Wearing his peewee football jersey, a boy named Steven stares unblinking at a video game and tells me about the day his mother died.
“It was April 7. Back when I was 8 years old,” Steven says. “I don’t know how she died. I just know she did. Somebody told me my mom wasn’t coming home.”
On the screen reflecting Steven’s smooth face and hardened eyes, there flickers a digital cartoon image of a thoroughbred horse weeping with joy after winning a race.
My heart breaks in shards on the floor of a Denver arcade wired with electronic happiness.
Steven does not turn his head. At age 11, he is as big, cool and emotionless as a statue with no tears left to cry.
The story of Steven reads like the lyrics of a country song sadder than fiction.
His mother is deceased. His father has done time in jail. On the eve of this NFL season, Steven’s favorite Broncos player got cut.
“Everybody he cares about keeps falling out of his life,” Broncos wide receiver Ashley Lelie says. “It kind of stinks.”
The real bummer? Steven’s misery knows company across America. Way too many children are imprisoned by mistakes of the father.
“Kids of somebody who has done time have a 70 percent chance of being incarcerated themselves at some point in life,” says Megan Bowling, manager of a program designed by Big Brothers Big Sisters of Colorado to assist children with a parent behind prison bars.
Steven, his last name withheld to protect the family’s privacy, thought he got a break by building a recent friendship with Triandos Luke.
Headlines always catch NFL players when they mess up. Here’s the fine print. Luke, a young receiver who caught six passes for the Broncos in 2004, quickly put down roots in Denver and did not require applause to do right by the community.
Luke volunteered to mentor Steven, doing what an ideal Big Brother does best. The two dudes hung out together, talked smack, shared laughs.
On Labor Day weekend, performing the crummiest task of his job, Broncos coach Mike Shanahan had to send Luke packing on the waiver wire.
“Where did he go?” Steven politely asks, and now his listener stares into space, afraid of being stung by the eye contact. “Does this mean (Luke) has to move away from Denver?”
Charities often rap on the limousine windows of sports celebrities and solicit a deposit from the fast lane of fame. The Broncos give their fair share.
For example: Every touchdown caught this season by the Denver receiving corps will score an $1,800 donation by Lelie and his teammates to Big Brothers Big Sisters. Now, when a long pass against Miami falls beyond his outstretched fingers, it hurts Lelie almost as much as the 34-10 loss.
“It’s more fuel to my fire,” Lelie says. “I’m playing football for somebody other than myself; I’m playing to keep kids off the street.”
Lelie knows Steven. They met at a party thrown by the Broncos for a few of the 1,800 Colorado children served by Lelie’s favorite charity.
Steven quietly bowls people over with a slow smile. He exudes strength. The No. 50 on his back stretches across such broad shoulders, you can forget a little kid lives with fears inside that jersey.
“I’m really hard to tackle,” Steven confidently tells me. “Takes at least two players to bring me down.”
While we might wonder how Steven’s story is going to end, Lelie only wants something good to begin.
And, brother, how’s this for a start? Between studying the playbook and soaking his bruises, Lelie will step up, take the required training and serve as the one-on-one mentor Steven thought he lost when the Broncos cut Luke.
“I know it’s a big commitment,” Lelie says. “But, growing up, I was lucky to have a ‘Pops’ who was not only a huge father figure in my household, but for the entire neighborhood.”
We all dream of making a difference.
Go do it. Whatever it is.
Traffic on the highway snarls with the same anger daily. The boss demands answers by tomorrow. A leaky faucet drips all night long.
Everyone has 1,001 legit reasons to flip on the TV, get lost in a football game and tell the world to go away.
I’m as guilty as anybody. Charity from a checkbook is the easy way to feel good and ease the guilt of not doing more. Which explains how so many kids who need a hand as much as Steven slip through the cracks.
The toughest play any NFL receiver can make is going over the middle, stretching himself, ignoring trouble.
Listening to his heart, Lelie has reached out for an 11-year-old boy in need of a new friend.
Nice catch.
Staff writer Mark Kiszla can be reached at 303-820-5438 or mkiszla@denverpost.com.
