsession. A late-season injury to the Eagles running back cost Benson in the playoffs, though Westbrook had been a key cog in his regular-season championship team.

Despite the injury, Benson nabbed Westbrook with the sixth pick in the 2005 draft, and a 120-yard performance in the final week of the regular season gave Benson a playoff berth.

"That was when he really became a Westbrook fan," former league member Erik LaPorta said. "He never shut up about it, like Westbrook was the best running back in the game or something. He couldn't stay healthy though, that was the thing. I mean, he didn't do well at the end of the year because he was always hurt, but David loved that guy."

Westbrook was again a non-factor in the 2005 fantasy playoffs -- which coincided with the final two weeks of the NFL regular season -- but Benson was in the stands when the Eagles faced Seattle in the second-to-last week of the year, cheering on his favorite football player.

Westbrook ran for 17 yards and left the game with injury. A frustrated Benson waited after the game for hours, hovering near the player's parking lot until Westbrook emerged. Benson shouted at the player, asking in a hurt tone of voice why Westbrook hadn't gone back into the game.

"It was really kind of surreal," said brother Toby Benson, who traveled with David to see that game. "I tried to tell him that they didn't care about his fantasy team, but he was convinced they could do something about it."

The letters began a week thereafter, begging Westbrook to perform well for fantasy league purposes. They continued well into the offseason, with Benson promising that Westbrook would again be a first-round pick.

Mailroom attendant Jerome Barfield -- the lone Philadelphia Eagles employee willing to speak on record -- said the letters became so frequent, that everyone in the office knew the name of David Benson.

"That guy was crazy, dude," Barfield said. "He was saying some really absurd things, like the lengths he'd go to for Brian Westbrook and stuff. Have you seen Fatal Attraction? This was like that."

TOO FAR

If it had stopped at the borderline-entertaining letters, maybe it would have been no big deal. But in 2006 -- a year in which Westbrook really began to blossom -- Benson started showing up at team hotels. He struck up a conversation with Westbrook in the cereal aisle at a Philly grocery store, he found a way into a team postgame party, and he emerged from the swimming pool at the Embassy Suites when Eagles players were lounging before facing the Giants the next day.

Benson was warned several times, and the first restraining order went into effect shortly after a 122-yard performance against Dallas in the second-to-last week of the NFL season. A grateful Benson, who moved into the finals as a result, parachuted into an Eagles walk-through later that week.

But Benson violated his restraining order, and served a four-week prison term in early 2007 when Westbrook sat out a game with an injury. Benson appeared at Westbrook's rehabilitation clinic, carrying a sign that said "Get Well Soon, Brian."

He was released on parole in time to see Westbrook kneel on the one-yard line instead of surging into the end zone against the Cowboys in the third-to-last week of the NFL season, a maneuver that cost Benson a playoff spot.

The response: a series of phone calls to all of Westbrook's family members, as well as some of his neighbors, two former lovers and one of Westbrook's old college professors.

"In my mind, I wanted anyone who had his ear to know that I couldn't allow him to do that to me," Benson said. "I wanted him to know that I was so disappointed. We've been through so many years together, and I just couldn't believe he had done that to me."

Benson's case is another sign of the dangers fantasy sports bring to American society.

"He's obviously a very sick man, but it's the same argument as firearms," sports psychologist Barry Campbell said. "Is it the user, or the weapon being used? Fantasy sports have caused the lines between reality and non-reality to blur, and athletes are possessed objects instead of humans. David Benson simply could not tell the difference. I pity him, really.

"Also, I would never draft Westbrook over Tomlinson."

Part Two: A missing man

In another installment of our award-winning "heartfelt features" series, which perfects the long-standing journalistic tradition of writing dramatically about some stuff, we examine the damage fantasy sports is doing to American society. Today's story is Part Two of a three-part series.

Where is Jon Gault?

It's a question wife Marie Gault has been asking for more than six months, but in a way, she's afraid to know the answer. The letter Jon sends her in the mail every other month or so reassures Marie that he's not in a ditch somewhere, but the postmarks always come from different locations around the Midwest, and he never gives hints of his whereabouts.

"He could send me an e-mail -- lord knows he spends the majority of his time in front of a computer screen," Marie said. "But he knows I'll be able to trace him then, and I guess he assumes I'd want that. I do, as it turns out. I really just want him to snap out of it and come home."

But Marie concedes that it's more than just a phase with her estranged husband. It's an obsession, and it all began with an invitation to join his office fantasy baseball league.

