I'm glad I didn't grow up to be a pro football star

By Jeff Orvis

I'm glad I didn't grow up to be a star professional football player.

When many youngsters, especially boys, reach a certain age, they begin dreaming about what they want to be when they grow up. Quite often, their first wish is to be a fireman. That wish often fades when they learn they have to be strong enough to carry a heavy hose up a ladder, breathe in smoke and withstand tremendous heat from fires and from the clothes they have to wear, even when it's 100 degrees outside.

When youngsters begin school and start studying American history, sometimes their next dream is to one day become president. After all, you get to live in that big house in Washington and whenever you decide to go somewhere, traffic stops for you. That dream may last until you find out that at any given day, half of the country loves you and half of the country hates you. You learn that you have to decide when to send your armed forces into battle and when to console the survivors when some of those soldiers and sailors don't come home alive. You have to have all the answers, from financial to ethical. You learn that the big house you live in becomes a prison. Since you are the most recognizable person in the world, your ability to simply walk down to the corner for a sandwich is gone forever. Remember that half of the population that hates you?

From your first steps, even before dreams of firemen or presidents, somebody might toss a Nerf football to you. Then on any given Sunday in the fall, when you pass by the TV at home, you notice that some really big guys are playing with a ball that looks a little like that little foam ball you are carrying. And that's when the dream of becoming a pro football star is born.

A few years later, you develop friendships in your neighborhood. As the weather cools and the leaves begin to fall, you put away that baseball glove and bat and look for at least three other friends for a game of touch football. If you're lucky, a couple of years later, you have a chance to don pads and helmet to play in a junior tackle football league. Then it's on to junior high and high school, where fall Friday nights are truly special.

By the time you get to high school, you realize that life begins the first part of August when you report for preseason drills. Once classes start, you slog through your studies with one eye on the clock, wishing it was time for practice or time to get on the bus to head for the Friday night game.

For a select few, the dream doesn't end with your last game as a high school senior. In fact, if you have piled up impressive statistics, you are already being showered with letters and visits from college coaches. You think you are the football king of the world, unless you have paid enough attention in math class to figure out that junior colleges, small schools and major universities are all attempting to fill their big rosters. Coaches use the same speech in your living room about how great you are and how much they want you as they will tomorrow night in another senior's living room.

So if you decide on a college and pass the stringent academic screening process of your chosen school and the NCAA, you have four or five years to mature much more, emotionally, physically and mentally.

Four or five years later, you may find yourself backstage during the NFL Draft, hoping and praying that those years of preparation will pay off and your name will be called by the commissioner sooner rather than later. The sooner it's called, the better chance you have at making the team and the accompanying riches.

So you hear your name called, you pose for pictures, attend a press conference and head for training camp. 

The team likes you and soon you are one of the major factors in your team's success. The money starts rolling in. Women who are more beautiful than any you left back in your hometown begin to notice you. It's easy to feel like you have the world by the tail and you are invincible.

Then one night, you and the lady you've chosen walk into an elevator on a night out in a casino. You soon walk out of the elevator and drag your unconscious lady behind you.

Or maybe you have weekend custody of your toddler from a relationship with a woman that went sour. The woman is bitter about the breakup and when her son is returned to her and she notices that his legs are covered with cuts, she calls police.

Or maybe you decide that on an off night you want a little fun. So you call up some of your friends, stick the pistol in your belt for protection and head to a nightclub. A few hours later, there's a shooting and even though you claim you had nothing to do with it, that you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, the police notice your unlicensed pistol and as you are being led out of the club in handcuffs, suddenly dozens of press photographers appear and your image takes a real hit.

It only takes one momentary lapse in good judgment and all those years of dreams and preparation melt away. What has taken you 10-15 years to achieve is gone. You are the topic of sports talk shows for a few weeks and then you are all but forgotten. If you haven't had a good money manager, your wealth might soon be gone and you are suddenly on the outside looking in on the work world.

The NFL is tremendous entertainment. As you watch your favorite team play on Thursday, Sunday or Monday, don't think about those few individuals we've heard about recently that apparently made the wrong choices. Be grateful for the hundreds of players who put on their uniforms each week and can still play the sport they love, that they've prepared for ever since somebody tossed them their first football just after they learned to walk.

I'm glad I didn't become a pro football star. I love the game. But the only ingredient I had that would have qualified me for such a career was a stable home life, with a loving mother and father, growing up. They never told me I couldn't be a football star or fireman or the president. But they furnished me with the education and good sense to realize that there were other career paths that were more attainable.

