“What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others.”
Pericles, Ancient Greece Politician – Referenced in “Legacy” by James Kerr
Posted on the wall inside Miles P. Henderson Field House in Canadian, Texas
Dear Citizens of Canadian—Past and Present,
Writing is a hobby for me–not a profession. The names Thomas Smith, Ernest Hemingway, and Steven King will never again be mentioned in the same sentence. I typically write about trivial things like my favorite hockey rinks or road trips to football games in Alabama. This story was different.
I postponed writing several chapters because I was concerned about my ability to honorably serve the people I was writing about. There were easy chapters to write. Just let my brain drift to a goofy place, then start typing. Writing about Miles was altogether different. While writing about him, I often had the following thought:
Miles Henderson belongs to Canadian. He’s yours. One of you. I’m an outsider. A stranger to that place you call home. Perhaps when you read this chapter, the best way to think of it might be:
What might an outsider think of Miles, his friends, and the town he grew up in?
I’m 64 years old. I’ve been around a bit. I can honestly say I’ve never been more impressed and “moved” by anyone than when Jared Hohertz, Derek Maupin, Eric Hall, George Peyton, David Flowers, Kyle Lynch, and former Sheriff Gary Henderson shared their thoughts about Miles. Eslewhere in the story, I wrote that no town is perfect–neither my hometown of Two Harbors, Minnesota nor Canadian, Texas. But if I may borrow a Texas term for a moment, “all y’all” would be very proud of their affection for Miles and Canadian. I can’t help but feel the same way.
Then, Terry and Brad Henderson. Obviously, this chapter wouldn’t have been written without their blessing. I’ll forever be thankful for crossing paths with them. If you ever have the pleasure of visiting with them, ask Terry if she happens to have a pot of soup sitting around, which might go to waste if you don’t help her out. You won’t regret it!
Reading this chapter might be confusing if I don’t share the following information. Earlier in the story, I wrote about other veterans from Minnesota and one from Colorado, where I currently live. They are Michael Smoger, Steven Abbott, and Sam Holder Jr. You’ll see “Michael, Steven, Sam” referenced in this chapter. Michael and Steven were from my hometown in Minnesota. Both served and died in Vietnam. Sam is from Denver. Like Miles, Sam served in Iraq. While writing this story, fate led me to meet his father, Sam Holder Sr. I wrote about Miles in Chapter 43. I wrote about the other veterans in Chapters 26 and 27.
Thank you for taking the time to read this chapter about Miles.
Chapter 45: No Worries - Miles of Smiles
It’s 7 pm on a Friday night in October. I remove my hat, place my hand over my heart, then honor our flag and country. I begin with the best of intentions:
“Oh, say, can you see by the dawn’s early light…”
Then, the voices intercede.
“It’s darn cold tonight.”
“That team sure has nice uniforms.”
“Did I lock the car doors?”
“Will I go to Waffle House after the game?”
Then, just in time, I snap out of it.
… O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”
I sit back on the aluminum stadium bench—put my hat back on, grab my popcorn, and settle in.
“The Wildcats have won the toss and elected to receive. The Agates will defend the north end zone.”
That was then.
Those moments before the opening kickoff of a football game are forever changed. I was never irreverent, but I’d fallen into a too-casual routine—an auto-pilot approach to this small segment of my life. They say it takes a lot to break our habits. The excuses flow easily—it’s so difficult nowadays to “be present.”
They never told me that listening to stories told by others would zap my neural circuits—click the reset button and make me an appropriately reverent person. The veterans who served on the Color Guard in Minnesota rattled my cage, a chance encounter with a veteran in Denver shook me up—see Addendum A at the end of this story for that—and a name on a wall in Canadian, Texas sealed the deal. The anthem and flag now capture my attention like never before.
While the anthem plays, I now have a repetitive thought as I look towards the flag:
I think of young men named Michael, Steven, and Sam.
Michael, Steven, Sam.
Michael, Steven, Sam.
Michael, Steven, Sam.
From the beginning of the anthem until the end.
Michael. Steven. Sam.
I can no longer be what I was. I no longer want to be what I was.
Soon, I’d add one more name to my anthem ritual.
You’re a zillion words into a story about football—thank you for getting this far— but there’s been no mention yet of pass receptions, rushing yards, or touchdowns. That changes now.
Friday, November 20, 1998 – Vernon, Texas
It was that “win tonight, or the season’s over” time of year—the second round of the playoffs. The Canadian Wildcats built a comfortable lead against the Jim Ned Indians and were cruising towards round three. Many “starters” were now relaxing on the sidelines but weren’t looking forward to next week. They were looking forward to the next play. Something was up.
Head Coach David Flowers sent the play in from the sideline. Along with that play were several backup players—one wearing jersey number 25.
The players stood at attention—the band members and everyone’s parents pointed at the field—their good friend was in the game.
“There he is!!”
The Wildcats broke the huddle, raced to the line, and prepared for the quick snap from center to quarterback Jared Hohertz. Two running backs and a wingback flanked Hohertz. All indications pointed to another running play. The Jim Ned Indians defense stacked nine players within three yards of the line of scrimmage. The aforementioned number 25 lined up on the left side of the Canadian offensive line in the position of Tight End.
Tight ends are typically big, strong, and menacing. Number 25 was none of the above. He didn’t possess the physical traits symbolic of a prototypical, fierce, intimidating West Texas high school football player. Even his jersey told that story—it didn’t fit snuggly over a sculpted frame—the 2 and the 5 draped loosely over the front of his shoulder pads.
But residing underneath that jersey was the pulse of this football team—the hardest worker, the boy who was the ultimate, supportive teammate—the boy whose love for wearing those black, white, and gold uniforms was unsurpassed. Every teammate knew that to be true. Heck, even the members of the band knew. The parents knew.
The Jim Ned Indians were about to find out. Their scouting report had no references to him—they didn’t even know his name. There was no need to worry about him.
