Sep. 27—PULLMAN — About an hour after Tyler Hilinski played the game of his life, after he crowd-surfed on the Martin Stadium field to celebrate leading Washington State to a triple-overtime victory over Boise State, he did one thing. He found his mother.
After the celebration died down, Tyler met up with Kym, who had taken a red-eye from LAX to Pullman the night before this September 2017 game. As they walked from the stadium to the nearby Courtyard Inn, where Kym always stayed when she visited for games, they wrapped their arms around each other. Tyler beamed.
“Mom,” he said at one point during the stroll, “did that just happen?”
It was all still washing over Tyler: The way he came off the bench and led the Cougars to one of the biggest comebacks in program history, erasing a three-touchdown deficit in the fourth quarter. The way he tossed a pass to running back Jamal Morrow, who sprinted in for the winning touchdown. The way he was lifted onto the shoulders of WSU fans, who made Pullman the happiest place on the planet for one night.
Once Tyler and Kym reached the hotel, they headed over to “The Nest,” the apartment of teammates Kyle Sweet, CJ Dimry, Kirkland Parker and Nick Begg, whose mothers also joined for a get-together after the game. They talked and laughed for some time. In a few months, Tyler would move into an apartment not far away, where he would enter a closet and fatally shoot himself with an AR-15 rifle.
But on this night, Sept. 9, 2017, Tyler was nowhere near that closet. On this night, he was just Tyler, the happy 21-year-old who was friends with everyone he met, the redshirt sophomore who had just authored the game of his young career, the blond-haired kid whose teammates swore would be the next great Cougar quarterback to enter program lore.
Tyler did so — just not in the way anyone expected him to. Instead, he’s woven into WSU culture because of the impact he made on others in the last few months of his life and in the nearly seven years since he died. He’s made mental health advocates of people who never saw its importance before, instilled in friends the importance of checking on one another, the reality that even though seeking help might feel like a weakness, it’s the truest sign of strength.
“As a man, it’s hard for people to talk about stuff like that. You don’t want to bring it out of them like that,” said Rob Taylor, a senior safety on the 2017 WSU team. “But just check in here and there, make sure people are cool. I always just let people know that I’m here for them. I’ve always been one of those guys where you can talk to me if you’re comfortable with that.”
Washington State plays Boise State this weekend. It’s the teams’ first meeting since 2017, the game in which Tyler came off the bench and captured the attention of the nation. In death, Tyler has done the same by impacting the lives of countless people, a number that continues to grow as his parents carry on the Hilinski’s Hope Foundation. In life, Tyler never did it on a bigger stage than Martin Stadium, the site of the Cougars’ wild triumph over the Broncos seven years ago.
“I think the special thing that I take from that night,” Kym said, “is that I got to see my son so happy, playing a sport that he loved with players and coaches that were his best friends.”
—-Ryan Hilinski looked at his dad, Mark, and the two tried to calm themselves down. Back home in the Los Angeles area, where Tyler’s younger brother and father were watching the game on TV, Ryan couldn’t believe what he had just seen.
It was the final seconds of the third quarter, WSU facing a 17-10 hole, and Tyler had just thrown a bad interception, tossing a shovel pass that deflected off the helmet of one Boise State defender and settled into the hands of another.
Mark, though, was happy just to see his son in the game. As a backup, Tyler seldom found himself in the game during meaningful moments — only in situations where WSU was “either up by 40 or down by 40,” Mark said — and more importantly, Tyler was healthy.
“It was like, ‘Well, that’s OK,’ ” Mark said. “He got in, you know? He’ll be all right. He’ll get another shot. It’s all good. He looked pretty good.”
It was bad news for the Cougars, whose coach Mike Leach had decided to bench starting quarterback Luke Falk for poor play (in reality, he had broken his wrist on his nonthrowing hand). The hosts were already down, and now the Broncos had a chance to go up two scores. Two plays later, they did just that, BSU backup quarterback Montell Cozart lobbing a 47-yard touchdown pass to receiver Cedric Wilson.