I never was able to sign a big sports contract and buy Mom a new house or Dad a new car, but somehow we all survived. I also don't have a history of concussions...or a police record.

Remembering a local treasure and a word on military life

By Jeff Orvis

I've got a couple of subjects on my mind today and in a way, they are related. One deals with the life of a remarkable man who called Belle Plaine “home” for a few short years. The other is some disturbing news about this country's military that, if true, should bother all of us.

I first met Fred Fredericks back in 1997, when we came to Belle Plaine. He had recently purchased a nice ranch style house in town, planning to retire here from his native Chicago. But he had some loose ends to tie up there and it would be a year before he and his wife, Peg, would be ready to move. So we leased this fine home for a year and with the lease came an acquaintance with a really unique character. In fact, that could be said of his wife as well.

My first impression of Fred, especially once I learned a little bit about his background, was that this person was too real to be real. He seemed like a character from Central Casting. That short stature, gray mustache and hair to match, slightly gruff manner of speech and that ever-present twinkle in his eye had “Chicago firefighter” written all over him. Of course, we learned that he was much more than a 30-year veteran of the fire department. He was also a plasterer and trade union member and inventor with four patents.

We had a unique arrangement. We had a comfortable, modern place to live. Meanwhile, Fred was making periodic trips from Chicago to Belle Plaine, bringing loads of things, especially tools, etc, which he stored neatly in the two-car garage. It seemed that he liked to stock up on such things and though we had an understanding that we would not disturb what he brought, I will now admit that I sneaked a peak once in awhile.

Once he and Peg moved here, many of us in town quickly learned that they would not be content with living a quiet life in their new home. They soon learned the secret to small town living which I have also learned. If you take the time to go out and meet people, you will see them often and they will, for the most part, return your friendly overtures.

Fred loved a good parade. He especially looked forward to the Fourth of July and spent time decorating his Jeep Wagoner and proudly drove as an entry in the parade.

He also was proud of so many of us here in town and let the world know it by the wonderful letters to the editor he would write. When I worked at the newspaper, I was usually the one to computer typeset the letters we got. Some of them were rambling opinions that I didn't share. When those letters hit my desk, I had a “here we go again” attitude and got through them as quickly as possible. But when we got a letter from Fred, you knew he was writing about something he observed in town. They were usually very uplifting and when you got finished reading them, you felt better about living here.

Fred passed away late last week, nearly five years after the death of his wife of 63 years. Quite often when someone passes on, you may say that the world was a better place because he lived. Fred touched so many lives in a positive way, we were all better off for having known him.

Thank you Fred.

Fred Fredericks was a proud Army veteran of World War II, having served in the Pacific Theater. He was also later a member of the local American Legion and attended many of its functions. And that's where the connection between the two items I am writing about comes in.

I never served in the military, but I was always led to believe that when you enlisted, whether it was in the regular military or even the National Guard, Uncle Sam made sure you were clothed and fed for the time you were on duty. But I spoke to a mother of a recruit who says this may not be the case. She said her child has been in basic training and advanced training out east. Her child was surprised to find more than $500 deducted from an initial paycheck. It was explained to this soldier that recruits were charged for their meals while in training. What's more, they would also be deducting additional money for the price of uniforms. Besides that, when this recruit got the uniform, the boots were grossly undersized!

This mother confirmed this in speaking with her child's superiors. In fact, the head honcho at the base seemed unaware of the unhealthy conditions in some of the barracks and promised to correct the problems. But he also hinted that the soldier might have some restricted privileges for being a whistle blower. This prompted a vow from this mother that if this occurred, her next call would be to the White House!

Like I said, I never served in the military. But I have been a taxpayer for decades. So in a very small way, I helped hire these soldiers and sailors. I was confident that part of that enlistment would surely include government-paid uniforms and meals and safe places to sleep. I realize that many of these men and women would eventually encounter tough living conditions in Afghanistan and Iraq, some more than once. But wouldn't it stand to reason that they should have clean living conditions and food and uniforms without having to pay for them out of their meager pay?

I realize that there might be another side to this story. I hope this might be an isolated incident. But if this is the norm, then I encourage any young person contemplating a military career to carefully read the contract, especially the fine print, before signing.

I have long been a proponent of taking care of our military. If we are going to commit to fighting wars, we need an equal commitment to returning members of the military so that they receive any and all physical and mental care they may need. Although we can't expect to pay them on equal footing with a union auto worker, we should also pay them enough that their families aren't forced to seek other government aid during deployment.

Make sure you are financially able to fight a war before committing to it!

