I freaking love your last line.Like most kids of the 50s and 60s...I grew up surrounded by heroes. My Dad was one of them. I only wish I recognized it back then. I had an uncle who left one leg on the Ludendorf Bridge (at Remagen). He was only 19. Every winter my Dad's hands turned black, cracked and bled (after effects of frostbite from the Ardennes). Those guys had more dignity than to berate sport officials or coaches.