Outside in the back, away from the medications, away from the beds, and away from the doctors and nurses, Mick Hoban and Jimmy Conway make their escape.

They are two of the more notable figures in Portland Timbers history, teammates who became friends after their soccer careers, casual and cordial at first, and now tied by something much deeper.

Their destination is a garden within the hospital perimeter, "a lovely place" Hoban calls it, and it is where they find a sponge-like soccer ball.

Five yards apart, the 62-year-old Hoban passes to the 67-year-old Conway. And Conway returns the favor.

Two teammates, having another go at it.

"He still has that nice little touch,'' Noeleen Conway says of her husband.

These are the good times, when the ball passes back and forth, because it offers a glimpse of the friend Hoban once knew and the husband Noeleen once had.

"You can still see Jimmy Conway in there,'' Hoban says.

But like a wisp of steam, Conway invariably dissipates and vanishes to some place they can neither reach, nor imagine.

Conway is one of Oregon's soccer legends, one of four players in the Timbers' Ring of Honor and the greatest force behind Oregon's youth soccer surge 30 years ago. But now, behind these hospital walls miles from Providence Park, site of Wednesday's MLS All-Star Game, he is mostly blank, wholly distant.

Conway has trauma-induced dementia, and Noeleen is "100 percent certain" that years of heading the ball, and the sport's propensity for head-butts and kicks to the head, has led to this tortuous state where he is present, yet absent.

"Sometimes I look at his eyes and it's like someone has pulled the shades down,'' Noeleen says. "And I think that's the hardest part. We've been married for 45 years. We worked together. We were in each other's pockets 24/7. And he just went away ...

"But he is still here.''

He has been hospitalized for more than a year, and recently entered the advance stages of dementia. He no longer recognizes people. His arthritis has reduced his gait to a shuffle and he has a pronounced hunch. And this summer he was unable to eat for three days, a common ailment when the disease turns for the worse.

"I have witnessed first hand the demise of a good friend,'' Hoban says.

But something has happened amid the confusion, pain and darkness of Conway's illness, something that could stand to be Conway's legacy.

A teammate learned that a bond does not end when a career does. And a wife has set sights on changing how soccer is played.

*****

Between tears, Noeleen Conway is caught in a fit of laughter, the kind that takes over the body and paralyzes the vocal cords.

She spits out the words one by one, but each word makes her laugh harder.

More than 45 years ago in Dublin, she had fallen in love with a footballer, a 5-foot-8 sparkplug named Jimmy Conway, who was as tough as he was skilled.

It was a good thing, too. As an amateur with the Bohemian Football Club, players needed a second job, and Conway was being trained as an apprentice carpenter by the team manager, Sean Thomas.

It didn't take long to realize carpentry was not in Conway's future. One day, Thomas watched Conway on a project from afar. His task was simple: affix a door to a shed. It required a hinge, a few screws and a little elbow grease.

Conway, however, became flummoxed while trying to get the screws to go in, so he grabbed a mallet and did the exact thing you never do to a screw: he pounded it in.

"I'm glad he had great feet,'' she says finally, sighing at the effort it took to tell the story through laughter.

They had met on a blind date in Dublin, her only knowledge coming in that he was a soccer standout. It was at a dance when she first laid eyes on him, and you could say the rest was history.

"Oh my gosh, his dark hair and those big blue eyes? Very cute. Very, very cute,'' she remembers. "We danced and made plans for a movie.''

They became an item, and she followed him to Fulham, where he became one of the club's all-time greats, scoring 67 goals in 314 contests. He was a master technician, with superb ball-handling skills, and had a streak of nasty that combined with a flair for the daring.

Noeleen estimates she was there for 90 percent of his games.

"He scored a fair share with his head,'' Noeleen says. "He was good in the air for his size.''

The reverence in her words fades as she realizes one of his greatest assets probably caused his current ailment.

It's why she has a hard time looking at the pictures. In a book given to her as a gift, one of the first pages shows Conway on the ground, having been kicked in the head. Another shows him practicing heading the ball to himself.

The ball in those days was laced, and not waterproof. Playing in rainy Ireland and England usually meant playing with a ball that often doubled in weight by the end of the match.

"We had to head that," Hoban says. "I can remember every time you would head it, you would see stars. Every time. And you never put two and two together. You just shook your head and moved on.''

And when players collided, smelling salts were put under the nose and players were told, as Hoban puts it, "to get on with it.''