'NOT REALLY FOR ME'

The Gaults' story is another example in a long line of case studies showcasing the destructive nature of fantasy sports in relationships. In a remarkable dose of irony, they met at a sports bar in Indiana, when she was there to cheer on her beloved Indiana University in the NCAA Tournament, and he was merely there with friends.

"He liked sports, but he wasn't as passionate about it as I was," she said. "Not that I was a lunatic about it, but I loved the Hoosiers, and he was more like the guy who watched sports because it was something to do with the guys. Still, we hit it off instantly."

They were married two years later and by then, many of Marie Thompson's preferred sports interests had rubbed off on her husband. He started wearing crimson and cream on Indiana game nights, and he had become a relatively informed fan of the Indianapolis Colts and Chicago White Sox.

"It definitely got to the point where he was more into it than I was," Marie said. "But I didn't mind, of course. He was a guy, and guys like sports, so it seemed very normal to me."

She paid attention to his love for statistics. Jon was an actuary, and already had a keen interest in numbers and trends, so sports seemed to supplement his awareness of numbers.

"I knew some of my friends were in a fantasy baseball league, and I figured that would be perfect for him," Marie said. "But he said he liked cheering for teams and not individual players. He said, 'It's not really for me.'"

THE GAMES BEGIN

Somewhat on a whim, co-worker Brad Zystrad opened a fantasy baseball league for the 2007 season, and when Jon Gault received the e-mail, he found himself accepting immediately.

"He told me it was his first fantasy baseball league, so he was pretty excited," Zystrad said. "I've seen it before where guys get giddy once they think they have a handle on the procedures and stuff. He started asking a lot of questions about rules, and then he started talking about guys he thought were good late-round sleepers within a week."

Marie noticed the change immediately. Her husband started explaining the intricacies of the game to her, and she listened as attentively as she could despite her limited interest.

"I thought it was cute, to be honest," Marie said. "I was glad he found such a fun hobby. I pretended to be interested, and I guess I was a little bit. But if he wasn't talking about White Sox, I didn't care at all, and even then, I didn't know every player on the team."

Gault's interest level rose immediately and suddenly. Marie said he'd spend hours on the computer, neglecting household chores at times to constantly peruse stats and box scores. He began calling fantasy league members at all hours, sometimes at work and sometimes an hour or two after the couple was traditionally in bed.

She said it truly began to worry her when he backed out of a trip to visit her parents, feigning an illness.

"I really thought he was sick, but he spent most of that weekend checking his fantasy team," she said. "It occurred to me that he had made up the illness, and he was really hurt when I confronted him."

To Marie, the hobby crossed over into obsession at the point they began to discuss children, and she balked at the idea of getting pregnant, especially after Jon started talking about having a son and buying him a Johan Santana jersey.

Santana pitched for the Minnesota Twins, a team that was actually one of Chicago's rivals. But Santana was on his fantasy team.

"There was something that told me it wasn't the right time," she said. "The Jon I married had been a little harder to reach right then. It frightened me, I won't lie."

JON GAULT DISAPPEARS

Marie went from understanding wife to avid opponent of fantasy sports.

She called Zystad and tried to have her husband taken out of the league, a maneuver that led to yet another argument when her husband found out.

"I tried to tell him I was concerned that he was taking it all a bit too seriously," Zystad said. "But he just laughed it off. I stopped being subtle and finally told him his wife had come to me, and he was furious."

She even contemplated destroying the computer, but she knew he would find a way of feeding his habit. He could check his team on his cell phone and work computer. She said the last straw came when the couple was standing up at her niece's baptism.

"He got a cell phone alert that some player had gotten hurt, and he actually left the service to call a friend to get the guy out of his lineup," Marie said, with tears welling in her eyes. "Nothing else was more important to him than fantasy sports. Not even eating."

Marie said she could barely talk to her husband without some reference to fantasy sports coming up, and in defense, she stopped talking to him at all. Finally, she did destroy the computer, and did so without any explanation or apology. She prepared herself to leave him, but she didn't have to. On the morning of August 18, Jon Gault disappeared.

"I assumed he was in the garage or in another room checking his team on his cell phone," she said. "But he wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere."

Jon left a message on the counter, saying he needed some "time to think," and he did not call his wife until two days later. He told her he was fine and was staying with friends for a while. He called once more later in the month, and then stopped communicating at all, except for the letters that began to trickle in.

"I don't know what he's doing for money," she said, noting that he offered no notice to his employers before disappearing. "I don't know where he's living or how he even gets his Internet access. But I bet he gets the last part. I'm afraid that might be the most important part to him."

Have you seen Jon Gault?

