Sunday Morning Sidewalk: Echoes from the Butte

 

There was a sort of quiet peace yesterday as I spent most of the day just relaxing with Fiji. She’s just under three years old now and—true to form—she’s learned to pace herself on these warmer July afternoons. Instead of bounding through the fields in search of mice or shadows, she laid beside me in the tall grass, ears twitching at distant sounds but otherwise content to do nothing at all. It was still. Calm. One of those rare Oregon summer days where the warmth softens everything and time seems to stretch just a bit longer between minutes.

I suppose there’s a bit of irony in that tranquility. After all, the On3/Rivals merger has left me with more time on my hands than I’m used to. Time that, a year ago, would’ve been consumed by practice updates, recruiting calls, and article deadlines. Yesterday, though, it was just me, Fiji, and a field of golden grass. No push notifications. No Slack threads. Just stillness.

Somewhere in that stillness, I opened my phone and scrolled through a few updates. That’s when I saw the post from Oregon Football—something that’s become a tradition in recent years. A photo of the team, arms slung around each other, standing on top of Spencer’s Butte. The annual summer fellowship climb. A chance for teammates to bond, yes—but more importantly, a chance to honor two of their own: Spencer Webb and Khyree Jackson.

It stopped me. That image. That moment. And all at once, I was transported back to a different July day—one far heavier than this one. It was July 13, 2022, when the news broke about Spencer Webb’s tragic death. I remember where I was—driving back from a visit with my closest friend of 45 years. We’d talked about family, aging, and all the beautiful, bittersweet things that come with knowing someone for that long. And then the phone buzzed.

Spencer Webb was gone.

It hit me harder than I expected. Not because I was close to Spencer in the conventional sense—I wasn’t part of his inner circle, and we hadn’t shared more than a handful of conversations. But I did know his story. I had the privilege of speaking with him in 2017, when he was still a high school kid trying to chart a course out of chaos. And I had the responsibility of writing that story. I remember how his voice—quiet but deliberate—carried a weight that belied his age. He wasn’t just another high school recruit with offers. He was a survivor. A fighter. A kid who had already overcome more than most adults ever will.

That original interview stayed with me—not because of his ranking or his frame or his stats. But because of what he had already endured.

Spencer didn’t grow up with the advantages that so many athletes take for granted. His parents, trapped by addiction, were absent. At just three or four years old, Spencer was left behind—literally. “My parents left me; skipped town; left me at my 70-year-old grandma’s house,” he told me back then. It wasn’t a bitter recounting. It was almost clinical. A young man learning to make peace with something unfathomable.

Eventually, it was his older brother and sister-in-law who stepped in—who gave him structure, support, and love. Spencer referred to them as his rock. He lived with his aunt for most of his childhood and moved in with his brother in eighth grade. While so many others in his situation might have fallen into despair, Spencer found hope. He clung to football, to family, to purpose.

But the numbers tell us how rare that is. In California alone, more than 55,000 children live in foster care—many with trauma that leaves invisible but lasting scars. Less than 50 percent graduate from high school. Only a fraction make it to college. And fewer still land a Division I football scholarship.

Spencer Webb beat those odds—not by luck, but by grit. He worked spring breaks in a fabrication shop while his classmates relaxed. He played both sides of the ball for Christian Brothers High School, helping lead his team to their first section final in three decades. He spoke with maturity about his future and humility about his past.

“My brother helps point that other kids have it worse,” he told me. It was his way of keeping perspective. He never wallowed in what he didn’t have. He doubled down on what he did.

Even as I write this now—years removed from that interview—I can still hear his tone. Steady. Quiet. Unflinching. It wasn’t that he had forgotten the pain. It was that he had chosen not to be defined by it.

So when I saw Oregon’s fellowship post yesterday—the climb to Spencer’s Butte to honor him and Khyree Jackson—it stirred something deeper. Not just grief. Not just memory. But a sense of reverence. Because these weren’t just athletes lost too soon. They were people. Stories. Souls with arcs far more layered than their player bios or highlight reels ever captured.

