Steve Trimble often said he wasn’t even the best football player in his family.

Given the Trimble family stock, that often provided cause and curiosity to legitimately wonder which one of his brothers, nephews or sons he believed was the best football player in his family. But, really, it never mattered. And you were never going to get the answer anyway, no matter how many times you asked him. You’d have an easier time getting Carly Simon to reveal to whom she wrote “You’re So Vain.”

But that was Steve. He was stubborn in the ways of keeping to himself. He was loyal to all he loved. He was gentle. He was real. And he was proud. But he was mysterious. He kept much to himself, other than to the few he deemed privy to know his business, of which I never was.

But from whence I came — the ’70s — that was known as cool. And he was unquestionably the coolest person I ever knew. Always under control. Always in control. He just moved so well. He glided. I never knew how he ran so fast, because you saw every move he made so vividly and so picture-perfectly.

I’ve often said I would pay money to simply watch Steve run ... to jog even. To walk even. Gliding down the hallways of Fort Hill High School between classes, thoughtfully scratching his chin as though he were thinking of the next great move to make the world a better place.

And you know what? That’s probably what he was doing.

Was Steve the best football player or the best athlete I ever saw? I have my beliefs on that. But I always said, without question, I would rather watch him run track than play football. Although not by much.

But really, having known Steve, I think the reason nobody could take their eyes away from him was because he was one of the nicest persons, one of the best persons any of us ever knew.

In yesterday’s Times-News, Mark Manges spoke of Steve's smile and his “sweet attitude.” Well, he was all of that and more. He had the knack of gravitating people to him. And he never tried. He was never about that. It’s just who he was and the way it was.

When I think of Steve, as accomplished a collegiate and professional athlete as he became, I think of him when he played Little League baseball for the Dapper Dan Pirates. As a baseball player, he reminded me of Henry Aaron and, believe me, it wasn't fashionable then for anybody to remind you of Henry Aaron. But all these years later it makes even more sense to me that he did.

I think of Steve when he was a Cub Scout. I think of Steve when he was riding his bike home from the Penn Avenue ballfield, and I think of him running me and my bike off the road because he always wanted to go so fast.

I think of him stopping, coming back and picking me out of the gravel and saying, “Burke, why can’t you ever get out of the way?”

I think of him wrapping me by the calves and pretending to lift and drop me from the top row of the concrete side of the stadium to splat me onto the pavement of Greenway Avenue, shrieking “Omigod Burke!” as a band of us were exploring the empty stadium one empty Saturday afternoon. And I think of the middle of the scream that could have made me a permanent soprano, how I felt his strong grasp on my lower legs.

Hey, the man made a living tackling folks in the NFL.

Through that high-pitch laugh and that What Are We Going To Do About You? shake of his head, he said as he lowered me to earth, “Burke. What are we going to do about you?”

I think about him following me home on our bikes shortly thereafter so, “You can get yourself settled before you try to eat supper.”

We might have been about a dozen years old at the time, but Steve Trimble, while he had a taste for adventure, had a very settling way about him. He was wise beyond his years. He was brilliant; obviously, a marvelous athlete. But, as much as he loved and needed athletics, and as great as he was, where it mattered the most — real life — he saw through everything to help get you to the skinny.

From the beginning, he carried a gentle soul. From the beginning, he carried a seasoned soul.

Even before the beginning of the most unreal high school football season I ever saw a guy have, I remember Steve Trimble having more important things on his mind — namely his friend and teammate Bob Hadra, who had suffered a broken neck during a summer scrimmage.

From the time of Bob’s life-threatening injury, other than the Hadra family and the doctors and the nurses who cared for Bob, the one constant at Memorial Hospital was Steven Garfield Trimble.

Perhaps the best football player in the state of Maryland at the time, he left practice at Fort Hill every evening, walked across the street and up the hill, and stayed with his friend until he was told visiting hours were over and he had to go home. And in between, when the doctors came in to care for Bob, who, thankfully, made a successful recovery, Steve went to the hall directly outside Bob’s door as though he were a real-life sentinel — sitting on the floor doing his homework.

He would be there for Bob every day and every night.

Was Steve Trimble the best football player or the best athlete I ever saw? Again, I have my beliefs on that. But when I think of him and when I remember him, frankly, that doesn't even enter my mind.

Mike Burke is sports editor of the Cumberland Times-News. Write to him at mburke@times-news.com