"He betrayed what made fantasy sports great."

In another installment of our award-winning "heartfelt features" series, which perfects the long-standing journalistic tradition of writing dramatically about some stuff, we examine the damage fantasy sports is doing to American society. Today's story is Part One of a three-part series.

Doug McAvoy, 29, can't pick up the phone and give Jason Schulters a call, even if he wants to.

Any hopes of a redemptive moment, a heart-to-heart initiated by one side of this bizarre standoff, were deleted along with Schulters' phone number when McAvoy wiped it from his address book.

"I don't know any of these numbers by heart, so if they're not in my phone, then I don't know them," McAvoy said, smiling as he perused a list of American League sleepers on one of several fantasy sports Web sites he frequents. "I'm sure I could get the number from someone if I really wanted it. But I knew when I erased him that I would never want to speak to him again. And so far, that's still the way it is."

They are a troubling cautionary tale, in a world where fantasy sports have become a staple in the lives of countless Americans, including what seems like the majority of males ages 18-35. As the trend reaches its pinnacle in the new millennium, so does the higher frequency of unhealthy abuse, and borderline obsession.

"It creates a fantastic environment for people, and sometimes the borders between fantasy and reality are blurred," said Dr. Mitchell Marbles, a Stanford University professor who has studied the effects of fantasy sports on society. "There is a lot of strategy and role playing, which can be beneficial, but there is also a high quotient of egoism and hyper-masculinity, and sometimes that can be very explosive."

Fantasy sports is at the center of the estranged relationship between McAvoy and Schulters. Some view the game as harmless fun. Others view it as the new Dungeons and Dragons, embracing a new kind of nerd. But others see it as one of the most destructible forces in modern America. Like poverty, only digital.

DAWN OF AN OBSESSION

Schulters and McAvoy were inseparable in college, both coming off the bench for the Sandusky State baseball team and spending hours playing baseball together and rooming together. They shared a fandom of the Cleveland Indians, and often attended games at Jacobs Field.

"Sports is common ground for a lot of guys," Schulters said, sipping his malt liquor as he watched the first round of NCAA Tournament. "For Doug and me, sports was as important as anything. People say you should care more about politics and what's going on overseas and stuff like that, but I can't do it. To me, ESPN will always be more important than CNN or C-SPAN."

Schulters watches his game with a keen eye, having involved himself in two separate "NCAA player drafts," which rewards the competitor with the most combined points among 10 drafted players in the tourney. He estimates he participates in 16-20 fantasy sports teams each year.

As juniors in college, Schulters said he and McAvoy joined their first fantasy baseball league, a crudely-organized creation operated by one of the duo's dorm neighbors.

"We were into it right from the get-go, but Yahoo! Sports was just getting started and this guy kept a lot of the stats by hand," Schulters said. "We thought he was crazy, but it was a lot of fun. We would trade superstars like nothing, never thinking twice, because it was such a new thing. We were just having a good time with it."

By the time Schulters and McAvoy graduated, fantasy leagues began cropping up regularly on Internet sites, and participation began to spike. In order to stay in touch with some friends from school, Schulters coordinated a "dynasty league," in which three players were kept by each team from year to year.

"For a couple years, that league was one of the coolest things I'd been a part of," McAvoy said. "We ended up creating a league for the same eight guys in three different sports -- football, basketball, and baseball -- and we even had traveling plaques for the winners. It was a hobby of ours. We were all really into it, and that made it something special."

Both men admit they found themselves preoccupied with fantasy sports a lot. Schulters was warned by his boss at work for checking fantasy updates on his office computer too frequently, and McAvoy began subscribing to several fantasy sports newsletters, and even writing one of his own. He joined four other football leagues for fun each year, often with the intention of dominating lesser-skilled players in "open" leagues, in which a mostly anonymous collection of owners took part.

"I played in a lot of leagues, but nothing compared to the college one," McAvoy said. "That was my only keeper league, and it's the one that I considered the major league. All the other leagues were just tuneups and goofing around."

The college league -- affectionately referred to as the Sandusky Oldschool Fantasy Association (SOFA) -- ultimately became the wrench that tore apart this friendship.

FRIENDS NO MORE

Both men married their college sweethearts three years after graduation, and both served as best man in the other's wedding. They bought houses not far from campus, two towns over, and lived within a mile of each other. Most weekends were spent playing cards or going out to dinner with spouses in tow, and the women would generally talk about the events of the day while the men discussed -- what else -- fantasy sports.

