The Sparks, they called themselves. A group of runners who set records for nothing but the most laughs.

        A bunch of guys who taught school together by weekday and golfed and ran and vacationed together by weekend. Who used to run, as they like to say, in formation. Side by side, the speed of the slowest man, to encourage one another.

        The Sparks, a name meant as a laugh, but something really did catch flame among them. Friendship. Camaraderie. A bond that was in full burn in July 1992, when 41-year-old Steven Pearson, a beloved member of the group, sat down at the picnic table with his children and died of a rare and previously undetected pulmonary problem.

        There was no forgetting Steve, a well-liked language arts teacher at Sycamore Junior High School. At first, his fellow teachers had a tough time even walking into his classroom.

        Steve was a birder, rising early on Saturday mornings and winding his 6-foot-4-inch frame into the underbrush at Winton Woods park to track bird song. So the faculty and students created a memorial garden with a bench and birdhouse at school.

        Steve was a runner who did it for the joy more than the burn. So his friend Paul Alexander established the Steve Pearson Memorial Award, a cross-country team honor given, Paul says, “to the kid who just seems to love to run.”

        But more than anything else, Steve was a family man, the child-loving guy who joined the Fathers' Ministry at College Hill Presbyterian Church even before he had children of his own. Who capped off his busy days with 45 minutes of bedtime reading, with then 4-year-old Katie on his lap, 5-year-old Sam snuggled beside him.

        So every fall, when his friends feel the hole in their circle, long for the missing Spark, they head for Finneytown, and Steve's backyard. They come with rakes and buzz saws and blowers, ready for whatever jobs Steve's widow, Beth, may have for them. Over the years the teachers — including some who never knew Steve — have cut down trees, cleared leaves and re-sealed the deck.

        “I guess you might normally expect guys to support a grieving family for two to three years,” Beth says, watching the flurry of activity in her backyard. “This has been going on since 1992. This speaks to Sam and Katie of how much the faculty valued their father, and how much they value friendships.”

        And over these eight years, the laughter has returned, the flame of teasing fellowship grown brighter. “Steve stories” are part of the ritual. Steve on vacation, panning the scenery with a video camera until — whomp — he runs into a tree. The teachers attempting a triathlon, their machismo tempered when Steve strolls in with a three-speed bicycle, a child's seat on the back. Steve's miserable golf scores. His pre-play pep talks for his drama students. His eternally optimistic nature. His unfailing love for his wife, kids, parents and God.

        “Certain people seem to have a goodness to them,” Paul says. “He was just universally loved.”

        Steve would have been 50 years old today. His family believes that somewhere, somehow he knows that his friends still remember and celebrate his life, and that the formation — side by side, the speed of the slowest man — still goes on.

       Write Krista Ramsey at 312 Elm St., Cincinnati 45202, or e-mail her at krista_ramsey@hotmail.com

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