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Most students are accustomed to the noise and energy of John E. Worthen Arena. If they enter when nothing is happening, many find an uncomfortable silence. It is a deafening roar of quiet interrupted only occasionally, such as when a person walks along the hardwood playing floor, their shoes clip-clopping along the way and echoing throughout the entire building.
Junior Chris Ulm walks onto the court in such a way, shoes clip-clopping upon the floor. Wearing a suit and tie, the men's basketball team's head manager -- the one who loves to make a scene wiping off the floor during timeouts -- is prepared to do the job he has done many times before during a game anticipated by many.
For 15 years, Ulm has managed elementary-school, middle-school, high-school and collegiate basketball teams, turning a job often thought of as unglamorous into an appealing one. In high school, he cleaned uniforms, kept stats and gathered balls while announcing the games at the same time, earning a citywide reputation in his hometown of Morocco.
At Ball State he has traveled to Maui with the men's basketball team, became buddy-buddy with the starting lineup, earned notoriety from the fans and has been interviewed by the management of an NBA team. During timeouts, he will run out to wipe the sweat off of the floor, spinning around on his knee to the cheers of the crowd.
He came to Ball State to study for a degree in telecommunications, a field that has fascinated him since he first discovered he could hear his own voice through a microphone as a small child.
All of that could have come to an end last September. Ulm had developed an AngioFibroma tumor in the spring of 2001. Untreated, he believes he would have died by the ninth month of the year. Because of the treatment he received, he missed a large portion of the 2000-2001 season and will probably be spending an extra semester at Ball State to earn his degree.
Today, Ulm's tumor has not disappeared but is shrinking. It is not cancerous, but it is strictly made up of blood vessels and is located inside his head, wrapped around his eyes and brain. Doctors have told him it has probably been growing there since the onset of puberty, and he would have never known it if it hadn't been for a few serious nosebleeds beginning in the fall of 2000.
"The nosebleed was a little blessing in disguise," Ulm said.
When the nosebleeds first began, Ulm and his family doctor figured the dry air in the residence halls was causing them. He brought in a humidifier, and the nosebleeds went away for a while. However, Ulm began to suffer from them again, beginning with one serious nosebleed following Ball State's game with Miami (Ohio) University last spring. Another occurred the next day, and Ulm had to be taken to the Ball Memorial Hospital emergency room, where his nose was packed shut.
His trip to the hospital was the first time he really told anyone about the nosebleeds, at least within his family.
"He never told anybody about the nosebleed," Ulm's father, Don, said. "You don't think about a nosebleed."
Ulm's ear, nose and throat specialist from home knew immediately what the problem was, though. He informed Ulm and his family of his two options, surgery and radiation. The doctor also said that if Ulm were to go under the knife, there was an 80 percent chance of something going wrong and he would bleed to death.
Understanding the odds of success in surgery, Ulm opted for radiation, and his doctor helped set Ulm up with a five-week program for radiation therapy at the University of Chicago. Ulm withdrew from his classes at Ball State immediately and tried to maintain a positive attitude for the sake of his family.
"I tried to keep the best of spirits until they told me I had to cancel my Wrestlemania trip," said Ulm, a professional wrestling fan.
For five weeks last spring, Ulm found a job substitute teaching for his old high school where he was still well-known and then drove to Chicago for his therapy five days a week. He visited Ball State in April to see Texas Tech basketball coach Bob Knight speak in Emens Auditorium. To his surprise, a backstage meeting with the coach had been set up for Ulm, who could only manage the words, "Welcome to Ball State." Knight carried the rest of the conversation.
In the fall, Ulm returned as the head manager for the Ball State men's basketball team.
"It's not necessarily just the sport. It's the people you meet along the way," Ulm said. "This is a family."
Ulm's sentiments are supported as players walk out onto the court and see him before their games. He is fondly referred to by the team as "Mini-me," a moniker bestowed upon Ulm by point guard Petie Jackson on Ulm's first day of practice.-á
"He does a terrific job," basketball head coach Tim Buckley said. "Everything he does is full-speed and he does it with a lot of maturity for someone his age."
Ulm's full-speed approach helped him develop the "dance" he does for fans at the basketball games when he wipes off the floor. While in Maui, players suffered from the heat, and the floor needed to constantly be wiped off. Ulm had to run out onto the court and do his job as quickly as he could. Soon, he realized the crowd was watching him.
"I laughed at the first couple of times," Ulm said. "I just worry about next year. Am I supposed to top this or what?"
Miles away from home, Ulm jumps over the rail and out of the bleachers, ready to do his job. An hour ago, the buzz of the night's game was just barely beginning. Now the lights are on, the dancers are out, early fans are in the stands and the coach is in the middle of his pre-game interview.
It's game time, and time for Ulm to go to work.
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