Boise State 24, Washington State 10, with about 14 minutes to play.
From there, it went from bad to worse for WSU. On a third-down play a few minutes into the fourth quarter, Falk was strip-sacked, and BSU linebacker Curtis Weaver picked up the fumble and returned it 55 yards for a touchdown. He raised his hands and celebrated with the visiting fans, who had carved out a section of pandemonium.
On the other end of the field, Falk was still on the turf, lying on his back.
“I probably had a concussion,” Falk said. “I remember my night being done, obviously upset about that. But my bad night turned into a great night for the Cougs.”
But before the night turned great for the Cougs, it had to feel grim. Think about the circumstances: The season before, WSU had dropped a road game against Boise State, a Mountain West school, and players felt fired up.
“We were (upset) about the year before,” linebacker Peyton Pelluer said.
“It was definitely on my mind,” defensive lineman Nick Begg said.
A year later, with 10:53 to play, No. 20 WSU trailed BSU 31-10. The Cougars were on the ropes against the same Broncos, the powerhouse of the Mountain West, but a Group of Five school all the same. WSU was being thoroughly outplayed. Its starting quarterback was out with an injury. Hours before the game, officials nearly postponed the contest because of smoky air. Around this time, at 10:10 p.m., Cougars fans might have preferred they did so.
“At one point, it did look bleak,” running backs coach Eric Mele said.
“There was definitely a sense of befuddlement, like there’s no way we’re losing to these guys,” Pelluer said. “I mean, we went into that year anticipating, like, Rose Bowl sort of deal.”
“I just remember peeking up and I was just like, ‘Oh my God,’ ” Begg said. “There’s no way this is reality.”
Along the sideline, though, others shared more hope.
“It was so weird,” WSU wide receiver Kyle Sweet said. “I can think about other times when we were down to other teams, like Washington comes into my mind where it feels like, ‘… Man, I’m gonna chalk this one up as a loss,’ you know? But for whatever reason, it just wasn’t the case for that game. I just felt like we were gonna win.”
Sweet was a junior that season, a veteran who had played enough football to sense a shift of momentum on the horizon, no matter how irrational the thought. But even Cougars who were new to the team could feel something. Freshman wide receiver Jamire Calvin noticed a change of energy — or at least he said so.
As Calvin and the Cougars’ offense waited to take the field for their next drive, he looked at his teammates and delivered a message: Look, we’re gonna win this game.
“To have the confidence to say that when we’re down our third touchdown,” running back Jamal Morrow said. “It was like, ‘Oh, OK.’ “
Within a few plays, Calvin made himself look like a visionary. Hilinski reentered the game, this time for good, and made several completions in a row: Two yards to James Williams, 19 yards to Sweet, no gain to Williams, 12 yards to Renard Bell, a redshirt freshman that season. WSU entered the red zone on a pass from Hilinksi to Bell. On the ensuing play, Hilinski dropped back and found a wide-open Calvin, whose score gave the Cougars their first offensive touchdown of the night.
WSU had some momentum, but Boise State still had a 31-17 advantage with 8 minutes left. At that point, ESPN’s win probability calculator gave the Broncos a 98% chance to win. The Cougars needed to score — and score fast.
Five plays into BSU’s next drive, Pelluer obliged. The Broncos were playing backup quarterback Cozart because in the first half, Cougars linebacker Frankie Luvu knocked out starter Brett Rypien with a violent sack — “Probably one of the loudest hits I’ve ever heard in my life,” Mele said — and Pelluer took advantage.
On second-and-7 from the BSU 34, Cozart dropped back and felt pressure. He tried to escape from lineman Nnamdi Oguayo, who grabbed one of Cozart’s ankles. As he went to the ground, Cozart tried to flip a pass to tight end Alec Dhaenens — but it went right to Pelluer.