Or, so they thought.
The ball was hiked to Hohertz. The Indians linebackers surged forward a step or two to stuff the running back soon after receiving a handoff.
One problem. There was no handoff. Hohertz dropped back to throw a pass.
The body language of the Jim Ned linebackers could be read from a hundred yards away. It could be summed up in two words:
“Oh <expletive>!!!”
Hohertz, “”I felt this humongous amount of pressure. “There had been an effort all season to get the ball to him. This was our chance to make it happen. I didn’t want to let him down. I had to make a good pass. I remember throwing the ball but not seeing him on the route. I just threw it to where he was supposed to be.”
The smallest Tight End in Texas ran as fast as he’s ever run. Six yards into his route, number 25 planted his right foot, then veered left towards the sideline. Hohertz launched a pass from the Wildcats 43-yard line. Hohertz trusted that his best friend would be there when the football descended back to Earth. Everyone in attendance from the 79014 zip code could see what was happening. The trajectory of the pass was perfect, heading straight toward their popular classmate.
But will he catch it? He’d never done that before.
They all held their breath.
Number 25 was five yards clear of three Indians defenders.
The ball arrived.
Moments later, while grown men like assistant coach Kyle Lynch were still jumping up and down in celebration, the Seniors on the Canadian Wildcats football team hoisted their younger teammate onto their shoulders and carried him back to the Wildcats’ bench.
The Jim Ned Indians now knew his name. The public address announcer told them.
“That’s a 27-yard completion from Hohertz to Miles Henderson.”
Coach Flowers knew a dream had just come true. I mean—his dream—to see Miles Henderson have his dream come true.
Derek Maupin and one of Miles’s best friends reflected. “It was just so cool. The upperclassmen were so pumped up for him. It’s rare for Seniors to have that much respect for Juniors or Sophomores. It’s a testament to Miles. He had such an impact on everyone on our football team—and everyone up in the bleachers. It was an unforgettable moment.”
Even the referees were caught up in the moment. One referee confided in Laurie Brown, reporter and editor of the Canadian Record newspaper, who was on the sidelines. She’d captured the picture of Miles’ reception. The referee approached her and said, “Even without knowing the details, we know when an extraordinary moment happens for an individual and a team. That team’s reaction to number 25 catching that pass was one of those moments.”
Many high school boys—especially athletes, are genetically predisposed to strive to become the pack’s leader—that “survival of the fittest” stuff, climbing over each other to get to the top. Then, along comes a person who recognizes early on that he won’t likely reach that pinnacle but loves being part of the team. He wants to find his place—to help everyone—to serve the greater good.
That was Miles Henderson.
During football practice, Miles served on the “scout team”—his role was to pretend to be the opponent for the upcoming game. He’d compete against his teammates—giving his best to keep his teammates sharp—with each play sending a message to his teammates to never underestimate an opponent, including a seemingly undersized one still capable of delivering an alarming thump to a teammate who let his guard down.
Hohertz recalled, “When you get to the eighth week of the season, and it’s just another practice on a Thursday, it’s easy for the starters to relax and go through the motions. Then Miles is on the scout team, going 110% to ensure we weren’t packing it in. Sometimes, he would come in hot—making a shoulder pad-to-shoulder pad tackle to wake you up.”
Coach Flowers shared, “He a smaller guy and wasn’t all that fast, but he would light up your (backside) in practice if you were lolly-gagging around. He ensured you’re doing your job how it’s supposed to be done.”
A backup player held the starters accountable, some older than him. Call it rare. This had the potential to go south in a hurry. But Miles pulled it off. To accept him—and to love him as they did, his teammates had to fully believe and accept one thing:
Miles did all of this for them—for the team, not for himself.
He was a selfless fireball—a special person who understood and accepted his role on this team and played it to perfection.
On Monday through Thursday, Miles Henderson gave everything he had on the practice field to ensure his teammates were ready to be their best on Friday nights. Then, while those lights were shining on his teammates, he spent most of his time on the sidelines.
Coach Flowers continued, “Miles wasn’t the type to sit still. He’d be pacing—sometimes racing up and down the sidelines to cheer for his teammates. There were times when Miles knew I was getting concerned about the game’s momentum. He’d walk over to me—all five-foot-eight or nine and 130 pounds of him—he’d look at me, give me that smile, then reassure me by offering his favorite expression: ‘No worries, Coach! No worries!’
Miles was almost too good to be true. But true, he was.
Hohertz recalled, “He was the first person you wanted to see when you came off the field because if you had any success, you wanted to share it with him because he was more excited than you were. But also, when things didn’t go well, he was the first person to tell you that it’s gonna be OK and to never let anything get you down. The seniors loved him. The sophomores and freshmen saw what was happening. His selflessness led to the creation of a culture of doing things the right way—if we not going to give it 100 percent, why are we even here?”
Jared Hohertz had thrown this pass to his best friend, the guy he now tells his six and nine-year-old sons about. His sons are getting involved in sports. Jared tells stories of the type of teammate Miles was. As his sons navigate that process of making friends, he encourages his boys to be the type of friend Miles was. He tells his sons about his best friend and “how it was not just in football but just throughout life…ya’ he… just a best friend… he’s he’s my best friend and um it was…”
I understood what Jared was trying to say.
Miles’s interests ranged beyond football. He loved history, reading, acting, exploring, and singing in the car. I was also told that Miles Henderson, the native of Texas, loved to ski. My first thought:
“Water skiing is fun.”
I was informed that his preferred surface was the semi-frozen variety of water—snow. My next thought:
“In Texas?”
This presented a logistical problem. Engaging in a favorite hobby was going to require a bit of adventure. Based on what I’ve heard of Miles, this is the perfect fit. Peas and carrots. Ice cream and hot fudge. Miles Henderson and adventure. The fact that he’d have to pack up his truck for the wintry drive to Colorado only deepened his love for skiing.
