Hundreds of bikers went to the funeral of a little boy whose dad was in jail for murder and didn’t want to bury him.
After two hours of sitting alone in the chapel, the funeral director called us to tell us that no one had come to say goodbye to Tommy Brennan.
The boy’s only visitor was his grandma, who had a heart attack the day before the funeral. He had been battling leukemia for three years.
The church claimed they couldn’t be friends with the son of a murderer. The foster family said it wasn’t their responsibility, and child services said they had done their job.
This sad youngster had been asking if his dad still loved him for months. Now 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 was in a high-security jail cell and had just found out that his son had died. He was planning to kill himself that night.
We all knew how that usually ended when the guards put him on suicide watch. What happened next would not only give the dead boy the send-off he deserved, but it would also save a man who thought he had nothing to live for.
I was drinking coffee at the clubhouse when I got the call. It sounded like Frank Pearson, the funeral director at Peaceful Pines, was crying.
He said, “Dutch, I need your help.” “I can’t handle this by myself.”
Five years ago, Frank buried my wife. He treated her with respect even when cancer made her weigh only 80 pounds. I had to give him something.
“What is wrong?”
“There’s a boy here.” Ten years old. Died yesterday at County General. No one has come. “No one is coming.”
“Foster child?”
“Not as good.” Marcus Brennan is his father.
That name rang a bell. Everyone did. Four years ago, Marcus Brennan killed three people after a cocaine deal went wrong. Life in prison with no chance of parole. Everyone had heard the news.
Frank said, “The boy has had leukemia for three years and is going to die.” He only had his grandmother, but she had a heart attack yesterday. She is in the ICU and might not live. The government says to put him in the ground. The family that took them in washed their hands. My employees won’t even help. They say that burying a killer’s child is bad luck.
“What do you want?”
“People who carry the coffin.” Someone to see. Dutch, he’s just a kid. He didn’t choose his dad.
I got up after making my pick. “Two hours, please.”
“Dutch, I only need four people or so,”
“You’ll have more than four.”
I hung up and sounded the air horn at the club house. In less than an hour, thirty-seven Nomad Riders gathered in the main room.
I said, “Brothers.” “His dad is in jail, so the ten-year-old boy will have to bury him alone.” The child died of cancer. Nobody wants him. No one will care that he’s gone.
The room was quiet.
I told him, “I’m going to his funeral on my bike.” “I’m not telling anyone to come.” This isn’t something that has to do with the club. But if you think no child should be buried alone, come to Peaceful Pines in an hour and a half.
First, Old Bear said something. “My grandson is ten years old.”
Hammer said, “Me too.”
Whiskey said softly, “My boy would have been ten.” “If the driver hadn’t been drunk…”
He didn’t have to finish.
Mike stood up. “Talk to the other clubs.” For sure, call every club. “This isn’t about land or patches. This is about a kid.”
The calls were made. Eagles that yell. Iron Horsemen. People who follow the Devil. People who hadn’t talked in years. Clubs that really went at it 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 talk to Frank. He was outside the small chapel, looking lost and confused.
“I didn’t mean to say that, Dutch.”
He halted when he heard the rumble. Forty-three bikes made the Nomads the first group. After then, there were fifty Eagles. The Horsemen brought 35. The Disciples, 28.
They kept coming back. Clubs for veterans. Riders who believe in God. People who heard about it on social media and wanted to do it on the weekend. By 2 PM, there were so many bikers in the parking lot at Peaceful Pines and on every street within three blocks that they were all packed.
Frank’s eyes were huge. “There must be three hundred bikes here.”
“Three hundred and twelve,” Big Mike replied as he walked up. “We counted.”
Frank led us into the small church, where there was only a small white casket and a small bunch of flowers from the grocery shop next to it.
“Is that all?” When Snake asked, his voice was angry.
Frank said, “The flowers came from the hospital.” “Normal procedure.”
Someone said, “Don’t worry about the rules.”
After that, people started to come to the chapel. Some of these tough guys already had tears in their eyes when they walked by this small coffin. They had brought a teddy bear. A toy bike was another one. Soon, there were gifts around the casket, such toys, flowers, and even a leather vest with the words “Honorary Rider” embroidered on it.
But it was Tombstone, a veteran Eagles player, who gave the news to everyone. He walked over to the casket, placed a picture on it, and said, “This is Jeremy, my son.” He died of leukemia at the same age. I couldn’t save him either, Tommy. But now you’re not by yourself. “Jeremy will show you around up there.”
One at a time, bikers spoke up. Not about Tommy; none of us knew him. But it was about kids who died, how their innocence was taken away, and how no child should ever have to die alone, no matter what their father’s sins were.
Frank got a call after that. He went outdoors and came back with a pallid face.
He said, “The prison.” “Marcus Brennan… he knows.” Tommy. The funeral. The guards are keeping an eye on him to see if he tries to kill himself. He wants to know if anyone was here for his son.
