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Caught a bit of BYU-UCLA 1983 on ESPN U yesterday and seeing Norberg playing brought back questions about his death. His death/murder is one of the most shocking instances of official brutality and the capacity of people to do harm to other people - even w/o true provocation - that I've ever seen.
For those of you unfamiliar with the circumstances they are detailed here http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/1999-...norberg-remix/
He was a good man who developed a drug addiction, suffered for it and died an utterly senseless death while, along the way, communicating movingly with his father about his ordeal.
Below is a small anecdote from my own life - a single encounter with Norberg when I was 10 - that I wrote a long time ago.
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When I was a 10 or 11 year old kid (I can't remember now if it was the summer of 85 or of 84 I had come out to stay with my sister and her husband for a couple of weeks in Provo and had (total dream for me at that age) free range of BYU's campus as they lived just to the south of it.
Summer practices were under way and every day that I could I'd go hang out by the practice field and try and peek through and then stand by the entrance as practice started and ended to see my favorite players.
I was a little kid wearing a Danny White jersey and carrying a football (I used be a devoted Cowboy fan until the Great Apostasy of Jerry Jones and Michael Irvin and my conversion to SteveYoungism and Hometownteamism being a Nor Cal kid). Players would usually just walk by about their business, sometimes they'd give a smile and a wave at the awed little punk.
Then one day I was standing there with my ball about ten feet from the exit when Scott Norberg came out. He saw me, gave a smile, noted my jersey, put his hands up and said "gimme a ball, White."
I was enough of a junky (and had studied the BYU football programs and read up and down on the rosters enough times) that I knew who he was. I turned, set my feet and delivered a perfect spiral, the only pass (as I like to say) that I ever completed at the D-1 level. He caught it and exclaimed "nice spiral buddy!!". I had a pen with me (in the event of autographs) and asked him if he'd sign the ball. He did, asked my name and stopped two other passing players (Mark Bellini and Richard Orr) to stop and sign as well. (Sadly the ball had disappeared from my room when I returned from my mission and to this day I don't know where it is).
When I read the story of Norberg's death and how he died and how desperately he wanted and tried to break free of his addiction it impacted me as deeply as anything I've read in a long time has. I am increasingly wary of condemning people who deal with addictions of that sort and far more aware of the scale of the tragedy involved.
For those of you unfamiliar with the circumstances they are detailed here http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/1999-...norberg-remix/
He was a good man who developed a drug addiction, suffered for it and died an utterly senseless death while, along the way, communicating movingly with his father about his ordeal.
Below is a small anecdote from my own life - a single encounter with Norberg when I was 10 - that I wrote a long time ago.
--------------------------------------------------
When I was a 10 or 11 year old kid (I can't remember now if it was the summer of 85 or of 84 I had come out to stay with my sister and her husband for a couple of weeks in Provo and had (total dream for me at that age) free range of BYU's campus as they lived just to the south of it.
Summer practices were under way and every day that I could I'd go hang out by the practice field and try and peek through and then stand by the entrance as practice started and ended to see my favorite players.
I was a little kid wearing a Danny White jersey and carrying a football (I used be a devoted Cowboy fan until the Great Apostasy of Jerry Jones and Michael Irvin and my conversion to SteveYoungism and Hometownteamism being a Nor Cal kid). Players would usually just walk by about their business, sometimes they'd give a smile and a wave at the awed little punk.
Then one day I was standing there with my ball about ten feet from the exit when Scott Norberg came out. He saw me, gave a smile, noted my jersey, put his hands up and said "gimme a ball, White."
I was enough of a junky (and had studied the BYU football programs and read up and down on the rosters enough times) that I knew who he was. I turned, set my feet and delivered a perfect spiral, the only pass (as I like to say) that I ever completed at the D-1 level. He caught it and exclaimed "nice spiral buddy!!". I had a pen with me (in the event of autographs) and asked him if he'd sign the ball. He did, asked my name and stopped two other passing players (Mark Bellini and Richard Orr) to stop and sign as well. (Sadly the ball had disappeared from my room when I returned from my mission and to this day I don't know where it is).
When I read the story of Norberg's death and how he died and how desperately he wanted and tried to break free of his addiction it impacted me as deeply as anything I've read in a long time has. I am increasingly wary of condemning people who deal with addictions of that sort and far more aware of the scale of the tragedy involved.
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