Another perspective of his was, “What good is an adventure if you don’t have anyone to share it with?” Miles needed witnesses. Thankfully, friends were almost always present to preserve and relay their memories.
If you hear a story once, it might have happened. You can bank on it if you listen to it multiple times from different sources.
This is one such story:
Miles was an excellent skier. One incident on a challenging slope in Colorado indicated he wasn’t as good as he thought. The guys reached the precipice of a significant drop-off. The easiest route down to the chalet was to veer left down the more gentle slope of the mountain. Four guys voted to turn left. Miles, known by his buddies for his “the fastest way from Point A to Point B is a straight line” approach to life, went straight. Moments later, his buddies were searching for Miles. The ensuing scene was reminiscent of the 1960s or 70s Walt Disney or Hannah-Barberra cartoon. Eventually, they noticed two skis pointing skyward as if they were planted there. Next, the skis started moving. Then Miles emerged from the snow—his ski goggles were broken, and his snow-chilled red face was caked with snow. But there was one more thing—that enormous smile they’d seen many times. There it was. Miles was having the time of his life—with his buddies along to share in the laughs.
And another:
Miles’s adventurous spirit led four of the five members of their gang to serve a week-long, in-school suspension in a soundproof, window-free room in the high school’s basement. It all started honorably, then took a comedic turn.
Miles was transfixed on a contest offered by “Outside” magazine. The ground rules were to submit an outline of your plan for the ultimate outdoor adventure. The magazine’s editorial staff would review the ideas from hundreds—maybe thousands- of applicants, select a winner, and then make that dream trip come true.
Miles concocted a plan for his ultimate trip. He and Derek, Eric, George, and Jared would be flown to Anchorage. From there, they’d hire a “bush pilot” to drop them into a remote Alaskan outpost where they’d set up camp. They’d kayak the frigid waters, perhaps paddle to an island near—or even inside, Russian territory, all while proving that a group of high-school-aged Texans were physically and mentally able to survive independently with no contact from the outside world.
He was 17 years old. Most 17-year-olds might consider a more conservative trek.
“My buddy and I want to drive to Yellowstone without our parents, get our picture taken standing in front of Old Faithful while wearing the Daniel Boone hats we’ll purchase at the gift shop, then drive home.”
Miles would like that trip, but it was too conventional. That could only serve as a simple training mission before Alaska.
The Alaska idea wasn’t out of character for Miles. Everyone cited his penchant for driving his pickup truck in the middle of winter with the windows rolled down, wearing only blue jeans and a t-shirt. Yes, it can get frigid in that part of Texas. Why would he do this? He had a simple answer.
“Always in training!”
One of his trademark expressions. Always in training for a football game, ski trip, trip to Alaska, or who knows what? An extraordinary personality has to be sitting behind that steering wheel. Wired differently. Every day, there is a challenge to be better than yesterday.
Inject me with some of that.
He would not back down from a challenge or a challenging situation.
An outpost in Alaska:? Yep, that’s Miles.
Miles was sitting at home on Sunday night when the phone rang.
“May I speak with Miles Henderson.”
“Yes, sir. You got him. This is Miles. How can I help you?”
“Hi, Miles, this is Jon Krakauer from “Outside” magazine. Our committee has reviewed your rather crazy proposal. I have to say we love the idea. You and your buddies are one of three finalists in our contest.”
“Sir, this better not be a prank call. Derek, is that you? Or is this Eric? Sir, you better not be messing with me. If you are, so help me…”
While stifling his laughter, Krakauer interjected, “No, Mr. Henderson, this is not a prank. We love your idea. Some editorial team members would like to take the same type of trip. But we need some additional information.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Krakauer. Anything. I’ll do anything to win this contest.”
“We need a detailed day-by-day itinerary. Where exactly will you set up base camp? How will you get there and back? Who will you rent your kayaks from? Are you renting a tent, sleeping bags, lanterns, medical kits, food, and other incidental supplies? We need that information to understand how much this will cost us as your trip sponsors. We need that information by Friday afternoon. Can you make that happen?”
“Yes, sir. No worries, sir. We’ll get that information to you. No worries at all. I’m so excited. Thank you for calling.”
"What is so dangerous about a character like Ferris Bueller is he gives good kids bad ideas."
Miles was a great student—you’ll learn more about that later. But some things were more important to him than school.
Eleven years after Ferris Bueller called the office of Principal Ed Rooney to report a fake illness for the sole purpose of having a day of adventure, Miles and three of his four BFFs each called the office of Canadian High School Principal Mike Jackson on Monday morning to do exactly the same thing—report fake illnesses while placing adventure over education.
One significant obstacle stood between Miles and Alaska. In 1997, the internet wasn’t nearly what it is today, and the research resources were much more limited for Miles and the guys. In that era, how would a person living in Texas find a list of bush pilots and kayak rental companies in Alaska?
The guys did their best. They submitted their updated proposal to the magazine. Then, they received multiple phone calls. One was from “Outside” magazine. They were told they didn’t win the contest.
The other calls were from Principal Jackson’s office to inform them their one day of make-believe illness would lead to five days of in-school suspension.
The don’t-be-Ferris vibe was heavy in Canadian.
Eric Hall didn’t receive that phone call. He hadn’t skipped school. He wouldn’t spend the week in the school’s isolation chamber, typically reserved for band members trying to learn how to play their tuba. Eric was free to walk the halls, enjoy lunch with the rest of his classmates, and maybe even enjoy some fresh air during Phy-Ed class.
Twenty-six years later, Derek, George, and Jared still remind Eric of their suffering while he was having a good time. Some memories just stick with us longer than others. This is one of the Miles Henderson shenanigans-based memories that will last forever among his best friends.
Fast forward one year.
November 5, 1999
Miles and the guys were Seniors. Months of practice were behind them. Week by week, the Wildcats were getting closer to that “it’s time to go our separate ways, gotta’ move along, make a living, maybe start a family” phase of life. But they weren’t done yet. The Canadian Wildcats boarded the bus and traveled to face the Boys Ranch Roughriders in the final game before the playoffs.
