I first wrote this posting, titled The Man In the Hat, after meeting Fred Machol at the spring game in 2008. I am reposting it today in a tribute of Fred's memory and in thanks for his showing me what it truly means to be a Buckeye. To my knowledge, this was Fred's last time in Ohio Stadium and I am honored to have shared it with him.

His hat caught my eye, but it was his story that warmed my heart during yesterday's spring game.

It was halftime of the Lacrosse game and the gentleman was sitting on a motorized scooter parked on the walkway around the stadium. His daughter was on a folding chair beside him. From their vantage point at the west side of fifty-yard-line, it was obvious they had gotten there early.

Kneeling down beside him, I said, "My, what a hat that is." That's all it took for him to acknowledge me and begin his story. "The Hat" was a Veterans of Foreign Wars style hat. War medals and pins covered the right side, patches from the European Theatre of WWII the left. He told me his story began in 1934, when he enrolled at Ohio State during the depression. He was there for the Francis Schmidt era, attended the infamous '35 Notre Dame Game, and was involved with track and one time ran against none other than Jesse Owens. After graduating with a mining degree, he fought in Europe in the war that saved democracy.

As he was telling the many aspects of his Buckeye story, I was doing some mental math and figured his age to be somewhere around 92. He had come all the way from Texas to see this spring game, a game that sometimes the beat writers deride as a glorified practice. He had family in Columbus, and when they picked him up at the airport, they had made a tape for the car ride home. The first song on it was "I wanna go back to Ohio State, the old Columbus town..."

While his words were fascinating, a simple action told the real story. As we were talking, I heard the band on the field strike up the chimes for Carmen Ohio. I stood up and removed my hat. He stopped talking, leaned forward, and with both hands, firmly grasped the railing, diverting his attention from our conversation to the field. The band struck two more chimes. He thought a minute. The stadium was silent, the crowd standing. He had every right to remain seated, but then with great purpose, effort, and strain, he slowly and deliberately pulled himself up to stand at attention. He removed his hat and placed his hand over his heart. Together he and I sang Carmen Ohio. I did not turn to see if there were tears in his eyes, partly because I did not want to embarrass him and partly because I didn't want him to see the ones trickling down my cheeks. When it was over, he turned to me and said simply "I love this place".

I have heard or read many times people try to explain 'What it means to be a Buckeye'. None have done it as remarkably and simply as this gentleman did yesterday. Who is this man? What is the rest of his story? You will find it in Stories of the Shoe.