There was no noise in the chapel.
Mike stood up. “Make him speak.”
Frank thought about it for a second before he called. A melancholy voice entered the chapel a few moments later.
“Hey?” Is there anyone there? Please, is there someone with my son?
“Marcus Brennan,” Big Mike said with authority. “Hello, my name is Michael Watson and I am the president of the Nomad Riders.” There are 312 bikers present from 17 different clubs. Tommy is the reason we’re all here.
Stop talking. Then they cried. A man who had lost everything grieved in a way that made his stomach hurt.
Marcus stated with a weak voice, “He used to… he used to love motorcycles.” “Before I did something wrong. He had a toy Harley before I… I slept with it every night. He claimed he wanted to ride his bike when he was older.
Big Mike said, “He will ride.” “With us.” Tommy rides with us every time we go on a bike ride, every Memorial Day, and every time we go on a charity run. All of the clubs here have pledged that.
“I couldn’t even say goodbye,” Marcus stated in a low voice. “Couldn’t keep him.” I couldn’t tell him that I loved him.
I whispered, “Then tell him now,” as I drew closer. “We’ll make sure he hears it.”
For the next five minutes, the chapel was full with a father’s goodbye. Marcus told anecdotes about Tommy’s first steps, how much he loved dinosaurs, and how brave he was undergoing treatment. He kept saying he was sorry for not being there and for the choices that had made him go.
“I know I don’t deserve to be forgiven,” he said to end. “I know I’m in the right place.” But Tommy… he was a good person. He was clean. “He deserved better than me.”
Big Mike said, “He needed a father who loved him.” “And he had that.” A mom who cared about him, even though he wasn’t perfect. That matters.”
“I’m supposed to do this on my own,” Marcus said quietly. “I have to die knowing I failed him.”
“No,” Snake said with a lot of force. “You live. You know that three hundred strangers came to see your son, and you live with that. You know he was important while you were alive. You keep going because quitting now would be disrespectful to him.
“But what’s the use?” He is no longer here.
Old Bear strolled over to the phone. “The point is that there are other boys in that prison whose fathers are making the same mistakes as you.” You tell them, and you live. You inform them what the price is. You save other kids by not letting their dads turn into you.
We thought he had hung up because the phone was so quiet for so long. “Will you… will you bury him the right way? Please?
I said, “Brother, your son will have a warrior’s funeral.” I swear to you that.
After Marcus hung up, we escorted Tommy Brennan to his grave. Six different groups of bikers carried the small coffin. After that, three hundred more riders appeared, and their engines were barely functioning. The rumble shook the ground like a storm.
We didn’t have a priest for the funeral; instead, Chaplain Tom from the Christian Riders led it. He said, “Tommy Brennan was loved.” By his father, his grandmother, and now by everyone here. Love is more than flaws. Love passes beyond the walls of a prison. “Love lasts after death.”
We started our engines as they laid the coffin down. Three hundred and twelve motorcycles roaring together made a noise that could be heard from the prison fifteen miles away. A last ride for a boy who will never get to bike again.
But that’s not the end of the story.
The priest from jail called me a week later. Marcus Brennan came up with a program called “Letters to My Child” that lets other prisoners write letters to their kids, keep in touch, and be fathers while in jail. 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, and she wears a vest that says “Tommy’s Grandma” on the back. She always brings cookies to the meetings.
What about Tommy’s grave? Always filled. There is always a bike parked nearby, and someone is either coming or going with a flower or a toy motorcycle. The person who looks after the cemetery says this grave is the most popular.
Last month, a woman walked up to me at a gas station. She said that her son had lived with Tommy in foster care. They had been friends. She wanted to go to the funeral, but she was terrified because of Marcus and the bad reputation.
She added, “I heard what you all did,” and her eyes filled with tears. “My son heard it too.” He wants to know, “Can he go to Tommy’s grave?”
“Anytime,” I said. “He’s one of us now.”
She nodded and handed me a small toy motorcycle. “This belonged to Tommy.” From his room at the home for foster children. My son saved it. He thought… he thought Tommy should have it.
The toy motorcycle is now in a particular spot in our club house. Underneath it is a plaque that states, “Tommy Brennan—Forever Ten, Forever Riding, Forever Loved.”
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. He writes us a letter every month to thank us for saving two lives that day: Tommy’s memory and his own life.
And I swear I can feel him every time we go on a ride. Tommy Brennan, who was only a little boy, finally got to ride the motorcycle he had always desired. He was on a trip with three hundred and twelve other bikers who stood up when no one else was looking.
That’s exactly how we are. We are there for the folks who are often ignored. We are there for the people who have been forgotten. We carry folks who don’t have anyone else to carry them.
Even if it’s only a small white casket and a boy whose only mistake was having the wrong dad.
Especially at that time.