TIMBERS_WHITECAPS_22510109.JPG

Aidan Calhoun, 15, and his dad, Dave Calhoun, drove to Portland from British Columbia to cheer on the Vancouver Whitecaps.

(Doug Beghtel, The Oregonian)

The kid leaned against the wall outside Jeld-Wen Field beside his father, waiting for the gates to open Saturday night. The

, the Whitecaps supporters group, were all around Aidan Calhoun. They wore blue scarves, and carried giant flags over their shoulders, and most of them were grown-ups, so you could have walked along the line of hundreds of chanting, visiting fans and missed him.

In fact, I did on my first pass.

But as I walked back by, I heard a tiny voice.

"Hello there," he said.

An hour later, I sat in the press box, unable to forget the boy. In fact, at different points of what was a riveting and critical Timbers-Whitecaps game I left my seat, leaned over the back railing high above the stadium, and watched the smiling little boy in Section 222, Row Q, aisle seat.

Calhoun stands just over four feet tall. He was born 15 years ago with a congenital condition called

. He breathes through a tube inserted through his trachea, has had more than 30 surgeries in his life, and also, after that hello he announced, "I have a pace maker."

His heartbeat was all around the stadium Saturday.

.

scored on a header for Portland in the second half. Jordan Harvey scored for Vancouver a few minutes later. And maybe those were big plays, but nothing felt more significant than the father and son in Section 222 who cheered together.

Calhoun's father, Dave, is a transit worker in British Columbia. He knew when Aidan was born that his son would endure a multitude of surgeries, and hospital stays, and he hoped as parents sometimes do, that he'd someday take his son to a sporting event. And so the Whitecaps are what they do together.

"We make most of their games," said Dave, a season-ticket holder for seven seasons, "well, unless we're dealing with issues."

Aidan's first surgery came at 17 days old. He was born with a smaller than normal lower jaw, a tongue that fell into his throat, blocking his air passage. He's had difficulty breathing, and his dad said, "I've lost count of the procedures, he's had so many." But what Aidan also has is a love for soccer that had him bouncing through the stadium tunnels on a warm summer night in Portland.

"My very first trip to Portland," Aidan announced, as they passed through the gates.

The father and son left their home in New Westminster early Saturday, and drove six hours to Portland in time for kickoff. They bought general admission tickets, and the dad said, "We lined up because it's important for us to get as close as we can up front ... he's so small, he can't see otherwise."

They didn't get front-row seats, however. They instead checked the sightlines, and decided it was better for Aidan to sit in an aisle seat, up much higher, because he could get a better view of the entire field. And also, the

, cheering at the north end of the stadium.

"We may go to the zoo (on Sunday)," Aidan said, "and Voodoo Donuts. We already saw the aerial tram. This is such a great place."

But this trip is about soccer. Also, about a father and his son.

"This kid," his dad said, "he's the one who keeps us all going when things feel so rotten. He never has a bad day."

Aidan has had teeth removed to make room in his mouth, and tubes inserted, and he's soon facing a major surgery in which both sides of his lower jaw will be broken and his entire jaw moved forward. As his father explained the complex surgery, Aidan pointed to both sides of his face, and said, "It's going to get fixed."

Then, he smiled.

The ushers who work the visiting section at Jeld-Wen Field will tell you it can be rough duty some nights. One of the police officers stationed in front of the section said, "It's not fun some nights, and by that, I mean Sounders fans can be jerks." But there was something gentle at work on Saturday night.

I spent only a few minutes talking with the Calhoun boys on Saturday. This was their game, and their time. But I watched them from afar throughout the game. I saw a father lean into his son as they read a program together in the early minutes. I saw the kid walk up and down the aisle, chanting and holding his scarf high, visiting with other members of the Southsiders during the game. A few minutes after Vancouver scored the equalizing goal in the 68th minute, I noticed the father stood alone in the section during play. I scanned the crowd, looking for Aidan.

Finally, I located the son, a few rows away, on his feet -- shirtless -- chanting, stomping his left foot to the beat, and whipping his Whitecaps jersey in a circular motion. There was a dark scar, running from a few inches above Aidan's belly button to his upper chest. He has two other scars on the side of his abdomen. His trachea tube flopped against his neck, and his skin glowed with sweat. The kid showed it all off, and waved that jersey, and he appeared more alive than anyone in a stadium has ever looked.

His dad is right. A child like that could keep us all going.

--

"The Bald-Faced Truth," noon-3p.m. weekdays on KXTG (750).