They had one more lightning strike to witness.
Football fans never celebrate penalties called against their team.
The “never-say-never” parable intervenes for the most fondly remembered 15-yard penalty ever called against the Canadian Wildcats. Prince famously wrote a song about partying in 1999. He didn’t foretell the party happening in Boys Ranch, Texas.
The Wildcats built a comfortable lead during this pre-playoff tune-up. Many “starters” were now on the sidelines but weren’t looking forward to next week. Not yet. They’d seen this movie before. Would this sequel have a different ending?
A quarter-century later, Coach Flowers vividly remembered the moment.
“We got into a position where we could get Miles into the game. He was a senior. His time on this team was running out. We sure wanted to get him in there. The time was right. We had a play that almost always resulted in a touchdown if the opposition wasn’t alert.”
The starters knew the play. It was called “X Flag.” It was now their turn to watch and support their most valued teammate. All eyes were once again on Miles. Some crossed their fingers. Others prayed. Others took a knee—couldn’t watch.
“Come on, come on, come on. Make this happen.”
The ball was snapped to backup Canadian quarterback Coleman Bartlett. Ten Wildcats moved right, including Bartlett, the offensive line, and running backs. The opposition’s defense followed with them. Bartlett then stopped, looked back to the end zone’s left corner, and threw a perfect pass. One Wildcat didn’t go right; he’d gone left.
“And there he was on the backside of the end zone—Miles caught the ball. It was his first—and only touchdown as a varsity player,” said Flowers while unsuccessfully fighting to reign in his emotions.
The crowd erupted. The parents, classmates, and members of the band all understood. Five seconds after the football left Bartlett’s right hand, Miles had transformed from underdog to superhero. Sports has a way of making that happen.
Miles held both hands over his head in his moment of “did all y’all see that” elation. Every teammate raced toward him. Miles wanted to hurry back to the sideline to hug Coach Flowers.
There was a problem. Miles couldn’t run or walk.
It’s impossible to do either when riding on your teammates’ shoulders. Once again, it was their turn to lift their good friend—their perfect teammate, into the spotlight.
A group of athletes can relate to what this must have felt like for Miles. It’s that unheralded group of team members in any sport who endure the grind of practicing every day but never have his or her name announced in the starting lineup or read their name in the local newspaper. It’s that group who sweat in obscurity, never reveling in the limelight. Everyone who has served in that role as a humble teammate deserves a moment like this. Too many never experience it.
Miles did.
In hindsight, thank God he had these moments.
One person on that football field wasn’t feeling the joy. He was one of those guys wearing the black and white vertically striped shirts. He reached into his back pocket for that yellow piece of cloth. He launched that bugger high into the air.
The referee then stood at midfield, faced the press box, and signaled the penalty by holding his arms straight out from his side as if he wanted to fly away. He didn’t want to call this penalty. But he had a job to do. He flipped that switch on the microphone gizmo strapped to his belt, then spoke to all.
“15 Yards. Excessive celebration on Canadian players number 5, number 7, and that number 9, oh—definitely number 40—heck, the entire team—including number 25. This penalty will be enforced on the ensuing kickoff.”
Yes, the rule book prohibits celebrations of this magnitude.
Yes, the referee made the correct call.
Yes, it was the most worthwhile infraction ever committed by the Canadian Wildcats.
It’s not good to break the rules. But, just this once.
Never has a team, town, coaching staff, cheer squad, or band been happier to see their team be slapped on the wrist. This moment is still celebrated in the hearts of those in attendance that night.
Miles Henderson was the lead actor in this play and the instigator of this moment. Everyone else got caught—or at least caught up in his vapor trail of happiness. Moments like this—Miles getting the ball rolling, then everyone else having fun, symbolized the tight-knit friendship of Miles and those wearing jersey numbers 5, 7, 9, and 40.
Number 5 was Jared Hohertz
Number 7 was Derek Maupin
Number 9 was Eric Hall
Number 40 was George Peyton
Jared, Derek, George, and Eric knew Miles better than anyone. For the younger generation reading this story, they were BFFs. Best friends forever.
George Peyton scored three touchdowns that night, kicked six extra points, and added a field goal. A banner was unfurled in the bleachers when his rushing total for the year topped 1,000 yards. Derek Maupin’s name appeared five times in the newspaper story as he quarterbacked the Wildcats up and down the field all night. Eric Hall scored a touchdown on a 30-yard run.
Newspaper writers and editors know to look for the story behind the story. The Wildcats scored seven touchdowns. Only one was featured on the newspaper’s front page on Veterans Day, 1999. Miles Henderson—the ultimate teammate— was now on the front page of the Canadian Record.
His first touchdown. His last regular season game.
Just in time.
“Miles Henderson (25) pulls down this touchdown pass from backup quarterback Coleman Bartlett in the final period of the Wildcats’ 51-7 victory over Boys Ranch.”
Henderson eventually broke free from the celebration and caught up with Coach Flowers.
“See, I told you. No worries, Coach!”
His words still echo.
“No worries, Coach.”
No worries…no worries…no worries…
On the morning of September 11, 2001, Brad Henderson, a pilot for Southwest Airlines, was backing his airplane away from the gate in San Jose, California, for a cross-country flight when he and other pilots across the United States received notice to return to the gate and/or land their airplanes as soon as possible.
It’s inconceivable that an idea conceived halfway around the world and then executed in our country would have such far-reaching implications. This was a pivotal day for the Henderson family. On this day, Miles envisioned being part of a new team, wearing a different uniform.
It wasn’t an impulsive decision. Contemplation was encouraged and applied. Eventually, Miles knew it was the right thing for him to do. Once he made his mind up, there was no stopping him.
