The Daily Observer London Desk: Reporter- Judith Benjamin
SOUTH BEND, Ind. — Niele Ivey looks back on those photos often — a younger version of herself, the newly crowned 2001 national champion, basking in confetti and the glow of a perfect moment.
She had helped orchestrate Notre Dame’s comeback in front of a sold-out Savvis Center, 10 minutes away from where she first fell in love with a game. On a twisted ankle, no less. And when Purdue’s last-second shot rimmed out, she sprinted over halfcourt and leapt into the arms of assistant coach Kevin McGuff. He was the first person she saw then.
She looks back at the photos and sees the joy radiating from her body. In her mind, there was no way to make it any better. It was one of the best moments of her life.
But not for any of the reasons she thought.
Now, in photos from that night, it’s Philippe she sees most clearly. It’s Philippe she sees first.
She can spot him immediately, there in the second row sporting an Irish shirt, his dreadlocks tucked into a crocheted tam he made himself, flanked by Ivey’s three other brothers and her parents.
Seven months after these photos were snapped, Niele and her mom, Theresa, would arrive at Barnes Hospital in St. Louis and be led down a series of hallways by a hospital escort and police officer. A doctor would take them into a cold room, where Niele would feel a weight in the back of her throat but know that she needed to stay strong as her mom clutched her hand.
They were there to identify Philippe’s body.
Not his radiant smile or his joy. Not the sum of 26 years of a beautiful life. Not the mind of a brother who, a day earlier, had rubbed Niele’s six-month pregnant belly and reassured her, “Everything will be fine.”
But the body.
When the doctor pulled back the curtain, it was Philippe. Her mom’s voice still echoes in Niele’s head, pleading for him to get up, just get up. Of all the memories of Philippe that have faded over the years, this one — the worst one — refuses to leave.
So, instead Niele holds on to that other moment in St. Louis. When the whole family had been together. When everything still made sense. When Philippe’s joy cut through the confetti and his smile was even brighter than his baby sister’s, who had just won a national title.
He’s the one — not the net or the title or the trophy — who brings her back into this moment again and again.
Niele Ivey is an organized person. A scheduled person. She studied history because it was a knowable subject — events could be dated, cause and effect could be found. But her first year out of college had come with a lot of unanswered questions.
She was frustrated with the on-again-off-again relationship with her boyfriend. She was entering the third trimester of her pregnancy not knowing what to expect of labor or motherhood. Her second WNBA season loomed, and with it the fears of whether or not her body and mind would be ready.
It was a last-minute decision to drive to St. Louis that November weekend. Home wouldn’t answer any of those questions, but being with her family might make it all feel a little less daunting. And on that five-and-a-half hour drive, Niele knew she was most excited to see Philippe. He would help her make the most sense of this chaos.
Philippe was her brother closest in age. With five Ivey kids (and just eight years in between Nick, the eldest, and Niele, the baby) their small three-bedroom house had always been brimming with activity and friends. The four boys shared a room, either side flanked by a bunk bed, and Niele could always be found there hanging out with her brothers, playing Atari or Nintendo.
Everyone on the block knew the Iveys and their corner brick house. Knew that if you smelled some fresh bread or cake, it was coming from Mrs. Ivey’s kitchen. Knew that the big garden in the backyard was producing fresh okra, beans, tomatoes and greens.
Philippe was the quietest of the brothers but offered the sagest advice. He didn’t argue with anyone. Everyone liked him, and Niele liked him especially because, when they were younger, he always picked her first when they went to the YMCA to play basketball or let her have an extra turn in Monopoly, and when they got older, he was the one who was the best listener. They spent most of their summer days at a park near their house, and they spent their evenings on the big front porch.
When Niele decided to go to Notre Dame, Philippe was the one who beamed brightest with pride. His baby sister was the first in their family to go to college. He told all his friends.
“Their connection was something special,” says Cedric, the middle Ivey brother. “It was a genuine love.”
Niele arrived in St. Louis that November after the sun had gone on Friday night. On Saturday morning, Philippe asked if she wanted to go to the park and walk a lap.
Niele shared her fears and uncertainties. She wanted answers and clarity. Midway through the walk, Philippe — who hoped to have a big family himself — looked at his sister and placed his hand on her belly. When he did, Jaden kicked and Philippe reassured her that everything would be fine, she just had to stay the course, she just had to trust herself.
“I feel like I got to absorb his energy, and I needed that at the time. I needed that balance,” Niele says. “I just felt grounded after spending time with him and talking with him and him reassuring me. My soul needed that.”
The next day, Niele and Tonya Jackson — her best friend since they were 15 — decided to go to a St. Louis Rams game. One of Niele’s friends from Notre Dame was playing for the visiting Panthers and had gotten them two free tickets.
Philippe offered to drive them so she wouldn’t have to walk to find parking. At six months pregnant, even though she was still working out twice a day, Niele was starting to feel the strains of her changing body.
After the game, she and Tonya waited at the corner of Washington and 9th as the crowd dissipated into a trickle. It wasn’t like Philippe to be late. It wasn’t like him to not pick up his phone or respond to texts. Ultimately, Niele’s mom came to pick them up.
On the drive home, no one spoke.
“The worry began to set in,” Tonya remembers. “It was just very quiet.”
Niele prayed she would see her green, two-door Mercury Cougar sitting outside the house when she returned. Her dad had gotten it for her the summer before, ahead of her fifth year at Notre Dame. She had never had a car before, but she was excited for the freedom that one would bring, excited for the spur-of-the-moment trips home — like the one that brought her back to St. Louis that weekend — that a car would give her.
