The legacy of Connor Banks’ ASU football career has been relegated to a trivia question. Perhaps that’s more acclaim than it deserves. The tale of Connor Banks is not one about exploits on the gridiron. His life story includes no mention of a timeless play, nor a game that changed everything. Rather, it’s about the human reaction when that fame comes knocking, when it shows up one day unwarranted and unwanted, and it sits there like a squatter, adding gravity to the actions of your life in order to hold up the importance of another.

And it all began 20 years ago.

Riccardo Stewart was waiting in the lobby of Phoenix's Sky Harbor Airport when he first saw Banks. It was the summer of 2000, and ASU’s newest recruiting class was about to be shuttled to their new home in Tempe. There were some studs in that class, too, guys such as Andrew Walter and Terrell Suggs who carved out good and great collegiate careers, respectively. But Stewart couldn’t stop glancing at Banks.

“He looked the part,” Stewart said.

These were pre-social media days, an age when you weren’t sure what everyone on the planet looked like. So at the airport, Stewart just stared, unsure if he was looking at a teammate or a random person who genuinely liked to put long hours in the gym. But Banks was lean, Stewart remembers, 225 pounds of rock that were being put to use in some athletic capacity. It turned out to be football.

Even so, Banks was a linebacker of the wrong generation. He was 6-foot-3, weighed in at two-and-a-quarter, and had formidable speed that anchored his high school’s 4x100 relay team. Today, he’s a four-star prospect that college coaches drool over. Twenty years ago, he was “a tweener,” as his teammates said, and, thus, a player without a position. Then-head coach Dirk Koetter replacing Bruce Snyder in 2001 only complicated matters. Defensive coordinator Brent Guy brought in his 4-2-5 scheme, and, all of a sudden, a linebacker such as Banks doesn’t carry much significance in that system.

But Koetter’s emergence in Tempe pushed out some other players too, namely Zach Mims, a linebacker out of Texas who redshirted with Banks and never played a snap for ASU. His departure begins this chain of events. It freed up Banks’ favorite number, the one he’d sported since his days playing Pop Warner football in Northern California, the one he wore on his back proudly as an homage to his favorite player -- former San Francisco 49ers’ defensive back Ronnie Lott -- and the one that would ultimately complicate his life

And that’s how Connor Banks became the last Arizona State football player to wear no. 42.

****

In the annals of ASU history, there are few moments that stopped time. You want Sun Devil fans to talk your ear off, ask them where they watched the ‘87 Rose Bowl. Where they were when ASU shutout no. 1 Nebraska. And ask them where they were on the morning of April 23, 2004. Chances are, they’ll remember.

ASU’s backup quarterback, Chad Christensen, was walking into ASU's ICA (Intercollegiate Athletics) building. In the place that represents so much joy, that serves as a nostalgia-happy setting with the glistening Rose Bowl trophy and photos of the raucous post-Nebraska victory scene -- a scrum 300,000 people, including Christensen, claim later to have witnessed first-hand -- there was only shock and despair.

Kyle Caldwell saw those faces darting by him, tears hitting the floor as the young defensive lineman sat on the training table. Walter, the team’s starting quarterback, was sweating, braving a short walk in the Arizona sun when he found out. He was on the small road that runs in between Sun Devil Stadium and Wells Fargo Arena before he opened the doors to an ICA building in dismay.

“There was a real darkness over the entire athletic department and over the whole campus,” said former ASU defensive line coach Ted Monachino.

Banks was sitting on the tan leather sectional that, along with a glass coffee table and bulky TV, made up a rather tidy common area at his University House apartment in South Tempe. He and roommate Nick Baker were lounging around when the breaking news alert popped up. Pat Tillman had died.

Banks’ mind went to a place of sorrow shared by millions. Not Tillman, they thought. Not the guy who gave up a multi-million-dollar NFL contract to enlist in the Army post-9/11. Nothing seemed to hurt him on the football field, not as the fearless, gritty Sun Devil linebacker late turned NFL safety who jolted energy into his ASU and Arizona Cardinal teams. The nation reeled, Arizona especially. How could someone so invincible be gone?

Banks thought back to the one time he met Tillman in passing, shaking hands with the long-haired local celebrity after an ASU practice. They had so much in common, too. Both ASU linebackers. Both from Northern California. Both with great bonds to their brothers. There was the reason for Banks, more than most, to feel a connection to the tragedy of a great figure’s death. He could have never imagined that would sour. Then Baker opened his mouth.

“Oh shit,” Baker said. “you wear 42.”

