Elway’s helicopter and the no-hitter that wasn’t

EDITOR’S NOTE: This is the latest in a series of personal essays detailing how members of The Denver Post sports staff fell in love with sports.

I put on my mitt at the age of 5 and it tightened like a vice.

At 7: intermittent visions of John Elway helicoptering the way to my city’s first Super Bowl, which we watched in my grandfather’s basement.

That coach showed me the art of the change-up at 8 (curveball: highly overrated). Papa dusted off my glasses, chuckling, when this shortstop got dropped by a bad hop at nine.

At 10, cancer having taken him from the bench, I was some-odd hits in and kicking over a bucket of balls on the way to my third career ejection. I guess you could say I was passionate: hotheaded for the whole competition thing.

At 11, I was using the couch as a defender in family-room football amid long, lazy fall Saturdays spent there watching Pac-12 action with my dad. Weekly dashes to the mailbox for Sports Illustrated. Already plotting ways to imitate Rick Reilly.

And then there was throwing that onehitter that day in Estes, at 12, the final-inning, bloop-single marring my place in meaningless Little League history.

My best friend was playing first base in that game, and off the bat he took a circular route to the shallow fly, which found its way into the rays of the sun just before it landed with a soft plop right at his feet.

He brought the ball back to me and I just smiled. Gave him a fist-bump. Got back on the mound and struck out the final batter with a nasty change-up.

Provided by Kyle Newman Kyle Newman and his grandfather, Jim Newman, hanging out after a Dry Creek Little League baseball game on July 14, 2000, in Littleton. Also pictured is Kyle’s younger brother, Brett, (right) who now plays at Regis University.