“And then I blacked out,” Pelluer said.
Pelluer was kidding. He remembers the play like it was his wedding day. It began courtesy of linebacker Isaac Dotson, who cleared Dhaenens out with a block. That much Pelluer didn’t need to ask for. As he made his way down the sideline — “running as fast as I think I’ve ever run in my life,” he said — Pelluer began to look around, pointing out players to block like a traffic cop.
He didn’t need many blocks. He got one at the 5-yard line, but that was all he needed to jog into the end zone untouched. There was no volcano erupting from Martin Stadium, but thanks to the noise, Pullman residents might have thought otherwise.
Boise State 31, Washington State 24, 5:51 to play.
“It hit after Peyton’s touchdown, not gonna lie,” Bell said. “When he picked the ball off, I think that’s where everything just kind of exploded, like, ‘Oh nah, this is about to happen.’ After that, that’s when the whole team, even the players who weren’t playing, that’s when everybody really got into it, and were like, ‘Oh yeah, we about to make one hell of a comeback.’ “
“The place just caught on fire,” Falk said.
“It was kinda like, ‘Oh, wait, we are back,'” Morrow said. “We have a shot to win this game. One stop away and we go down and score, we’re right there.”
Before the Cougars could make that statement themselves, the 32,631 on hand did the honors. Moments later, when Cozart and the Broncos’ offense returned to the field, they did so at the 10 thanks to a penalty on the kickoff. Seconds later, hordes of WSU fans crescendoing in screams, they moved back to the 5 because of a false start.
“I’ve never heard our fans get that loud,” Begg said. “That was just the craziest atmosphere of all time.”
Three plays later, Boise State punted. Five plays later, following a sack and a few incompletions from Hilinski, WSU did the same. Except a funny thing happened: After Erik Powell booted it away, the ball came back to earth and glanced off the foot of a Boise State player, who had his back turned. WSU linebacker Dillon Sherman, a redshirt freshman, pounced on it.
“Once that happened,” Sweet said, “I vividly remember the feeling of coming off the field and saying to myself, I was like, ‘We’re not losing this game. Like, we are not going to lose this game.’ “
The Cougars had the ball back, trailing by one touchdown, with remarkable field position at the Broncos’ 24. Four plays later, from the BSU 6, Hilinski dropped back and checked it down to Morrow, who waltzed untouched into the end zone, tying the game.
That’s about when the game descended even deeper into madness. In the first overtime, WSU and BSU traded field goals, sending the contest into a second extra session. In that one, the clubs swapped touchdowns — running back Gerard Wicks surging in for the Cougars, Cozart completing a pass to Cedrick Wilson for the Broncos.
This was back when college overtime rules were more lenient, before the NCAA passed rules that force teams to begin going for the 2-pointer starting with the second overtime, so WSU and BSU could have kept playing forever. But in the third overtime, when the Cougs’ defense used an incompletion, run for no gain and short completion to force the Broncos to kick a field goal — giving WSU a chance to win with a touchdown — the tide began to turn.
The Cougars’ first play of the third overtime ended quickly, a short completion from Hilinski to Bell. Their second took much longer to unfold. Hilinski checked it down to Morrow, who evaded one tackler.
“I feel the defender — he’s up top. So I’m like, ‘Let me gear it down a little bit so it gives me space,’ ” Morrow said. “I catch the ball, make a move, and then after that, everything was like slow motion. It was like a movie, you know? Each step was like, ‘Oh my God. It’s closer, closer, closer.’ “
Morrow pedaled toward the end zone, sprinting along the sideline, a footrace to the end zone. When he hit the 2-yard line, he leapt for the pylon.
“I dive, I get hit,” Morrow said. “My knee is up. I kind of reach the ball over with my right hand.”
The closest referee put his hands up. Touchdown. Game over.
“I’m like, ‘Oh, we scored,’ ” Morrow said.
“I can still see in my mind Jamal jumping face-first into the corner of the end zone over a Boise State player,” Sweet said.