“I didn’t even dawn on me that I wore the same number as Pat,” Banks said. “I remember thinking, ‘Oh shit, I think my life just changed a little bit.’”

****

Kids in Arizona grow up learning the story of Pat Tillman in the same fabled way teachers explain the importance of Rosa Parks. There is an aura of his being, of what he meant, that transcends sports or the military. Parents teach children lessons through Tillman’s story. Football coaches use Tillman to show what the heart of a great player should look like. Military personnel use Tillman’s story as a vehicle to explain the bravery and sacrifice of the service. And Arizona State uses Tillman’s story to inspire, but also to illustrate the model Sun Devil.

The day following Tillman’s death, Arizona Republic columnist Laurie Roberts suggested that kids in Arizona shouldn’t aspire to be president but, rather, Pat Tillman. Further into that Saturday’s paper sat the Letters to the Editor section, the equivalent of the hodgepodge of opinions we now view through social media.

On that day, the sentiments were similar: Tillman was a great man. His death was a tragedy. His actions should become a lesson for future generations. Where the arguments seemed to swell was how a man of such stature should be honored. The discrepancies came by readers outdoing themselves with ideas that vaulted the image of Tillman almost to that of a deity.

Two people called for the Cardinals to name their new Glendale stadium after Tillman. A Tempe resident wanted Sun Devil Stadium to change to “Pat Tillman Memorial Stadium.” One woman wanted a stretch of the I-40 freeway named after him, an homage to the no. 40 he wore with the Cardinals. Someone else called for Governor Janet Napolitano to rename Camelback Mountain to “Tillman Mountain.” Those were all cute ideas to Mesa resident John Wharton, but they simply did not do Tillman enough justice.

“I hope they rename the state of Arizona in his honor,” Wharton wrote. “No one has ever deserved it more.”

Now, with all of that in mind, imagine you’re 21-year old Connor Banks.

You really liked Ronnie Lott as a kid. When your football career ascended to the college ranks, you asked for his number, your favorite number. Suddenly one day, your favorite number garners a new meaning, so grand it transcends sports and America. And to honor the hero who wore that number, your school wants you to be the last person to wear it, to honor a fallen soldier through your actions. They want you, an introvert, to do interviews and press conferences about the “opportunity,” and they want you to carry out the American flag before every football game. They want you to aid in the legacy of a guy some believed should be the namesake of the state.

“I didn’t know my elbow from my asshole,” Banks admitted. “It was one of those situations that was uber stressful. I wasn’t ready for it. All I really cared about was football, school, and hanging out. I didn’t want this.”

****

There’s a sort of irony in Tillman’s tale drawing back to his days at Arizona State. An American hero whose motives and life lessons will be revered through eternity … and he went to ASU? Ask strangers what words first come to mind when they think of Arizona State. Good luck hearing anything along the lines of “patriotism” or “valor.” But, perhaps, Tillman’s story cracked the wide-spread perception that no college town parties quite like Tempe.

If that’s the case, every Tillman-created fracture was met by the Sun Devil football teams of the early-2000’s, which were armed with a blade and spackle, ready to build it back up. And the culprits weren’t tough to spot. All you had to do was stay for the log rolls at Koetter’s early-morning practices. A few guys would hop up and run off to the side, vomiting up more than just a lousy fish taco.

“The entire practice field smelt like alcohol,” said former ASU defensive back Emmanuel Franklin (‘00-’04) with a laugh. “It probably happened more often than it should’ve. I mean, it was ASU. We made sure to live up to the party name; I’ll say that.”

“It was the unspoken agreement we all had with each other,” Banks added. “If you go out, do what you have to do the next day , so it doesn’t affect what we’re here to do.”

And when there wasn’t practice, the typical college hijinks still ensued. There were the 21st birthday parties at Four Peaks Brewery in Tempe, when heaving was a guarantee. (“I don’t know if I’ve ever been that intoxicated in my life since then,” said one player.) There were the rarely-sober treks to the bridge on Rural Road, where football players plunging into Tempe Town Lake with a late-night cannonball jump. (The trick, apparently, is to make sure you jump in the middle of the lake and lift your legs up when you hit the water. You should touch, but not slam into, the bottom.) There were those college nights when the drinks flowed, and the invincibility of youth never felt greater.

But as they tell all these stories, it’s not to brag or relive the good ‘ole days or confirm any rankings that ASU may have topped back then. It’s to prove that what happened to Connor Banks could have -- and in some cases, probably should have -- happened to most of them.

