This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2010, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
Jazz coach Jerry Sloan takes the garbage can.
Brandon May takes the tunnel.
Sloan's pregame routine is as predictable as 40-plus win seasons for the Utah team that he has coached for 23 years. Following morning shootarounds and prior to evening tipoffs at EnergySolutions Arena, Sloan slowly makes his way toward a tall, thick garbage can. His motions vary. Sometimes, he fully leans against it. Others, he simply uses the receptacle as a prop, resting one hand on the hard-plastic lid while reporters pound away with questions.
After shootarounds, Sloan is always alone. It is just him, the can and the queries. But by the time ESA's lights begin to glare and the buzz begins to build for another Jazz home game in Salt Lake City, Sloan has company: May has already rolled up, and he is waiting.
Decked from neck to ankles in dark-green Utah warm-ups, the lifelong Jazz fan takes his customary spot about 20 feet away from Sloan. To May, Sloan's pregame dialogue is worthless. At best, he'll catch Sloan's eye, nod his head and wave hello. What May waits for are Utah's players. Raja Bell, Mehmet Okur, Jeremy Evans -- from veterans to rookies, May knows them all, and they know him.
As each athlete runs up and down the corridor that leads from Utah's locker room to the shining hardwood, May is there. Every game, every night. He never shouts or cries, never pleads for an autograph or requests a memento. He just waits for the Jazz, offers brief, kind words of support and takes in the scene. And once Sloan leaves his temporary plastic podium and retreats to his private pregame space, the tunnel again belongs to May.
"It's a very special thing for me," said May, a 32-year-old Orem resident. "To get down here and be part of it is something that is so absolutely huge for me."
Part of May's pregame devotion is derived from his fandom. Growing up in small-town Jackson, Wyo., May fell in love with the Jazz at the age of 6.
The fall occurred in a pure, simple way that many one-franchise-obsessed sports lovers can relate to: Utah was the only team that showed up on May's television.
As the years rolled by, May's devotion to the Jazz only grew. But where some would learn to let go of their passion as the demands of the real world set in, May's love for his team was taken to a new extreme following a life-changing event in 2003.
May remembers the date without pausing: Nov. 29. While unloading an old couch into a landfill, May noticed a sharp pull in his back. Determining that it was simply a strained muscle, he gave the injury little thought and moved on. But May's back never healed. During the following year, the pain went from minimal to intolerable, as his body slowly broke down.
"It was a matter of waking up each day, wondering what wasn't going to function," May said.
Where he once walked free and easy, May was soon taking strenuous steps with the aid of a cane. The occasional use of a wheelchair followed. And as what May later learned was a debilitating spinal-cord injury that ran its course, a temporary wheelchair became permanent.
"I would much rather have had it be instant and done," May said. "Just having to go through that long period of getting worse and worse was just literally hell on Earth."
Seven years later, May has found a small, reliable piece of heaven in the ESA tunnel. He attends every Jazz home preseason, regular-season and postseason game. He even follows the team on road trips, buying his own ticket and creatively finding his way near Utah's locker room to re-enact his home-game routine.
"He is one of those types of fans that you hope to have," Bell said. "One of those guys that is there whether you're in a winning streak or a losing streak, and his attitude is usually the same. He's excited to be there and be a part of the game night. And when you know you have guys like that pulling for you, it's a pretty cool and special feeling."
Creating that feeling is exactly what May has in mind every time he rolls into the tunnel. He recognizes Utah's players as people, not just highly paid professional athletes.
"It's more that I want them to know that they have a friend here, versus the person that is just seeing them for the first time and has that overwhelming feeling of superstar awe," he said.
The Jazz aren't May's only outlet. He is active in sports, participating in skiing, golf, rugby, murderball (wheelchair rugby) and hand cycling. But the navy blue, gold and green are unquestionably his purest passion. Sloan knows May by sight, while team president Randy Rigby praises his ceaseless devotion.
"Our players respond very well to the loyalty from our fan base, especially a man who is showing through adversity, that he keeps living life," said Rigby, who added that he doesn't know exactly how May secured his prestigious tunnel spot, but that he fully supports his presence.
Meanwhile, May takes the Jazz's backing to heart. He knows that his space is special. And he acknowledges that his direct connection to his beloved Utah team is one of the primary things that keeps him going.
"You forget about everything else, and you're so concentrated on being a fan that you're normal," May said. "You're not disabled, you're not anything. You're just another person, sitting there and cheering on the team."
bsmith@sltrib.comTwitter: tribjazz --
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