DETROIT -- This is a story about family, about forgiveness, and mostly, about the redemptive, healing power of love.

This is a story about Seattle Seahawks backup linebacker and special teams marvel Isaiah Kacyvenski, whose brutish, Dickensian childhood included beatings from his alcoholic father, stretches of homelessness, and the kind of desperate hunger that reduced him and his family to scrounging for scraps in Dumpsters.

This is a story, though, that doesn't end like so many of these hard-luck stories end, with violence and shame and regret. This one ends in a way that is so sweet, so inspired, it almost seems to be the contrived product of an over-caffeinated screenwriter.

Not only did Kacyvenski go on to graduate from Harvard, but Sunday, the Endicott, N.Y., native will become just the third Ivy Leaguer to play in a Super Bowl.

Best, though, he will get to see his family come together in a way they've never been together before. His pregnant wife, Lauren, and his 2-year-old son, Isaiah Jr., will be here. His father, David, has been in recovery for 15 years; he will be here. Kacyvenski's two brothers and two sisters will be here. And while the oldest brother, Dan, still has not reconciled with the father as the others have, the simple fact they will be together, sharing something they could never have imagined, is reason enough for celebration.

"When I run out onto the field, the first thing I'm going to do is find where my family is sitting,'' Kacyvenski said. "I want to make sure they're along for the ride.''

His only regret: His mother, Margaret, passed away when he was still in high school. She was the one who saved him and saved his family, a woman so different from his father, Kacyvenski calls her "the person who taught me how to love somebody."

For most of his 28 years, Kacyvenski and his family shared little more than tears. The father was deeply troubled, his explosive personality fueled by alcohol.

"We were in constant fear when he was home,'' Kacyvenski said. "We had to watch everything we said; you didn't want to set him off in any way.

"I'll always remember, one night my dad came home drunk, saw my younger brother's report card, saw he got a 'C,' and I remember, I was dead asleep when my father slammed open the door, pinned him (Israel) up against the wall and started yelling at him and beating him. There were so many nights like that. I could go on and on.

"I remember always getting the crap beat out of me, being whipped for no reason. I look back on it now; I don't even know what I did wrong. Maybe I didn't put a toilet seat down or something. I was in total fear of just asking him for 50 cents to get some candy.''

There was alcohol and violence, and there was no money. The Kacyvenskis were always on the move, repeatedly being evicted for failing to pay the rent. Twice during his childhood, the family of seven lived in tents.

"I was 6 or 7, and that summer my dad, he was a dishwasher at a nursing home and he'd bring back scraps for us to eat,'' Kacyvenski said. "For spending money, we collected cans out of the garbage.''

The torment slowly began to abate when he was 9 years old. One night, the father came home drunk, and the mother, a quiet, retiring sort, finally stood up for herself and her family. David Kacyvenski walked toward her and grabbed both her arms.

"And then it was like a revolt, with all the kids standing right around him,'' Kacyvenski said. "I remember I wanted him to try and mess with me so I could cause him bodily harm. I had so much anger built up inside me.''

After the divorce, the economic times remained tough, but there was a certain peace and security that never before existed. But then, while he was in high school, his mother died in a car accident. That same night, he did what he'd so often done before; he lost himself in football, playing in a state title game in Syracuse's Carrier Dome.

Soon after his mother's passing, Kacyvenski had an epiphany.

"I remember that night like it was yesterday,'' he said. "I was laying in my bed, couldn't sleep. I was an average student, just getting by in class and on the football field, and I suddenly realized, everything was going to slip out from under me. I'm going to be another Joe Schmo out on the street if I don't grab my dream.

"From that point on, I maxed out with everything I did. In the class. On the field. Everything. That next morning, I woke up totally refreshed. I tell people it was like Scrooge waking up Christmas morning. I put all these motivational signs all over my room. On the ceiling over my bed, I wrote, 'Let no one outwork you today.' "

He didn't just graduate Harvard and reach the NFL, though. He did something far more difficult. After many years of sorting through so many conflicted emotions, he found a way to forgive his father and offered him love.

On the day Isaiah was to graduate from Harvard, he chose to remain in the Seahawks' minicamp, and asked his father to accept his Harvard diploma.

"All through college, he found a way to go to every game, and I could see how hard he was working to rebuild his life,'' Kacyvenski said. "I thought it would be kind of cool, a janitor accepting a Harvard degree. The biggest thing was, he got to feel like he was part of something. It boosted his self-esteem.''

Imagine: After all those years of making his wife and children cry, here was David Kacyvenski, standing on the lectern at Harvard, spilling tears of his own.

"Sometimes I wonder if I should reveal the things I do,'' Kacyvenski said. "But then I think, there are other kids who've gone through the same kinds of things. I want them to know, just because you're poor and you have nothing, you still have the right to dream.''

Sunday, the dream continues.