Some books on my favorites list

By Jeff Orvis

A few days ago, I was challenged by friend Dawn Pettengill to list 10 books that have had meaning for me. I noticed that some others have chosen the classics, or the Bible. Perhaps because I was in the business of writing thousands of words each week, printing them and then starting all over again, it's tough to remember some certain books.

When I was faced with this challenge, I also remember a time when I was growing up when we would receive a Christmas card and letter each year from a distant cousin who made sure we were informed about what her daughter had read that year. I suppose she thought she was being helpful for her culturally unwashed relations way out in the sticks in Iowa. But after a while, I began to wonder just who died and made her the ultimate authority on what I should read.

So I am offering that as a disclaimer. You may have read some of the books I am going to list or you may want to read some of them. But if you think my taste in the printed word is strange or stupid, I won't be offended.

I like to read a range of books, as can be seen by the boxes and boxes of books and magazines I still have in storage. Whenever I hear of a book sale, such as the one our local library conducts a couple of times a year, I literally almost have to hide my own car keys to keep from adding to my library!

I am currently reading a book entitled “A Place in the Woods,” by Helen Hoover. It was written nearly 40 years ago by a lady who gave up a career as an engineer in Chicago to move with her husband to a cabin just off the Gunflint Trail north of Duluth. My dad loved that part of the country and loved to take scenic photographs of the area. On one of his trips, he discovered that cabin on the shore of Gunflint Lake. He found out who had lived there and contacted Ade and Helen Hoover. He asked for permission to photograph their cabin.

They became friends and on another trip north, my dad and I found that cabin and took several pictures of it. I still have several of those prints he framed well over 30 years ago. I also inherited several books she wrote on her experiences. Sit down with that book and in no time you are transported to a quieter, simpler time before cell phones, the internet and even before color TV.

Another book that had an impact on me is called “The Sacred Acre,” by Mark Tabb. Anyone who has followed high school football in Eastern Iowa for a number of years has heard about the success of the Aplington-Parkersburg High School team and its coach, Ed Thomas. This book talks about the profound impact Thomas had on his community, as it bounced back from a devastating tornado in 2008. Even as his own house was in ruins, he pledged that the team would play on its home field that season, a field townsfolk nicknamed “The Sacred Acre.”

Thomas was gunned down by a deranged former student in the school's weight room one morning. The book talks about how the town rebounded from the tornado and how the residents then had to cope with the loss of their beloved coach. Thomas loved his family, his players, his church and his community. This story does a great job describing this incredible man.

On a more recreational and less inspirational front, whenever I see a book by John Grisham, I have to at least stop and see if it is something I've read or should read. Grisham is an attorney who writes a lot of fiction on the legal field. But he has also branched out to one or two books on sports and even a few nonfiction works. I recently finished a nonfiction work entitled “The Innocent Man.” It told the story of a young drifter who was accused of a rape and murder in Oklahoma. The book is an indictment of the legal system in some areas of small town America. The man was ultimately freed from his death row stay, but not until his life was in ruins from misdiagnosed mental illness and other mistreatment. This book should make you mad and at least will make you think twice before you travel to Ada, OK.

I have also read several books by the late Robert B. Parker. He died a few years ago, found slumped over his keyboard. Robert Urich starred in a TV series “Spenser for Hire,” the story of a fictional private investigator based on one of Parker's characters. Another one of his characters is Sunny Randall, another private investigator with her share of personal crises. More recently, the character of Jesse Stone, a police chief in a small eastern coastal town, was adapted for several TV movies starring Tom Selleck.

Parker also wrote a few books about the old west. Since I've not read all of those, maybe that's where I have to look next.

I am also a fan of autobiographies of interesting people. Some of those people have included Helen Thomas, the former UPI White House correspondent who covered several presidents; Barbra Walters, Bill Clinton, Hillary Clinton, Ted Kennedy and even George W. Bush.

I also read the autobiography of Walter Mondale. It was neat reading a book by a former senator, vice president and foreign ambassador after I had the opportunity to sit down for coffee with him during a stop in Belle Plaine several years ago. It's similar to the fun I am having with the current book I am reading about that cabin in the woods. It means more after having seen it, even if that trip was nearly 40 years ago.

I realize that many people who have accepted this challenge have listed the Bible as one of the books that had the most influence on their lives. I have to admit that I have not read that book from cover to cover. But I have several friends who are members of the clergy who have done a good job of reading passages to me each week. I hope to get to that book sooner rather than later.

Some people won't read some books because they claim they know how it ends. If you are familiar with the Bible, you realize that it ends with the Book of Revelation. Unless you have spent years in seminary, you may not truthfully be able to say how it all ends.

Happy reading!