Confidently walking away from freshman soccer tryouts, I was convinced of two things. I would do anything to become the best soccer player in Wilmot Union High School history and would do even more to become friends with this short, cool, athletic kid I had met at practice.

While I didn't become a Panther legend like Chris Trottier in Wilmot basketball's early 90s state championship run, proudly, I succeeded in the latter.

To say that J.T. Robinson is athletic is an understatement. Even before he was featured on the cover of extreme skiing magazines as an endorsed ski pro, everyone knew J.T. was a special talent.

The three sport varsity letter-winner was the poster child for 20th century athletic development. Like our generation's heroes Deion Sanders and Bo Jackson, we knew that real athletes can play any sport well before they specialize in one.

Unlike the over-specialized training programs today, J.T. mastered the fundamentals the way a kid should, shooting free throws on a dimly lit driveway late into summer evenings and fielding grounders from the man who should teach him such things, his pops, Mike.

J.T.'s dad, Michael Robinson, is a red-blooded, southern Wisconsin, American man. He earned his position as a corporate executive as his father earned his job - foregoing a college education to get married, have kids, and provide for them by the sweat of his brow. Though a shrewd Vice President, Mike is a simple man. He married his high school sweetheart, a feisty Italian Kathy Fornero who is still out of his league, and worked at the same place of employment until his retirement. Mike and Kathy raised two boys, taught them to be respectful to women, drink Budweiser without abusing it, cheer for the Packers, despise the Bears, be fiercely loyal to friends and family, and never take what you haven't earned.

J.T. and I hit it off on the soccer pitch intially. He was the type of athlete who could excel at anything he put his mind to and I had a moderate amount of club soccer experience that was rare in our area. When I was a young buck trying to earn a scholarship, J.T. did two things as my teammate that made my esteem for him rise; he never played outside of his limits and he passed the ball to me.

In the brutal social heirarchy of the American public school system, I felt I had an ally from the beginning. Although he was raised Catholic and my family was deeply entrenched in evangelical Protestantism, we shared enough important things that kept us from division. We received good grades due to a solid work ethic, we loved sports, and we were committed to make something of our lives and held each other to it.

J.T.'s unassuming presence, subtle grin, and genuine interest in the well-being of his peers was effusive and served as a shock-absorber to my, at times, overbearing presence. Around him, I felt the freedom to share my crazy ideas publicly and he would spin them in a way that gave it some credibility. As seniors, we threw a thousand dollars we earned working summer joe jobs at his dad's factory in a rebounding technology company. We were satisfied when our portfolio value rose to $1,400 within a few weeks and sold our shares of Apple. Even after we blew our earnings in a penny stock scam, we still had enough for a spring break ski trip to the Wasatch Range in Utah.

With the ladies, J.T. was never without options and eventually married the girl I took to homecoming. But, to be fair, he dated her first in middle school Catholic confirmation class. When it was time for our graduating seniors to vote for its "Most Popular," I only won the award because J.T. told the girls to vote for me.

In many ways, we were typical high school kids. We unsuccessfully tried to hide our foolishness from our parents, wanted to be liked, and tried not to get into too much trouble. In more significant ways, our experience was unique. Four of our friends died in a span of four years. The tragedy that stuck our circle at that time seared a painful reality into our souls.

Friends can be taken in a heartbeat.

As we parted for college, we pursued the same passion down different paths. Our love for the mountains took him to the same Wasatch Range we skied as seniors as I set my face toward Denver, but returned to the Midwest after a year.

After college, he stuck with the mountains, got sponsored as a Telemark Ski Pro, and had that girl I took to homecoming follow him to the part of the country that makes Catholics from Wisconsin religiously queazy, Salt Lake City.

After I found Jesus in college, I married a sweet, hardworking, brunette evangelical, began pastoring a church, and raising a family.

Through weddings, special events, and Facebook, our respect for each other has grown as the years have passed. Our conversations have steered away from sports, skiing, and girls and toward family, faith, and legacy. When he talks, you hear his father, Mike, and I am sure my dad's voice slips into my vernacular on occasion.

Within a year of each other, we both became a father of sons: Amos Robinson and Judah Anderson. Two weeks ago, it wasn't too difficult to imagine them suiting up for the Wilmot Panthers, arguing theology late into the night, fighting on Bears-Packers game days, taking ski trips to the West, and attending each other's weddings.

But everything changed on Friday, July 11th, 2014, with three words from a pediatrician, "Amos has cancer."

As a pastor, I deal with issues of life and death regularly. Cancer is never easy and it always feels like a punch to the soul. When a child receives the diagnosis, it feels like abuse.

Yet, as I boarded Delta flight 4616 to Salt Lake City Thursday afternoon to meet Amos for the first time, I remain convinced of two things: The unflinching goodness of God to bring hope out of difficult situations and the undying love that I have in my soul for my friend.

I pray in hope that Amos and Judah can share in the same grace of friendship that J.T. and I have enjoyed for almost 20 years.

When he is older, I look forward to teaching my son to treasure friendship while it lasts because it can be taken in a moment.

But, please God, don't take my son's friend before he has a chance to meet him.

Tonight, after praying for Amos at his bedside, I lean on God's power and treasure the thought of Judah one day cracking open a Budweiser, fishing the Fox River, and planning his ski trip to the Wasatch with his friend Amos.

Keep updated on Amos's journey to recovery at amosrobinson1.blogspot.com