But in 2006, something went wrong. McAvoy was coming off a spectacular fantasy football campaign, in which the running back tandem of LaDainian Tomlinson and Larry Johnson had led him to an easy league championship. McAvoy had used a late draft pick the year before to get Johnson, who was suddenly thrust into fantasy stardom after an injury to Chiefs' teammate Priest Holmes, and McAvoy kept both superstars heading into a record-setting 2006.

"We gave him his props -- he built that team fair and square and it was great that he had so much success," Schulters said. "The buy-in was up to $100, so he made about $700 out of the deal. I was happy for him, but it's no fun if someone has all the power."

Shrewd trades had given McAvoy an unstoppable keeper assembly of Peyton Manning and Antonio Gates to accompany Tomlinson and Johnson, and other members of the league came to Schulters asking that the league go back to "re-draft" status, allowing everyone to draft anew and throw keepers back into the general pot.

"They just wanted the playing field to be leveled a little bit," Schulters said. "I could totally understand -- I mean, who wants to fork over $100 when it looks like they have no chance in hell of winning? Doug's a great guy, but he gloats a lot when he's ahead, and I think it was just becoming a bit unbearable. Guys were threatening to back out, and I didn't want to lose the league, so I made a decision."

Realizing the move would greatly disappoint McAvoy and force him to surrender the players that had allowed him to win back-to-back league titles, Schulters put the "re-draft" concept to vote and it passed, 7-1.

"Football didn't just re-organize itself because the New England Patriots won a bunch of Super Bowls," McAvoy said. "Baseball doesn't just call a do-over because the Yankees have all the power. I put in all the hard work and sweat and foresight, and I was getting penalized because I was too good. It's not fair."

For the first time since college, the format of the SOFA changed, and McAvoy was the most outspoken opponent.

"People look at that $100 dollar entry fee and say it's a small price to pay for fun," McAvoy said. "Well I look at that $700 as a mortgage payment. They're stealing money out of my pocket. Once you start messing with my finances, then I get really upset."

McAvoy confronted Schulters when the men and their wives went out to dinner the following weekend. He pushed his former best friend to the ground and was asked to leave by restaurant management. His wife didn't speak to him for several days, but he responded the way he always did to newfound stress -- by pouring over rankings, cheat sheets, draft strategies and anything else that reminded him of fantasy sports.

"Fantasy sports is kind of a sanctuary for me," he said. "It's what I'm good at, and it's like listening to soothing music or watching your favorite television program. It helps me relax. When it gets taken out from under me like that, it makes me feel really alone and angry. I know that's hard for a lot of people to understand."

THE DISABLED LIST

A rift has developed between these two men, one that McAvoy says will never be repaired. Schulters hopes he's wrong, but he's not knocking down McAvoy's door, either.

"I was really irritated at first, because I felt like he was crossing that line where fantasy sports shouldn't interfere with real life," Schulters said. "But our league is better off without him, really. It's more laid-back now -- guys don't have to worry that they're going to get a call at 2 a.m. from Doug, and get badgered about making a trade before finally agreeing so they could go back to sleep."

Schulters also said McAvoy could not have a normal conversation without referencing fantasy sports, and so it wasn't a big deal when McAvoy and his wife moved several towns away, or when a series of DVDs on loan from McAvoy suddenly disappeared from Schulters' living room, with the back door left broken in.

"It would get to the point where I'd want to talk about his wife, and he's say 'She's fine, but did you see what Manny Ramirez did yesterday?' Schulters said. "The guy just doesn't know when to stop. Sometimes, you have to let people like that go."

Gone in a flash

There is a plaque on one of the facility walls at the RCA Dome in Indianapolis, home of the NFL Scouting Combine, and a litany of NFL superstars can find their names chiseled into the sleek gold-plated tags.

Bo Jackson. Randy Moss. Deion Sanders. Devin Hester. Reggie Bush.

Eric Henderson sits on the crippled makeshift bleachers overlooking the combine field’s northwest corner, and he knows each and every name. He knows them in order, and he knows the values associated with each one. He knows he can find his name among them, mounted in the lofty pole position among Indy’s greatest engines.

On the list of 40-yard dash times recorded at the NFL combine, no one has been able to match Henderson’s 1998 time.

It was the stuff of legends when the former cornerback from relatively unknown Sandusky State ran a 4.12. Yet, Henderson is here at the combine, watching the proceedings just as he has each of the last six years, wondering what could have been. Because as fast as Henderson was, his career torpedoed out of sight just as quickly.

“I think I’m probably the NFL’s fastest cautionary tale,” Hederson says. This is a line he has used many times before. And it fits him as snugly as the red Under Armour workout shirt he is wearing today.