“It could have,” Franklin said. “We were young, irresponsible kids … I felt really bad for Connor.”

Eight Fridays after he learned of Pat Tillman’s death and the heightened connotation of his number, Banks went to McDuffy’s in Old Town Scottsdale with Walter, Christensen, and another teammate, Drew Hodgdon. He had a good amount to drink. He was also tired, his bed more attractive than a bar at that moment. And then, without telling anyone, Banks vanished.

A few hours later, he woke up in a cell at the Scottsdale City Jail. He was so confused, so scared. He prayed it was a small bar fight that put him behind bars. An officer grabbed him and took his fingerprints. Banks asked what happened. How did I end up in jail? A DUI, the guard responded.

At 1:30 a.m., Banks rammed his 2001 navy blue Ford Explorer through the wall of an apartment building parking structure not even two miles away from Old Town. His blood-alcohol content came back at 0.27 percent, nearly three times the legal limit; and he was charged with a half dozen offenses, including extreme DUI and criminal damage.

Banks hitched a cab home from jail as shame coursed through his body. It wasn’t his first time he blacked out but never had he bolted away from his friends. There was a clear routine. Someone drives. Everyone goes home in a cab, or a teammate picks them up. Then they grab the car in the morning. On that night, during a time when so much in Connor Banks’ life was out of whack, his irregular actions reflected the state of his reality.

“After the Pat Tillman (death), I think I began excessively drinking too much because of the stress. Looking back at it now, I used it as a coping mechanism,” Banks admitted. “Obviously I regret putting the community in a dangerous situation with me getting behind the wheel ... but I do not regret (the DUI) because I needed the wake-up call.”

****

Finding a mountain in Arizona is like trying to find water in the ocean. Heck, there’s two a stone’s throw away from Sun Devil Stadium. And, with that knowledge, the angst of ASU’s 2004 seniors heightened with every extra mile they drove. All they were doing was shooting a few pictures. Suddenly, they ended up “in the middle of nowhere,” numerous players said.

But the setting was perfect, a scenic desert landscape isolated enough to set up a photo shoot. The seniors, decked out in their uniforms, unloaded, hoping they’d be out of the heat in less than an hour. As they began posing for pictures, the prints that would soon be plastered on promotional posters and hung all around campus, Banks wasn’t in the picture.

“It ticked us off,” Stewart said.

Arizona State invited its soon-to-be fifth-year senior to be a part of the photoshoot but planned on keeping him out of some photos, said multiple players in attendance that day. Because he was suspended at the time, the school wanted to cover its tracks in case Banks ended up being kicked off the team.

“I think that was part of his punishment,” said Justin Burks, a senior linebacker in 2004. “And coach Koetter would do little things like that to punish you. He’d take away certain things that he knew would be long-lasting.”

That didn’t sit well with the eight others who had watched Banks endure so much over four years. He led with such distinction. He was exceptional in the weight room and gave effort coaches often wished they got from their starters. And, despite a coaching change, a position flip, and a fall down the depth chart, he didn’t transfer, didn’t quit. That shouldn’t be erased because of one mistake, his teammates thought. And, so, they boycotted any more senior poster photos that didn’t include Banks.

Banks can be found in those photos. He’s the guy wearing no. 50.

****

Quency Darley came from a military family. His younger brother fought in the Navy. His grandfather served as well. And his father finished his Army deployment and began working on Shaw Air Force Base in South Carolina, often having his son help out in the commissary.

With those anecdotes made known to ASU, Darley’s recruitment as a versatile junior college defensive lineman was littered with stories about Tillman. Four months before he would perish, Tillman’s name came up in recruiting talks, the Sun Devils sure to quench Darley’s military appetite with stories about an alumnus who cared more about serving his country than a profitable NFL career.

This recruiting strategy worked. Darley arrived in Tempe in the summer of 2004, just after Tillman’s death and right around the time of Banks’ DUI. Aside from moving his bags in ungodly heat, one of his earliest ASU memories was standing on the Kajikawa practice fields after an early-morning preseason practice. A teammate Darley had never seen suit up stood before everyone and apologized for his actions, admitting guilt and asking for forgiveness from his brothers.

“It meant a lot because of how I was raised,” Darley said. “My dad always taught me to own my mistakes. When you make mistakes, own it and let everything shake out. As he’d say, ‘Be the man I raised you to be.’ That was my first time seeing it from someone else, where I saw someone exude the characteristics my father taught and instilled in me.”

Others saw Banks’ speech as something different.

