Just about every year at this time, the week of the BYU-Utah football game, I think about Rich Lloyd and Steve Call.

They are impossible not to think about. Maybe you’ll want to think about them, too. Maybe everyone around here should think about them.

One was a Ute, one a Cougar.

And I’m not talking about just any regular ol’ Ute, any regular ol’ Cougar.

I’m talking dive-as-deep-as-you-possibly-can-dive Ute, and walk-to-the-end-of-the-scorched-earth-and-back Cougar.

These men had passion for their school and their school’s football team so complete, so abundant that it danced on the edge of lunacy. Good lunacy. If there ever was a case and a cause to slam those two words together, this was it.

Lloyd was a 35-year-old husband of wife Marianne, father of three young children, president of a clothing company headquartered in Kansas City, former director of global marketing at Dell Computers, owner of a Harvard MBA, and proud graduate of the University of Utah. His life was about as blessed as any man could hope for.

Call was a capable and accomplished doctor who grew up in American Fork and was a season-ticket holder along with his family members at BYU football games for decades.

There were things more important to each of them than their rooting devotion, but only a few.

Lloyd was a season-ticket holder for Utah football, flying in for home games at Rice-Eccles from a thousand miles away. “Rich was an intense fan,” said Marianne. “It was so fun to see him get excited about games, even when he was sick.”

OK, there’s your first hint at the power of this story. There are more.

Call wore a bluer-than-blue BYU shirt under his physician’s garb, even and especially when he worked at University Hospital and the Huntsman Cancer Institute. Just the thought of that little stunt put a smile on his face.

Their lives collided one night in April, just shy of two decades ago.

He had noticed unusual pain in his head and spinal cord. Then paralysis crept into his lower body and legs. He was diagnosed with a type of cancer known as metastatic glioblastoma multiforme, and that monster was most aggressive.

He and his family had moved back to Utah on the advice of a specialist in Boston who examined Lloyd and thereafter suggested, since he had extended family here and the Huntsman Institute was here, that he come to Salt Lake City to, as he said it, “Go love your family, get your affairs in order; you have three months to live.”

The Lloyds made their move, and as difficult as that was, fighting the monster, Rich stayed about as positive as any combatant could.

“Doctors told him there was nothing they could do,” Marianne said. “Basically, they taught him how to die with dignity.”

In truth, dignity had long been Lloyd’s friend.

On that dire night in April, he showed up at Huntsman, where Call was an attending physician. Call had just received a phone message from a doctor who had previously treated Lloyd, asking if the patient could be admitted directly and immediately, a request that was outside protocol that typically required a patient to go through University Hospital first.

Call broke the rules and let Lloyd in.

“That decision changed my life,” he said.

What the doctor discovered over the next few days was what Marianne already knew. Lloyd was a stellar human being — unselfish, caring, giving, and an optimist like nobody’s business. He had lived a charmed life, a blessed life, an exceptional existence as a husband, a father, in his profession, in darn near everything he did, and he knew it. Beyond that, he was a talented pianist, an individual who mastered that instrument, enabling him to play music from Beethoven to the Beatles.

As his body was shutting down in the run-up to his urgent meeting with Call, Lloyd already had been in and out of hospitals. Ever the Ute, one of his real joys over an otherwise challenging period was visits from Utah football players, past and present, such as Brian Johnson, Steve Tate and Morgan Scalley.

Lloyd loved that.

One of his and Marianne’s quiet truths was something that wasn’t an absolute secret, but something they kept to themselves: The two of them, while they were students at Utah, had met on a study abroad stint in Jerusalem sponsored by … uh-oh, BYU.

“We don’t talk about that much,” Marianne said, laughing at the memory.

When Call first entered the room where Lloyd lay resting to check on his status and introduce himself, the attending physician was taken aback: “I would’ve thought Rich was dead,” he said.

In his journal, Dr. Call wrote: “I saw Rich, pale, breathing shallow with an oxygen mask on and looking terrible. I introduced myself and walked to the bedside and grabbed and held his hand. His eyes were closed. I asked, ‘How are you doing?’ He opened his eyes, looked at me, and said with a smile: ‘So good. I feel great.’ I laughed loudly as I thought he was being sarcastic. As I found out the rest of the night, sarcasm is a word that is not in Rich’s vocabulary.”

Call wrote other entries as well: “I had expected fear, doubt, gloom and depression — all normal responses, given the prognosis. But I did not feel these at any time while I was in his room. The more we talked, the more I wanted to stay in the room and learn about this person. His personality was infectious, his optimism stirring and inspirational, despite his hushed voice and critical condition.

“I continued to try and hurry the nurses to get fluids, antibiotics, chest X-rays, blood cultures and repeated vital signs. His numbers were fluctuating between bad and terrible, but his attitude and the spirit in the room were unwavering. All who took care of him were caught up in his personality despite his condition; so much so that even I was calmed.”

As Call entered and left the room, entered and left again, he at one point revealed his blue BYU shirt. Next time the doctor walked in, Lloyd had put on a Utah beanie.

Conversation between the two men exploded from there, centering on sports, each dialing in on his favored Utes or Cougars with great enthusiasm.

Standing back, watching this burst of energy erupt, Marianne said, “Sometimes, I don’t understand the way men think. Here’s a guy who’s dying and a doctor who’s treating him talking BYU and Utah football. It was good to see Rich excited about that. There was a lot of passion.”

A lot of compassion.

“Rich could throw a few words at his BYU friends,” she said. “But it was always with dignity and kindness.”

Call responded with the same, as the two fools blathered on and on.

The final exchange that night between Cougar doctor and Ute patient as Call left the room was this: “Rich, I’ve never met anyone like you.”

A week later, Rich Lloyd died. Every day between that initial meeting and Lloyd’s passing, Call came to visit. Prior to doctors placing Lloyd on life support, he said: “Before you put that tube down my throat, I want to thank everyone who has been with me and helped me. Thank you.”

Marianne said goodbye with the best words any man could ever hear: “I love you.”

This is a story I have written before and a tale I revisit in my mind every Utah-BYU rivalry week, a tale worth revisiting and remembering — for me and for everyone around here.

Steve Call punctuated the story like this: “I saw in [Rich] the person I want to be. I want to deal with life the way he did, even when it’s difficult. I want to emulate him. I want to bring that positive outlook to all situations. Rich changed my life. He is my friend. He is my hero. He’s a man. And he’s a Ute.”

Dr. Call is now a rheumatologist living in Mapleton, and he says he thinks about his friend Rich all these years later, rather regularly. Especially when he faces challenges in his own life: “I still have tender feelings for and am greatly inspired by him. Sometimes you can feel overwhelmed in life. I remember the experiences I had with Rich and that has given me strength and inspiration. I’m in awe of someone who cheered for a different team, the other team.”

Call has five children and is married to his wife, Jenny. Together, they teach a religion institute class at BYU. “I’m as blue as ever,” he says. “I have season tickets and never miss a game.”