You know all about Ted Williams and Bob Feller and Warren Spahn. You've probably never heard of Jack Lummus and, unless you're from Big Ten country, Nile Kinnick.

In the fall of 1941, Lummus was a promising rookie with the NFL's New York Giants. One month after Pearl Harbor, he enlisted with the Marines. On Feb. 19, 1945, the 29-year-old first lieutenant landed in the first wave on Iwo Jima.

Two weeks later, after 48 straight hours of fighting, Lummus and his men found themselves pinned down by enemy fire from a network of entrenched positions. Despite being knocked down by a Japanese grenade, Lummus led a one-man assault and destroyed the enemy emplacement.

As his Medal of Honor citation notes, Lummus then came under fire by a second pillbox. Despite painful wounds to his shoulder, he destroyed that emplacement, too. When another devastating barrage halted his platoon, Lummus ran into the open again and single-handedly wiped out several enemy foxholes and spider traps.

As he cleared the way for his unit, Lummus stepped on a land mine, which blew off both of his legs. Later, at a battlefield aid station, he told the surgeon, "Well, doc, it looks like the Giants lost a mighty good end today." He died on the operating table.

Nile Kinnick won the Heisman Trophy at the University of Iowa in 1939, then enrolled in law school. He had the dashing looks of a movie star and the gifts of a natural orator. He was Phi Beta Kappa and president of the senior class. Many thought he would become governor of Iowa, as his grandfather had been. More than a few thought he would be president.

Four months before Pearl Harbor, he quit law school to join the Navy. Believing that America would inevitably be drawn into the war, he wrote his parents, "There is no reason in the world why we shouldn't fight for the preservation of a chance to live freely. No reason why we shouldn't suffer to uphold that which we want to endure."

In June of 1943, Kinnick's plane crashed during a training mission. For 30 years, his family refused to allow any formal tributes. They did not want his sacrifice to be distinguished from that of others.

Many others even better known served and came home. Ted Williams enlisted and became a pilot. Bob Feller commanded a gun battery on a ship. Jimmy Stewart, the movie star, flew bombers.

Now we've added Pat Tillman to this distinguished list. At the zenith of his NFL career, Tillman quit the Arizona Cardinals and joined the Army after 9/11. He died in Afghanistan.

We rightly celebrate Tillman as a hero. But on Memorial Day, I found myself asking whether his sacrifice was so conspicuous because it seems unimaginable today for someone in his elite position to give up what he did.

It's fair to wonder whether high-profile athletes, comfortably focused on their own lifestyles and careers, once again hold up mirrors to our society, just as they did to the Greatest Generation. At a time when the ranks of American combat units increasingly are filled with foreigners (as were the ranks of the legions during Rome's decline), is it fair to wonder whether we're still up for any national challenge that demands real sacrifice?

I don't know. But perhaps one way to produce more Pat Tillmans is to ensure that Americans always know about the Jack Lummuses and Nile Kinnicks.

Stan the Man

Longtime readers may recall that undeclared, NBA-based candidates for president/national savior—including Phil Jackson and Larry Joe Bird—have periodically received endorsements in this space. (Unfortunately, they have declined to run.) Now, I'm pinning my hopes on Stan Van Gundy.

Stan the Man surpassed Zen-master Phil on my list thanks to a powerful speech he delivered last week that left the media stupefied. He gave his stump oration as his team, the Miami Heat, prepared to visit Detroit in the NBA's Eastern Conference Finals.

"Detroit," said Van Gundy, "even in the regular season, has a particularly nasty crowd. They're not just loud. Those people will say anything and do anything."

To appreciate why this speech was as radical as Lincoln's address at Gettysburg, you have to understand the cliché-infested sea of blandness from which it arose. Milking a she-bear is easier than prizing a bulletin-board quote from the lips of a professional sports coach.

Most coaches entertain at least fleeting thoughts of killing players who furnish opponents with motivational fodder. No coach in his right mind would provide a bulletin-board quote himself—especially just before a big game on the other team's floor.

Cue Van Gundy, who often on the sidelines looks like smoking Mount St. Helen's just before it cracked. But one big thing separates Stan from coaches who have regretted opening their mouths. He got away with it. Although he was roundly booed in Detroit during Game 3, the Heat walked out with a W. But even had his team been defeated soundly, and even if Detroit's players had said the difference was the home crowd that Van Gundy stirred up, Stan would still have my endorsement.

The Man is not afraid to speak the truth. Is there anyone out there, at least outside of Detroit, who really believes that Van Gundy misrepresented Pistons' fans? You know, those lovable suburbanites who threw the cup that started the fight that led folks to come out of the stands to kung fu the Indiana Pacers?

Imagine what it would be like to have a political leader who wasn't afraid to throw politically incorrect truths into the public arena. Such as: Congress is for sale; Democrats and Republicans would rather bash each other than team up to fix anything; and, in a just universe, Kentucky and Indiana basketball fans would be locked in a room together for eternity.

When Stan admonished Shaquille O'Neal for not pushing harder, Shaq gently reminded his coach that a big dog must pace himself. That Stan backed off tells me he's secure enough to bow to the wisdom of others.

Stan doesn't look presidential. That's another reason he should be president. He's seems permanently rumpled. He looks as if a light jog around the court would leave him winded. I say having a president who looks like Lumpy Lombardo would show the world that we're still self-confident enough to elect an ugly commander-in-chief.

Finally, President Stan's administration could include his even uglier brother, Jeff, in an RFK-esque turn as attorney general. Just like Bobby took on Jimmy Hoffa, Jeff could continue his campaign against the heinous crimes of NBA refs. Secretary of State Shaq could embody our policy of walking softly while carrying a gi-normous stick. And just like suspect control can be an asset for a fastball pitcher, maybe it's not a bad idea to have a president who everyone knows is just a little bit crazy.