A lot of bikers came to the burial of a little boy whose dad was in jail for murder and didn’t want to bury him.
The funeral director contacted us after two hours of sitting alone in the chapel to tell us that no one had come to say goodbye to little Tommy Brennan.
The boy’s only visitor was his grandma, who had a heart attack the day before his funeral. He had been battling leukemia for three years.
The church claimed they couldn’t be friends with the son of a killer, the foster family said it wasn’t their responsibility, and child services said they had done their job.
This sad kid had been asking if his dad still loved him for months. He was going to be buried alone in a potter’s field with only a number on his gravestone.
At that point, Big Mike, the leader of the Nomad Riders, made the call. He said, “No child goes into the ground alone.” “I don’t care whose son he is.”
We didn’t know that Tommy’s father, who was in a high-security prison cell, had just learned that his son had died and was going to murder himself that night.
We all knew how it normally turned out when the guards put him on suicide watch. What happened next would not only give a deceased child the send-off he deserved, but it would also save a man who thought he had nothing left to live for.
I got the call while I was drinking coffee at the clubhouse. Frank Pearson, the funeral director at Peaceful Pines, sounded like he was crying.
He said, “Dutch, I need your help.” “I can’t handle this by myself.”
Five years ago, Frank buried my wife. He was nice to her even though cancer made her weigh only 80 pounds. I owed him something.
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s a boy here.” Ten years old. Passed away at County General yesterday. Nobody has come. “Nobody’s coming.”
“Kid in foster care?”
“Worse.” Marcus Brennan is his father.
I knew that name. Everybody did. Four years ago, Marcus Brennan killed three people during a cocaine deal that went wrong. Life in prison with no chance of parole. The word had gotten out.
Frank said, “The boy has been dying of leukemia for three years.” He only had his grandmother, but she had a heart attack yesterday. She is in the ICU and might not make it. The government says to put him in the ground. The family that took them in washed their hands. Even my staff won’t help. They say that it is bad luck to bury the kid of a murderer.
“What do you want?”
“People who carry the casket.” Someone to… to look at. Dutch, he’s just a kid. He didn’t choose his dad.
I got up after making my pick. “Please give me two hours.”
“Dutch, I only need four people or so—”
“You’ll have more than four.”
I hung up and blew the air horn in the club. In less than an hour, thirty-seven Nomad Riders gathered in the main room.
I said, “Brothers.” “There’s a ten-year-old boy who will be buried alone because his dad is in jail.” The child died of cancer. He won’t be able to get anyone to take him. No one will miss him.
There was no noise in the room.
“I’ll ride my bike to his funeral,” I said. “I’m not asking anyone to come.” This isn’t about the club. But if you don’t think any child should be buried alone, meet me at Peaceful Pines in an hour and a half.
Old Bear spoke first. “My grandson is ten years old.”
Hammer said, “Mine too.”
Whiskey said in a quiet voice, “My boy would have been ten.” “If the drunk driver hadn’t…”
He didn’t have to finish.
Mike stood up. “Contact the other clubs. Definitely call every club. “This is about a kid,” not land or patches.
The calls were made. Eagles that scream. Iron Horsemen. People who follow the devil. People who hadn’t spoken in years. Clubs that truly clashed with each other. But when they heard about Tommy Brennan, they all said the same thing: “We’ll be there.”
First, I rode to the funeral home to see Frank. He was outside the small chapel, looking lost.
“Dutch, I didn’t mean—”
The rumble made him stop. The Nomads came in first with forty-three bikes. Then there were 50 Eagles. The Horsemen brought 35. The 28 Disciples.
They kept coming back. Veterans’ clubs. People who ride who are Christians. People who heard about it on social media and wanted to do it on the weekends. Motorcyclists had filled the parking lot at Peaceful Pines and every street within three blocks by 2 PM.
Frank’s eyes were huge. “There must be three hundred bikes here.”
“Three hundred and twelve,” Big Mike stated as he got closer. “We counted.”
Frank led us into the little church, where there was only a small white casket and a simple bouquet of flowers from the grocery shop next to it.
“That’s all?” When Snake asked, his voice was rough.
“The flowers came from the hospital,” Frank replied. “Normal procedure.”
“Forget the rules,” someone said.
Then, the chapel started to fill up. These muscular guys, some of whom were already crying, went by this small casket. Someone had brought a teddy bear. There was also a toy bike. There were soon gifts like toys, flowers, and even a leather vest with the words “Honorary Rider” embroidered on it around the coffin.
But it was Tombstone, a former Eagles player, who got everyone. He walked over to the coffin, put a picture on it, and said, “This is my son Jeremy.” The same age he was when leukemia killed him. I couldn’t save him either, Tommy. But now you’re not alone. “Jeremy will show you around up there.”
One biker at a time stood forward to talk. Not about Tommy; we didn’t know him. But it was about kids who died, how their innocence was taken away, and how no child should have to die alone, no matter what their father’s sins were.
Frank got a phone call after that. He went outdoors and came back with a pallid face.