The decision made sense. Miles loved this country. He was wired to support everyone else—unafraid of adventure. But this was next-level stuff in every way. Never one to stand down—Miles accepted his calling to stand up. Miles wanted to become a pilot like his dad. The Air Force and Navy required college degrees to attend flight school—the Army didn’t. Since he hadn’t finished his degree, the decision was obvious–Miles enlisted with the United States Army.
Unlike high school football, Miles wouldn’t spend most of his time on this team on the sidelines. As courageous as they come, Miles Henderson would be on the front line.
Stories of Miles were relayed to Brad and Terry. He was on a bigger team and a larger stage, but Miles was still being Miles. Like it or not, his new buddies serving beside him in Iraq became familiar with “Always in Training.” From windows-down truck rides during frigid winter weather on Highway 83 in Texas to running through walls of dust encroaching on their base near the Tigris River in central Iraq, Miles was fearless. He’d rustle his company mates. He’d implored them to pay no mind to that wall cloud outside. Every day was a gift—an opportunity to improve. They ran in his slipstream, following him like ducklings on early morning jogs around the perimeter of their base. He’d become a leader of men—of soldiers.
Miles would forever be Miles. Alaska would have been no match for him.
Five years after 9/11, messages started flowing to the Henderson family. Positive words that every parent wants to hear about their son. But not now. Not like this.
“Sweet Miles, we think back to you as a cute little boy. “Miles of Smiles” is the first thought that pops into our head.”
“…Miles is a very special person to all of us. There are a couple of things you should know…a rising star in Alpha Company, easily the most squared-away junior CW2 in the company, arguably the entire battalion…very well liked and well respected…”
“…like a brother to me. My name is Jeremy Carter, and I went through Warrant Office School with Miles. I also had the privilege to be Miles’s Stick Buddy in flight school… an inspiration to me every day. I have no doubt in my mind that I would not have made it to the point in my life where I am now without him. He was always positive and upbeat and encouraged me to strive for more than average. We would study for hours at a time for flight school tests. It was more like hours of him being patient while I tried to learn what he already knew…my heart reaches out to your whole family. Miles was a great friend and an all-around great person. He will always be my hero.”
“… all of the times that he made me smile…being in One Act (drama) with him…brightened every day with his charming smile and great sense of humor…so polite, intelligent, talented and a great friend to everyone. “
The phone rang in Jared Hohertz’s apartment in a northern suburb of Fort Worth. Jared picked up. It was his dad. A few words later, Jared sat on the edge of his bed to absorb the gut punch and begin processing the rest of the news.
On November 6, 2006, in Balad, Iraq—55 miles north of Baghdad, the AH-64 D Apache Longbow helicopter piloted by Miles Henderson crashed. He did not survive. Miles was 24 years old. Four months earlier, on July 1, 2006, he married Artis Chester in Fort Meyers Beach, Florida.
Television stations in Amarillo reported the news of his loss to the rest of the panhandle. The Canadian Record newspaper dedicated several pages to honor him.
Grace is a word rarely associated with football-centric stories. Its presence is warranted in most chapters of this story, though never more than here.
Miles was coming home. His first stop after a trans-Atlantic flight was at a place associated with ten numbers you’d neither want to dial nor see on your Caller ID:
(302) 677-2275
This place has a historical connection to the Space Shuttle Challenger and also Columbia, to veterans of 9/11, and to 50,000 families who received a trepid knock on their door. You’ve likely seen pictures of this place. Veterans in their dress blues. Coffins draped with flags. It’s the phone number of Charles C. Carson Center for Mortuary Services at Dover Air Force Base, historically known as the Dover Port Mortuary.
The final leg of Miles’s journey home started here.
Brad and Terry were there to bring their son home. Brad, a pilot for Southwest Airlines, wanted to be at the controls of that flight from Baltimore to Amarillo. Southwest thought it best that he be a passenger on this one—free to process his memories and emotions in the cockpit’s jump seat. A good idea, perhaps. He was as comfortable here as anywhere. And he’d still be with his son.
The plane landed safely in Amarillo an hour before midnight. A “blue northern” cold front chased them down the runway. A night as frigid as Texas can be.
When the plane veered towards the gate, Brad looked out the front window and saw a gray 1990 three-quarter ton, standard shift Ford pickup on the jetway. He knew this truck. Miles first learned to drive while commandeering its steering wheel. Miles was nine years old at the time. The scene was the Henderson farm in Midland, Michigan. Brad—applied his engineering skills to jerry-rig the truck to simplify the pilot’s responsibilities. Miles drove while Brad tossed the hay bales into the bed, and Terry stacked and organized them.
Unfortunately, no video exists of this Henderson family outing.
Two years earlier—when Miles was all of seven years old, he’d joined his father and two family friends on a fishing expedition. This trip necessitated a 16-hour drive from Michigan to an outfitter deep within an area known as the Canadian Shield in northern Ontario. From there, a flight aboard a boat plane to an isolated lake where they’d spend a week alone, completely isolated from civilization. Before the trip, there were concerns about a young boy’s ability to endure such an expedition—especially a boy described as an undeniable “Momma’s Boy.” After a week, they flew back to the outfitter’s home base. Before the drive back to Michigan, Miles walked alone to the end of the dock. He looked out at the lake and surrounding wilderness. Brad joined him. A father was about to better understand how his son was wired. A seven-year-old foretelling his spirited future.
“Can’t we just stay for a few more days?”
The Southwest Airlines 737 rolled slowly towards the terminal, where mournful friends and family crowded the windows to watch the plane’s arrival. Engines off, wheels chocked. Brad and Terry stepped down the stairs. The terminal doors were unlocked, allowing family and others to walk onto the apron.
Brad noticed a half-dozen uniformed military members standing together. Beside them, what appeared to be a husband, wife, and son who were failing miserably at holding back their tears. Brad approached them, introduced himself, then asked who they were. The man straightened—shoulders back, stomach in, heels together, hands fixed at his sides, then agonizingly raised his chin. His tear-filled eyes empathetically locked on Brad’s.
