I hesitate to refer to anyone in athletics as a "hero," because obviously there are people in society more deserving of that label.
It's a little different in sports than in the 1940s and 1950s. Sports' greatest stars often did their part in serving their country, such as pitcher Bob Feller of Van Meter, then a star for the Cleveland Indians, and the game's greatest hitter, Ted Williams.
Can you imagine someone like Kobe Bryant, Joe Mauer or Peyton Manning interrupting their MVP careers to serve in some remote combat area of Afghanistan? Well, Pat Tillman did leave the NFL to do that, and look what happened to him.
The great thing about last weekend is a chance to remind ourselves of the real meaning of Memorial Day. Amidst all of the camping, boating and barbecues on the back deck, others are working hard to honor fallen American heroes.
I enjoy volunteering to take photos at one of the annual Memorial Day programs, because in a few short minutes you always hear a poignant message, and dignified, moving salutes to soldiers lying in rest. I've probably heard the Kenyons play "Taps," with that stirring "echo" rendition from afar, more than a dozen times, and it always sends a chill down my spine.
This year, I saw the family of former Nodaway Valley wrestler C.J. Miller gathered at Calvary Cemetery, where U.S. Navy veteran John Carter delivered the message about freedom not being free.
Marine Lance Cpl. Clinton J. "C.J." Miller, 23, of Greenfield, died Dec. 11, 2006, while conducting combat operations in the Al Anbar province in Iraq.
What struck me about the ceremony Monday was not only how fitting it was for a "real hero" to be remembered in a public setting, but also how few people bother to attend the 15-minute program each year.
Every family should take their children at least once to that setting, and make them feel the honor associated with the ultimate sacrifice.
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On Sunday, Deb and I took a day trip to northern-Iowa cemeteries where our parents are buried. It's the first year neither of has a living parent.
As we left Fonda and headed toward my family's resting place in Webster County, it was nostalgic to pull into the tiny burg of Vincent, past my old elementary school, and turn west toward the cemetery near my father's farm ground.
As a young boy, my family moved to Fort Dodge and my father commuted to the farm. But I spent time out there, particularly at bean-walking time with my "city" friends, who got introduced to the inner workings of an Iowa farm.
Sitting beside my dad's grave, looking across that vast, flat beanfield Sunday afternoon, I got a lump in my throat as all those memories came flooding back. It's crazy that 40 years have past since I was fumbling around out there as a junior-high kid, laughing at my 29th-Street buddy cursing through a sticky patch of thistles.
Dad would often toil all day out there, drive back to Fort Dodge, and agree to play catch with me before my little league game. I'm sure he wanted to sit back and enjoy a late dinner, maybe flip on the TV. But he took time to help me get ready to play a game.
That's when I recalled this great essay written by the late Jack Buck, legendary baseball broadcaster.
It's the Great American Pastime.
Baseball.
It's not a game invented for athletes who can run from home to first in four seconds, or throw a ball 90 miles an hour, or hit a ball over the fence.
It's a game made for kids, and played by kids, and those who still have a lot of "little kid" inside them.
And it's more than just a game.
More than anything else, baseball is memories. Memories pressed between the pages of my mind.
It's every kid, whoever went to bed with a transistor radio tucked beneath their pillow listening to the game and pretending to be asleep when their parents came in to check on them, before the parents went to their own bedroom to finish listening to the same game.
Even more than all that, it's our own memories of your own "Field of Dreams."
We are all Kevin Costner playing catch again with his departed father.
That's why to me, or any other baseball fan, the story isn't about baseball, or corn fields, or a wish come true, it's about family. The real pull is father, child.
Throughout this century baseball has grown into a painless means of bringing abrasive generations together smoothly.
Remember how much fun it was to hit your dad's pitching, and watch while he chased the ball? What made all these memories, was the sum of all those baseball sensations, divided by two.
A father and his child.
There is still nothing anywhere to beat it.
I don't know about you, but I'd give anything to play catch just one more time, with my dad.