Remembering a kid who walked tall, gave it his all

By Ron Kantowski

Wednesday, June 25, 2008 | 11:21 p.m.

I got another e-mail from Marie Passante this morning. It was simply slugged "Chris."

Right away I knew.

Marie Passante is the mother of Chris Luscombe, the former Clark High football star who was yet another victim of yet another drive-by shooting, this one in the wee hours of July 8.

Chris Luscumbe, No. 54 on the Chargers, died this morning. He was 19 years old.

That's how I'll remember him, as No. 54 on the Chargers. Our paths crossed only briefly. When Clark was in the midst of a 42-game losing streak, I went over to campus to chat with some of the players. The first one I spoke with was Chris Luscombe. No. 54.

This is what I wrote:

It is after school now, and those two rookie guards and the rest of the Clark players are trudging toward the practice field. Some interact with the basketball players who have assembled for a preseason workout; some nod toward the girls giggling in the shade under the press box; some engage in a bit of horseplay.

Maybe these kids have never enjoyed the thrill of victory. But if the agony of defeat is bumming them out, it's hard to tell.

Then No. 54, a big kid wearing a linebacker's number and sporting a linebacker's physique, shuffles past. Actually, he's not shuffling at all. He's walking tall. His helmet is on and his chin strap is fastened. His name is Chris Luscombe. He's the best player on the team. And he's tired of losing.

During the summer, he thought about transferring to Spring Valley or even Bishop Gorman because winning football games there is as routine as brushing your teeth, and losing 34 games in a row can leave a bad taste in a guy's mouth. But that would almost be like cheating, like acing the midterm by copying off somebody else's paper. That's why Luscombe didn't transfer. "It wouldn't mean that much," he says.

Having once been a substitute teacher, I know how cruel high school kids can be. So I asked Luscombe if his classmates are still supportive of the football team.

"Some of 'em," he says.

And the others?

"They just think we suck."

No, Chris, to use your word, what really sucks is getting an e-mail from your mother, hoping the news inside isn't grim when you know full well that it is.

I was going to say that I wished I had known Chris Luscombe better, but maybe it's better that I didn't. In my mind, he'll always be No. 54, walking tall, his helmet on and his chin strap fastened.