The Trojan’s Missing Man Formation
The USC Trojans, college football’s highest rated team had just scored their first touchdown of the 2007 season. Now, the special team’s point after TD unit was aligned on the field. They were all in position awaiting the center snap for the PAT attempt – all except one. There was no kicker on the field. The other ten players remained motionless, like silent sentinels they remained in their stance while the play clock ticked down to zero seconds and the whistle blew.
The referees convened and placed the ball five yards further back and the two teams realigned themselves once again. This time the Trojans had a kicker in place, who proceeded to kick the football through the uprights of the goalpost that was adorned with the number nineteen. It was a fitting tribute to a fallen Trojan hero who should have been making that kick, but wasn’t.
It was a very moving moment, in many ways similar to the pervasive spirit that had attended the Virginia Tech ceremonies earlier in the day which saluted thirty two mostly young stars that were fallen to earth before their time. When a young person dies, it’s a gut wrenching experience. When an older person passes away, it’s not easier for those loved ones left behind, but at least they can take solace in the knowledge that their beloved had lived a full life and had an opportunity to fulfil their fondest dreams hopefully.
I don’t know if you have had the opportunity to visit Washington, D.C. and see the various monuments. They are all very moving, inspirational, and thought provoking. One such monument, is The Tomb of The Unknown Soldier. Therein repose the unidentifiable remains of a soldier who gave his life in defense of our liberties. I find it difficult to not reach out my hand to try to touch the tomb, as if by so doing I might sense more about whom this person was, what they thought, cared about and hoped to achieve.
I guess that most of my life I have been fascinated by heroic deeds and the heroes that accomplish them. I’m not referring to the celebrity worship that pervades our culture today. I’m not interested in the wasteful, libertine exploits of callous and selfish celebrities who are frequently in the news. No, I’m referring to the real life heroes like the valiant fire fighters and cops who entered the burning World Trade Center towers to try to rescue trapped workers; or the Jewish VT professor who blocked the door of his classroom so that his students could escape the bullets of the crazed gunman that he did not; or the three Utah miners who set aside the obvious dangers to their own lives to try to rescue their six entombed comrades. They are heroes all.
Not all heroes have to risk life and limb to be a true hero. Anyone who has profoundly influenced others for good in their community, been a positive role model or inspiration to others, has in my estimation performed a heroic service. Most of the time, these real life heroes are little known outside of their families or small circle of close friends. Nevertheless, on those occasions when they come to our public attention, I find myself wishing I could know them better than merely reading what is reported in the press.
I think number nineteen was that kind of person. Who was he? Mario Danelo was by all accounts a wonderfully warm and caring person with an engaging smile and a perpetually upbeat personality that gave liberally of his positive persona to anyone who may have needed it.
We will never know what brought him to that perilous precipice overlooking the Pacific Ocean that dark night. However, what is more important is what we do know. It seems that the testimonies of those who knew him to any degree, verify this character trait of Mario, that if he could help you, he would. His greatest gift was not kicking field goals for the Trojans on the gridiron, but just being himself on the daily playing field of life. That alone - genuine love for your fellow man - was the rarest of gifts.
How many can truly say that about themselves? How many of us can say that by being true to ourselves, by our very natures we bring sincere joy into the everyday lives of those around us? Mario could say that, but he didn’t need to – everyone who knew him, said it for him. And perhaps those who spoke most profoundly of him, were his ten former teammates who stood in silent tribute, in the missing man formation, near the goalpost adorned for all the world to see with a cardinal red and gold number nineteen.
He was and shall forever be, an essential part of the Trojan family. Until we meet again Mario, in a heavenly place, God Bless.
Joseph of Ancient Egypt
USCs Missing Man Formation (poached from another site)
Moderators: 88BuckeyeGrad, Left Seater, buckeye_in_sc
USCs Missing Man Formation (poached from another site)
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quacker backer
- Elwood
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WolverineSteve
- 2012 CFB Bowl Jeopardy Champ
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Fine tribute. Class all the way.
I will now get back to my regular scheduled hatred of USC.
I will now get back to my regular scheduled hatred of USC.
"Gentlemen, it is better to have died as a small boy than to fumble this football."