“I’m the man from Amarillo who recruited your son to join the Army.”
Those tears needed no further explanation. The recruiter diverted attention to the soldiers standing beside him.
“I pulled this detail together. That casket and flag are very important to us. These men are going to load the casket into the hearse.”
The hearse and gray truck were side-by-side. Brad suggested an alternate, fitting, appropriate, yet protocol-violating plan.
“We’d like to bring Miles home in that gray pickup. That’s his truck.”
Mark Jay had been assigned to escort Miles home. He was with Miles from Dover to Baltimore, then sat beside Terry on the flight to Amarillo. Mark’s duty—which he was performing with the utmost grace was never to let Miles’s casket out of his sight. Bound to the most admirable of duties, Mark was steadfastly determined to be in that hearse with Miles. A discussion ensued, and a decision was made.
Brad slid into the driver’s seat of the Ford. Terry was on the passenger side. Miles’s sister, Deadre, sat between her mom and dad. That truck was part of the family’s heritage—from a nine-year-old boy gripping its steering wheel in a Michigan hayfield to frequently traversing these west Texas roads Miles knew so well. Brad, Terry, and Deadre sat shoulder-to-shoulder, leaning on each other during the 100-mile drive.
The hearse followed close behind them. As Mark Jay insisted, he rode to Canadian in that hearse. With each passing mile, Mark’s steadfast focus was not rendered to a casket behind him but on the gray tailgate in front, beyond which was resting the casket carrying Miles Henderson. Mark Jay begrudgingly accepted the arrangement. Miles was with his family. They’d protect him. Miles was safe.
But Mark never took his eyes off that gray truck. The Henderson family hasn’t either, as that 34-year-old truck still makes the rounds on their farm south of Canadian.
It was nearly midnight before they left Amarillo. But they weren’t alone.
Hemphill County Sheriff Gary Henderson—no relation, led the way. The Hendersons followed. Then the hearse. Numerous members of the Patriot Guard followed in extremely harsh conditions for motorcyclists. They traveled the first 30 miles before yielding to the weather.
Brad was driving his son home. Miles wouldn’t have it any other way. Wait, there was one thing Miles would have done differently. Even amid this brutal weather, Miles would have insisted that the windows be rolled down.
Always in training. Always in training. Always in training.
As athletic teams from Canadian, and other panhandle towns have traveled “To State,” it’s not uncommon for neighboring cities like Wheeler, Shamrock, Wellington, and Childress to provide that “we salute you” escort through their towns. “Your team qualified; ours didn’t—we acknowledge the importance of this trip for all of you—we wish you the best.”
Rivalries set aside. Honoring the moment. Tip of the hat to those embarking on one of the most significant trips of their lives.
All good. All great. Grace extended.
It happened again in late November of 2006 but was a different route and reason. Sheriff Henderson turned right on US Highway 60. He’d lead this procession through towns whose water towers were scripted with ‘Panhandle,” “White Deer,” “Pampa,” and “Miami.” Every state has cities like these—those towns just down the road with people like us but people we hardly know. Few things unite us.
This did. Miles Henderson did.
Citizens lined the roads. As the procession neared, their attention heightened. Some peered over the shoulders of those in front, then waited for Miles. One elderly woman held tight to a light post; another person—likely family, reached around her to hold that same post to keep both warm and upright while bracing against the wind. It meant that much for them to be there.
The cherished pickup truck a father’s son owned proceeded slowly through each town. Flags waved from mittened hands. Miles’s spirit present from one city limit, county line, ranch, and railroad crossing to the next.
The procession passed. Mothers and fathers best understood the magnitude of the moment. They walked back home while holding hands with their sons and daughters, all carrying the same heavy thought:
“What if that was us?”
Hundreds of people stepped out of their homes after midnight in each town to honor the Henderson family. But how did they know? Sheriff Gary Henderson told that story.
“When we heard about Miles’ unfortunate passing, we began planning with Brad to escort Miles’s body to Canadian. I contacted the airport and arranged to pull my vehicle onto the tarmac to form the procession to Canadian. I also contacted law enforcement in every town along the route to assist us through town without stopping. Local law enforcement was incredible in this endeavor. From there, word spread in the communities, and so many people came out on a cold, windy night to pay their respects as we passed through town. It was such an honor to do this for the Henderson family.”
As the procession neared Canadian, the scene was different. No one stood beside the road as they passed Cedar Street, Birch Street, and East Cheyenne Avenue. This was understandable. It’s two in the morning. It’s cold. People will pay their respects tomorrow. It’s also been a long, emotionally taxing day for the Hendersons.
As they approached Main Street, Sheriff Henderson had to slow down. The citizens of Canadian weren’t lining the streets—they were filling the streets. It seemed as if everyone from Canadian came out to honor their classmate, teammate, neighbor–their friend.
Yellow ribbons. American flags. Families leaning on each other for support. If it could be felt, they felt it—grief, heartbreak, sadness, community, and immense gratitude.
Grace was extended.
Miles was home.
The Hendersons were overwhelmed.
Before arriving in Canadian, Brad Henderson called his friend Rocky Farrar. Brad said it didn’t feel right to leave Miles alone at the funeral home. He asked Rocky if he could get a few men to stay with Miles—each taking a shift, an hour here and an hour there while the Hendersons could get some much-needed rest. When they arrived at the funeral home, the Hendersons were surprised by the number of men who volunteered to stay with Miles.
Years later, Rocky told Brad, “Nobody left the funeral home. None of them. They all stayed there with Miles. He was never alone.”
Mark Jay was, of course, among those men. He wouldn’t leave Miles’s side. His duty was extraordinarily personal. At one point, Mark had to ask everyone to leave the room while he cared for Miles. Miles had indicated that if he died while serving, he wanted a closed casket. Mark Jay was the one person responsible for ensuring Miles’s uniform and medals were properly cared for. The room emptied. All that remained were Miles, Mark, and the incomparable moments of respect and honor offered by one man to another.
