Tyler Lancaster is Northwestern’s man of superlatives — the heaviest, strongest and most eager to smile. Teammates believe the defensive tackle best embodies the ideals of Wildcats football, so they voted to bestow the No. 1 jersey on his 6-foot-4, 315-pound frame.

At times, though, Lancaster is also the saddest man on the roster, having been hit with what he called a “tidal wave” of emotion.

His father is dueling the most evil of all opponents — cancer.

While his parents were in New York for Northwestern’s trip to the Pinstripe Bowl late last year, Brad Lancaster began feeling soreness in his mouth. He got a tooth removed, but the pain only intensified.

It turned out to be a malignant tumor in his jaw, and the cancer quickly spread to his throat and near his right ear. Oral cancer, Stage 4. The worst.

“He has more pain than his doctors say is humanly possible,” said Bonnie Lancaster, Brad’s wife. “It’s awful and he is pushing through it. But it’s hard to watch for all of us.”

The Lancasters have been judicious in what they tell Tyler. They want him to focus on his final season as a Wildcat, during which he’s earning a degree in economics.

“You keep doing your thing,” Bonnie told Tyler. “I will take care of Dad at home.”

Tyler remained in Evanston during spring practice, but his mind was on a man who could barely speak and required a feeding tube. The only player Lancaster confided in was his roommate, Jordan Thompson, who lines up next to him on the defensive line.

During a practice in the spring, Lancaster recalled, “I was upset, things were stressful and my emotions came out. I ran off the field, broke down and started to cry.”

“Fight through it,” Thompson told him.

He tried.

What ultimately helped were two things. Lancaster thought about how relatively fortunate he is, saying: “I can eat, I can breathe, I can speak and I'm playing football at Northwestern. No one has it as bad as my dad is having it.”

Lancaster also thought about something uttered by Joe Orozco, a Northwestern sports performance coach: “When things get hard, remember your why.”

As Lancaster put it: “Why do I wake up at 5 a.m.? Why do I do this training, this grueling work, when I don't see a payoff right away? Why do I have to make it? To provide for my family.”

The Lancasters live modestly in southwest suburban Romeoville. Bonnie supervises kids activities at a local health club. Hannah, Tyler’s sister, teaches swimming when she’s not in class at nearby Lewis University. Brad has had to curtail his work as a dock hand, which requires loading trucks and operating fork lifts.

Weeks before Brad’s April 3 surgery, Bonnie reluctantly started a GoFundMe page titled, “Help for the Lancasters.”

She typed these words: “I am sorry if this is the way you are finding out. The hardest part so far has been telling our family & friends. Brad has cancer. He has been in pain for a few months & received the diagnosis a few weeks ago … I am a private person and not so comfortable with this but it is necessary. Over the years I have often thought about how grateful I am that we have always had just enough to get by … Brad is looking at a 12-hour surgery. They are removing half his jaw. Recovery, radiation & chemo. I really cannot wrap my brain around it. I am looking to get the mortgage paid … Perhaps we will get by with a little help from our friends. The Beatles. Brad’s favorite.”

‘What are you feeding him?’

Tyler Lancaster didn’t play football until the seventh grade, favoring soccer, basketball and baseball. But then the inevitable took hold. A giant kid in the 120th percentile for height and weight found a helmet.

His parents are normal-sized. Brad, a high school track star, stands just 5-7.

“The other parents would ask: What are you feeding him?” Bonnie recalled. “No Olympic diet. He was a typical chicken-nugget kid.”

As a 250-pound junior offensive lineman at Plainfield East, he drew offers only from Mid-American Conference programs such as Central Michigan and Eastern Michigan. Then he attended a camp at Northwestern in June 2012, and his outlook changed.

“He was under-recruited, which was fine by us,” NU coach Pat Fitzgerald said. “A great student with great size. We wanted to see if he could be a D-lineman.”

Lancaster so dominated the offensive lineman he faced during drills, Fitzgerald joked that he made the opponent look like his 13-year-old son, Jack.

Lancaster also wowed defensive line coach Marty Long with his broad jump. Lancaster does great impressions of coaches, mimicking Long by saying: “Son, we don’t even have DBs (defensive backs) who can do that.”

Bonnie Lancaster dreamed of her son earning a scholarship to Northwestern, saying: “We used to joke: Northwestern is the gold, and if he ever ended up silver or bronze, that would be OK too. But when they offered him, we dropped all the rest.”

‘Chicago kind of player’

Northwestern defensive lineman Tyler Lancaster celebrates senior day with his family before a game against Minnesota at Ryan Field in Evanston on Saturday, Nov. 18, 2017. (John J. Kim / Chicago Tribune) (John J. Kim / Chicago Tribune)

Lancaster had a miserable time early in his Northwestern career, saying: “I was always sore. And always tired.”

Especially during large lecture classes. Lancaster said college athletes face a perception that as students, they’re not diligent or fully qualified.

“I was always super conscious of it,” he said. “I'd find things to distract myself, like eating seeds or taking a sip (of a drink). That was always my strategy. Every time I'd feel my eyes droop, I’d feel the professor’s eyes on me. I was like: I cannot fall asleep; that’s disrespectful.”

As he sought help for what he called a “depressed” state, Northwestern’s athletic training staff had him partake in a sleep study. It turned out, Lancaster said, he had as many as 72 breathing pauses per hour, decreasing the oxygen levels in his blood.

Diagnosed with sleep apnea, he began to use a CPAP machine that supplies constant and steady air pressure through a mask and nose piece.

Those 5:05 a.m. wake-ups for treatment, breakfast and practice no longer seem so brutal.