-John Heisman
"Any street urchin can shout applause in victory, but it takes character to stand fast in defeat. One is noise --- the other, loyalty." Fielding Yost
Go Blue!
-John Heisman
"Any street urchin can shout applause in victory, but it takes character to stand fast in defeat. One is noise --- the other, loyalty." Fielding Yost
Go Blue!
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MuchoBulls
- Tremendous Slouch
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Weak ... on so many levels.The Seer wrote:Class would be losing to your crosstown rival by 1, with no timeouts left, .01 seconds left in the game, and pulling the same routine...
Van wrote:It's like rimming an unbathed fat chick from Missouri. It's highly distinctive, miserably unforgettable and completely wrong.
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Jimmy Medalions
- Student Body Right
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indyfrisco
- Pro Bonfire
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I'm not too big on "in game" tributes. I think that shit can be handled outside the lines. The only "in game" tribute I really could care less about is wearing the number of someone or wearing a black stripe on the arm or something like that.
Gimmicks such as this just make me say "Get on with the game". If it makes the kids ont he team feel good, so be it. I'm pretty indifferent on it.
And I'll never say The Poodle is classy. Grandstander? Sure. Classy? Not a chance.
Gimmicks such as this just make me say "Get on with the game". If it makes the kids ont he team feel good, so be it. I'm pretty indifferent on it.
And I'll never say The Poodle is classy. Grandstander? Sure. Classy? Not a chance.
Goober McTuber wrote:One last post...
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Jimmy Medalions
- Student Body Right
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Typical ucLabia fan. Beating SC is the only goal of the program. Good luck in your "championship" game on December 1st.The Seer wrote:Jimmy Medalions wrote:What a stoopid ucLabia fuck.The Seer wrote:Class would be losing to your crosstown rival by 1, with no timeouts left, .01 seconds left in the game, and pulling the same routine...
Eat shit SCumbag
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Jimmy Medalions
- Student Body Right
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- Location: SoCal
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Jimmy Medalions
- Student Body Right
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- Joined: Sat Jan 15, 2005 4:04 pm
- Location: SoCal
another article on Mario
Link
Bill Plaschke:
An extraordinary extra point is a reminder of who's missing
Trojans honor the memory of kicker Mario Danelo with an in-game tribute, and those who knew him best continue living the dream for him.
September 12 2007
In his two-year USC career, Mario Danelo was probably on the field for less than two hours.
The Trojans were about touchdowns, Danelo was the squiggly frosting on the edges of those touchdowns. Trojans grandly kicked opponents between the teeth, then Danelo quietly kicked a football between the uprights.
He was just a kicker, right? Who misses a kicker?
Sitting in the Coliseum stands a couple of weeks ago, watching other parents' children play football, Joe and Emily Danelo learned.
We all learned.
The Trojans scored the game's first touchdown in their season opener against Idaho, lined up for the extra point, and, wait a minute. . .
"There's no kicker out there," said Joe, nudging Emily.
"What?" she said.
"Look, they're lining up with no kicker on the field," Joe said.
Turns out, the Trojans missed their late kicker so much, they came out for their first extra-point play of this season without one.
They lined up with 10 men, then waited in silence until the play clock expired and they were given a five-yard penalty.
In the stands, realizing what was happening, Joe and Emily both began crying.
Eight months after their son's death, they were once again reminded of how he lived.
He was only a kicker, flashing across the Trojans' landscape for the briefest of moments.
But oh how he lived.
"My son was just a regular kid, one of the guys," Joe said. "But, man, I guess his spirit was really something special."
On the front ledge of a quaint San Pedro home that squats on a hill above the Pacific Ocean, a faded, weathered USC banner bakes in the salty air.
It is a banner signifying that Mario Danelo lived there.
It is a banner that will remain even though he is gone.
"We don't care how bad it looks, it's not coming down," Joe said. "It's his banner, it's his house."
In their first interview since their son's death, the Danelos invite a visitor inside a house where corners are still filled with their son's light.
In Mario's bedroom, his USC jersey and helmet are spread across his bed. His USC shoulder pads are on his head board.
There are photos covering the walls, trophies everywhere, even his cellphone and sunglasses sit on top of a dresser, as if any moment he could grab them and run out into his beloved seaside community.
"Sometimes I really do think he's just going to walk back in here," Emily said. "Then I realize that's not possible. But still. . ."