But hang on, said the officials, who needed more time to review the play. Was Morrow in? They took several minutes to review, dragging out the end of the game.
Finally, head referee Terry Leyden walked away from the monitor, took off his headset, turned on his microphone and announced to the crowd: “The ruling on the field stands. Touchdown Washington State.”
Fans clad in crimson and gray threw their hands up and screamed in elation. They started to stream onto the field. ESPN play-by-play commentator Kevin Brown described it well: Pandemonium in Pullman.
The loudest shriek of celebration, though, came a thousand miles away. It emanated from the Hilinskis household, where Ryan and Mark started yelling like banshees. They screamed so loudly that their neighbors, who the family didn’t know well because they had only moved in recently, knocked on their door to make sure everything was OK.
“My brother’s on TV!” Ryan exclaimed.
“It was the biggest deal in the world for two people watching the television,” Mark said.
Once Ryan and Mark’s heart rates returned to a healthy beat and they convinced the neighbors that, yes, everything was OK, the gravity of the moment started to sink in. Ryan’s brother, Mark’s son — Kym’s “T,” she calls him — had just done that.
A smile crept onto Ryan’s face, remembering the night before, when he led his Orange Lutheran High School team to a blowout win.
“I have my first huge, 500-yard game, and what does Tyler do? He does this,” Ryan said to Mark, who laughed as he recounted the interaction. “He was just shrugging his shoulders like, ‘Man, that kid.’ “
—-Seven years later, Mark and Kym still part ways when it comes to figuring out the why. Kym has made peace with the fact she will never know why, four months after leading that comeback, Tyler entered a closet in the Aspen Village apartment complex and used a stolen AR-15 to kill himself.
Tyler didn’t leave a note. By all accounts, he had seemed happy in the weeks and months leading up to his suicide. If he was sad, nobody around him could pick up on it, certainly not the possibility that he was considering taking his own life.
For that reason, Tyler’s death is mysterious and tragic, leading even those who knew him best to look inward: Had they missed something? Could they have done something? What was going through Tyler’s head?
But Kym has moved on from thoughts like those.
“I just think I will be so happy to be with Tyler again,” Kym said. “I think that’s the only thing that keeps me going in that regard, is that I truly believe I will see him again. I won’t care why he left. I’ll just be happy that I get to be with my son again.”
For his part, Mark feels the same way. He just can’t stop trying to understand why it happened, how it happened, if there was anything along the way that could have happened to prevent it and keep his son alive.
The alternate-world scenarios run through Mark’s head like movie reels. What if, he’ll think to himself, someone had noticed Tyler leave with a teammate’s AR-15 in his car after shooting clay pigeons one afternoon in January 2018? Three days passed between that day and the day when he carried out the deed, so what if a teammate had reported it stolen? What if police knocked on Tyler’s door?
“He would have crumbled,” Mark said. “That was his personality.”
Besides, Mark thinks, it’s not like Tyler drove home and immediately committed suicide. He waited several days. What did he do in that span? Why didn’t he do internet searches for why he felt that way? Why not look up information on depression, on suicide? Why was the only term Tyler looked up “How to take your life with an AR-15 without hurting anybody else” — and why was such a video allowed on the internet in the first place?
Why didn’t WSU have anyone in place, Mark will think, to help someone going through something like this? The only person who had any clue Tyler was hurting was his ex-girlfriend, Sophie Engle, to whom he had opened up a day or two before he died. When she told Tyler he needed to talk to someone, he said he was talking to his parents, as well as a guy named Jerry, who Tyler said was the school’s mental health professional.
Jerry, the Hilinskis learned later on, was an athletics staffer who was in charge of booking team buses. Nothing about his job involved mental health. The Hilinskis asked WSU who the school’s mental health counselor was. We don’t have one, the school answered, referencing only a Dr. Summer — an orthopedist.
