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Fathers hover on the periphery, wincing with every missed tackle and dropped pass.Into this tableau ambles a tall man with faded-orange hair cropped close around a crowning bald spot, giving him the aspect of a tonsured monk. Somebody tosses him a football, like a speaking stick. I played waaaay before you guys were even born." Without his sunglasses, resting now atop his head, his blue eyes look pale and unsure.Once a summer beach shack, it had been converted over the years into two stories, four bedrooms. In high school, she held several swimming records in the butterfly.The Pacific Ocean was two long blocks from the front deck; Newport Harbor was two short blocks from the back door, its docks crowded with yachts and pontoon party boats. A prototype of the late-fifties California girl, Trudi was a Delta Gamma sorority sister at USC; she quit college after her sophomore year to marry the captain of the football team. Henry Fertig, was the police chief of nearby Huntington Park.Louis Cardinals, had done a stint with the World Football League's Hawaiians.As Marv sorted out his work status, his family of four was living with the maternal grandparents in a little clapboard house on the Balboa Peninsula.Originally published in the May 2009 issue The Fallbrook Midget Chiefs are fanned out across the field on a sunny autumn day in southern California, two dozen eighth graders in red helmets and bulbous pads.Whistles trill and coaches bark, mothers camp in folding chairs in the welcoming shade of the school building, younger siblings romp.

The Chief, as he was known to all, was the "most visible of all the Trojan alums," according to The Orange County Register. (After the Chief's death in 1997, at the age of eighty, the alumni laid a brass plaque on the hallowed spot.) The Chief's son was Craig Fertig, a former USC quarterback, responsible for one of the greatest Trojan victories of all time, a comeback against undefeated Notre Dame in 1964. was a general in the Russian army, a cruel man who'd overseen the battlefield amputation of his own arm. One exercise, he says: eleven-hundred-pound squats, with the bar full of forty-five-pound plates, with hundred-pound dumbbells chained and hanging on the ends because he couldn't get any more plates to fit. "I hadn't yet figured out that speed and flexibility were more important than weight and bulk.

Howard was bored with his call and hung up on him so Robin could start her news.

She did a quick news segment and Howard ended the show around am.

Years later, an ESPN columnist would name Marv number two on a list of "worst sports fathers." (After Jim Pierce, father of tennis player Mary, famous for verbally abusing opponents during matches.) At the moment, Marv is sitting at the back of the Chiefs gathering, resting his bum knee, eating an organic apple. It's quite an experience playing in front of a hundred thousand people. Everyone is holding their breath, wondering, What's he gonna do next? Here's a name you'll recognize: I was drafted ahead of Brett Favre in the 1991 draft. I made some amazing friends — we're still in touch."Todd surveys the young faces before him. "You said you only played three years in the NFL," the boy says, more a statement than a question. The Newport Beach Cheyennes were scrimmaging the best fourth-grade Pop Warner team in Orange County. Todd was nine years old, playing his first year of organized tackle football.

Nearly seventy, he has bull shoulders and a nimbus of curly gray hair. In about a minute, he has summarized the entire first half of his life. "Correctamundo," Todd replies, at ease now, playing to the crowd, not really thinking about what's coming next — which has always been his biggest strength and maybe also his biggest weakness. Todd was the quarterback, a twig figure with flaming-orange hair.

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