When Pat Tillman was deployed to Iraq for the first time, he did something he had done throughout his love affair with his wife, Marie — he wrote her a letter.
Except this one was never meant to be read.
It sat through two deployments on the bedroom dresser, eventually buried under piles of receipts and greeting cards.
Then, during Pat’s tour in Afghanistan, Marie got the news she had long feared. Her husband would never be coming home.
That night, she crept to the bedroom dresser, unearthed the letter and opened it.
She immediately recognized his familiar scrawl. The pages were a mess of ink and scribble. There were words and whole sentences crossed out.
She closed her eyes before reading his words:
“It’s difficult to summarize 10 years together, my love for you, my hopes for your future, and pretend to be dead all at the same time . . . I simply cannot put all this into words. I’m not ready, willing or able.”
Still in shock, Marie had not cried since she heard the news of her husband’s death. Reading his words, she wept.
Marie thought of the hundreds of letters that they had shared during their 11-year relationship — an affair she chronicles in her book “The Letter: My Journey Through Love, Loss, & Life” (Grand Central) out Tuesday.
Tillman died at 27 a tragic hero — a man who left behind a lucrative contract with the NFL to join the Army, then was killed in a friendly-fire incident initially covered up by the military.
“But that is not the story I wanted to tell,” Marie told The Post.
Instead, in “The Letter,” Marie shares their love story through the notes they shared — one that began when they were teenagers.
Tillman and Marie lived in the same small town near San Francisco. He was the quintessence of the “popular jock,” while she was the “painfully shy” good girl.
Marie noticed Tillman had a crush on her when he became uncharacteristically quiet around her.
Right before their senior year, during a game of capture the flag, Pat “captured” Marie and held on to her ankle far longer than necessary. After that, a mutual friend brokered a first date between the two. They fell in love quickly.
Less than a year later, they remained together even after Tillman was arrested for fighting at a pizzeria and locked up in juvenile hall for 30 days.
It was then their relationship through letters began.
“Hi, dude,” he began his first letter, as only a teenage boy would address his paramour. But he continues thoughtfully: “I am glad I got a chance to see you. Actually glad is really not the word, but the less I think about it the easier it is.”
Though they attended separate colleges — he got a football scholarship at Arizona State, while she went to UC Santa Barbara — they remained an item and wrote constantly.
On their second anniversary, he recalled their first date: “I remember the day like it was yesterday and I’m grateful for every day since,” he wrote. “Though we have been apart for much of them, I would not trade them for anything.”
In 1998, after college, Marie joined Tillman in Arizona, where he was drafted into the NFL as a safety for the Cardinals.
But after 9/11, something shifted in Tillman. Around that time, he gave an interview to NFL Films, expressing his change of heart: “I play football, and it just seems so goddamn unimportant compared to everything that has taken place.”
He finished up his season, rejected a multimillion-dollar contract and enlisted as an Army Ranger, which led the couple to relocate to an Army base in Seattle in 2002. They married that year — and two months later he headed off to basic training.
The letters then began again in earnest.
“Marie, I know this isn’t the direction you saw us moving . . . I know this isn’t the life you dream to live . . . I know at times this path will be rough . . . And I know at times you’ll feel alone,” he wrote. “Regardless of our direction, dreams or path . . . I know we have each other and I love you . . . And that’s all I need to know.”
Five months later, he was deployed to Iraq. He did two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan.
The letters were an “emotional roller coaster” for Marie. In some he criticized the war effort, in others he bemoaned his decision to leave the love of his life.
In one he admitted: “I think I may actually be a bad person for putting you through this.”
His love for her bleeds through every page. In another letter, he vividly imagines their future children, something they had already been planning for years.
“My mind is on you and the visualization of our children. What will they be like? Who will they look like?” he wrote. “Everything we’ve done in the past will pale in comparison to the adventure of the family we will soon have. So much to be excited about . . .”
Tillman’s letters are now kept in a shoebox in a closet in Marie’s new home in Chicago. She no longer reads them every day like she used to. It’s not necessary, she says, because she’s memorized them.
Out of all the letters, though, it’s the “just in case” one that she most often returns to.
Though Marie keeps the majority of the content of his final letter private, she does share one telling passage in her book.
“Through the years I’ve asked a great deal of you, therefore it should surprise you little that I have another favor to ask. I ask that you live,” he wrote.
Living has meant different things to Marie throughout the course of the grieving process. At first it was literal: Keep on breathing. But after years of painful suffering, she has finally taken his advice, and is finally living her life.
Last year, Marie, now 35, married Joe Shenton, an investment banker and divorced father of three boys. Five months ago, she gave birth to her first son, Mac.
“The spirit of the letter is something I still think about all the time,” she said. “I constantly ask myself, am I living life to the fullest? Am I doing all the things I should and could be doing?”
Tillman wrote Marie a “just in case” letter in the event that he didn’t come home from deployment. Marie provides excerpts from the two-page letter:
It’s difficult to summarize 10 years together, my love for you, my hopes for your future, and pretend to be dead all at the same time . . . I simply cannot put all this into words. I’m not ready willing or able.
Through the years I’ve asked a great deal of you, therefore it should surprise you little that I have another favor to ask. I ask that you live.
