'Let's Just Continue to Move On'

BLACKSBURG, Va.

Duane Brown, a senior tackle for the Hokies, said he was besieged by fans in the team hotel Friday night. They all had one message: "All they said was how much they needed this and how much they look for us to heal the community."

Your first instinct is to wonder whether a 22-year-old should have that kind of responsibility. The scholarship Brown signed to pay for his Virginia Tech education is for football, after all, not grief counseling. How are these kids, balancing school with their goal of contending for a national title, supposed to help a region continue to recover from a tragedy?

Before April 16, Virginia Tech was known to much of the outside world almost solely as the home of one of the nation's perennially strong college football programs. Its identity was tethered to Frank Beamer's team, more so than Duke's identity is wrapped around Mike Krzyzewski's basketball program. Saturdays at Lane Stadium were Blacksburg's time.

Since April 16, Blacksburg has become known as the site of the deadliest shooting rampage in American history.

And on Saturday, for the first time, Virginia Tech's new, unwanted identity blended with its old one in an authentic, if awkward, coupling that deeply affected many of the nation's rowdiest fans and the plain-spoken coach of their team.

"It's going to be a continuous process," Beamer said. "As long as you're Virginia Tech, you're going to remember April 16 every day. That's just part of it, and let's just continue to move on."

Not much resembled the typical first Saturday of September for a big-time division I program. At 9:30 a.m., almost three hours before kickoff, a steady stream of people quietly shuffled past each of the 32 limestone squares at the Drillfield memorial, each bearing a name of one of the victims of April's massacre. The Virginia Tech campus was devoid of any maul-the-opponent themes. A "Thank You, ECU" banner hung from a limestone building, referring to East Carolina's $100,000 donation to a victims' memorial fund.

"Never heard a boo on either side the whole day," said Wes Worsham, 75, the longtime Hokies booster for whom the football field is named. "Never happened before that I can remember, actually."

Civility reigned over calamity. If there was a drunken lout tailgating with his boisterous friends, he wasn't found. Rowdiness was trumped by respectfulness, passion by perspective. The tribute to the victims was genuine and modest, highlighted by a video tribute. Then came their patented, headbanging Metallica music, the players sprinting through the tunnel onto the field and Lane Stadium bounding up and down, a 66,000-strong mosh pit of mayhem. That kind of jarring juxtaposition carried the day.

Most of the teenagers and 20- and 21-year-olds who patiently took questions after the game got a primer in uncomfortable segues. "What do you think of LSU's defense?" was followed up with, "And how much can a football team really heal a community?"

This was merely the latest event related to the shootings in which television trucks descended on their town. Between the governor's report criticizing the university's role the day of the shootings and the dedication of the Drillfield memorial last week, you get the feeling they want us to go home, let them finish grieving and move forward without a microphone or camera in their mugs. The Hokies travel to LSU this week, which is not only a BCS-or-bust game two weeks into the season but also a contest pitting two regions who have recently suffered immeasurable loss.

"Somebody just said to me that next week they'll be talking about Katrina and our tragedy," said Cheryl Beamer, Frank's wife. "You never know how it's going to play out."

How much a team becomes a balm for a reeling community is impossible to quantify. The Saints enraptured New Orleans after Katrina, but no measure of hope Reggie Bush and his teammates brought could help the hurting people along the Gulf Coast still without potable water and housing. If anything, a strong allegiance to a team becomes medication. It doesn't eliminate the pain as much as it numbs it for three hours.

The randomness of those killed on April 16 left 32 very different portraits of grief. In that way, the victims of the shooting were representative of the university community, meaning some were hard-core college football fans and others might not have heard of Frank Beamer. It doesn't diminish the tributes or the importance of what happened on the field. But in some way, Saturday had less to do with the victims and their families and everything to do with Hokie Nation.

Saturday was for a still-shaken corner of southwestern Virginia, whose citizenry still can't fathom this awful thing happened in their nook and cranny of the world. They needed a salve. They needed something to remind them of what was here before an emotionally disturbed undergrad opened fire. Any venue would have worked, but 66,000 don't get together for the chemistry department. In that vein, some sort of solace was taken from a large gathering.

Saturday in Blacksburg, Virginia Tech's dueling identities met up for the first time and realized they are now inseparable.

"Nothing is going to change what happened in April," Beamer said. "Nothing. You deal with it and remember those people as best you can. I think that's what everyone is doing."