For Hokies, a big void on the sideline

FORT LAUDERDALE, Fla. Afew hours before last season's Orange Bowl, two Virginia Tech student managers walked toward the Fox Sports broadcast set in the corner of Dolphin Stadium and got Jimmy Johnson's attention. Johnson, a former Dallas Cowboys coach, turned around and saw Steve Hale and J.D. Burroughs waiting to introduce themselves.

Johnson's eyes locked on J.D. Everybody always noticed J.D., because everything about him was big. He was 6 feet tall and weighed about 250 pounds. His hand swallowed Hale's the first time they met. His laugh, deep and hearty, filled Tech's equipment room, brightening the thankless work of sorting jerseys and fixing helmets.

Johnson draped his arm over J.D.'s broad shoulders. "Boy, you sure are a big'un," he said. They talked for a few minutes, and Hale snapped a picture of Johnson and J.D., a huge Cowboys fan. That night J.D. also met Daryl Johnston, a former Cowboys fullback who works for Fox.

J.D. later told Hale he never thought, in a million years, that he would meet all these celebrities. That's what J.D. relished more than anything about being a student manager at Tech, and about his everyday life -- the chance to meet new people, famous or not. "People fulfilled his life," said his mother, Gwen McBride.

When he graduated elementary school, his class voted him the most outgoing. When he walked through the mall, he said hello to random strangers. At Tech's practices last season, he assisted defensive line coach Charley Wiles and, between drills, offered the freshman linemen technique tips he picked up from playing at James River High.

He transferred to Tech last year after graduating from James River in 2006 and playing a year at Division II Johnson C. Smith University in Charlotte, N.C. He longed to become a student manager at Tech, like his friend Brian Equi, whom he had known since they were 7.

J.D.'s big personality magnetized people when he moved to Blacksburg. Parties at his apartment drew "the biggest geeks and the best athletes on the team," said Equi. Kids packed the place, spilling onto the balcony. J.D. controlled the music, blasting rap and smiling at the melting pot he had created -- revealing, as he often did, the small gap between his two front teeth. He never drank. At the end of the night, he drove kids home.

"He liked how his life was going," said his girlfriend, Lindsay Biggs.

He spent 40 hours a week in the equipment room. In his spare time, he hung out with Biggs, a Tech basketball player whom he had met when they were seniors in high school, she at Manchester. He cherished the rewards of last season -- most of all his size-15½ ACC championship ring and the Orange Bowl trip. "He was mesmerized by it," Hale said.

After J.D. got his picture taken with Johnson, he told Hale: "I can't wait for next year and find out who I'm gonna meet."

. . .

The Hokies are back in the Orange Bowl this season, but J.D. won't be on the sideline for tomorrow night's game against Cincinnati.

On July 3, around 11:20 a.m., he was driving to his summer job in his 1995 Honda Accord. Just as he was crossing Interstate 95 in Spotsylvania County, a tractor-trailer drove off the northbound exit ramp, through a stop sign, and plowed into the driver's side of the Accord. By the time paramedics arrived, he had died. He was 20.

Tech's players honored him this season by wearing "JD" decals on the back of their helmets. The managers also had his initials -- short for "Joseph Darnell" -- printed on the shirts they wear for games. James River set up a scholarship in his name to pay for kids to attend camps run by the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. J.D. worked as a counselor at an FCA camp.

J.D.'s mom honored her son's benevolent personality by asking the commonwealth's attorney to show leniency toward the tractor-trailer driver, 42-year-old Francisco Molina. He faced one to 10 years in prison for involuntary manslaughter but ended up receiving a $500 fine, 100 hours of community service and a 90-day suspended sentence for reckless driving and endangering life or limb.

"He just wouldn't have wanted that man to serve that time," McBride said.

No, J.D.'s instinct wasn't to take. He used to ask his mom and sister, Erica, for money in high school so he could pass it along to a less-fortunate friend. If a Tech player forgot to bring something to practice, "he'd be the first one to go, 'Hey, I'll go get it for you. Don't worry about it,'" said defensive tackle John Graves. After J.D. died, his mom wanted to hand down some of his dozens of sneakers to his friends. But many told her that J.D. had already given them a pair.

. . .

For a while after his death, J.D.'s cell phone was still in service. Biggs would call it just so she could hear the automated message say, "You have reached the voicemail of . . . " and then that baritone voice would chime in: "J.D."

His phone no longer works, but you can never fully silence a personality like his, so welcoming and open. On his MySpace page, which he last visited in February, he left behind reminders of who he was and where he wanted to go.

"I got a baby that balls for Tech and me and her will be gettin married, just dont know when yet," he wrote.

He took a survey and posted it on his page. Goal you would like to achieve this year? "Get a 4.0." Your best physical feature? "Smile."

And one of the survey's last questions: How do you want to die? "Peacefully."

. . .

For his friends and family, he left behind so much more than his words.

He left sounds. The equipment room has a microphone connected to a stereo that plays throughout the basement of the Merryman Center. J.D. used to set the mic on the countertop and drum with his fingers next to it, giving the players dressing in the locker room a beat to enjoy. This was typical J.D. He drummed on paint cans as a kid before his mom bought him a drum set. Now, every time Hale hears drums, he thinks of J.D.

He left sights. J.D. always made sure his mom put all the presents under the Christmas tree, because he loved Christmas more than any other holiday. Even in recent years, he would wake up at 6 a.m. and call family and friends on the phone so they could get up and open their gifts. He'd dive under the tree, pass out presents to his mom, sister and stepfather, who were too tired to match his zest. This year, Erica slept later and passed out the gifts, thinking that the morning just seemed too reserved.

He left, more than anything, a void. Biggs no longer sees him sitting in his usual spot behind the bench at her games. After he died, she kept his picture as the background on her computer, but looking at it every day stung too much. She still has a framed picture on her nightstand.

She, like everyone else, is moving on. She is starting regularly for the first time and is Tech's second-leading scorer. "I find myself to be really happy sometimes," she said. "And it's almost like I feel like I shouldn't be this happy."

Then she remembers J.D.'s deep laugh, his gap-toothed smile, the way he'd work the room at his parties. She remembers the attitude he summarized perfectly in one sentence on his MySpace page: "I got alot of friends but if you ask to be one i aint gunna turn you down."