Still, the family waits for closure that may never come.
In the early morning hours of Jan. 6, after partying with friends, Mario left his home, telling his father he was going for a walk.
Nobody saw him again until the next day, when he was found at the bottom of a cliff below Point Fermin Park, several blocks from his house.
Cause of death was listed as multiple traumatic injuries.
But manner of death was undetermined.
The coroner could not decide whether he had jumped, was pushed, or was perhaps even assaulted and carried to the bottom of the cliff.
Eight months later, few believe it was suicide, as Mario was an eternally happy kid who was so focused on his future that he had worked at the San Pedro docks that day so he could retain his union card for future work.
Many instead believe that Mario, whose blood-alcohol level was past the legal limit to drive, had climbed a four-foot wall along the cliff so he could urinate in the privacy of a bush. He then lost his balance on a slippery ice plant and fell 150 feet to his death.
His parents believe neither theory. His parents suspect foul play.
They say his body, clothed in gray USC sweats when they viewed him after his death, seemed pristine, untouched, quite unlike someone who had just fallen into the rocks.
Said Joe: "I don't know what happened, but I know he did not fall. He could not have fallen that far and still looked that good."
Said Emily: "We don't know now, but someday we'll know. Someday somebody will come forward. We just know it."
At the time, Danelo had just finished his second season as USC's kicker after turning down scholarships elsewhere to join the program as a walk-on.
In his career, he missed only two of 28 field-goal attempts, seven of 134 extra-point tries, and set an NCAA record with 83 extra points in 2005.
"I missed more kicks in a day than Mario missed in his life," said Joe, a former NFL kicker.
He was good. But he was not Matt Leinart or Reggie Bush in a program where the main color is still glitter, and so nobody was prepared for what happened when he disappeared.
"We all saw he was about more than just a leg," Trojans long-snapper Will Collins said.
His funeral crowd was overflowing. The boxes of letters received by his parents were overwhelming.
USC suspended use of his jersey, stuck his name and number on the back of their helmets, painted his No. 19 under the goal posts at the practice fields, left his meeting-room seat vacant, and hung up a banner with his trademark saying.
"I'm living the dream," he told people.
Turns out, he not only lived the dream, but he shared it.
In the wake of his death, stories have emerged that will last much longer than the memories of any kick.
"You always think your kid is special, but, man. . ." Joe said.
Special?
It turns out, Mario Danelo's time here was brief but indelible.
Emily met a woman in San Pedro who thanked her for the cleats.
"What cleats?" Emily said.
"The cleats that Mario gave my son, his first pair, because we couldn't afford to buy them," the woman said.
Joe heard from another San Pedro family whose son had suffered from leukemia. Mario not only called him with best wishes, but gave him his cellphone number and maintained an ongoing dialogue.
Then there was the San Pedro teacher whose son was in Iraq. Mario arranged for autographed USC posters to be sent to him.
"There were things he did, we had no idea," Emily said.
And in places that they couldn't imagine.
Emily received a letter from a woman in Catalina who said that, during summer visits there, Mario would stop by the home of a couple of aging Trojans and listen to them talk about their glory days.
"They would want to ask about him, but he wanted only to hear their stories," Emily said. "That was our son."
While most folks offered their thanks to the Danelos in letters and phone calls, one family literally gave them the shirt off their back.
Robbie Franco, a highly regarded middle linebacker on the San Pedro High football team, dreamed of wearing his father Bob's No. 25.
But when Mario died, Robbie decided to spend his last two seasons wearing Mario's San Pedro No. 32.
"He always wanted to grow up like Mario," Bob said. "It's a testament to the kid and to the town."
Living the dream, sharing the dream and, finally, playing the dream.
That's what happened in the season opener, during which 90,000 fans gave the Danelo family a standing ovation, followed by 10 players honoring him with the phantom extra-point play.
Dave Buehler, the kicker, thought of the play. Collins, the snapper, sold it to Coach Pete Carroll.
"I was like, 'Wow,' " Carroll said. "What better way to remember someone who impacted us so much?"
During the phantom play, staring back between his legs at the empty space that was once filled by his close friend, Collins began crying.
When Buehler finally ran on to the field for the actual kick, Collins was still crying and, now, praying.
