This Is for You, Dad: Giants Rookie Chasing NFL Dream After Draft-Week Nightmare
There are nights when Travis Rudolph dreams. He doesn't remember most of these dreams, but there's one he won't allow himself to forget. He's in his childhood home in West Palm Beach, Florida, in his bedroom, his 6-foot frame splayed out on the bottom level of the bunk bed he and his older brother used to share. His dark eyes are fixed on the room's bare walls. He can hear his mom and dad downstairs, arguing over something. What, he can't make out. But also, he doesn't care.
All that matters is the sound of his dad's voice. It's music to his ears.
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It's late April, about a week—six days, or more likely seven, or possibly eight, depending on which round he gets selected in—before Travis hopes to hear his name called during the NFL draft. He'll finally shed his amateur label and become a professional. It's a moment he and his father, Darryl, have dreamed about for years.
On this Friday night, Travis is back in Tallahassee, Florida, relaxing in the two-story, off-campus apartment he shares with Dalvin Cook, his former teammate at Florida State. Dalvin, too, is just days away from entering the NFL, and his youth football camp has brought the two back to Florida State.
Travis, Dalvin and Dalvin's family—up from Miami—are spending the evening before the camp begins together in the home they are sharing perhaps for the final time. They're watching TV and laughing and reminiscing about the past three years. Dalvin enrolled at Florida State early, in January 2014, and Travis arrived the following summer, though they grew close before that, as top South Florida recruits often do. Dalvin was drawn to Travis' honesty and sincerity; Travis was the first person he called after committing to FSU. One year later, they moved in together. Dalvin took the first-floor bedroom; Travis moved upstairs. They plastered the apartment with FSU posters and filled their hours by challenging each other on Madden and NBA2K and to push-up contests and any other competition that happened to present itself. They'd walk past a light pole and see who could leap closer to the top. During games, they'd sit on the sideline and compare stats. Anything to satiate that competitive thirst.
Following their junior seasons, they elected to leave college for the NFL. Dalvin was the higher-ranked prospect—a two-time All-America who finished his collegiate career as FSU's all-time leading rusher—but Travis was no slouch. A 4-star recruit, he led the team in catches, receiving yards and receiving touchdowns as a sophomore and junior. In the latter season, he was named second-team All-ACC.
Travis' past is bright, and on this warm and clear Florida evening, his future glows even brighter.
Then, at around 10:30, the ringing cellphone of Dalvin's grandmother, Betty, pierces the room's cheerful mood. It's Travis' mother, Linda. She's crying and can barely string together her thoughts. She wants to speak with Dalvin. No, she needs to. It's urgent. An emergency. Something horrible has happened. She needs to tell Dalvin to have her son return to West Palm Beach, and as quickly as he can.
Betty, shaking, mistakenly hands Travis her phone. "It's your mom," she says, but Linda can't bear to break the news to her baby. Her voice cracking, she asks Travis to pass the phone to Dalvin, who's greeted on the other line by sobs. Travis looks on as his friend and mom speak. He sees the life flee Dalvin's face. Something, he knows, is wrong.
"What's going on?" he asks.
"Walk with me for a moment," Dalvin says after lowering the phone from beside his ear.
The two friends step outside. Side by side, they saunter down the apartment complex's dark road, with Dalvin searching for the words—the right words, any words—to tell his friend that his dad might not make it through the night.
Travis and Darryl were as close as father and son could be.
Darryl loved sports. "A fanatic," says Terrenie Pannell, Travis' older sister and the family's eldest child. As a kid growing up in Alabama, Darryl played high school football and ran track before marrying Linda in 1991 and moving to West Palm Beach.
Darryl owned a landscaping and maintenance business and spent his days driving his truck around town and nights planted in the living room watching ESPN. He loved SportsCenter and would perk up any time a local kid's name flashed across the screen. On weekends, he'd play his old blues, jazz and R&B CDs, except on Sunday mornings, which were reserved for church.
He was serious but also genial; stern but also charming. A teddy bear—only a bald-headed one with thick shoulders and a black goatee.
"He was a typical blue-collar guy," Terrenie says. "But he had a soft heart."
Will Travis Rudolph find a spot on the Giants' final 53-man roster? Follow the Giants through roster cuts and the rest of the season on the new B/R app.
