BETWEEN THE LINES -- Byron de Arakal

The cruelest irony is when death takes the young. When the exquisite

magic of youth, with all its promise and hope and vitality, is

extinguished without warning. Suddenly and senselessly. And seemingly

without reason. There’s been a mistake, we think. A random and

imponderable error of fate. It has to be that and only that. In the

young, after all, there is vigor and swagger and an unconquerable spirit

of deathlessness. Surely, the black horse can’t conquer that.

And yet it did in the brief but shining life of Matt Colby.

We learned Saturday morning that all brain activity in the 17-year-old

Colby had ceased Friday evening. That the young man lay connected to life

support in a bed at UCI Medical Center. This after he apparently suffered

some catastrophic brain injury during Costa Mesa High School’s gridiron

clash with Ocean View High, and perhaps earlier in a previous game.

The news immediately plugged me in to all the anxiety and worry that

racked my wife and I each time our second child took the field in his

four seasons of Pop Warner football. And rethinking the mere possibility

that the fate that descended upon Colby might well have befallen our son

-- save for the grace of circumstance -- chilled me anew.

It then became impossible to elude the deep, dark and awful fear that

all parents know. Our children, despite their wonderfully brazen and

inspiring sense of bravado and invincibility, are just so vulnerable to

the whims of fate, the stack of the deck. It’s why we cringe in fear

whenever they grind stair rails. Or when they plunge headlong, full speed

and full force into an opposing football player.

I imagine Kelli Colby, Matt’s mom, knew all of these fears and

struggled with them as mothers do -- by instinct -- to protect their

babies. But the great wonder of youth is the towering invulnerability

that the young are certain of. It’s what gives flame to their unbridled

hope and aspirations and passion for life’s adventures. And often it

saves us -- the adults -- from the cynicism of hope lost even as our

appointed time draws ever closer. That’s why we, as their teachers and

mentors, celebrate their passion as we quietly worry. It’s why we counsel

them to “go for it,” though our instincts instruct us otherwise.

Even before the tragedy that took young Colby’s life, I long suspected

that youngsters know all of this. That they recognize and accept the

dangerous but wonderful capriciousness of living. That while they cherish

the vigilant concern of their moms and dads, they know in their being

that death is a certain visitor at an unknown time.

And that’s what I think makes their youth so magnetic and compelling.

What they know to be a certain event at an uncertain time doesn’t

paralyze them. They still conquer possibilities and adventures,

opportunities and relationships with abandon.

That’s what Matt Colby did in life and, more profoundly, in death. And

in so doing he has left a legacy of life and unity that even the oldest

among us can only hope is the lasting gift of our lives.

How do we know? Witness the piercing grief on the campuses and among

the students of Estancia High School, which Colby attended for three

years, and Costa Mesa High. That kind of racking sense of loss in so many

is a gift given only to those whose influence has been cast far and wide

and deep.

And ponder for a moment the unknown number of souls whose certain

demise has been mercifully forestalled, whose lives have been restored,

because Colby’s robust vital organs live within them. Few can claim such

a remarkable legacy.

But perhaps the most poignant gift that Colby left behind -- the one

that I felt and saw Saturday evening -- is unity among his peers and in

his community.

Old Jim Scott saw it and felt it too. Tears filled Scott’s eyes that

night. They glistened like starbursts beneath the lights of Eddie West

Field, where the Estancia Eagles -- square in the middle of a

character-building football season -- gave Santa Ana Valley High a run

for its money. Moments before, a column of sturdy young men, clad in

green jerseys and solemn, had filed into the stadium to encourage and

cheer their cross-town rivals, to root for the uniform -- and the boys

who wore them -- that Colby once wore before joining them.

Scott, the widely beloved patriarch and booster of high school

athletics in Costa Mesa, pulled at my sleeve and insisted I listen.

“When my son Tom was killed in 1977,” he said as the water filled his

eyes, “do you know what saved Mrs. Scott and me?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“The kids,” he said.

And at game’s end, when the Estancia Eagles circled in prayer in the

south end zone, their Costa Mesa brethren joined them. So did the players

from Santa Ana Valley High. So did the parents and the spectators. That’s

when I knew what Scott meant when he answered, “the kids.”

The youth, the young, the kids rallied to life, leaning on one

another, in unity. Vulnerable in their invulnerability. Celebrating the

life of Matt Colby. He must have been a remarkable young man.

* Byron de Arakal is a writer and communications consultant. He

resides in Costa Mesa. His column appears on Wednesdays. Readers can

reach him with news tips and comments via e-mail at o7

byronwriter@msn.comf7 .