"I'm like, 'I'm in no position to snap the ball here. 'C'mon Mo, help me out,' " Collins said.
The snap was perfect. The extra point was converted. Fans are still talking about it. Perhaps the most compelling sequence of plays in the Carroll era.
The night before that game, Collins called the Danelos. On Friday night, before the Nebraska game, he will call them again.
On the eve of every game this season, he will call them, because Mario Danelo used to called them like this, and his torch of touch must be continued.
"Like he said, Mario lived the dream," Collins said. "Now we're all living it for him."
Bill Plaschke can be reached at bill.plaschke@latimes.com. To read previous columns by Plaschke, go to latimes.com/plaschke.
Link
Bill Plaschke:
An extraordinary extra point is a reminder of who's missing
Trojans honor the memory of kicker Mario Danelo with an in-game tribute, and those who knew him best continue living the dream for him.
September 12 2007
In his two-year USC career, Mario Danelo was probably on the field for less than two hours.
The Trojans were about touchdowns, Danelo was the squiggly frosting on the edges of those touchdowns. Trojans grandly kicked opponents between the teeth, then Danelo quietly kicked a football between the uprights.
He was just a kicker, right? Who misses a kicker?
Sitting in the Coliseum stands a couple of weeks ago, watching other parents' children play football, Joe and Emily Danelo learned.
We all learned.
The Trojans scored the game's first touchdown in their season opener against Idaho, lined up for the extra point, and, wait a minute. . .
"There's no kicker out there," said Joe, nudging Emily.
"What?" she said.
"Look, they're lining up with no kicker on the field," Joe said.
Turns out, the Trojans missed their late kicker so much, they came out for their first extra-point play of this season without one.
They lined up with 10 men, then waited in silence until the play clock expired and they were given a five-yard penalty.
In the stands, realizing what was happening, Joe and Emily both began crying.
Eight months after their son's death, they were once again reminded of how he lived.
He was only a kicker, flashing across the Trojans' landscape for the briefest of moments.
But oh how he lived.
"My son was just a regular kid, one of the guys," Joe said. "But, man, I guess his spirit was really something special."
On the front ledge of a quaint San Pedro home that squats on a hill above the Pacific Ocean, a faded, weathered USC banner bakes in the salty air.
It is a banner signifying that Mario Danelo lived there.
It is a banner that will remain even though he is gone.
"We don't care how bad it looks, it's not coming down," Joe said. "It's his banner, it's his house."
In their first interview since their son's death, the Danelos invite a visitor inside a house where corners are still filled with their son's light.
In Mario's bedroom, his USC jersey and helmet are spread across his bed. His USC shoulder pads are on his head board.
There are photos covering the walls, trophies everywhere, even his cellphone and sunglasses sit on top of a dresser, as if any moment he could grab them and run out into his beloved seaside community.
"Sometimes I really do think he's just going to walk back in here," Emily said. "Then I realize that's not possible. But still. . ."
Still, the family waits for closure that may never come.
In the early morning hours of Jan. 6, after partying with friends, Mario left his home, telling his father he was going for a walk.
Nobody saw him again until the next day, when he was found at the bottom of a cliff below Point Fermin Park, several blocks from his house.
Cause of death was listed as multiple traumatic injuries.
But manner of death was undetermined.
The coroner could not decide whether he had jumped, was pushed, or was perhaps even assaulted and carried to the bottom of the cliff.
Eight months later, few believe it was suicide, as Mario was an eternally happy kid who was so focused on his future that he had worked at the San Pedro docks that day so he could retain his union card for future work.
Many instead believe that Mario, whose blood-alcohol level was past the legal limit to drive, had climbed a four-foot wall along the cliff so he could urinate in the privacy of a bush. He then lost his balance on a slippery ice plant and fell 150 feet to his death.
His parents believe neither theory. His parents suspect foul play.
They say his body, clothed in gray USC sweats when they viewed him after his death, seemed pristine, untouched, quite unlike someone who had just fallen into the rocks.
Said Joe: "I don't know what happened, but I know he did not fall. He could not have fallen that far and still looked that good."
Said Emily: "We don't know now, but someday we'll know. Someday somebody will come forward. We just know it."