And it reminded me why I fell in love with this job in the first place. Why writing about recruiting or player development or fall camp battles has always meant more to me than just depth charts and rankings. It’s the stories. The real ones. The ones about young men like Spencer Webb, who rise from impossibly difficult beginnings and carve out something beautiful. Something worthy of being remembered.

Now, three years after his passing, Oregon continues to honor Spencer—not just with hashtags or locker room decals, but with real, tangible actions. The climb to the top of the Butte is symbolic, yes. But it’s also deeply human. It’s a way of saying: “We remember. We still carry you with us.”

As I sat in that field with Fiji, I thought about how we all carry people with us. Not just those we’ve lost, but those whose stories have shaped us. Spencer Webb shaped mine. Not because he was a star. But because he was resilient. And because he had the courage to tell the truth about his life—even when that truth was hard.

And that’s something worth honoring—not just once a year with a hike, but every time we’re given the chance to tell a story that matters.

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 Closing the summer with a tribute to our fallen brothers.

Next up: Fall Camp. #GoDucks pic.twitter.com/YLTYLWnImL

— Oregon Football (@oregonfootball) July 19, 2025

The climb to Spencer’s Butte isn’t just about grief. It’s about fellowship. That word might sound quaint or even overly spiritual to some, but in the world of college football, it carries real, tangible meaning. Fellowship is what happens in the locker room after a crushing loss when no one speaks but everyone understands. It’s the 5:00 a.m. workouts where players drag each other through sprints they couldn’t finish alone. It’s the walk-ons who never see the field but who show up every day, not for glory, but for each other.

For Oregon football, that word has come to mean something more. Something rooted in remembrance, in community, in honoring the journey—not just the scoreboard. Spencer Webb's name etched into the program’s soul didn’t come from a record-breaking season or a game-winning catch. It came from the way he lived, and the way he loved being part of something bigger than himself.

That same ethos seemed to echo through the team’s tribute to Khyree Jackson as well—a man who hadn’t even played a full season in Eugene but made an indelible impression in just months. It’s proof that brotherhood can form fast. That when players buy in, when they connect, when they share more than just a uniform—they become more than teammates. They become family. And when family hurts, they show up for one another.

That idea of fellowship, of deep connection, has lingered in my mind a lot these past few weeks.

The On3/Rivals merger didn’t just dissolve a corporate structure; it closed a chapter of my life I had invested years into—covering Oregon recruiting, writing stories like Spencer’s, and chasing leads until long past midnight. There were frustrations, sure. But also a sense of rhythm and purpose. For years, it was just what I did. What I was. The publisher. The voice behind the curtain. The one always pressing “publish” before the news got stale.

But now?

Now, there is no urgent deadline. No editorial mandate. No pipeline to protect.

There’s only space—and the question of what to do with it.

And as strange as it sounds, in that space I’ve come to appreciate something that I might’ve taken for granted while in the trenches: that what I miss most isn’t the access or the clicks. It’s the fellowship. The community. The sense that these stories—these lives—mattered not just to the players living them, but to the fans who followed them. To the parents who read every article. To the walk-on whose name finally made it into print.

That connection doesn’t go away just because your title does.

That’s why I’ll keep writing. It may look different now—maybe fewer interviews, maybe more reflection than scoop—but the heart of it is still the same. The stories still matter. The lives still deserve to be told with care, context, and truth.

And as I looked at that photo of the Ducks on Spencer’s Butte—arms around each other, silhouetted against the summer sky—I thought: maybe that’s what this season of life is meant to teach me. That the climb doesn’t end just because the job title changes. That fellowship isn’t bound by press credentials or paywalls.

It’s in the stories. It’s in the stillness. It’s in remembering that someone like Spencer Webb mattered—not because of what he did on the field, but because of what he overcame to stand on it.

And if I can still help tell those stories—then maybe I haven’t lost anything at all.

Maybe I’ve just begun again.

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