COLD DAY IN INDY

Henderson was a relative unknown at the 1998 combine, lost among the blue chippers from Miami, Michigan, Oklahoma and Tennessee. “Where was Sandusky State?” his fellow NFL hopefuls would ask, and he would give them their answer, knowing the answer would fall on deaf ears. It was just polite conversation, after all. These guys had their eyes set on the NFL since the day they stepped onto a football field, and no small-timer from Somewhere U. was going to register on the radar.

Cornerbacks were solid at the combine, and Henderson found himself brushing shoulders with future first-rounders R.W. McQuarters, Terry Fair and Duane Starks. Heisman winner Charles Woodson was also in attendance, yukking it up with Peyton Manning and no doubt postulating over which way the locals would go with the first overall pick – Leaf or Manning? Henderson was oblivious to that discussion. He was just hoping some team saw him and thought enough of him to use a late-round pick.

“I knew I could fly, and my senior year had been really solid,” Henderson said, shielding his eyes from the overhead lights to watch Arkansas running back Darren McFadden run Henderson’s featured event. “I just didn’t think anybody had seen me play at Sandusky. I mean, the game film I had was shot by handheld camcorders, man. We didn’t exactly get any face-time on the big networks.”

McFadden surges through the 40, and Henderson smiles. He’s impressed.

“He’s fast, boy. Not as fast as me, but he’s fast.”

It was a cold day when Henderson ran the same event in 1998, so much so that officials had considered moving the dash until later in the combine week, when bodies weren’t so rigid in the late-February chill. But the clocks were ready to register by 2 p.m. Henderson was somewhere in the middle of the pack, and when he heard his name called and stepped to the line, he had what he views as a near-religious experience.

“I could feel everyone who has ever supported me,” Henderson said. “I felt God, my mom, my brothers and sisters, my coaches, my third grade teacher, and old-man Jimmy Davis from down the street. I heard their voices and saw their faces. It was weird, man. I just knew something positive was going to happen. I don’t know if it was a religious awakening or anything like that, but I knew it was my time to shine.”

The pistol sounded with a bang, and Henderson was off.

THE AFTERMATH

When he crossed the line, there was no loud cheer of celebration. Instead, there was silence.

“They had all been talking and waiting for their turn; I don’t think anybody was really paying attention,” Henderson said. “But then they saw the 4.12, and I think that made everybody stop for a second.”

When Henderson turned around to see the digital readout, he said he nearly felt his knees give out. He didn’t know the last time someone had timed him in the 40-yard dash – maybe high school – because he viewed it as superstitious to time himself in the weeks leading up to the event.

“I didn’t want to feel like I was chasing a clock,” Henderson said. “It’s like that guy who’s trying to lose weight and stands on the scale every day, and gets disappointed when he doesn’t lose a half-pound or even gains a pound. I knew I wasn’t going to get faster right away, so I kept training without that stopwatch restraint. I had no idea what I was going to run.”

Henderson said he never thought his NFL candidacy hinged so heavily on the 40-yard dash, or else he may have viewed it differently.

“Absolutely, everyone’s eyes opened when that reading came out,” said one official who declined to be identified. “You can’t just find 4.12 guys on trees. I mean, show me that tree. I think it’s safe to say his stock rose faster than anyone I’ve ever seen, and you better believe that pun is intended. It’s just too bad how it all turned out.”

Suddenly, Eric Henderson’s name was gracing the lips of every NFL team official on hand. The Miami Dolphins wanted him to fly in for a workout after the Combine. The San Francisco 49ers wanted to get in touch with his college coordinators. The New York Jets wanted a copy of game film. Henderson was the Combine’s rising star – the kid nobody had seen coming. Not even Mel Kiper.

Mock drafts began projecting Henderson as a late first-rounder before the end of the day. He had gone from the anonymity of Sandusky State to the heavily-saturated world of NFL Draft coverage in 4.12 seconds. Interview requests started pouring in. Autograph requests intensified. “Hey, you’re the fastest guy out there,” one 10-year-old boy had said while offering Henderson his Nerf football and a black Sharpee.

“It felt so good to be wanted,” Henderson said. “It was a dream come true, and it was all because of just 40 small yards. Can you believe that?”

THE MISTAKE

Three days later, Eric Henderson received a phone call in his Indy hotel room.

He was hoping it was Green Bay Packers general manager Ron Wolf, who had contacted Henderson the day before and was interested in bringing him to the Midwest for a second workout. The Lions and Bears were also interested, and he had begun scouting potential cities with his fiancée, Denise. She liked the big city of Chicago, but he was hoping for someplace more subtle, like St. Louis or Cincinnati.