At the time, Danelo had just finished his second season as USC's kicker after turning down scholarships elsewhere to join the program as a walk-on.
In his career, he missed only two of 28 field-goal attempts, seven of 134 extra-point tries, and set an NCAA record with 83 extra points in 2005.
"I missed more kicks in a day than Mario missed in his life," said Joe, a former NFL kicker.
He was good. But he was not Matt Leinart or Reggie Bush in a program where the main color is still glitter, and so nobody was prepared for what happened when he disappeared.
"We all saw he was about more than just a leg," Trojans long-snapper Will Collins said.
His funeral crowd was overflowing. The boxes of letters received by his parents were overwhelming.
USC suspended use of his jersey, stuck his name and number on the back of their helmets, painted his No. 19 under the goal posts at the practice fields, left his meeting-room seat vacant, and hung up a banner with his trademark saying.
"I'm living the dream," he told people.
Turns out, he not only lived the dream, but he shared it.
In the wake of his death, stories have emerged that will last much longer than the memories of any kick.
"You always think your kid is special, but, man. . ." Joe said.
Special?
It turns out, Mario Danelo's time here was brief but indelible.
Emily met a woman in San Pedro who thanked her for the cleats.
"What cleats?" Emily said.
"The cleats that Mario gave my son, his first pair, because we couldn't afford to buy them," the woman said.
Joe heard from another San Pedro family whose son had suffered from leukemia. Mario not only called him with best wishes, but gave him his cellphone number and maintained an ongoing dialogue.
Then there was the San Pedro teacher whose son was in Iraq. Mario arranged for autographed USC posters to be sent to him.
"There were things he did, we had no idea," Emily said.
And in places that they couldn't imagine.
Emily received a letter from a woman in Catalina who said that, during summer visits there, Mario would stop by the home of a couple of aging Trojans and listen to them talk about their glory days.
"They would want to ask about him, but he wanted only to hear their stories," Emily said. "That was our son."
While most folks offered their thanks to the Danelos in letters and phone calls, one family literally gave them the shirt off their back.
Robbie Franco, a highly regarded middle linebacker on the San Pedro High football team, dreamed of wearing his father Bob's No. 25.
But when Mario died, Robbie decided to spend his last two seasons wearing Mario's San Pedro No. 32.
"He always wanted to grow up like Mario," Bob said. "It's a testament to the kid and to the town."
Living the dream, sharing the dream and, finally, playing the dream.
That's what happened in the season opener, during which 90,000 fans gave the Danelo family a standing ovation, followed by 10 players honoring him with the phantom extra-point play.
Dave Buehler, the kicker, thought of the play. Collins, the snapper, sold it to Coach Pete Carroll.
"I was like, 'Wow,' " Carroll said. "What better way to remember someone who impacted us so much?"
During the phantom play, staring back between his legs at the empty space that was once filled by his close friend, Collins began crying.
When Buehler finally ran on to the field for the actual kick, Collins was still crying and, now, praying.
"I'm like, 'I'm in no position to snap the ball here. 'C'mon Mo, help me out,' " Collins said.
The snap was perfect. The extra point was converted. Fans are still talking about it. Perhaps the most compelling sequence of plays in the Carroll era.
The night before that game, Collins called the Danelos. On Friday night, before the Nebraska game, he will call them again.
On the eve of every game this season, he will call them, because Mario Danelo used to called them like this, and his torch of touch must be continued.
"Like he said, Mario lived the dream," Collins said. "Now we're all living it for him."
Bill Plaschke can be reached at bill.plaschke@latimes.com. To read previous columns by Plaschke, go to latimes.com/plaschke.
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Laxplayer
- President of the USC hater club
- Posts: 3655
- Joined: Tue Jan 18, 2005 5:05 pm
- Location: On the golf course because......well, I'm the golf coach.
It was handled internally......Ring a bell? At least their classy coach suspends a kid, what the fuck does yours do?just what we have come to expect from ACLU fans.
Course their classy kicker crashed his car and left hig girlfriend in it while he ran off to sober up, then their classy coach suspended him for it for the bye week
Oh, we're going to handle this internally....does Chetey Petey send kids to bed without desert, or make them stand in the corner?
Talk about fucking weak......Pet's discipline is weak....oh wait, he has to administer discipline for it to at least be weak.