Really Nice Banjo Article
Posted: Wed Aug 28, 2013 12:45 pm
http://www.jsonline.com/sports/packers/ ... 23651.html
Green Bay — Each day at the dormitory, at Ray Nitschke Field, at Lambeau Field, his mother's memory resurfaces. One conversation is on an infinite replay.
Three years ago, Chris Banjo's friend was planning an 1980s-themed birthday party at a skating rink. While shopping for a costume, Banjo's phone rang. It was his brother. Words blurred, little made sense. But when Banjo heard a faint, desperate "Mom died," he immediately crumpled to the floor.
"It just didn't feel real," Banjo said. "It felt like I was dreaming. It felt like my worst nightmare."
On June 5, 2010, Banjo's mother, Yinka, died of sickle cell anemia at 45 years old.
First, the death shook Banjo. Then, it drove him. In Green Bay, the 5-foot-10, 207-pound safety is one undrafted castoff with a legitimate chance at making the Packers' 53-man roster. And the No. 1 motivating force all summer, he insists, is his mom.
He watched her fight daily. The childhood visits to the hospital, their "second home." The devastating final visits when her organs broke down, one by one. Multiple times through the struggle, Banjo promised he'd take care of her and his two siblings one day.
Mom is gone. But the promise remains.
"I know she's watching," Banjo said. "I want to make her proud in everything that I do. That's a promise I still have to live up to."
Banjo's parents originally landed in Houston from Nigeria. Settled in Sugar Land, Texas, life was difficult. Dad worked multiple jobs to make ends meet. And sickle cell anemia — a hereditary disease in which red blood cells take on an abnormal shape — was a 24/7 battle for his mother.
Through the years, Banjo admits, he became "numb" to hospital visits. It was part of her life, part of his life.
Moving onto college, Banjo quickly asserted himself as a starter at Southern Methodist. Back home, his mom's disease worsened. Complications multiplied. He's not sure if she had a stroke — Banjo didn't want details — but his mother stopped talking to everyone.
Her kidneys failing, Yinka went on dialysis. At one point, she had a blood clot the size of a golf ball on her heart.
Even then, Banjo spotted a light at the end of the tunnel. His mother began talking again and doctors sensed progress. The day before Yinka's death, Banjo told her she needed to see his ring from SMU's 45-10 Hawaii Bowl win over Nevada. She said he already did in her dream the night before.
"She described it and everything," Banjo said. "That's amazing. So I was real excited to see her."
The next day, his brother called. Mom died. Banjo was in shock.
Call him crazy, corny, Banjo doesn't care. He still feels his mother's presence. The day of her funeral in Houston was "hot, real hot," he said. It was so hot one child passed out. Then, all of a sudden, "a big, tremendous gust of wind" swept through. Everyone cooled off.
Some eight to 10 visits to her grave since then, Banjo says he feels the exact same gust of wind.
"I always see her and always feel it a little bit," Banjo said. "Even when I'm on the field sometimes — wherever I may be, working out — and I feel a little wind, it makes me think of her.
"It's real overwhelming, it's real overwhelming."
Gusts or no gusts, Banjo has been making plays on the field.
He doesn't drown himself in Xs and Os. Hesitation that so often seals the fate of players toiling in NFL anonymity is absent from Banjo's game. Coaches say he doesn't overthink. That attitude stems from Mom, of course, and from missing all of 2012 — after brief, failed rookie camp tryouts in Pittsburgh and Oakland, he was forced to put football on hold.
Banjo worked as a technical recruiter at Robert Half Technology. He helped strangers find jobs when he was waiting for one. Other young safeties put together résumés on Saturdays in the SEC, the ACC. Banjo? He created a LinkedIn account.
Banjo woke up at 4:15 every morning to work out for two hours and then grabbed another 60-90 minutes in the evening. One "stay ready"-themed phone call from Alonzo Highsmith, the Packers' senior personnel executive, provided a flicker of hope.
The Jacksonville Jaguars eventually signed Banjo this past off-season, but he was released before training camp and the Packers granted him a fourth chance.
Banjo's fearlessness stands out. The player with 321 career tackles at SMU is a willing run defender. Through three exhibition games, he ranks second on the team with 10 solo tackles.
"Thousands of people would kill to have the opportunity that I have," Banjo said. "So when I realize that, I play a little faster, a little harder and maximize my opportunities."
He's still in awe that his mother — confined to a hospital bed, tracking her failing organs — somehow stayed upbeat. To the end, she never sought pity. Sitting in his locker, smiling, Banjo can still hear her say, "Everything will be OK."
This perspective helped all camp. Cornerback Sam Shields, also undrafted, sees a player who can stick.
"Me, when I was coming out, I was always thinking, 'Damn, I messed up. They're going to cut me,'" Shields said. "But he doesn't think about anything. He just goes out there and plays. That's the way you have to be."
Added safety Jerron McMillian, "If you're undrafted, you have a lot more to prove. That's what he's doing. He's letting people know he can actually play this game."
Like Pittsburgh Steelers safety Ryan Clark, Banjo has sickle cell trait. He's well aware that Clark nearly died while playing at high altitude in Denver. At times, Banjo's muscles cramp up. He has learned to manage his breathing. Not quite sure what's legal under the NFL's substance policy, he's afraid to take supplements.
An estimated 2 million Americans, like Banjo and Clark, have one copy of the sickle cell gene. Sickle cell disease — which Banjo's mother had — occurs when someone has two copies of the gene. Red blood cells harden and become C-shaped.
As September nears, Banjo has a shot. That's all he's worried about.
There were dark moments he felt he let his mother down last year. Out of the NFL, he worked out, he waited, he remembered the promise.
"I could talk to you for another hour or two about how much I think about her," Banjo said. "I hear her voice all the time."