“When I picked up the phone, I remember exactly how I answered it,” Henderson said. “I said 'hello' real excitedly, just like they do in the movies when everything’s going great just before they’re about to hear some bad news on the other end of the line. It was one of those moments when literally everything going on around me was an incredible dream come true, and I was about to wake up.”

And with that, the wake-up call came clanging into Henderson's room. Metaphorically, at least.

The call was from a Combine official, and he said there had been a malfunction with the timing equipment. It seemed there was a chance the readouts could have been inaccurate for athletes whose last names began with G-J, and they were asking that the dash be re-timed. The 40-yard dash time, they said, was by far the most important aspect of the NFL scouting process, and was the entire basis for some team's draft boards. NFL general managers knew that one-tenth of a second over 120 feet could easily mean the difference between a Super Bowl win and missing the playoffs entirely.

Henderson was devastated. On one hand, why should someone who can run 4.12 seconds be afraid of the results? He didn’t want people to think it was a fluke, and he knew he had no proof otherwise unless he re-ran the event. But he had a suspicion this was going to be a big deal. He had a sneaking, awful suspicion that he never ran 4.12 seconds at all.

“They weren’t totally sure the results were inaccurate, so my name is still up on that plaque and everything,” Henderson notes, pointing in the direction of the hallowed piece of memorabilia. “I guess we’ll never really know. I want to show people that I can run that time and be that guy, but I just haven’t been able to make it happen since. Do I feel in my heart that I’m a 4.12 guy? Yes, I do.”

But, tragically, he didn’t feel it in his feet. He ran no faster than 4.54 in several attempts when he returned to the Indy facility.

“It’s like that scene in a gladiator movie, where everyone is cheering but then the gladiator loses or does something wrong, and everyone in the whole place turns their backs to him,” said former college teammate Jerry Wisdom, who added Henderson was the most devastating shutdown corner he had ever seen. “All the attention he’d been getting just went away. I felt for him, big time.”

The calls stopped pouring in. The interest waned. Henderson had been a literal flash in the pan, and mock drafts stopped mentioning his name. It became apparent that Henderson was going to go undrafted, and when the big day rolled around, the proud third son of a fireman was left off everyone’s draft board. He was just a cornerback with average speed from a school nobody had heard of, and he was quickly lost in the shuffle.

“It was a dream I wanted so badly, and I felt like I had been cheated,” Henderson said. “It wasn’t like I lied on my resume or anything. I really was the fastest guy in camp. And the funny thing is, nobody believes me."

He is a good man

So often, when athletes die, the public learns all of the good things about their lives. Sadly, this information comes at a time when we are unable to use it and fully appreciate them as human beings. Before death, an athlete may be known as a reclusive, angry felon. After death, that same man is transformed into a misunderstood, compassionate saint. Should someone really be better off dead? We say "no."

At Flotsam, we want to stop this from happening. So we've decided to profile a current athlete who is alive, so you can further understand him and know who he is. Appreciate this man while you still can. Some day down the dusty road of life, he will die.

Cooper Carlisle is turning a corner.

At age 30, the 8th-year offensive lineman for the Oakland Raiders has his life in order. He lives with his wife, Suzy, in Florida and he has a beautiful daughter, Anna Kate, who just turned 2 years old. She likes the Wiggles.

In an unexpected moment for a man who is 6-foot-5 and nearly 300 pounds, Cooper last week watched the Wiggles with his daughter. He bounced her on his knee as she smiled and enjoyed the show. Cooper talked to her about the shapes and colors on screen. He even hummed along to the familiar tunes.

"He's a truly great man," says Raiders teammate Jeremy Newberry. "He's an amazing teammate, husband and father. I admire him a lot."

Just last week, Cooper met Suzy in the tunnel following a win over the Kansas City Chiefs. He kissed her on the cheek and told her that he loved her. She smiled and told him she loved him, too. She told him he played a good game.

And he did play a good game. A good game, indeed.

This is what life should have been like for Cooper Carlisle. In fact, this is what life is like for Cooper Carlisle.

The devoted family man and active community member is enjoying a fine season with the Raiders, being part of the team's improved rushing attack. He had played for years with the Denver Broncos after being drafted in 2000, out of the University of Florida. His previous seasons had been pretty similar to this one.

Former coach Mike Shanahan understands Carlisle's dedication to football.

