Konrad Reuland

Konrad Reuland, professional football player and Stanford University graduate, died on December 12th, 2016. He was 29.

I knew of Konrad long before I met him.

We were in the same high school class year and ended up considering similar schools. Fall of 2005 was also a few years into the “Rivals” ranking system for football recruits; I distinctly remember seeing Konrad’s 5-star vs my humble 3-star. Not that I had any resentment against him at first.

But then he committed to Notre Dame and became a nemesis.

Fast forward to the summer of my Junior year at Stanford. I’m a returning starting guard, I had scored a downtown Palo Alto apartment that I could actually afford due to a friend of the program who will, in all their glory, remain nameless and free of NCAA investigations. I had an internship at a law firm, an unreliable silver Chrysler Sebring convertible, and I was fully intent on spending my summer lifting weights, drinking Mexican beer, and reveling in my first true taste of solo living.

The day I moved my futon into my new living room and my perfect summer was set to commence, I got a call from my position coach. Good news! We were getting two transfers from Notre Dame: a kicker and a tight end…Konrad Reuland.

That name isn’t exactly easy to forget.

“Whoa. The five star guy?” I asked.

“Exactly. He gets in next week. Andy, any chance we could put him up with you for the summer? It’d be a BIG deal to the team.”

I hummed and hawed a bit and ultimately agreed. But in my head I was screaming. This asshole was going to ruin my perfect summer before it even began. I loathed him, even though he was ditching the golden dome for the block S.

Konrad, far left, with my brother and other Stanford friends

He showed up late. I could hardly hide my contempt for him as I helped him move in. Konrad had this way of carrying himself where he tilted his head back and almost looked down his face at you rather than straight on. He was doing it as he introduced himself. It immediately bugged me. So did the volume of stuff he had.

He had so much stuff. Mountains of clothes. Multiple shopping bags of grooming and hair care products. A refrigerator. More shopping bags of supplements. I was annoyed and irritated, and these aspects that would become the endearing trademarks of a friend were, for the moment, the things that made me deplore him.

We had the normal roommate spats. Passive aggressive protectionism over things like the bathroom and the TV. Missing food items. Coming home to find his brother and friends playing video games on my couch. Perfect Summer was not going as planned.

The first real conversation we had was about a week into living together. He was preparing an egg white omelet, patiently separating the yolk from the whites by passing the yolk between the two shell halves. As an offensive lineman, this befuddled me. He thought it was hilarious that I’d never done it, grabbing an egg and having me practice with a rep of my own.

I don’t know what it was, but from that morning on we were great friends. The contempt and tension simply evaporated. We remained close until the week he died.

We played three seasons of progressively more successful football together. I met DARNOK his alter-ego. We attended weddings and trips together. I laughed the hardest I’ve ever laughed in his presence.

Stanford Football Season Banquet: 2010

The view from the patio off the dining room of the Claremont Hotel in Berkeley is one of my favorites.

The foreground of soaring palms and crystal blue pools gives way to the fog heaped as thick as meringue on the San Francisco Bay. The Bay Bridge cuts with a lazy, swooping curve through the clouds into Treasure Island. The profile of the city from the East Bay side is my favorite because you can see everything: the Ferry Building. Coit Tower. The Transamerica building. And on clear afternoons, even Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s all there. It’s a view that fills anyone lucky enough to catch it with hope, peace and gratitude.

I’ll never be able to forget the first time I drank in that view. I had gotten a call from my friend Sam Schwartzstein, a football teammate who had willingly taken on the selfless but macabre task of relaying information on Konrad’s condition.

Konrad had been in the hospital. He left a workout after complaining of a headache to his physician father. His father wisely advised him to get checked in at the emergency room, and the hospital’s analyses revealed he had suffered an aneurysm behind his left eye.

A few tense days later, Sam’s call caught me as I sat outside on the Claremont patio, drinking coffee and anxiously stealing glances at my phone. My wife and I were attending a wedding and spent a few nights at the Claremont. That morning, I had gotten up, worked out, and tried to do my best to let Sam reach out rather than harass him asking for updates.

He called. I listened. I hung up. My head dropped in sorrow.

I eventually lifted my gaze to that beautiful profile of the San Francisco Bay. It sits as clear as a photograph in my mind’s eye as I write this.

This is always how I’ll remember my friend. There were tears to be shed, and I’ve still got a few more to shed for him. But in that moment, I was filled with love for my friend and gratitude for the time we spent together.

I miss him dearly.

AP

Donate to the Konrad Reuland Memorial Foundation.

Konrad’s story was beautifully captured in this Emmy-nominated short film.