There was never reason for pause, however, as Conway's soccer career flourished. He played 10 years with Fulham, two with Manchester City and from 1978 to 1982 with the Timbers, the last two with the indoor team while serving as an assistant with the NASL team.

It wasn't until after his coaching career, which included stops at Oregon State, Pacific, and as an assistant with the Timbers, that Noeleen and Hoban started to notice some oddities.

Conway loved to play strategic games, with chess and hearts his favorites. But Noeleen remembers seeing slippage. And Hoban recalls him struggling with simple questions, once guessing the age of a co-worker, and being off by 30 years.

"You look back in hindsight and say, ah, that's what it was,'' Noeleen says. "You notice he is not as sharp, but it's very subtle, so you don't really wonder if something is wrong.''

By 2009, after Conway had turned 63, she knew her husband needed help. After the diagnosis in December, she knew she too needed help.

"When you first learn this devastating news, you need someone to turn to, and I couldn't turn to Jimmy,'' Noeleen says. "So I turned to Mick and Linda. And they made it very clear they were there for us.''

*****

In sport, a good teammate covers for the weakness of others. A good teammate makes sacrifices. And more than anything, a good teammate offers support, on and off the field.

But what about after the game is over? And after a career is over?

Does being a teammate end?

It was a question Hoban faced in 2009 when Noeleen shared Conway's grim prognosis.

They had been teammates for only the 1978 season, when Hoban was plotting his transition into a successful business career and Conway was arriving from England as an accomplished player in the twilight of his career.

They weren't clanging pints or challenging the virtues of curfew like many teammates, primarily because Conway was such a straight arrow. So much so, teammates called him "Peter Perfect."

"People couldn't believe the degree to which he was just a regular guy,'' Hoban says. "He didn't drink. He didn't smoke. He didn't chase women. The rest of us, we all had our foibles. But it wasn't like he was priestly, or aloof. We would just look at him and say 'That's a good pro.'''

Their friendship was first rooted in respect, as the 26-year-old Hoban absorbed knowledge from the 31-year-old Conway.

"The big part for me was he was always willing to take you aside and say 'Instead of doing this, do that,''' Hoban says. "My experience of the pros of that era in England was they would share nothing with you because you could be after their spot. They not only wouldn't speak to you, they wouldn't acknowledge you. If fact, they would do whatever they could to discourage you. But Jimmy was one of the few guys who would take time with younger players.''

After Hoban moved on to Nike, and later Umbro, he remained in contact with Conway, united by their European backgrounds and their drive to promote soccer. The bond extended to their families, who hosted each other two or three times a year for dinners.

It was in those early days that Hoban made a pact that resonated with Noeleen.

"When we moved from England, I remember Mick said, 'We are now each other's support family,''' Noeleen says. "That bond, formed back in the day, I think made it natural for me to turn to the Hobans.''

When Hoban's wife, Linda, got the call from Noeleen about Jimmy's condition, Hoban stepped in and helped negotiate Conway's delicate departure as the director for the Oregon Youth Soccer Association, a position he held for 28 years.

But as someone who had been around dementia before – he watched his father suffer – Hoban knew many more hurdles were ahead. Was he willing to be there for every obstacle?

He found himself thinking of another old teammate, a Marine Vietnam veteran who spoke of how the Corps preached leaving no man behind. He thought about his words through the years about being there for friends, being there for teammates. He thought of his pact with Noeleen.

"I had talked a good game, and I thought ... time to step up,'' Hoban says. "I've asked myself why 1,000 times, and I think it came down to the notion of being a friend, the notion of being a teammate, the notion of leaving no one behind, and this notion that there for the grace of God, go I.''

*****

The first thing Hoban wanted to do was honor Conway, but he knew he would have to do it quickly. The disease was making it hard for Conway to follow group conversations, and there was concern how he would hold up in public.

So in 2010, Hoban organized a year-long testimonial, drawing on an European tradition that honors long-time players of a club.

There was a golf tournament at Pumpkin Ridge. A soccer match between his former players before a Timbers game. And a 200-person gala at Nike that had people both laughing and crying.

"I still get goosebumps when I think about it,'' Noeleen says.

There is a picture of Conway and Noeleen that Hoban holds dear, and it's from that gala dinner.

Head tilted toward her husband, Noeleen is immersed in laughter while looking at Jimmy, whose hand covers his upper lip to disguise a smile.

"That picture to me, her pose, their laughter, it's just a good memory, a positive memory of him being actively engaged in the evening and still enjoying it,'' Hoban says.