"This is a guy who showed up to practice every day," he said. "He did drills. He played in games. He blocked defensive linemen. These are the things that he did, and I acknowledge that they happened."

It's not just football people who know of Carlisle. Community members also remember him.

"I remember Cooper very well," said Ashleigh Putnam, a waitress at an Oakland-area Applebee's. "He came in here with his wife and ordered a chicken sandwich, some onion rings, and a Pepsi. He tipped me almost 25 percent. He was very friendly, and a good customer. It was nice to see him stop by my section."

Incidents like this are not isolated, say those around Carlisle. Despite his quiet demeanor, people have taken notice of his behavior and kindness toward others.

"I remember, like, just last week we had to stop by a gas station before heading out after practice," said teammate Stuart Schweigert. "He filled up with gas and then made eye contact with the attendant as he paid. No complaints or anything. He's just a really friendly guy."

Next time you see Carlisle pancake a defensive tackle and Justin Fargas slip by for a 15-yard gain, appreciate what he does. Notice his stout frame and solid technique. Notice his jovial demeanor and quick smile. Notice that time this week when he opened the door for a woman with an armful of shopping bags. Notice these things. And remember them.

They won't last forever.

A savior in green and yellow

After watching the amazing broadcast on Monday Night Football of Brett Favre and his wife and his mid-game montage video and then seeing his wife in the booth and then in the stands and then the booth again and then Tony Kornheiser's touching tribute and then finding out that he's just like a little kid out there, we were inspired. We knew we needed to know more about this mystery man. We knew that there was a possibility he had inspired hope and brought joy to someone out there. Well, we found that person. Enjoy Flotsam's story of Erica Wallace and her life with Packers' quarterback Brett Favre -- a man who has changed the world, a man with a howitzer arm, a man ... a man greater then Gandhi.

Ixonia, Wisc. – The jersey is grimy and faded, barely resembling the crisp green that Mary Wallace remembers when she made the purchase just two years ago. There is a hole the size of a quarter on the left shoulder, a scar whose origin is unknown to the jersey’s buyer. The garment could probably use a wash, and maybe even a replacement.

But for that to happen, Mary would need to ascertain the consent of 9-year-old Erica, and she’s more likely to hit big on the lottery game she plays once a week, when she splits the price of the ticket with two co-workers at Edna’s Diner on 5th and Main.

“That girl loves that jersey more than anything else in the world,” Mary says with a smile, watching her daughter playing on the dining room table in rural Johnson Creek, Wisconsin. She pauses. “Well, I suppose there is one other thing. One person.”

In all reality, that person should be Mary, a single parent who has been Erica’s sole caretaker since she was born on a rainy night in nearby Delafield. But if you asked the little girl, whose ailments often elude the casual glance of a casual onlooker, she would tell you one other person she loves above all else:

“Bwed Farrrr,” she says, exhibiting her speech impediment but still plenty understandable.

Brett Favre.

MONDAY NIGHT AT THE WALLACE HOUSE

Erica hovers near the small television in the kitchen, a hand-me-down electronic that exists as a far cry from the HDTV flat panels possessed by wealthier neighbors not far from the Pleasant View Trailer Park. But the girl doesn’t bother asking for an upgrade; she’s unable to see the difference anyway. As long as she can hear the commentary, and the roar of the crowd when something goes right at Lambeau Field in Green Bay, she is content.

It’s past Erica’s bedtime on Monday night, but Mary has stopped bothering to force her daughter to sleep on nights when the Green Bay Packers play late. Led by 38-year-old living legend Favre, Green Bay stages a miraculous victory over the Denver Broncos, with an 82-yard touchdown pass from its gun-slinging quarterback on the first play of overtime, sealing the victory.

“Bwed Farr!” Erica says triumphantly, aware that her bed time is officially nearing. “Packa win!”

Mary smiles widely at the moment of joy from the little girl who has been dealt so many obstacles in her young life. Mary never was much of a football fan, and is unsure where her daughter has acquired this insatiable taste for the local NFL team, but she has become a Packers fan in support of her daughter’s obsessive interest.

“I don’t even really know how she comprehends the rules, or what’s happening,” Mary says. “I tried to explain some things as best I could a few years back, but a lot she just picked up on her own. She’s a smart little girl.”

Erica claps loudly and then lets out a yawn, showing her fatigue, as if a switch had been flipped. She’s ready for bed, ready to sleep tightly and dream of Brett Favre and his heroics, the man who has been so much more than a football player. Mary is still smiling, one of many happy expressions that has crossed her face in recent months.