An example: When he was a kid, Travis frequently begged his father to let him drive the family's truck, always to no avail. Then, one day, when Travis was 13, Darryl finally relented. The job he was headed to was right around the corner—what could go wrong?
Giddy, Travis climbed into the driver's seat and, using just one hand, clutched the steering wheel. That, after all, was how the cool kids drove, and for just a few moments he was the coolest 13-year-old around—only, being 13, he had never learned that you have to hit the brakes while approaching a turn. Moments into his first drive, he nearly crashed his dad's car.
"That was it for me for a while," he says.
For Darryl, off hours didn't exist, even with Linda working as a hospital clerk. Yet somehow he still carved out time for his family. He was the father who attended all his kids' games, the grandfather who bought his two grandkids firecrackers for the Fourth of July.
Darryl was close with his oldest son, his namesake, but Darryl Jr. was always more drawn to plants and the particulars of his father's landscaping business than touchdowns and sacks. In Travis, though, Darryl saw a son who not only shared his passion for sports but also possessed a rare combination of athleticism and drive.
"Travis was his protege," Terrenie says. "Dad idolized him."
The two spent hours in the backyard tossing a football. Travis may have been a momma's boy—he was, after all, the family's baby; he still FaceTimes Linda multiple times a day—but before long he caught the bug. He was the rare kid who looked forward to practices, the rare 11-year-old who could be spotted running wind sprints around the block.
In ninth grade, he enrolled at Cardinal Newman High School, where he became a star in football, basketball and track. He boasted all sorts of special skills—he could run fast and jump high and was the type of sinewy athlete who'd complete his suicides during basketball practice three seconds before his teammates—but it was his work ethic and stubborn need to win that separated him from the rest.
"He was never someone that would blow you away athletically," says his high school football coach, former NFL quarterback Steve Walsh, "but no one worked harder. He did everything he needed to get himself onto college radars."
But as recruiters descended on West Palm Beach, they quickly learned a lesson: If they wished to land Travis, they'd have to win over Darryl first.
"In my dad's eyes, I was the best," Travis, now 21, says. "He put that in my head: Can't nobody mess with me.
"He taught me everything. He turned me into the man I am now."
Travis and Dalvin inch down the road. Silence fills the air between them as Dalvin contemplates what he's about to say and, more importantly, how he wants to say it.
He knows he has to be strong; that it's his job not to cry, to keep his emotions in check, to "man up" so that his friend doesn't have to.
He stops walking and turns to Travis.
"Your dad's been shot," he says. "He's in critical condition."
Dalvin can see the shock strike Travis' eyes. It's not possible, Travis says—he just spoke to his dad the day before. Darryl gave him gas money for the trip north. "Be safe," he said before saying goodbye. "I love you."
"You lying," Travis yells back at Dalvin. "You lying."
Dalvin tells him he's not. He shares what he was able to piece together from his conversation with Linda: That Darryl is at St. Mary's Medical Center in West Palm Beach with a bullet hole in his neck. That Travis' mom and siblings are there with him. That Darryl was doing some AC work at a strip club called Sugar Daddy's.
The club name—Travis recognizes it. Darryl has worked there before.
It hits him that Dalvin is telling the truth.
Travis, overcome with agony and anguish, falls into Dalvin's arms, his head landing on his friend's shoulder. A torrent of tears streams down his face and onto Dalvin's shirt. Dalvin tells Travis he's there for him. He reminds him that his family is Travis' family, too, that he's not alone.
The two friends return to the apartment, the spot that Darryl and the rest of the Rudolphs retired to on Saturdays after FSU home games. In Travis' three years on campus, Darryl never missed a single one. Afterward, he'd sit in the living room, donning a Seminoles jersey with the No. 15—Travis' number—stitched on the back, and share with his son how proud he was of him, how much greatness he foresaw.
Now Travis realizes he may never hear his dad's voice again.
There are no flights back to West Palm Beach at this late hour. Travis, instead, is forced to spend the night 412 miles northwest of his family as they watch Darryl cling to his life. Travis checks in with his sister, who does her best to keep him optimistic and calm.
"Dad will see you in the morning," Terrenie says.
Travis heads upstairs to his room, lowers both his knees to the floor and brings his hands together.
"Please, God," he begs, "let Dad be OK."
He spends the next few hours alone and crying in his bed before finally being overtaken by sleep.