Pat Tillman, then 17, sent his first letter to Marie on June 21, 1994, from juvenile hall, where he spent a month after a fight at a local pizzeria:
Hi dude. I apologize for taking a few days to write, there are only certain times we are allowed to. I try to work out during “activities” which is one of the times designated for writing. I figure you would rather me come back normal and not write, than fat and write everyday. I did a little “detail” (clean-up) so they have given me time to write.
I’m sorry I was all red eyed when you came today. I handle the whole situation fine in here, but when I get in my mom’s car I get sentimental. So do not worry about me because I am fine. I am glad I got a chance to see you. Actually glad is really not the word but the less I think about it the easier it is. To tell you the truth, I can think about anything until I realize how it ties in with how much time I have left or what I can’t do.
I feel like an idiot saying that I have so much time. Some of the guys, my buddy the crank fiend I was telling you about, have years to go. So I have it easy.
I really hope you are OK. You seemed fine when I saw you today so I won’t worry. I’ve got three minutes left so I’ll wrap it up. Goodbye. Hope to see you soon.
The couple went to separate colleges and often wrote each other. A letter from Oct. 1, 1995:
Two years ago at this exact time I was as nervous as could be. Acting out in my head how the date was going to go and hoping I didn’t make an ass of myself.
Luckily the date went OK despite a few car stalls and the lack of blankets. I remember the day like it was yesterday, and I’m grateful for every day since. It is too bad we can’t celebrate the way we would like, but there’s not much we can do about that now.
I want to thank you for the two years you’ve given me. Though we have been apart for much of them I would not trade them for anything. I would like to say “who knew it would have lasted so long?” but I can’t . . . I always knew. I wish we were together so I could show you just how much you mean to me. I love you.
The writing continued when Tillman attended Ranger basic training in Georgia. July 8, 2002:
Marie, I know this isn’t the direction you saw us moving . . . I know this isn’t the life you dream to live . . . I know at times this path will be rough . . . And I know at times you’ll feel alone.
However . . .
I know you are strong . . .
I know this path has an end . . .
I know someday you’ll have the life you dream . . . And, I know this direction will eventually lead to happiness.
However, despite what I know . . .
Regardless of our direction, dreams or path . . .
I know we have each other and I love you . . . And that’s all I need to know.
Tillman wrote from his three deployments. Marie includes two undated letters:
It’s hard to think about how bad this situation really is sometimes. I hate being away from you, I hate the fact that you’re growing into a life so far removed from me. Don’t mistake me, I’m incredibly proud and impressed with everything you’ve done these past months. Your attitude, good humor and general greatness have made this awful experience bearable. I love us, our family, and feel somehow I’m just missing out. What the f— kind of marriage involves my absence for months at a time? This is truly terrible I think I may actually be a bad person for putting you through this.
It’s funny because at the time I felt that any absence would be tolerable due to the “cause” or whatever concept I deluded myself into believing I was standing for. I’m a fool. How I managed to find a way out of our perfect existence is incredible. I know I’ve rambled like this countless of times saying the same s—, so I’ll go ahead and stop. I figured you might actually like to see how miserable I am without you. Of course you’re not happy that I’m miserable, however there is that small satisfaction in knowing I need you. Well that’s why I whined, it was all for you. Selfless, as always . . .
The second letter from Iraq:
I’m sitting in my little fighting position while half my squad leaves for recon mission. I’m tired, pretty hungry and incredibly filthy. My surroundings are trees, green, swamp, hills and heavy rucksacks, yet my mind is far from any of this. My mind is on you and the visualization of our children. What will they be like? Who will they look like? Will they be a combination of the two of us or take shape in either of our personalities at all? Perhaps one will look and act just like you while the others me or vice versa. Maybe we’ll have small skinny daughters built lean like our fathers and short legged sons like our moms. I can’t wait to pick out those traits as I stare into their faces. I can’t wait to watch them take shape and grow from aspects of others’ to a whole unique unto itself. I can’t wait to see how excited my mom will look when I tell her you’re pregnant. Everything we’ve done in the past will pale in comparison to the adventure of the family we will soon have. So much to be excited about.
Helping spread the message:
Pat Tillman’s “just in case” letter changed his widow’s life — now she’s devoting herself to helping others write their own.
Last week, Marie Tillman launched a Web site, justincaseletter.com, urging people to contribute a final letter to their loved ones.
The missives will be kept in a digital vault. The writer can provide the names of up to three people who can access the letter, and can choose to keep the letters private or share them publicly on the site.
There is a long-standing tradition of writing last letters — for centuries, soldiers, explorers, and even Marie Antoinette wrote preemptive notes to their families.
Tillman includes some examples of “just in case” letters throughout history on her site.
“I believe I have a charmed life as far as secession bullets are concerned — yet should I be wounded I could not forgive myself if I did not write a line now,” reads one letter from a Civil War soldier to his wife in 1861.
Another is from Capt. Vijvant Thapar, an officer of the Indian army who died during the Kargil War in 1999 at the age of 22: “I have no regrets; in fact even if I become human again I’ll join the army and fight for my nation.”
Tillman says: “This is not meant to be morbid. It’s about a positive and hopeful message to pass on.”