Now, at Kansas City on Thursday night, he has a chance to keep that promise alive.
Green Bay — Each day at the dormitory, at Ray Nitschke Field, at Lambeau Field, his mother's memory resurfaces. One conversation is on an infinite replay.
Three years ago, Chris Banjo's friend was planning an 1980s-themed birthday party at a skating rink. While shopping for a costume, Banjo's phone rang. It was his brother. Words blurred, little made sense. But when Banjo heard a faint, desperate "Mom died," he immediately crumpled to the floor.
"It just didn't feel real," Banjo said. "It felt like I was dreaming. It felt like my worst nightmare."
On June 5, 2010, Banjo's mother, Yinka, died of sickle cell anemia at 45 years old.
First, the death shook Banjo. Then, it drove him. In Green Bay, the 5-foot-10, 207-pound safety is one undrafted castoff with a legitimate chance at making the Packers' 53-man roster. And the No. 1 motivating force all summer, he insists, is his mom.
He watched her fight daily. The childhood visits to the hospital, their "second home." The devastating final visits when her organs broke down, one by one. Multiple times through the struggle, Banjo promised he'd take care of her and his two siblings one day.
Mom is gone. But the promise remains.
"I know she's watching," Banjo said. "I want to make her proud in everything that I do. That's a promise I still have to live up to."
Banjo's parents originally landed in Houston from Nigeria. Settled in Sugar Land, Texas, life was difficult. Dad worked multiple jobs to make ends meet. And sickle cell anemia — a hereditary disease in which red blood cells take on an abnormal shape — was a 24/7 battle for his mother.
Through the years, Banjo admits, he became "numb" to hospital visits. It was part of her life, part of his life.
Moving onto college, Banjo quickly asserted himself as a starter at Southern Methodist. Back home, his mom's disease worsened. Complications multiplied. He's not sure if she had a stroke — Banjo didn't want details — but his mother stopped talking to everyone.
Her kidneys failing, Yinka went on dialysis. At one point, she had a blood clot the size of a golf ball on her heart.
Even then, Banjo spotted a light at the end of the tunnel. His mother began talking again and doctors sensed progress. The day before Yinka's death, Banjo told her she needed to see his ring from SMU's 45-10 Hawaii Bowl win over Nevada. She said he already did in her dream the night before.
"She described it and everything," Banjo said. "That's amazing. So I was real excited to see her."
The next day, his brother called. Mom died. Banjo was in shock.
Call him crazy, corny, Banjo doesn't care. He still feels his mother's presence. The day of her funeral in Houston was "hot, real hot," he said. It was so hot one child passed out. Then, all of a sudden, "a big, tremendous gust of wind" swept through. Everyone cooled off.
Some eight to 10 visits to her grave since then, Banjo says he feels the exact same gust of wind.
"I always see her and always feel it a little bit," Banjo said. "Even when I'm on the field sometimes — wherever I may be, working out — and I feel a little wind, it makes me think of her.
"It's real overwhelming, it's real overwhelming."
Gusts or no gusts, Banjo has been making plays on the field.
He doesn't drown himself in Xs and Os. Hesitation that so often seals the fate of players toiling in NFL anonymity is absent from Banjo's game. Coaches say he doesn't overthink. That attitude stems from Mom, of course, and from missing all of 2012 — after brief, failed rookie camp tryouts in Pittsburgh and Oakland, he was forced to put football on hold.
Banjo worked as a technical recruiter at Robert Half Technology. He helped strangers find jobs when he was waiting for one. Other young safeties put together résumés on Saturdays in the SEC, the ACC. Banjo? He created a LinkedIn account.
Banjo woke up at 4:15 every morning to work out for two hours and then grabbed another 60-90 minutes in the evening. One "stay ready"-themed phone call from Alonzo Highsmith, the Packers' senior personnel executive, provided a flicker of hope.
The Jacksonville Jaguars eventually signed Banjo this past off-season, but he was released before training camp and the Packers granted him a fourth chance.
Banjo's fearlessness stands out. The player with 321 career tackles at SMU is a willing run defender. Through three exhibition games, he ranks second on the team with 10 solo tackles.
"Thousands of people would kill to have the opportunity that I have," Banjo said. "So when I realize that, I play a little faster, a little harder and maximize my opportunities."
He's still in awe that his mother — confined to a hospital bed, tracking her failing organs — somehow stayed upbeat. To the end, she never sought pity. Sitting in his locker, smiling, Banjo can still hear her say, "Everything will be OK."
This perspective helped all camp. Cornerback Sam Shields, also undrafted, sees a player who can stick.
"Me, when I was coming out, I was always thinking, 'Damn, I messed up. They're going to cut me,'" Shields said. "But he doesn't think about anything. He just goes out there and plays. That's the way you have to be."
Added safety Jerron McMillian, "If you're undrafted, you have a lot more to prove. That's what he's doing. He's letting people know he can actually play this game."
Like Pittsburgh Steelers safety Ryan Clark, Banjo has sickle cell trait. He's well aware that Clark nearly died while playing at high altitude in Denver. At times, Banjo's muscles cramp up. He has learned to manage his breathing. Not quite sure what's legal under the NFL's substance policy, he's afraid to take supplements.
An estimated 2 million Americans, like Banjo and Clark, have one copy of the sickle cell gene. Sickle cell disease — which Banjo's mother had — occurs when someone has two copies of the gene. Red blood cells harden and become C-shaped.
As September nears, Banjo has a shot. That's all he's worried about.
There were dark moments he felt he let his mother down last year. Out of the NFL, he worked out, he waited, he remembered the promise.
"I could talk to you for another hour or two about how much I think about her," Banjo said. "I hear her voice all the time."
Now, at Kansas City on Thursday night, he has a chance to keep that promise alive.