Let's Pause to Celebrate a Man of Action

A big battle last week in college football was over an eye gouge and whether Tim Tebow was the victim of a late hit.

You'll forgive Bob Chappuis for not getting all caught up in it.

About 65 years ago, he was Tim Tebow. Only he spent his junior season trying to evade German patrols, not Georgia linebackers.

Those dastardly Bulldogs can be dangerous, of course. One hit Tebow late, providing Florida fans video evidence to use against Georgia fans that had gone YouTube crazy over Brandon Spikes' eye-gouge demonstration.

As serious as those issues were, the controversy was evidence how good we have it. Days like Wednesday should remind us why.

In case you haven't heard, it's Veterans Day. If people like Chappuis could only get the cheers they deserve.

Oh, he heard plenty of them in his day. But they faded long ago and now you have to be a Michigan fan or college football historian to recognize his name.

"I don't get around too well," the 86-year-old Chappuis said. "I gave up golf and hated it because I really enjoyed the game. Even if I wasn't very good at it."

Even if he'd been Tiger Woods, Chappuis wouldn't have said so. He belongs to a generation that believed in actions, not words.

Not that today's sports superstars don't believe in actions. It's just that a lot of them believe as much in celebrating their acts. They do a little dance, make a little love to themselves and get down with their Twitter followers.

If Twitter had been around in 1946, Chappuis would not have an account.

"Chappuis can still wear his regular size-seven headgear," an old newspaper story said.

His head never swelled, which happens when you're not the impressed with yourself. After defeating the Third Reich, beating USC just doesn't have the same impact.

Chappuis' war story started like millions of others. He was sitting around with friends when news of Pearl Harbor crackled over the radio.

"Well, boys," he said, "we'd better get ready because we're going."

Chappuis wasn't just one of the boys. He was the biggest man on Michigan's campus. It didn't matter. He enlisted and soon found himself flying combat missions over Europe.

His B-25 made it safely back to base the first 20 times. On unlucky mission No. 21, Chappuis was filling in for a sick crewmate. His plane was shot down and he bailed out.

He and two other crew members floated down and landed in a Corsican olive grove. The local resistance leader found them before the Germans did.

They played real-life hide-and-seek for three months, moving from hideaway to hideaway. Once they dressed in shawls and pretended to be old Italian women out for a walk. Fortunately, the German sentry didn't notice the combat boots they were wearing.

College football's most famous player ended up hiding in the upstairs bedroom belonging to the Ugolini family in Asola, Italy. It was two houses down from German headquarters.

"We just stayed quiet," Chappuis said.

They did so for three months. Then Allied tanks rolled into town. The Germans surrendered, and the people of Asola threw a party. Their honored guests were the ones they'd hidden.

The local orchestra played, the Stars and Stripes were raised over the church steeple and the soldiers danced the night away with the Ugolini daughters.

It could not have been more joyous if ESPN's GameDay had set up in the town square and Lee Corso put on an oversized George S. Patton head.

Where does a young man go from there?

Chappuis went back to Ann Arbor, only it wasn't quite the same.

"Why am I doing this?" he asked himself. "I don't need this. I've been through war, for heaven's sake."

Maybe that's why he didn't complain when he broke his wrist before his first game back. Chappuis didn't even tape it, but he still set a Big-10 record for total offense.

After the final game, he finally told the team doctor about his aching wrist. Chappuis had surgery and led the Wolverines to an unbeaten season in1947. He was a consensus All-American and the Rose Bowl MVP.

He made the cover of Time magazine. The title of the story was "The Specialist," because Chappuis was truly that.

He was one of college football's first great passers. That was even more impressive because he was a runner. Michigan ran an early version of the wildcat, where the running back took the snap and ran the show.

"He plays as though he has ice water in his veins," Coach Fritz Crisler said.

That was so long ago it wasn't a cliché. Chappuis finished second in the Heisman voting, which these days would make him the target of agents, women, Escalade salesmen and millions of fantasy-league geeks.

What it got him in 1948 was a $17,000-a-year contract with the All-American Football Conference. After a couple of years of that, Chappuis retired to a business career.

It's not that fans didn't worship athletes 50 years ago. Chappuis just never needed the adoration.

"It was interesting," he said. "But you can't buy groceries with that."

Chappuis has heard a lot of stories about himself over the years. I asked him if any of them were exaggerated or untrue. He paused.

"Well, no," he said.

That's about as close as he'll come to bragging.

His golf days are over, but Chappuis still makes it to Michigan Stadium to see his Wolverines. He loves the game as much as anyone. Just don't expect him to spend his free time debating Rich Rodriguez's coaching ability on the message boards.

That's for today's generation. Fans can argue over YouTube clips and celebrate a big win like it's V-E Day. Players can dance in the end zones and act as if they just saved the world.

At least one day a year we should remember it's all because of guys like Chappuis, a superstar who had more important things to do.