“I was like, ‘Bruh, apologize for what?’” said Jimmy Verdon, a standout pass rusher whose five years at ASU mirrored Banks’. “I remember when (defensive end) Nick Johnson got a DUI. There was no, ‘You have to apologize to the team.’ (Quarterback) Ryan Kealey got one at one time. But it was just, ‘OK, there you go.’”

Added Franklin: “If Connor didn’t wear no. 42, no one would have ever known about the DUI … That’s not national news. A third-string linebacker got a DUI where no one was hurt or injured? Ehh.”

Multiple teammates said they believed the coaches essentially added a little extra to Banks’ punishment, a double slap on the wrist for not only the DUI but besmirching the great Pat Tillman name in the process.

Guy and Monachino, ASU’s respective defensive coordinator and defensive line coach were adamant that wasn’t the case. They said Koetter went by a cut-and-dry calculation for discipline and Banks’ situation followed protocol. The linebacker was indefinitely suspended until he sorted out his legal obligations -- a two-weekend stay at the infamous outdoor jail, “Tent City,” (He was allowed out on weekdays for work release), 36 hours of counseling, the installation of a breathalyzer in his car for a year, more than $3,000 in fines and much more than that paid out for lawyers -- rejoined the team after Camp Tontozona as a practice squad player and was suspended for the first game of the year. Banks’ only special treatment, they claim, was that Koetter revoked his number.

“A guy like Pat Tillman, he would have said, ‘Let the kid wear the number,” Guy said of the initial decision to allow Banks to keep his number. “After this incident (we thought) it’s probably not the right way to let this play out.”

****

Connor Banks looked up at an outstretched arm. He was on his ass. He was pissed off. And on a rainy day in Berkeley, he was wet. But at least he was appreciated -- even if by an opponent. Aaron Rodgers looked down at Banks. Maybe it was pity. Maybe respect. Either way, the Cal quarterback helped Banks, who now wore his original no. 58 jersey for his senior season to his feet and offered him a message.

“I appreciate how you’re playing,” Rodgers said with sincerity. “I like how you’re still playing hard.”

“Half of me was like, ‘Fu-- you.’ and half of me was like, ‘Thank you,’” Banks joked.

A few minutes earlier, Banks stood on the sideline enraged. Steam may as well have been blowing out every crevice. He knew how many friends and family members had packed the stands that afternoon for his Northern California homecoming. He didn’t expect to start, but he did expect to play -- especially after ASU fell behind by three scores. With four minutes left on the clock, Banks said Monachino walked over and told him, “This was not my choice, but do you still want to go in?”

Banks seems confident the coaches were getting back at him. Because he should have known eyes were to be on him. Because he was not just representing Connor Banks or Arizona State but, instead, Pat Tillman and all those who love and respect the United States military. Not a foe you want to go against.

Banks’ retort is simple. He didn’t want that. The association with Tillman was because of a mere jersey number. He didn’t do anything to 1.) garner it, 2.) deserve it. Punishing and chastising him for “disparaging” Pat Tillman’s legacy would be like berating Kanye West for not upholding the values of Martin Luther King Jr. After all, they were both born in Atlanta. Banks was thrust on a pedestal because of a number. And, because of that, he thought, success in the thing he most cared about -- football -- became unattainable.

“To have that career not take the path you wanted it to take … I saw my situation as ‘I should be a starter senior year,’” Banks said. “For all of this to happen -- good and bad -- and to not have that, I didn’t know how to handle that.”

The outside noise hardly helped Banks’ psyche, chatter that more than one player believed played a factor in Koetter’s punishments. Take these two comments from fan message boards at the time:

“ASU made a stupid decision to not retire Pat Tillman’s jersey number ... and the idiot that was to wear it got busted for extreme DUI,” one person wrote.

Said another: “What a stupid A$$. I knew this was a mistake from the beginning.”

Banks’ saving grace came a few weeks into the 2004 season. On-campus one day, Alex Garwood asked to make a pit stop. Garwood was Tillman’s brother-in-law. And, in the aftermath of the tragedy, Garwood was integral in turning despair into a semblance of positivity, helping with the inception of the Pat Tillman Foundation. Garwood understandably had a lot on his mind in 2004. But, amid a chaotic schedule, he carved out time to send assurances to a kid caught up in a dense web of scrutiny and self-anger.

“He sat down with me and was like, ‘Let’s have a conversation,’” Banks said Garwood told him. “He’s like, ‘By no means do we hate you. By no means are we disappointed in you. Obviously you made a choice, and you have to live with that. But I’ll be honest with you. Pat would not be upset with you. He’d tell you that this is a learning experience.’