Mark Jay’s devotion to his duty to serve Miles was as noble as can be. Brad Henderson shared that “he had fire in his eyes when anyone suggested that he rest.”
Following cremation, Miles’s ashes were brought home and placed beside the fireplace. Mark pulled a chair beside the fireplace. He sat there—upright, steadfast, at attention as military members do. Mark wouldn’t leave.
Eventually, Terry insisted that Mark get some rest. She told him Miles was home now. They will look after him. Mark Jay’s devotion to her son led Terry Henderson to emphatically express, “I will love that man until the day I die.”
Three services were held on Sunday. The regular church service in the morning, a mid-afternoon private service for friends and family at the Henderson’s ranch south of Canadian, and a public service at the church late in the evening.
Approximately two dozen enlisted military personnel were present throughout the weekend. They helped prepare for the ceremony at the Hendersons, which was held in an area known as “The Trees”–Miles’s favorite place to play as a young boy. They transformed native ranch land into a pristine setting befitting the day.
Days earlier, Brad received a phone call alerting him to the possibility of protestors interfering with the forthcoming funeral. This was a regrettable time in our history when members of a church were known for mercilessly protesting against our fallen veterans. I won’t name the church. Brad downplayed the possibility. “Nothing like that would possibly happen down here in Canadian,” he thought. He was advised to not underestimate the possibility.
Sure enough, the protesters arrived.
So did more than 200 members of the “Patriot Guard.” Per their website, the Patriot Guard was “Founded in 2005 to shield families of fallen heroes from those that would disrupt the services of their loved ones.”
The Patriot Guard members were nearby while the service at “The Trees” occurred. They assembled in perfect formation on the nearby country road, two-by-two, side-by-side atop 200 motorcycles. They led the Henderson family and friends on the 14-mile drive to the church in Canadian.
Laws were passed to prohibit such protests within 500 feet of the relevant church. Retired Sheriff Gary Henderson recalled, “We had the Patriot Guard position all of their motorcycles in a line, three deep, in the middle of the road in front of the protesters. The Patriot Guard also wanted to fly some American flags, so we positioned them between the protesters and the motorcycles. This prevented anyone from even seeing the protesters.”
Leaders of the protest group were upset. Nobody else was. The Hendersons didn’t even know they were there.
Kyle Lynch—now the Superintendent of Seminole School District, once coached Miles. He was honored to share the following thoughts at his funeral:
“I once told Miles and his four best friends that I hoped my sons would grow up to be like them.”
“I want to share with you the qualities I want my sons to learn from Miles—the young men on my team to realize, and all of us to come to understand so that we can live such a full life and the legacy of Miles will live on.”
Love your family—work, play, and be together
Go on adventures
Love with all your heart
Keep a smile on
Be a giving teammate—most importantly, as a husband or father
Love the Lord
Don’t just dream your dreams…live them
Treat people right and do what is right
Love your country
Hug your mama in front of your friends
Finally, “Leave it all on the field.” We used to tell players not to hold anything back in a game—to play every play with all their heart—to not have any regrets when the game is over. I believe this is the greatest lesson of all that Miles gave us—to enjoy life and live it to the fullest.”
Jared Hohertz: “My biggest regret is that when you’re young you just don’t appreciate things like the close friendship the five of us had. As you get older, you find it hard to find people like that. Unfortunately and tragically, before I could share these wiser years of my life with Miles, he was taken from us. All we can do is carry forward his impact on our lives.”
August has come and gone 18 times since 2006. Not once has it escaped Canadian without footballs flying at Koetting Field. Nor has it escaped without memories of Miles Henderson being passed around in the very best of ways–memories of Miles in flight, passed from one generation to another.
Miles died in 2006, the same year many current high school seniors were born. These seniors never knew him, but he’s still part of their lives. The Canadian Wildcats football team takes a break from preseason practice each year to learn about Miles Henderson. Former coaches have shared their memories. His best friends—Derek, Eric, George, and Jared have too. The current football players learn about his impact on others—on Canadian—and beyond. That hand-me-down thing—making sure future generations have a deeper understanding of the boy who walked these same streets—the man who honorably served this country.
Depending on the weather, sometimes they’ll gather inside the building housing the Wildcats’ impressive weight room, locker room, and offices. The building has a name appended to its outer walls, greeting every visitor. It’s the “Miles P. Henderson Field House.” His name will forever serve as a reminder of all that is good. They’ll see Miles’s glass-encased locker inside, still preserved after all these years. While they look into that locker, they’ll see various pictures, his letterman’s jacket, and jersey number 25. They’ll also see their own reflection in that glass as if it’s challenging them to mirror Miles—to be the encouraging inspiration—the good friend, the great teammate, the good American.
Coach Kyle Lynch started this tradition. Coaches Koetting and Cavalier have preserved it. Miles won’t be forgotten.
George Peyton shared thoughts on the messages shared about Miles with the next generation:
“You had this kid in Miles Henderson who most everyone in Canadian wants their kids to be like—strong in the face of adversity, fearless, bold but caring, intelligent, quick-witted, funny. Then, he joined the military and did the most patriotic thing you can think of. Then he was killed.”
“Because he was killed, because we don’t have him with us anymore, I think the town—and certainly we as his friends and family want to ensure that he lives on—that people know how great the kids from Canadian can be.”
“He serves as an example of what can be accomplished and what you can do from a small town in the Texas panhandle. I hope the kids take it to heart when they hear that. And I hope seeing his locker there and the words we wrote on the plaque outside the field house make everyone remember and carry with them who he was and what they can become.”
“It’s not just a sad memory or happy memory—it’s an inspiration of what you can do, and what you can be and what it means to be a kid growing up in Canadian. Like, this is a special place, and you’re part of a tradition here; you really take to heart the characteristics exemplified by Miles.”