“But who would help with this?” Mark said. “‘Hey, I’m thinking about killing myself. I need to talk to somebody.’ Who does that phone call go to? WSU, for 565 student-athletes, had nobody.”
One of the few things Mark knows for sure about what Tyler did in that stretch of three days was throw his friends off the scent. Shortly after Tyler stole the AR-15, the gun’s owner texted a group chat of the teammates who went clay pigeon shooting: Hey, anybody find my AR-15? It’s missing. Everyone responded they had not, including Tyler.
Tyler added something extra, though: It’s gotta be there. It’s huge. How can you lose that? I’ll be right over.
Tyler drove over to the apartment, The Nest, and helped his teammates search for the gun he knew they would not find. He pulled out drawers. Searched through cabinets. Fished around in closets.
Still, even when they couldn’t find it, nobody suspected Tyler for three reasons: He was the happiest guy they knew. He wouldn’t steal it and sell it. And besides, it would have been completely out of character for Tyler, who hadn’t stolen a thing in his life. Why would this be the thing he stole?
“There’s so many things out of that that don’t have to happen,” Mark said, “and they all begin with, if you’re a student-athlete, it’s OK to struggle. It’s OK to tell people you’re having a mental health challenge. It’s OK to get treatment for that. In fact, you’ll be a happier, healthier player. You’ll be a more productive player on the field and in the classroom.”
That’s why, shortly after Tyler’s death, Mark and Kym founded Hilinski’s Hope, a nonprofit organization that promotes awareness and education of mental health and wellness for student-athletes. The goal is three-pronged, the parents say, much like the No. 3 Tyler wore at WSU: Raise awareness, beat down the stigma and come up with programs that support student-athletes’ mental health.
That, Mark and Kym say, has been a success. Over the last several years, they have traveled to campuses around the country to deliver 315 “Tyler Talks,” speeches where they explain their son’s situation and how it could have been prevented. With these efforts, they have reached more than 78,000 student-athletes.
They didn’t have to do anything to reach Tyler’s teammates. His personality took care of that much.
“I look at life totally different now,” Bell said. “I used to sometimes just go through the motions, even when I wasn’t playing football. I would just be at home, doing nothing. Or when I’m in a bad mood or somebody makes me upset, I would let that carry on for a couple days. But now I kind of just let it slide. If somebody makes me upset, like, whatever, you know?”
“It made it clear to me, like, OK I’m never gonna let that happen if things get bad,” Sweet said. “I know that there’s help. I know we have resources.”
“It gave me a better sense of consciousness, especially for guys, who don’t want to admit they’re going through something,” Begg said. “It puts things into perspective and makes you think about it more. I think about Tyler a lot throughout the year.”
All these years later, Tyler’s parents have done meaningful work to heal, same as his teammates and friends and family. At the beginning, in 2018, Mark and Kym began all kinds of therapy. “And all we really wanted was the therapist to say, ‘It’s OK, Tyler’s coming back,’ ” Kym said. “We knew that wasn’t gonna happen.”
That will never happen, they internalized, but they’ve come a long way from then. The approach, Kym likes to say, is to take their sadness and try to use it to help others, which in turn helps them. It’s the reason why they’ve traversed the country, reaching as many student-athletes as will listen.
Every once in a while, Mark said, he’ll get the same question: “We know Tyler is dead. Why keep talking about it?”
“Because he doesn’t have to be,” Mark said. “Suicide is preventable. We need to explain this in whatever fashion they’ll listen to it in — that student-athletes need to take care of their mental health. They’re all afraid to do it because they think it’ll look bad. They’ll not be viewed as leaders or tough, especially in a tough sport like football.”
In the final months of his life, Tyler was tough, tough enough to lead Washington State to the biggest comeback in school history. He may have harbored sadness inside, but for a few seconds one night in 2017, he swam on the shoulders of WSU fans, wearing a smile bright enough to power the city of Pullman all the way to 2024 and beyond.
