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DAYTON — Yenor Kamara and her husband Shamar had been visiting friends, and when they got back to their Volkenand Avenue duplex that evening her 17-year-old brother Santice was sprawled on the living room couch.

He was wearing a new, white Belmont High T-shirt, red shorts and was, in her words, "just glowing.

"That was the first time we'd seen that shirt and shorts," Shamar said. "He'd just got them when the football coach dropped him off. Usually when he'd come home from practice, he'd keep wearing his football pants. He'd say, 'They're my good lucky pants,' but we'd go, 'C'mon, you got to take them off. They gotta to be cleaned and you have to take a shower.' But this night, without asking, he had jumped in the shower and put on his new stuff."

Yenor managed a faint smile: "He was just so excited."

Although he'd had a lot to learn — it was the 5-foot-8, 165-pound senior's first year of football with the Bison — Santice never missed practice and gave his all every day, said interim head coach Kipp Grubaugh.

He'd seen special teams duty early in the varsity season. Then, playing junior varsity against Dunbar that week, he'd thrown a big block that paved the way for tailback Myron Stone to run for a 15-yard touchdown.

After practice on Sept. 18, Jesse Wheeler, the Bison's JV coach who mentors the varsity line, stayed an extra 20 minutes to help Santice work on technique.

That's when coaches told him he was starting both ways in the next game — which was nine days later against Fort Loramie. Santice got a ride home with Grubaugh because his good friend and fellow lineman Stephen Engle "didn't have money for gas."

"We said we'd see each other in school the next day," Engle said quietly. "And then Santice said something I can't forget. He said, 'Don't give up on football, don't give up on life ... no matter what.' ''

And that "what" came the very next morning.

"I work half days at the machine shop at Wilbur (Wilbur Wright Middle School)," Engle said. "When my grandma was bringing me back to school, we saw a big accident scene on Wayne Avenue.

"I walked into the school office and Coach and a policeman and some other people were there. I heard them say, 'His parents died a couple years ago,' and I figured they were talking about Santice.

"I said, 'Did something happen to Santice?' And from their faces, I could tell."

Tragedy follows family

"Here's a picture of the two of us when we were little — we were best friends," Yenor, now 21, said as she clutched the fading photo. It was from their days growing up in Cairo, Egypt. She was 8 and a foot taller than her little brother, who the family calls Tiki.

She studied the picture in silence — her eyes glistening — until her son, 21/2-year-old Osiris, toddled up, and seeing a more recent photo on the coffee table, babbled "Tiki, Tiki."

The Kamara family moved to western New York when Santice was 9 and it was tough for both kids. They were surrounded by a different culture and spoke Arabic, not English. And while they adjusted, far more difficulties soon followed.

"Our mom (Mouna) died in 2006 from an enlarged heart," Yenor said. "Three years before that, our dad (Ishala) passed away from ... from ..." Her voice broke and she looked pleadingly at Shamar: "You explain."

His gaze fixed on the floor, Shamar said: "A home invasion. Someone killed him."

With both of her parents gone, Yenor and Shamar moved from Columbus to Dayton and raised Santice and his 12-year-old brother Alamamy, alongside their own two kids, Osiris, and, now, 11-month-old Shahada.

"As Tiki got older, we wanted to find something that would keep him off the streets," Shamar said. "That's when we encouraged him to try football."

He hit if off with Engle, who was playing football for the first year as well, and with the Stone brothers, Myron and DaShawn, who moved in from Springfield.

"He could make you laugh and man, he could eat," Engle said. "He loved pizza, but he couldn't eat pepperoni 'cause he was Muslim. Sometimes he'd explain how his religion was different than ours, and we all got along great."

Engle and another of Santice's pals, Justin Johnson, are white. The Stone brothers are black. Another friend is Spanish. Different backgrounds, different cultures, one commonality.

Although the Bison have struggled — the undermanned team has lost all five of its games and has been outscored 276-12 — Santice couldn't stand detractors.

"He was real particular what people said about us," Engle said. "He'd go, 'If you ain't out there on the field, don't say nothing bad.' "

'Everybody was crying'

The morning after he'd been told he'd be a starter — Sept. 19 — Santice followed his daily ritual.

"He came to our room, knocked on the door and let us know he was leaving for school," Shamar said. "He said 'I love you,' and I said 'We love you, too.' "

Walking to school along Wayne Avenue — a few blocks from Belmont High School — Santice tried stepping around a pile of tree limbs and brush on the sidewalk, debris from that Sunday's wind storm.

He supposedly stepped into the roadway near Phillips Avenue and was hit by a pickup truck driven by 45-year-old Beth Harris, who drove on without stopping.

She would turn herself in to police the next day and has been released while police await the coroner's report and then make their recommendation to the prosecutor. That could take a couple of weeks, police spokesman Lt. Matt Carper said Thursday, Oct. 2.

Santice suffered severe head injuries and was rushed to Miami Valley Hospital. By midday, Dayton police announced Santice had died and Belmont players were gathered in the school library and given the news.

"Everybody was crying and then later that day they tell us, no, Santice was still alive and that hurt, too," Myron Stone said. "It made us mad we'd been told fake advertising."

A few players visited their comatose teammate in the hospital, as did Grubaugh, who sat there one night holding Santice's hand.

On Sept. 25, word came that Santice had died, and as is Muslim tradition, he was buried the next day. Services were at the Islamic Society of Greater Dayton mosque on Josie Street.

"Our whole team lined up outside the mosque," Johnson said. "We were wearing our jerseys, and we stood there like gentlemen with our arms crossed in front of us. But it was tough."

The players then boarded a school bus and rode to the grave site in Tipp City.

"This was a totally new culture for the boys," Grubaugh said. "The body is taken out of the casket and wrapped and a couple of the doctors in the congregation came over and explained it to our guys. Everybody puts a shovel of dirt on the grave and our boys were permitted to do it, as well."

Some, like DaShawn Stone, found it especially hard: "That was my friend, my brother, and it was too hard to put dirt on him and think 'He's gone.'

"They told us not to cry — that our tears would burn his soul — and I tried hard, but finally I had to let it out. He was a good guy, a real cool dude, and it really hurt me bad."

Team didn't quit

The Santice Kamara Memorial Fund has been set up at all branches of Fifth Third Bank to help the family.

As for the players, they're trying to honor Santice and cope with their own sorrow while preparing for each week's opponent.

A day after Santice's burial — in the game he was to have made his first start — Belmont met Fort Loramie.

Beforehand, Grubaugh gave the players decals with the No. 74 — Santice's number — to paste on their helmets. And each time the Bison broke from the huddle that night, they chanted Santice's name.

"It wasn't easy," said Johnson of the game the Bison lost 41-0. "Santice used to be right next to me on the line. That night I found myself looking over expecting to see him, and then I'd remember he was dead."

It was the same for Engle: "My mind was pretty much in the gutter that night. I couldn't think much on the game ... but we kept on trying and we didn't quit. And I think Santice would be proud of us that we're hanging in there. We got to 'cause I remember that last thing he said:

" 'Don't give up on football, don't give up on life.' "