After 29 Years, Sternberg Undeterred By Life's Obstacles

The image is always shocking. Darryl Stingley crumpled by a vicious blow from Jack Tatum, Mike Utley motionless on a stretcher.

Great athletes suddenly lifeless.

But the image fades, the tragedy somehow softened by time.

We go on.

But do they?

I saw Brian Sternberg pole vault in 1963, the year he set the world record at 16 feet, 8 inches as a 19-year-old University of Washington sophomore.

He was an incredible athlete, a gymnast on the end of a fiberglass pole, track and field's first astronaut. He had broken his own world mark by three inches. Surely, he would be the first over 17 feet, if not 18 feet.

I loved track and field. And so it was I remember so clearly hearing the news that Brian Sternberg lay paralyzed after an accident while training on a trampoline.

The trouble is I left him there, a robust but fallen athlete, to continue in a new, less-visible world.

Brian Sternberg is 48 years old. Next year will mark the 30th anniversary of both his world record and his accident. He looks out the window from the bed in his Queen Anne home and can see Husky Stadium.

"Rough life," he says, a small smile spreading across his face. "At the Husky football games they give me a seat in the camera deck on the 50-yard line. And I get to bring a couple of people with me. Imagine."

Imagine, indeed.

"He keeps his sense of humor and his sense of purpose," said his mother, Helen. "People gain inspiration from Brian, but I'm not sure they realize just how difficult life can be.

"He tries to go somewhere every day. But just to get washed and dressed in the morning takes him 2 1/2 hours."

I spent an enjoyable two hours with Brian, probably longer than I should have stayed, but we seemed to hit it off. We're about the same age. We talked track and field, Husky football and the things you talk about when you haven't seen someone in 29 years.

"Hard to believe, isn't it," he said as we reviewed the years, "that we're getting over the hill."

He directed me around his room, to the letters he received congratulating him on his world record from John, Bobby and Jacqueline Kennedy. To the autographed footballs from Husky Rose Bowl teams. To a drawing he had made of his house. To a medal members of the local Fellowship of Christian Athletes had won at a national competition and presented to him rather than keep for themselves.

He had me examine his computer, and the device he uses to write letters and draw pictures. It is a mouthpiece on the end of a chopstick, enabling him to type with his teeth.

"I really treasure my time up from bed," he said slowly, "and I really try to put it to good use."

Two or three times a week he is transported from his bed to his wheelchair to his van and goes to Everett for physical therapy. Modern technology allows him to work out just like the rest of us.

"If you can believe it," he said, "I actually pedal a stationary bicycle. My legs aren't what yours are, but without the exercise they'd be the size of the bed post there."

A computer replaces his brain, sending impulses through electrodes hooked to the major muscles of his legs. He tries to ride for 30 minutes.

Another day a week he attends Seattle's North Central Kiwanis Club, or the university's Fellowship of Christian Athletes. For years he has been the area's representative to the national FCA.

"He takes such joy in the things people take for granted," said Orlando McKay, the UW football player who is a member of FCA. "He gave a talk to us on perseverance. It really means something when he says it."

Sternberg lives in an apartment in what used to be the basement of his parents' house. He has help from his mother and attendants the family employs. Sternberg's father, Harold, died a few years ago.

"It was no fun," said Brian.

There was a short time after his accident when Brian thought he might walk again. He wanted to coach and teach, but was discouraged from doing so, according to his mother.

"A lot has changed since for the better," she said, "but back then there wasn't much encouragement for him to do anything."

Now he writes letters to people who have suffered paralyzing injuries. He hasn't written yet to Mike Utley, but he will.

"I write them notes of encouragement. If this goes on very long, it is pretty hard not to get despondent over things. You don't want to let it get to you. If you do that you can't get anything done, and there is a lot to do."

Brian's mother worries about the victims of spinal-cord injuries who don't have the support groups her son has.

"The university," he said, "has been awfully good to me. Think how long it has been. I was at a football game and I was pleasantly surprised. I got a tap on the shoulder; Barbara Hedges had come by to say hi. That was nice, and, besides, she's a cutie."

We talked about pole vaulting, about the cedar stick Brian first vaulted on, about his first trip on fiberglass and about Sergey Bubka, the Russian world record holder.

"He doesn't do anything with his feet," said Brian, "if he could get both his feet and his hips high there is no telling how high he'd go."

Brian Sternberg views his accident on the trampoline as just that. He isn't bitter about sports. He realized long ago that accidents don't discriminate.

"Generally," he said, "I just tell people things are going fairly well for me considering the conditions. I can't gripe. Most people would be long gone by now. It's just nice to be involved in things like Kiwanis."

Then he asked me if I wanted to join. And I knew he wasn't going to take no for an answer.