The year was 1970. I was a third-grade student at Morrison Elementary.
“Bridge over Troubled Water” and “War” filled the turbulent airwaves, while angry Ohio University protestors pounded the cobblestone streets of my quaint Appalachian hometown.
But I was oblivious.
All I could think about was sports.
I was destined to become a professional sports hero.

During my childhood, I stayed true to my dream. When I graduated from Athens High School, I was awarded a college basketball scholarship. But my dream of becoming a professional athlete slowly faded.
I had to face the sober reality: Little Appalachian towns don’t produce sports heroes.

Thirty-five years later, another third grader enrolled at Morrison Elementary. Joe’s family had just moved from Fargo, North Dakota.

“Boulevard of Broken Dreams” and “Mr. Brightside” filled the air on football Saturdays, while Joe watched his dad roam the sidelines of Peden Stadium as Ohio University’s new defensive coordinator.

Like me, Joe was obsessed with sports and dreamed of becoming a pro sports hero. Baseball, basketball or football. He wasn’t picky. But unlike me, it was clear to everyone in Athens that he could make his dream come true in any of these sports.

“From the time he was young, we would stand back and watch other kids just flock to him without saying a word,” recalls Jeff Skinner, Joe’s high school basketball coach. “It was just uncanny. Joe was like this little sports prophet. And he didn’t even know it.”

While earning all-state honors in basketball, he ultimately chose football and was named the Ohio High School Player of the Year. His senior season in college, Joe won the prestigious Heisman Trophy while leading Louisiana State University to a national championship.

Three months later, he was selected with the number one pick in the NFL draft by his home state Cincinnati Bengals. In his second season Joe Burrow came within one play of guiding the franchise to its first Super Bowl title.

Joe proved me wrong. Little Appalachian towns can produce professional sports heroes.
Through Joe Burrow, my childhood dream was rekindled and realized, albeit vicariously.

After the Bengals’ Super Bowl run, the Burrow family authorized me to write Joe’s biography. I went back to Athens to tell Joe’s remarkable story through the eyes of our shared hometown. I interviewed more than 60 people—family, friends, teachers, and coaches.

There were lots of sports memories shared, but what stood out was Joe’s unwavering connection to his Appalachian roots.

This was never more evident than the night Joe accepted the Heisman Trophy in New York City. Instead of focusing on himself, Joe used his platform to shine a light on food insecurity in Athens County.

“Coming from Southeast Ohio, it’s a very impoverished area. The poverty rate is almost two times the national average. There’re so many people there that don’t have a lot. I’m up here for all those kids in Athens and Athens County that go home—not a lot of food on the table, hungry after school. You guys can be up here, too.”

While Joe covered a lot of ground in his 17-minute speech, those heartfelt 31 seconds were the most impactful as evidenced by the spontaneous outpouring of calls that flooded the Athens County Food Pantry the coming days and weeks.

Heading into Heisman weekend, the food pantry had an annual budget of $70,000. By the time the dust settled, more than $2 million had been donated.

“Joe’s message was about hunger and kids not having enough food, but the overarching message that I took from that speech was the idea of hope,” says Karin Bright, President of the Athens County Food Pantry. “There’s hope. You can do this. I’m up here for you. You can be here too.”

Today, the Joe Burrow Foundation awards a million dollars in grants annually for food insecurity and mental health in Athens County, Cincinnati and Louisiana.

Kids in Athens County still dream of becoming a professional sports hero. The next Joe Burrow.

But Joe’s real contribution? He’s a prophet of hope.

And that’s what a true hero looks like to me.