Columbine tragedy steals one more bright life

Nobody should see the things Greg Barnes saw. Nobody should experience the horror he experienced, or feel the immediate rush of panic that he must have felt.

On April 20, 1999, Barnes, who then was a high-school sophomore, was staring out a science-room window when he saw his friend and Columbine High School teacher, Dave Sanders, murdered.

Nobody should have to live with that memory. The indelible pictures of Sanders falling to the ground. The reality of the blood. The brutality of the act.

But Barnes was watching, an accidental witness to a massacre.

From this window he saw people he knew committing an unspeakable act. From this window he heard screams that sounded like sirens that must have replayed in his head over and over for the next 13 months.

These weren't strangers he was watching, faceless terrorists, zealously killing for some obscure political end.

He knew these boys.

They were classmates Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold using those guns.

Barnes had taken a writing class with them. He had heard them talking about their murderous plots. Like all of his classmates, he didn't take them seriously.

"That was a mistake," he would admit.

Nobody should have to carry the guilt he must have felt. Nobody should have to second-guess themselves the way Barnes must have.

Harris and Klebold killed 12 students, a teacher and themselves that day. Another 23 people were wounded.

One victim, football player Matt Kechter, was one of Barnes' closest friends.

"He was the most innocent person I knew," Barnes said in those first draining days after the shootings. "He was never in a bad mood. He was consistently happy."

The same was said of Greg Barnes.

"He always had a big grin on his face," Columbine baseball coach Robin Ortiz would say. "It would light up a room."

The smile must have been a mask. The smile hid his hurt and his anger and his guilt.

Last week, junior Greg Barnes, a first-team Colorado high-school basketball All-Stater, weary of fighting his demons, hung himself with an electrical cord in his family's garage.

It was a reminder of how much pain the students of Columbine High School still feel.

But how are parents supposed to discover the depth of that pain?

The day before his suicide, Barnes gave no hint of his depression.

As I write this, I'm looking at his picture in a newspaper, and I see my son, Mason, in his face.

I have almost the same picture of Mason in my office.

In the newspaper picture, Barnes is moving to his right, looking as if he's about to crossover-dribble.

It is a picture of promise. There is a move coming here, a shake and a shot and a swish that will pull people out of their seats.

I look at this picture of Barnes and then I look at the similar picture of Mason, and I get nervous and thankful at the same time.

I understand the pride Barnes' parents must have felt watching their son this season. It appeared he was playing his way through his pain. They must have been relieved.

I wish I could have written another kind of column about him. How basketball had helped put his life back together. How the joy he got shooting jump shots in the gym, choreographing his dunks and leading his team into the state tournament, had helped him cope with the unfair burden life had placed on him.

I wanted to believe in a happier ending.

It was there.

Barnes was Columbine's team leader, averaging 26.2 points per game in the difficult Jefferson County League. He was being recruited by Notre Dame, Vanderbilt and Harvard.

His future stretched in front of him like a canvas in front of Monet.

Again, I look at his picture, then I look at Mason's.

My son is a student at the University of Washington, and I call his fraternity house and ask him out to lunch.

We talk about his favorite subjects - Reggie Miller and the Indiana Pacers. He is looking forward to the Pacers' finally making it into the NBA Finals.

I look at Mason. He's a good kid. I'm proud of him, but I can't help thinking about Greg Barnes.

Why do bad things happen to such good kids?

Why was Barnes looking out the window that day? Why did he have to see the horror he saw?

What other unspoken ghosts were haunting him?

The day before his suicide, he had seemed so happy. How could he have hidden his hurts so well?

Psychologists talk about the warning signs of suicide - isolation, withdrawal, depression, avoiding friends. Barnes appeared to have none of them.

At lunch, I ask my son if everything is OK. He looks happy. He laughs easily. He says things are good.

I believe him.

And I'm grateful he hasn't seen the kind of ghastliness a sensitive young man like Greg Barnes saw.