“Sometimes, when they lose, she will let me dress her in a different outfit for school,” Mary says, looking lovingly at the tattered jersey bearing the name “Favre” across the back and the dirty No. 4 on the front. She smiles yet again. “But she’s going to be wearing that for the next few days now. And that’s OK. That is OK.”

MEDICAL MARVEL

Erica was born with only one hand, blindness, and an extreme skin disorder that prevents her from spending any time in the sun. She needed surgeries to correct an obstructed wind pipe at age two, and she underwent a series of gene therapy experiments to correct her dwarfish stature beginning at age seven. She has overcome cholera and a near-fatal case of pneumonia, and she rarely speaks when surrounded by others.

She’s a trouper, according to family physician Larry Murdock.

“I look forward to every visit we have with Erica,” Murdock said. “She’s such a brave kid, and she’s endured more than her share of problems. She’s got a lot of people in her corner, thank goodness. And, of course, she has Brett Favre. Thank goodness for him.”

Charitable donations and assistance from Wisconsin foundations have helped to finance Erica’s medical care, but Mary becomes downtrodden when she talks about it. She wants to do more for her little girl, but holding a steady job has been difficult since her husband disappeared off the coast of Haiti mere months before Erica was born.

“I have a hard time looking a lot of these generous people in the eye,” she says. “I don’t want to always be reaching for help, but there’s just nothing I can do. We’ve had a lot more people help us out since they found out about her love for the Packers.”

Not just the love for the Packers. For Brett Favre. And it was a visit to see Erica’s hero in December of last year that changed everything.

GAMEDAY

Erica didn’t know for sure what the envelope meant, but she knew something good had happened when her mom met her at school one afternoon.

“We gon see da Packa!” Erica recalls.

Two tickets to the final game of the 2006 NFL season had arrived in Mary’s mailbox. There was no return address, no real indication of where they had come from. They were postmarked from an area outside Green Bay, though Mary says no family relatives or friends live in the area.

“They were a gift from someone who knew what this would mean to my little girl,” Mary says, tears welling in her eyes. “It turns out they were a gift from heaven, too.”

Because it was a night game on New Year’s Eve and the dangerous sun was not a threat, Mary was able to take her daughter to Green Bay, a 2 1/2-hour road trip in her occasionally-functioning station wagon. Mary said the check engine light remained illuminated the whole way, and at one point she was worried she had blown a tire. But she made it to Lambeau Field, with just enough cash in her pocket to afford parking and a soda for her ecstatic little charge.

Bundled in four layers of jacket, a ski mask, ear muffs, two scarves, long underwear, socks and moon boots, you could barely make out the little girl beneath Erica’s outfit. There is a picture on the mantle, taken from their seats inside the famed stadium, and even though you can’t see any of her facial features, you can sense the joy exuding from little Erica.

They sat on the 50-yard line and watched the Packers pick apart the Chicago Bears. Erica sat diligently in her seat throughout, never asking to even use the bathroom. She knew when the Packers had done something right, and she knew when the Packers had won.

“Brett Favre helped the Packers a vegtory!” she says, more clearly than her previous statements. It seems like there is progress in her speech patterns, and really, it very well could be true.

Since that day at Lambeau, there has been lots of progress for Erica Wallace. Since seeing her beloved Brett Favre, the gene therapy that seemed to be unhelpful for two years began to take hold, and Mary’s little girl began to grow, now a full six inches taller than when she walked through the Lambeau gates. She became more social at school, and her skin disorder has shown signs of subsiding. Two weeks ago, Erica stayed outside in the sun for two hours without repercussions, and doctors believe she has made a remarkable medical turnaround that could see her rid of the ailment altogether within two years.

“Is it a miracle?” Mary wonders. “I don’t know how you can call it anything else.”

The greatest breakthrough came Thursday, when Erica told Mary she could see vague traces of light.

“Mama! I see the green,” she said proudly to her mother, referring to her trademark jersey. “I can see the number four.”

Murdock admits puzzlement.

“There were so many simultaneous problems with Erica, and it just seems they hit a point where she started to grow out of it,” he said. “We’ve never really seen anything of this nature before, so to say the changes are unprecedented is accurate, but only insofar as her case file is already unprecedented.”

As Erica’s condition improves, and Mary finds herself hopeful for the first time in years that her daughter might someday enjoy a perfectly normal life, Murdock smiles at the thought of a child’s love for Favre having something to do with the developments.

“The mind can do a lot of amazing things,” Murdock said. “You can call him a miracle worker if you want. He makes magic happen on the field and he gives people hope off the field. I’m a believer. Oh, yes. I’m a believer.”