Looking back now, I guess I didn't fully understand why I wanted, or perhaps needed, to write the Jermaine Lewis story in this week's Magazine until I came across that distinct little green silk-covered box.

I had walked into the sunroom of Lewis' home outside Baltimore to meet his wife Imara, and when I turned to go back to the kitchen, there it was -- painfully unavoidable, like a kick in the shins. Sitting on a table in a sun-splashed corner of the room, tied shut by a perfect bow, was the tiny box that held the effects of Geronimo Lewis, who was stillborn on Dec. 13.

At that moment I knew that back in North Carolina, on the second floor of my home, on top of a changing table, inside an empty nursery, sat the exact same box.

Just like Jermaine and Imara, my wife Kim and I lost our infant son, Noah, during last year's NFL season. Inside Noah's green box are the purple-ink imprints of his little feet, the blue-and-pink-striped stocking cap he wore, hair clippings that perfectly match his mother's thick brown locks, the tiny hospital wristband he never got to wear, and several pictures of my sweet, pudgy, little fullback.

Seeing that green box shook me to my core. But it helped me to understand that Jermaine Lewis and I are inextricably linked.

It halted my fears. It ended my hesitation. We had to do this story, he and I. We have the same haunting memories (of cradling our sons for the first and last time); the same fears (that time does not, in fact, heal all wounds); the same refuge (in music); the same dreams (to see G-Mo and Mo -- that was our nickname for Noah -- again someday, perhaps playing together); the same hopes (I am typing this column with one hand so I can feel Kim's stomach for the tiny karate kicks of our second child, a field-goal kicker for sure); and finally, that we were both profoundly changed, and motivated, by our loss.

Jermaine provided a worldwide example on Super Bowl Sunday -- of a father who was strong and brave enough to rise above his sorrow and create a legacy for his son. (Can there be a greater accomplishment in life?) So I guess I did this story for the same reason Jermaine went back to the football field 11 days after G-Mo died: I want my son to be proud of me.

Maybe helping to get Jermaine's story out is part of that, maybe it's just doing my job. I'm not sure. But I hope that, by the way I conduct myself, I can help make Noah's legacy more about the perpetual illumination of his spirit, and the lessons my brave little boy gave his life to teach, and less about the lightning-strike tragedy of his death.

At the very least, this piece for The Mag is my own 84-yard runback; my own little (albeit hackneyed) end-zone point toward the heavens.

I wrote it at my desk in the office above my garage, just down the hall from Mo's nursery. When I got stuck I glanced off to the side of my computer, where I have what looks like a blank piece of notebook paper tacked to the wall. But if you look closer, or from a different perspective, you'll see there is an imprint of Noah's name from his gravestone.

In many ways I think all parents who lose children are like that piece of paper.

On the surface I may look exactly the same, but if you take a closer look, or a deeper glance from a different perspective, you'll see there is a deep impression that says, simply ...

Noah.

***

For information on the Geronimo Lewis Foundation, which, in part, helps low- income couples pay for infertility treatments, contact Judith Thomas of Global Management at 301-604-5335.

To learn more about the Noah William Fleming Fund, a scholarship program that benefits children with special needs, contact Jennie Cascio of Variety-The Children's Charity at 248-258-5511 or go to variety-detroit.com.

David Fleming is a senior writer for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail flemfile@aol.com.