Earlier that evening, Darryl had received a call from David Fiore, the owner of Sugar Daddy's Adult Cabaret. The air conditioning unit in Fiore's office needed a new filter, and Darryl was his go-to guy.
At around 9:25, Fiore heard a bang ring out and then saw Darryl on the floor, unconscious and in a pool of blood. According to the local sheriff's department, Paul Senat, a part owner of Sugar Daddy's, had been in an adjacent room, where the club's liquor was stored, while Darryl was fixing Fiore's AC. There, on one of the shelves, was an AK-47-style rifle. Senat, who later told authorities he kept the gun for protection, lifted the weapon to move it. Moments later, a bullet pierced the wall that separates the storage room and office and struck Darryl in the back of the neck.
Police ruled the shooting accidental. Still, the 37-year-old Senat was arrested the next day on the charge of manslaughter.
Darryl, meanwhile, was loaded into a medical chopper and flown seven miles north to St. Mary's, where his wife, who had gotten word, awaited. She, along with other members of the family, spent the night by his side.
Travis' plane touches down around 7 on Saturday morning. He's met by his brother-in-law and whisked over to St. Mary's. Trembling, Travis enters the room where Darryl is being kept alive. There's family everywhere—his mom and brother and sister but also aunts, uncles and cousins. Travis can see the grief on their faces. He can hear what they're refusing to say.
His dad is going to die.
Darryl's twin sister is leaning next to him.
"Darryl, your son Travis is here," she says. "Open your eyes."
He does. But as Travis approaches his dad, he doesn't recognize the eyes looking back at him. They're glossy and dark and appear as if they're floating.
Silence fills the room.
"I love you," Travis whispers to Darryl. "I promise I won't let you down."
Linda and Terrenie pull Travis and Darryl Jr. aside. The family needs to make a decision. Darryl is paralyzed from the neck down. The 20 minutes he spent in cardiac arrest crashed his brain.
Linda asks her children what to do. All agree: Darryl shouldn't suffer. As the doctor prepares to fulfill their request, Travis and his family trudge over to Darryl to say goodbye. Travis wraps both arms around the man who raised him and presses his lips against his cheek. "I love you," he says and then watches the doctor remove the tube from Darryl's mouth and shut off all the machines.
Like a hawk, Travis keeps his eyes locked on his father's chest. He tracks its rise and fall.
It goes up, and down.
Up and down.
Up and down.
And then it just stops. More silence.
Darryl is dead.
Travis storms out of the room, tears pouring down his cheeks.
For the first time in a week, Travis is able to smile.
He's with his family, which has gathered around the TV in Terrenie's Jupiter home. The thought of returning to Darryl and Linda's house without the family patriarch is too painful, so they've been here the past week. The table is loaded with all sorts of goodies: chicken wings and potato salad, chips and soda. It's the same draft-party menu Terrenie and Darryl had discussed.
Earlier that week, Linda had decided to postpone her husband's funeral until after the draft. She didn't want her baby to have to worry about burying his father while his future was up in the air. And anyway, the family all agreed: Celebrating Travis' entry into the NFL is what Darryl would have wanted. After all, he was one of the people adamant about Travis leaving Florida State a year early to pursue the NFL dream. It's not that Darryl was banking on the family living off Travis' money—both he and Linda worked, Terrenie is a manager at Comcast and Darryl Jr. studied agriculture at Palm Beach State College—it's just that "he thought Travis had NFL potential and that if he was going to beat up his body daily he might as well get paid for it," Terrenie says.
It made the decision a no-brainer, and so two days after Darryl's death, Travis' agent, Dan Saffron, sent a memo to all 32 NFL teams.
"This email is to let everyone know that Travis has spoken to his family and he has decided that he wants all 32 teams to know he's available for any draft-related questions or any questions that any team may have for him," it read, "and he is looking ahead to the draft in light of this tragedy that has struck the Rudolph family."
Travis expected to be drafted in Rounds 4-6—or maybe even to sneak into Round 3. He knew his slow 40-yard dash time (4.65 seconds) during the predraft combine hurt his prospects. But he also figured NFL scouts could see past the results of a single sprint.
