But the entrepreneurial Mr. Colborn, who founded a business during high school selling decals for the motorcycles he and his friends raced, fretted that it could take 50 years before anyone could build a business on fusion.
Under the glow of the lights of Jefferson County Stadium tonight, and amid the pomp and cheering and end-around sweeps of what appeared a typical high school football game, the number on decals on backs of the navy blue helmets of the Columbine players was strikingly clear: 70.
Over the past week dozens of parents met to print, stuff, stamp and lick hundreds of letters to local residents, create window decals for local stores that support the school, set up the ability to take online donations and participate in social network giving campaigns.
In my last class at school, I finally remembered to ask about the no-frogs decal I'd seen on the bus.
She had a year of high school left; every morning, she reverse-commuted in a two-hundred-dollar used Falcon wagon peppered with surfing decals.
The decal's modern, stripped-down look is a stark departure from the agency's previous approach to the school of informational trash can aesthetics.
Conspicuous was another white decal.
The decals honor the memory of Matt Kechter, a popular 16-year-old Columbine sophomore linebacker who wore No. 70 and was gunned down in the well-appointed, conventional suburban Denver high school that day.
Having worked in a high school in an affluent, high-achieving, hyper-competitive suburb for over 20 years, I can say it's not the students who covet that "name" college sweatshirt or car decal.
The windshield decal read: "One Slick Trini".
