The first of my “bigger than life moments” of the football variety didn’t occur while standing beside the Minnesota Vikings at Metropolitan Stadium or the Golden Gophers at Memorial Stadium. Those players and venues were out of reach.  

Other football players —less notable but just as inspirational and more relatable —were definitely accessible to this impressionable small-town boy.  I’d waited in line behind them at the Dairy Queen.  I’d seen them arriving at Harbor Theater wearing their lettermen’s jackets.  They were at Lakeview Park for the Independence Day celebrations in July, then walking the frenzied First Avenue during  “Crazy Days” in August.  The sons of school teachers, railroad workers, store owners, and even the mayor’s boys.  Ordinary guys from my town—and even as a third grader, it was definitely “my town.”  My perspective of them changed on Friday nights, when they put on those maroon-and-white uniforms—from ordinary to extraordinary—the original Transformers. 

Understanding the world involved more outside exploration than inside contemplation in our era. A youngster, after all, could only spend so much time flipping the pages of the World Book encyclopedia. Our version of social networking consisted of something best categorized as “a wide-ranging scale of general, outdoor mischief.” Most of it was legal.  Some, by today’s standards, unthinkable.

On Friday nights, one trail of curiosity led to the football field.  There, we were presented with one of countless “You mean, I can grow up to do that someday?” lessons.  At halftime, I stood on the hill to watch them run in and out of the warming house of the outdoor skating rink, which also served as the football locker room. White pants with maroon-and-gold stripes.  Maroon jerseys with gold, embroidered numbers. Jersey numbers stickered on the sides of the helmets, just like that team down in Alabama. It looked like fun. Would I ever become big enough—good enough—to wear one of those uniforms? 

This seemed unattainable.  

Soon after that, the cheerleaders caught my attention.  

Definitely unattainable.  

I don’t remember the score of a single game. I only remember feeling that somehow, someday, I wanted to be part of all of that—part of the team led by Coach Charlie Halsted.

Several years later, I was. 

Charles Halsted was born in Cloverton, Minnesota, only a mile from becoming a badger instead of a gopher.  Today, Cloverton isn’t a small town.  It’s a country road intersection, not much more.  A drive from Cloverton westward to the nearest “big” city—Askov—population 337, consists of a 12-mile stretch of organized dirt, quaintly named Rutabaga Road.  

Charlie’s parents eventually moved the family to Brainerd, where he spent his childhood traversing Washington Street. After a long day of escapades with friends like Tom Hegstad, Charlie had no trouble finding his home—it was the only one in town with the family name appended to it in large block lettering:

HALSTED GROCERY

Later in life, it would be easy for him to find his way home again.  The boy–born in something better resembling a field than a town– now had one of those fields named after him. Many young men entered this field—seeking direction—where do I go?  Charlie provided the direction they sought. Now, many return once each year. They know where they are when they arrive.  Still, the large block lettering reminds them:

HALSTED FIELD

Charlie Halsted rose from the humblest of beginnings to eternal notoriety. How does this happen?  I should know. I had a front-row seat to observe the requisites he possessed. It wasn’t a single trait. He was more than that:

• Presence
• Leader
• Communicator
• Caring
• Credibility
• Teacher 
• Motivator
• Intelligent
• Humorous
• Passionate
• Fastidious 
• Fair

The term “comfort zone” wasn’t yet en vogue, but moving out of one comfort zone to the next, and the next, was what playing for him was all about.  The status quo was a no-go zone.  Another zone, simplistically and symbolically defined him—that was the end zone.  He masterfully taught us how to get in there and how to keep others out.  

Charlie, like the rest of us, wasn’t perfect. But he and a long line of assistants established a winning culture. We wanted nothing more than to be part of it. I saw it as a boy, experienced it as an athlete, and then had a brief look behind the curtain as an assistant coach.

My dream came true.

With age comes perspective.  Earning the right to play on that team once seemed impossible.  Then it happened.  Years later, it’s easy to think, “It was only high school football.”  I’d be remiss to be so dismissive. Each year of existence on that solid foundation lifted us higher, elevating us as young men while lowering the hurdles we’d face as adults.

It was a game, but it wasn’t only a game.