Football is Sean Argo

At the top of the stairs in the entrance to my old high school, there was a display window. It was usually reserved for showcasing important upcoming events or information that everyone needed knowing. But on this day, it was filled with Sean Argo’s football jersey, #39, a stark reminder of the loss we had suffered.

Sean had died in a tragic accident.

He was a senior. He was our captain, our middle linebacker.

He was carrying a gun on a Saturday night.

He tripped and fell.

The gun went off.

I don’t remember if there was an unveiling. I don’t remember if there was a ceremony. I don’t remember if words were said. There had to have been, right? Maybe by our principal or coach. If words were said, then I do not remember them. I remember the team, all of us standing around this glass case at the top of the stairs. I remember other students starting to gather as well. We were a small school—somewhere between four and five hundred strong across all four grades. If something happened to one of us, it felt like it happened to all of us.

I don’t remember what I thought or what was going through my head that day. But I remember someone started crying. Then someone else. Then another person. Like a chain reaction, the crying rose to a crescendo. I remember standing in the midst of it, surrounded by crying. I don’t remember who was next to me or around me. I don’t remember where my friends were. They must have been by my side, but when I try to recover that moment, I am standing alone in an ever-widening circle of crying, unable to make out any faces.

I do remember turning around in despair, looking for something. For what, I do not remember. But I remember seeing David Van Tyle. He was a sophomore. I was a freshman. He was a defensive end—bigger than big for his age. He stood with his back against the wall, one arm around his girlfriend. I remember walking over to them. There must have been tears welling in my eyes because he opened his other arm up and took me in. Freed from the unfeeling façade I had built around the softer parts of my existence—the one I had been constructing since seventh grade, shaped by the unspoken expectations of what it meant to be a young man—I fell onto his shoulder and wept.

I do not remember how long all of this lasted. I do not remember what happened next. I do not remember what words, if any, were shared between David and me. I don’t remember going on to my next class. I don’t remember ever talking about that moment again.

But I remember Sean. To be honest, I did not know him very well. Being on the same team, I assume we talked. Maybe not. There was such a distance between us.

I was 15. He was 19.

I was on the JV football team. He was on Varsity.

I didn’t practice with him. I didn’t stand on the sidelines with him on Friday night. I didn’t go to the parties he went to.

In football, there is a distinct sense of separation between players at different levels (e.g., JV vs. Varsity). The progression in football—whether it’s from middle school to high school, or JV to Varsity—is marked by dramatic changes in skill, strength, speed, and intensity.

This difference creates a sense of awe and admiration. You watch players older than you—those who seem to be in a “higher” sphere—perform with a skill and intensity that you both admire and aspire to. With their muscles and beards, two things that you cannot imagine happening to you, it’s as if they’re playing in a different dimension. And despite being on the same team with them, you are more like a spectator than an equal.

But that didn’t lessen his presence.

There were moments, though fleeting, where his presence reached me. Maybe it was the intensity in his eyes walking out of the locker room on a Friday night or the way he barked out plays with authority. He set a standard that seemed unreachable.

I gave (and will give again) the following speech to our players at the beginning of two-a-days:

I have a name for you: Sean Argo. He was a senior when I was a freshman playing football at Taylor High School. I thought he was a god. I still say his name with reverence. And I say his name today because…older guys…eyes on me…whether you want it or not, whether you like it or not, you have eyes on you. There are young guys looking at you the way that I looked at Sean. They see you as gods. And as gods, you don’t just hold the standard—you are the standard. You show up every day, put in the work, and live up to the legacy of those who came before you.

Just like Sean did.

PS The Argo family read and approved this story before its publication. They also gave me permission to use the photograph that accompanies this story. I am grateful for their support in sharing Sean’s story.

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This post is part of my latest book project titled: “Football is _______”

Every two weeks, I’ll fill in the above blank with a word or phrase and tell a story. I’ll do that for 52 weeks and then compile the posts into a book of essays.

I’d love for you to join me on this journey and share your thoughts or stories along the way. If you enjoyed this post, please consider sharing it with others who might appreciate it as well.

Stay tuned for future updates on instagram (@blucollarprof).

Read previous posts in this series.

Thanks for reading! – shawn