Day 3 kicks off around noon, which is when Travis, dressed in shredded jeans and a tight white Adidas shirt with patches of red and yellow triangles, settles into his sisters' couch. Fourteen receivers have already been selected in the draft's first three rounds, and so Travis knows this will be his day. The TV is tuned to ESPN, Darryl's favorite channel. Bo Paske, an 11-year-old autistic boy who Travis befriended in August during a community service visit (a picture of the two went viral) is seated in front of him.
There are photos of Darryl scattered throughout the house. Terrenie had shirts made up, too. Some feature pictures of Darryl and Travis together; some boast FSU and Cardinal Newman logos; some have quotes from Darryl—"I believe in you" and "God has your back"—on the front. A local news team is there to capture the moment.
At one point the broadcast airs a feature on Travis. Darryl's picture pops up on screen. Linda, overtaken by sorrow, momentarily flees the room.
Hours go by, and Travis sees the names of more receivers come off the board. He knows he's better than nearly every one but does his best to keep his frustration from boiling to the surface. Still, his smile has gradually morphed into an empty glare. The clock continues to tick. Saffron tells Travis he's getting calls from various NFL teams. One, they hope, will tab Travis as their man.
The draft's penultimate pick is announced around 7 p.m. The Broncos are up next. They've been in touch with Saffron about Travis but decide to grab Ole Miss quarterback Chad Kelly instead.
All told, 32 wide receivers are drafted. Travis isn't one of them.
He's hurt, but there's no time to sulk. The calls are coming in fast. There are numerous teams interested in signing Travis. He'll earn less money, and his roster spot won't be guaranteed.
None of that matters. All that does is that Darryl's dream for his son will live on.
"I've had to prove myself from day one," Travis says to Terrenie afterward. "I'll just have to do it again on the field."
The outline of Travis' pulsing abs is protruding through his white dry-fit shirt. His biceps look Popeye-esque. "Dig, dig," urges Tavarus Harris, Travis' high school basketball coach, trainer and close friend. Moment ago he strapped a resistance belt around Travis' waist.
They're in an empty gym on a big slab of Jupiter property that Harris owns. There's nothing surrounding it but swamp and sun. Inside, as Travis sprints, arms bent at perfect 90-degree angles, fingers loose and still, a speaker hooked up to his iPhone blasts all sorts of rap.
Travis has been training with Harris for years, and now, having signed as an undrafted free agent with the New York Giants, he's pushing harder than ever. His contract netted him $20,000 in guaranteed money, and if he makes the team he'll be handed a three-year, $1.7 million deal.
But this pursuit isn't about money. It's not cash that propels him forward or keeps him glued to his playbook at 2 a.m. or drives him out of bed every day, even on days like this.
Today is July 11. Darryl would have turned 56 today. The Rudolph family would have gathered to celebrate, maybe even gone out. To Saito's, perhaps, one of their favorite hibachi places, or Twin Peaks, a sports bar Darryl loved.
Instead, Travis will later honor Darryl by visiting his grave. He'll look at the folded black-and-white picture of his dad that he keeps in his wallet and think about all the moments the two shared as well as the future memories robbed. Some days are harder than others. Travis is still learning this. Today is one of those. Father's Day was also rough. Mother's Day was punishing, too.
Then there were nights during training camp when Travis was alone in his New Jersey hotel.
"I was tearing it up there, and I wanted to call him," Travis says that afternoon over lunch. "He was always there for feedback."
Some evenings, Travis would even pick up his cellphone to call his Darryl. He'd scroll through his contacts and find his dad's name, only to experience the loss all over again.
"Playing in the NFL was always my dream," he adds, "and I always thought my dad would be here to see it."
He's not, but Travis won't let that hold him back. He's got a dream to chase, a life to live. Darryl wouldn't have wanted his son to spend his days sulking and dwelling in the past. He'd want him to sit here at lunch, with a smile stretching across his face as he talks about how he doesn't regret leaving school early, about how much he loves himself, about how confident he is in his future. He'd want him to sit here with Harris and, like other 21-year-old kids, poke fun at his friend's tight workout pants and claim to be a better jump-shooter. He'd want him to focus on the promise of the future—on the stories out of training camp that compared him to Victor Cruz—not on the heartbreak of the past.
He'd want him to trek forward. This, Travis knows for sure.
"I want Dad to see how successful I'm going to be," he said to Terrenie recently.
"I want him to see that I'm going to make it."
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