It would be one of the final public moments of clarity for Conway. Hoban's hope that Conway would not only be remembered and honored, but also understand and feel that love, was accomplished.

It also reinforced one of Conway's legacies. The soccer community united as one, something that was beginning to happen less and less. That they came from all over the world for Conway reflected his reach within the sport.

While Clive Charles raised the state's profile by building the University of Portland into a national powerhouse, Conway was at the grass-roots level, teaching parents how to coach, and enhancing the skills and knowledge of those already coaching.

"Jimmy arguably had as much impact as anybody in soccer in this state,'' Hoban says. "Clive had equally, if not more influence, because he was so visible, but Jimmy was behind the scenes, doing work in the trenches.

"If you stop somebody on the street today who is involved with soccer, and ask 'Where did you get the game from?' ... Invariably, there is a relationship that goes back to Jimmy.''

After the year-long testimonial, Hoban remained by Conway's side. Their favorite pastime was attending Timbers games.

What started as a bonding experience soon became a front-row seat to the slow destruction of the disease.

In 2011, the two would talk during the game.

"He's still there, cognizant, saying things only a footballer would know,'' Hoban says.

By 2012, on the ride to the game, Conway would forget where they were going, even though he asked minutes earlier. By the time he was dropped off at home, he had forgotten where they had been.

"By late in the 2012 season, I told Noeleen he's just not there anymore,'' Hoban says. "He's anxious. At one point he is wanting to leave. He's staring at people. Others were uneasy around him.''

At home, the challenge became unmanageable. He wandered away and was brought back by the police.

The Conway who Hoban and Noeleen once knew was fading. But it only strengthened their fight.

*****

The bagpipes blared and the voices sang.

"When you walk through the storm, hold your head up high, and don't be afraid of the dark ..."

The Friends of Jimmy Conway, a group 138 people strong, walked three miles last year in honor of Conway at the Walk to End Alzheimer's at Portland International Raceway.

It was the largest private group in the walk's 15-year history, and the $10,004.50 raised was also a state record for a private group.

The bagpipes and the group's rendition of Gerry & The Pacemakers' song "You'll Never Walk Alone" was spearheaded by Hoban, who has used the walk to raise awareness and money for research to combat the disease.

"I've never seen someone so loyal to a friend,'' says Kara Busick, the coordinator for the Alzheimer's Association walk. "Mick is taking heartbreak and turning it into something hopeful. We have to use that idea that we can all do something. If we do, we can get to that day where we have our first survivor.''

This year's walk is on Sept. 7, the same day the Timbers play at home against San Jose. Hoban will do the walk, but is afraid the majority of his group will be attending the Timbers game.

But Conway will still be remembered.

Led by "Timber Jim" Serrill, the team's first mascot, the crowd will give a 1-minute ovation in honor of Jimmy. It will take place in the 8th minute, signifying Conway's old number with the Timbers.

*****

When she visits the hospital, Noeleen holds out hope.

"I'd like to think he knows it's me, but one of the nurses looks a little like me, so we laugh that I'm his wife and she's his girlfriend,'' Noeleen says. "He gives everyone a big smile, but I hold on to thinking he knows it's me.''

She often catches herself talking about him in the past tense, and is usually quick to correct herself mid-sentence, reminded he is still with her.

It has been draining -- emotionally and financially – but she still finds the energy to fight and plead for the sport to address head injuries and study the impact heading the ball has on kids.

"I'm absolutely convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that soccer is what caused his condition,'' Noeleen says. "The doctors can't definitively say, but I'm 100 percent convinced.''

She wants studies, and equipment discussions, that address collisions and heading the ball. A high school soccer coach for 18 seasons, she is willing to go as far as question whether heading should be outlawed, at least for children.

"Yes, the sport would change dramatically, but I think it's a question that has to be put on the table,'' Noeleen said. "And yes, there is risk in every sport. But unless you have gone through it like we have, you don't know what the price is. But I'm here to say it's a gamble, and it's a huge price to pay for your quality of life.''

For now, that's what the scope for her and her three children has been reduced to: hoping Conway can reach some semblance of peace.

Days after a work party to spruce up a home she has downsized to, Hoban and Noeleen went together to visit Conway.

They laughed. They joked. They walked to the garden. It was hard to tell how much Conway could process, but he was as peaceful and stable as ever.

"It planted a seed,'' Hoban says. "That he just might come home one day.''

-- Jason Quick | @jwquick