He said, “The prison.” “Marcus Brennan… he knows.” About Tommy. The burial. The guards are keeping an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t kill himself. He wants to know if anyone came to see his son.
There was no noise in the chapel.
Mike stood up. “Put him on speaker.”
Frank thought about it for a bit before he called. A melancholy voice entered the chapel a moment later.
“Hey? Is anyone there? Please, is someone with my child?
Big Mike said with authority, “Marcus Brennan.” “Hello, I’m Michael Watson, and I run the Nomad Riders.” There are 312 bikers here, and they all belong to 17 different groups. We’re all here for Tommy.
Shut up. Then they cried. A man who had lost everything screamed deep, gut-wrenching cries.
“He used to… he used to love motorcycles,” Marcus remarked in a trembling voice. “Before I made a mistake. He had a Harley toy before I… Every night, I slept with it. He claimed he wanted to ride a bike when he grew up.
Big Mike said, “He’ll ride.” “With us.” Tommy rides with us every time we go on our bikes, every Memorial Day, and every charity run. That is what every club here has pledged.
“I couldn’t even say goodbye,” Marcus stated in a low voice. “Couldn’t hold him.” I couldn’t say that I loved him.
“Then tell him now,” I said softly as I moved closer. “We’ll make sure he hears it.”
There was a father’s goodbye in the chapel for the next five minutes. Marcus talked about Tommy’s first steps, how much he loved dinosaurs, and how brave he had been undergoing treatment. He kept saying he was sorry for not being there and for the choices that had kept him away.
He finished by adding, “I know I don’t deserve to be forgiven.” “I know I’m in the correct spot. But Tommy… he was a good guy. He was clean. “He deserved more than me.”
Big Mike said, “He needed a father who cared about him.” “And he had that.” A parent who loved him even though he wasn’t perfect. That means something.
“I have to do this by myself,” Marcus said in a hushed voice. “I have to die knowing I let him down.”
Snake said “No” quite strongly. “You live. You know that three hundred people you don’t know come to see your son. You knew he was important while you were alive. You live because it would be disrespectful to him to give up now.
“But what’s the point?” He has left.
Old Bear went to the phone. “The point is that there are other boys in that prison whose fathers are doing the same mistakes you are. You tell them, and you live. You tell them how much it costs. You keep other kids safe by not letting their dads become you.
We thought he had hung up because the line was so quiet for so long. Then: “Will you… will you bury him the right way?” Please?
I said, “Brother, your son will have a warrior’s funeral.” That’s a promise.
After Marcus hung up, we transported Tommy Brennan to his final resting place. There were six bikers from six separate groups that carried the small coffin. After that, three hundred more riders appeared, and their engines were barely functioning. The noise shook the ground like thunder.
Chaplain Tom from the Christian Riders was there instead of a priest. He just said, “Tommy Brennan was loved.” His father, his grandma, and now everyone here loves him. Love is stronger than flaws. Love goes beyond the gates of prison. “Love goes beyond death.”
As they put the casket down, we revved our engines. Three hundred and twelve motorcycles revving up at once made a boom that might have been heard from fifteen miles away at the prison. A last ride for a boy who will never get to ride for the first time.
But that’s not the end of the story.
The priest from the jail called me a week later. Marcus Brennan designed a program called “Letters to My Child” so that other prisoners may write letters to their kids, stay in touch, and be fathers from prison. It has spread to twelve jails in six months.
Tommy’s grandma became well. She rides with us now on the back of Big Mike’s bike. She has a vest on that says “Tommy’s Grandma” on the back. She always brings cookies to meetings.
What about the grave of Tommy? Always filled. There is always a bike parked nearby, and someone is either coming or going with a toy motorcycle or a flower. The person in charge of the cemetery says this is the most visited grave.
Last month, a woman walked up to me at a gas station. She also said that Tommy had been her son’s foster parent. They were friends. She wanted to go to the funeral, but she was terrified because of Marcus and what people would think.
She said, “I heard what you did,” and tears came to her eyes. “My son heard it too.” He wants to know, “Can he go to Tommy’s grave?”
“Any time,” I said. “He’s one of ours now.”
She nodded and handed me a toy motorcycle. “This was Tommy’s. From his room at the foster home. My son saved it. He thought… he thought Tommy should have it.
The toy motorcycle is now in a particular spot in our clubhouse. “Tommy Brennan—Forever Ten, Forever Riding, Forever Loved” is written on a plaque below it.
Marcus is still in jail. Yes, till he dies. But he’s still alive, and he’s helped more than 200 prisoners get back in touch with their kids. Every month, he writes us a letter to thank us for saving two lives that day: his own and Tommy’s memory.
And I swear I can feel him every time we ride. Little Tommy Brennan finally got to ride the motorcycle he had always longed to. He was riding with three hundred and twelve other bikers who all stood up when the world turned its back.
That’s just the way we are. We are there for the folks who have been left behind. We are there for those who have been left behind. We carry those who don’t have anyone else to help them.
Even if it’s only a small white coffin and a boy whose only crime was having the wrong dad.
More so then.