Those were George Peyton’s words. When I talked to Derek Maupin, Eric Hall, and Jared Hohertz about these presentations, they all shared the same sentiments. Everyone on the same page. Everyone emotional.
Then there’s the word “gratitude.” If a single word could take the form of a hug, the word would be “gratitude” as expressed by Terry Henderson while speaking of her son’s best friends—Derek, Eric, George, and Jared. Hearing her be so thankful for the people in her family’s lives is inspiring. That same appreciation extends from her to David Flowers, Kyle Lynch, Chris Koetting, and Andy Cavalier.
Darn—it’s good to hear about goodness. No, it’s great to hear about goodness.
And it’s great that each year, the kids in Canadian get to hear about the goodness that was—the goodness that is, Miles Henderson. His encouraging spirit persists—from the elementary school to the high school, up the hill to Mesa View, and back down to Koetting Field. Everyone in this town seems so supportive of each other. It’s that encouraging thing. The vibe is pervasive, though I know it can’t be universal. No city can be that perfect. But something is going on here.
One of those things is Miles. His spirit—Miles is still here.
The plaque outside the field house reads:
“Miles Henderson was the embodiment of a fighting Wildcat. He was honest, true, committed, and faithful, with an infectious smile and unflinching loyalty. His encouragement pushed his teammates to achieve their best, and his optimistic attitude brought joy to everyone around him. As an integral part of the 1998 and 1999 Wildcat football teams, Miles helped propel Wildcat football to a new level and was appropriately carried off the field in one of his final games. He was a dedicated member of his church and a vibrant part of the Canadian community.”
Miles graduated from Canadian High School in 2000 as Class Salutatorian before going on to become Chief Warrant Officer in the US Army’s 82nd Airborne Division, where he flew the AH-64D Apache Longbow Attack helicopter. Miles was killed in Iraq on November 6, 2006.
Miles is dearly missed by friends and family, but those who knew him keep training in his memory and remember his often-said motto, “No worries!”
“Greater love hath no man than this, that one lay down his life for his friends.”
John 15: 13
Nobody has an excellent obituary. I mean, they can’t. They are always solemn reflections of a life. But in this there’s-an-exception-for-everything world, the spirit of Miles Henderson rings through in his. Reading it leads to an easy smile from those who knew him—and those who wish they’d known him.
Two lines stand out:
“He was a scholar who hated school but was salutatorian of his class.”
And…
“Miles then attended Western State College in Gunnison, Colo. His attendance there lasted until his ski lift ticket expired.”
Even there, amid the deepest of grief, his spirit compelled his loved ones to remember him in a way guaranteed to encourage everyone to smile.
It worked beautifully. Miles of smiles for Miles.
George Peyton spent an hour sharing thoughts of his friend. Towards the end, he tapped into a reflective encapsulation with the depth, pace, and tone of the best of literature:
“Miles was the All-American kid. An infectious smile. Handsome. Funny. At times, he was wild and crazy, while the other four of us were kind of boring. He was the spice that made everything fun. His life was one of courage, grace, redemption, and tragedy.”
Sometimes, the best thing a writer can do is to stop writing.
This is one of those times. I’ll stop writing but won’t stop thinking:
Michael, Steven, Sam, Miles.
Michael, Steven, Sam, Miles.
Michael, Steven, Sam, Miles.
Michael, Steven, Sam, Miles.
Miles Henderson’s Obituary
Miles was born January 28, 1982, in Amarillo to Brad and Terry Henderson. He was a 2000 graduate of Canadian High School. He was a scholar who hated school but was salutatorian of his class. He loved the camaraderie of his friends more than anything. He had a huge heart full of compassion and drive. He worked harder to accomplish his goals than anyone else. Always almost the smallest player in the district, he fought to be the biggest encourager for his football teammates. Miles then attended Western State College in Gunnison, Colo. His attendance there lasted until his ski lift ticket expired. From the summer of 1997 until he joined the Army, Miles worked for Amarillo Artificial Limb and Brace, employed by two terrific friends, Chad Mason and Don Marks. Along with their families, they loved and mentored Miles during his employment with them.
From there, Miles enlisted in the US Army in May of 2003. He enlisted because he loved God, his family, and his country and was proud and honored to serve each. He worked extremely hard to qualify for flight school and was very proud of what he was doing. Miles flew an AH-64 D Apache Longbow with the 82nd Airborne. He served in the Wolf Pack Squadron in the current war with Iraq. Anyone who knew Miles knew he loved the Lord with all his heart. He was baptized on March 1, 1992, in Midland, Mich. Thus, it is no surprise he was an active member of the First Christian Church.
Miles married Artis Chester on July 1, 2006, in Fort Meyers Beach, Fla.
He leaves behind his parents, his sister, his wife, and a host of family and friends who love and miss him, but know that now, especially now in heaven, his motto,”No Worries” is absolutely true.
Thank You
Thanks to my wife, Vickie, for her endless support throughout this process including her understanding of my need for short-notice road trips.
Thanks to my mom, Carol Davis Healy, for her everlasting encouragement to keep writing. Someday, I might actually start believing, like you, that I’m a writer.
Contributors
Terry and Brad Henderson
David Flowers – Former Head Coach, Canadian Wildcats Football
Eric Hall
Jared Hohertz
Derek Maupin
George Peyton
Kyle Lynch – Superintendent of Schools, Seminole, Texas
Gary Henderson, Retired Hemphill County Sheriff
Credits
Special thanks to the Canadian Record newspaper and Kale Steed’s “Press Pass Sports ” website. Both have been great sources of information. Laurie Ezzell Brown managed a heck of a newspaper in Canadian. Meanwhile, Kale continues to thrive with his sports-focused website based in the Pandhandle.
The Canadian Record newspaper
https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth735594/?q=Canadian%20november%201999
The Patriot Guard website:
https://patriotguard.org/#about
Wonderful story abut a great kid! The Canadian Wildcat class of 2000 was an exceptional group!
Thank you Julie.