Small-Town Boy’s Hero Is Quietly Fulfilling the Role

Local heroes are hard to come by in Nebraska farm towns of 200 people, so as a kid in Marquette, Neb., in the late 1950s, I kept a scrapbook of national sports figures. Page after page of photos from newspapers and magazines, meticulously cut out and pasted on . . . that was my main connection with heroic people.

On a more flesh-and-blood level was a local kid named Todd Ferguson, a crew-cut son of the town banker and a very good athlete. He was six grades ahead of me and, well, you take your heroes where you find them. He played varsity basketball as a freshman. He was a crack quarter-miler in track. He was an excellent baseball player.

Most important, Todd didn’t seem to mind hanging around with me, although I was still in grade school and he was in high school. That he had a crush on my sister and that Dad was the coach and school superintendent never registered with me as a possible motive for his interest.

Besides, who cared? He’d occasionally buy me a chocolate malt at the town cafe. He’d let me listen to Kingston Trio records in his basement. I guess you could say he played big brother Wally to my Beaver. One hot day we were walking the dusty streets of Marquette, and I let fly with a wad of spittle. I was probably all of 10 years old but already proud of both my spitting trajectory and velocity, until Todd said something like, “It’s not cool to spit.” I never did it again in his presence.

We left Marquette when I was 11. As superintendent/coach, Dad left behind some kids he fondly recalled the rest of his life, and Todd was surely among the first order of them. Todd went to the same small college Dad attended, went into the Marines as Dad had and, to complete the cycle, also became an educator and coach.

About three years ago, I hooked up again with Todd. The kid was now a family man in his 40s, living in Tustin, married and the father of two daughters. Besides doing some coaching, he was a junior high science teacher.

Two years ago my parents came to visit. Dad was in ever-failing health, and he wanted to make sure he and Todd got together. Todd and his wife, Gwen, came over for a delightful Sunday afternoon, talking about Marquette days, taking photos and chronicling the years in between. Dad died a year later, in January of 1993, and Todd was one of his old “kids” whom I made sure to notify.

By sheer coincidence, I saw the Fergusons last Friday night. Out of the blue I suggested we go see a high school basketball game, something I hadn’t done in years. We went to a game at Tustin High School, where their daughter Sara is a sophomore. In the stands, I had no trouble conjuring up mental images of a lean Todd Ferguson running up and down the Marquette gym floor 35 years earlier.

At their home afterward, while we ate cherry pie and watched Dan Jansen win his Olympics gold medal, Todd packed for a trip to Washington, D.C., where he and three of his students from Bernardo Yorba Junior High would compete in a national science contest.

He talked excitedly about the trip, and I made a mental note to call when he got back to see how they fared.

I didn’t need to. On the front page of the Thursday Times was a headline, “Yorba Linda Teens’ City of Future Takes Design Honor.”

Todd’s kids had won first place.

It was hard not to feel great pride for the crew-cut kid from little ol’ Marquette, toiling all these years quietly and anonymously, but now tasting the fruits of acclaim. Knowing Todd, he’ll give all the credit to the students.

So I called his principal, Richard Vouga. “The wonderful thing about Todd,” Vouga said, “is that like so many other teachers, he puts in so much extra time with kids, weekend excursions, all kind of things, doing things that are not notorious, but time after time helping kids. Getting this kind of notoriety, I can’t tell you how good I feel about it.”

I know exactly what he means.

I mentioned our family’s longstanding connection with Todd.

“I know he told me about some coach he had who put some kind of imprint on his life,” Vouga said.

Yeah, that was probably my father, I said.

“Didn’t Todd visit him a year or so ago, after he hadn’t seen him for a long time?” Vouga asked.

Yeah, I said, recounting the Sunday afternoon visit. “I’m surprised that Todd would have mentioned that to you,” I said.

“Well, it made such an impression on him that he came back to school on Monday morning and told his principal about it,” Vouga said.

I couldn’t be happier to trumpet Todd’s success, although he’ll probably never forgive me for doing it in print. In many ways, he represents all the teachers who put in the free time, pay for school supplies out of their own pocket and want nothing more than a generation of successful students.

It’s impossible for me to think of Todd without thinking of how connected he and Dad were.

“Passing the torch” is the phrase, I think.

Well done, Todd. You have handled the torch with care.

Dad would have been quite proud.

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by writing to him at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7821.