“He said, ‘Us as a family, we do not see you as a disgrace to Pat’s legacy’”

****

There was a father whose daughter attended Saint Mary’s College High School. She wasn’t what you’d call a good student. She may as well have been the Bart Simpson of the North Berkeley Catholic school, which forced her father to frequent the Dean of Students’ office with the same regularity as a haircut.

She couldn’t stay out of the Dean’s office in her freshman year and, thus, her dad couldn’t stay out. It was nauseating. Finally, he waltzed in one day, figuring it was the last time. No chance his daughter could slip out with another detention or suspension or whatever she had already been given a million times. For some reason, the Dean of Students had some faith she could turn it around, assuring her one more chance before it was time to talk expulsion.

And, somehow, Connor Banks’ gut was right. To this day, that girl -- and her father -- have stayed out of his office.

“Now she’s in student leadership. Now she’s on campus. She’s involved. I look at those examples, like if I had kicked her out, who knows what she’d be doing?” Banks said. “I don’t want to give up on a kid unless I’ve done everything possible to put them in a position to succeed.”

“Your worst mistake, I believe, is not the definition of you as a person.”

What do you think influenced that philosophy?

Perhaps every time one of those kids sits down in his office, Banks sees himself in Dirk Koetter’s office. Remorse. Humiliation. Anger. Depression. All those sentiments seemingly inside every tear that ran down his face that day. And he needed support. So now, Banks looks at 16-year olds with checkered pasts and thinks that one pep talk or one gesture or one more chance could be the difference. Because for him, it was.

Behind a screen, Banks is in a white T-shirt and dawns black wayfarer-style glasses. Dark black hair grows in excess on both his scalp and face. He’s an imposing figure until he begins to talk. And as he speaks of his past, his hand often reverts back to movements designated for nervousness. His fingers run through his hair or tug at his beard as he leans back and takes a deep breath.

His past isn’t easy to talk about. He doesn’t try to remember the year 2004 very much. The pain he caused his family still doesn’t sit well. The money and worry they spent on him are hard to comprehend. His time sitting on his bed in Tent City, trying to read a book without letting anyone know he played at ASU, isn’t something that comes up at family dinners. And the ensuing depression isn’t his most fond memory.

And because of what? A number? An association? A coincidence? If Connor Banks grew up loving Jerry Rice, does anyone know who Connor Banks is? Stewart doesn’t think so. If he’s simply Connor Banks the backup lineman, Stewart said, he’s punished by Koetter, punished by the law and then everyone would have moved on.

“Because he was the person representing the most iconic person in Arizona State football history, now he’s tacked onto that,” Stewart added. “So he didn’t just have a moral failure. He had a national failure.

“I’m glad he is where he is now because I couldn’t imagine the depression that comes from that … I think it’s a lot for a 21-year old kid.”

It was. His friends noticed, trying to stick by his side, so he always felt comfortable to talk. So did his parents, who made frequent trips to Tempe to help Banks navigate the legal system. But most of his teammates admit they had no clue. If he was going through something, many said, he didn’t show it. His effort, his leadership, his preparation didn’t change -- despite the negative thoughts stirring a frenzy in his mind.

Those all seem far-off now. Banks is happily married to his wife of seven years, Blaire, and they’re raising their two daughters in his hometown. His career is rewarding, days full of guiding youth forward. Hopefully, he’s the kickstand that catches them before they fall on their faces. And then there’s his role as the head football coach of his alma mater, every question about which elicits a grin.

Banks’ teams are rarely favored. If they can fill a roster with two dozen kids, it’s an impressive turnout. Last year, they rolled into the state playoffs with 18 healthy kids, “and we still had a shot because we played our asses off,” Banks said. He wants to field a solid team, but he also wants every player who comes through his program to have the option to play college football, whether at Illinois or Division III Pomona.

Banks could speak about his players for hours. Asked if they question him much about his days at ASU, he becomes giddy. Like a child, his voice raises as he bounces in his chair.

“They could give a rat’s ass about what I played,” he quips. “My kids, they see me as a coach, dean, and they see me as a teacher.”

Banks usually brings up Arizona State only once a year. It’s during a preseason meeting with his team. His voice loses its humor and looks around at the faces of his rag-tag group. He christens his annual captains, not just by a speech or a small uniform patch. Instead, he presents them with a jersey and explains its significance. How it’s a “glue number,” a marker to symbolize the select one or two so integral to the culture of the program.

And for the rest of the season, they wear no. 42.

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