With a smile framed by the tears streaming down my cheeks, I stare at an old photograph of two teenage soccer players.
Their names are Noah and Nate. But, as is the habit of athletes, they often referred to each other in conversation only by their jersey numbers. Noah proudly wore No. 12 for Arapahoe High School. Born on Friday the 13th, Nate picked No. 13 for good luck. On the pitch and as friends, they were as tight as the numbers on their backs.
In the photo, snapped in 2012 only minutes before a big game against a fierce rival, when two prep athletes should be too nervous to swallow, the camera caught Noah telling Nate a joke, and they share the kind of laugh that goes on forever.
No. 13 is my son. Nate left the 100-degree heat of Texas this week and came home to Colorado to say goodbye to a teammate.
No. 12 is Noah Graham. He died at age 19 on Aug. 4 when a Toyota SUV in which he was a passenger left the highway and rolled over near Grand Junction.
Noah Patrick Graham was a young man with a weakness for chocolate pudding and a natural ability to not only sense a friend’s apprehension, but make it disappear in one smile. Soccer introduced our family to Noah, and I fell in love with his spirit when he hobbled for more than 45 minutes on a bum ankle, refusing to quit on his teammates during one of those lousy spring days when a bitter-cold 30 mph wind blows every shot on goal sideways from here to the Kansas border.
During his short life, Noah learned to dance like Napoleon Dynamite as a unique way to ask a date to prom and taught 6-year-old children frightened of the water the joy in conquering the length of a 25-yard pool by doing the backstroke. He followed his twin brother out of the womb by 20 minutes in June 1996, and grew up to discover that every time Noah turned around, the party seemed to be following him. He cheered for the Broncos on orange Sundays and headed east down I-70 to college and fell crazy in love with Jayhawks basketball.
You probably know somebody like Noah. He’s the one every family, every team and every neighborhood wishes it could duplicate so there would be more good stuff to share.
Late Wednesday afternoon, on the eve of a memorial service for Noah at Our Father Lutheran Church in Centennial, I found my 20-year-old son alone at the Arapahoe soccer field. With feet planted in thick green grass, he stared toward the west, where rays of light pierced the clouds and bounced off the Rocky Mountains. Tiny droplets of rain dried like tears on the warm metal bench where Nate sat.
“What you doing here, buddy?” I asked.
“It feels like Noah here,” Nate said.
Life often doesn’t make any sense. But soccer can make a friendship so strong it’s able to endure anything.
To me, the real beauty in sports can be distilled this way: The final score is only as important as you let it be. It’s personal, and always a matter of the heart. Outside a few square miles, maybe it never actually counts for much if Arapahoe wins or loses to Cherry Creek in soccer. But to any athlete anywhere in Colorado who has ever worn school colors, the real power of pulling on that prep uniform is the lifetime bonds weaved in every fiber.
Yep, I know. Since the time cavemen huddled up to plan the hunt, guys have struggled for words to express how much they care about each other. Maybe that’s why we needed sports to invent the high-five, the fist pump and the bro-hug.
But part of what’s cool about the Internet generation is there are now so many new ways to share what’s in your heart. Attached to a photograph taken nearly three years ago of two Arapahoe soccer players sharing a joke before a big prep game, Nate recently left his teammate Noah a thank-you note on Instagram:
Dear 12,
You will always be by my side making me laugh. Pushing me. Being passionate about what you love and compassionate towards those you love. Rest in paradise.
Much love,
13
Mark Kiszla: mkiszla@denverpost.com or
