100 Years Anniversary of the Lettermen of the USA 🇺🇸 /DEC 2,111

This piece is a tribute—not just to a legacy, but to the quiet, powerful ways small acts of honor can echo across generations. It envisions a future where the values of service, gratitude, and community remain strong, a century after they were first ignited. While the story draws from real people and moments, it’s ultimately a work of reflection on how the choices we make today might carry forward in ways we can’t always see.

It’s not meant to spotlight any one person, but rather to honor the spirit of collective purpose that organizations like the Lettermen of the USA represent. If this story resonates, I hope it does so as a celebration of all those who consistently show up for others.

Snow fell in thick, relentless curtains over Birmingham, Alabama, cloaking the city in a hush that felt almost sacred on the night of December 17, 2111. The air pulsed with anticipation as the centennial ceremony of the Lettermen of the USA commenced. Holographic lights carved through the night in bold streaks of red, white, and blue, their reflections dancing off the sleek towers that had risen from the bones of the old steel city.

Tonight marked a hundred years since Darryl Fuhrman, alongside Desmond Holoman and Todd Boland, had founded the Lettermen of the USA in December 2021—a mission born of heart and honor, dedicated to uplifting veterans, wounded warriors, and their families. A mission that hadn’t just endured, but flourished.

At the city’s heart stood the Lettermen Tower, a gleaming monolith of glass and steel glowing defiantly against the snow-choked sky. Its surface shimmered with projections of Darryl, Desmond, and Todd—faces of fire and conviction—flanked by the modern stewards of their legacy. Below, a sea of people gathered, their breath rising in silvery plumes, their eyes reflecting pride and purpose.

Among them stood Xavier Fuhrman. Thirty-two. Lean. Green-eyed. His black hair shot through with silver and a sleek prosthetic leg humming faintly beneath his coat. A veteran of the Orbital Wars of the 2090s—and the great-great-grandson of Darryl Fuhrman. For Xavier, tonight wasn’t just a ceremony. It was inheritance. It was blood.

He’d grown up on these stories—tales passed down like sacred scripture beside a crackling fire, his grandmother’s voice rich with reverence. But one moment always rose above the rest: October 2011, Birmingham Airport.

He could still see it.

Darryl, broad-shouldered and resolute, standing in the terminal as jet engines roared like distant thunder. In his hands, an autographed football—signed by Auburn legends Pat Sullivan and Casey Dunn. Across from him: Josh Wetzel, a young veteran just home, rolling up the gangplank in a wheelchair, his wife steady at his side. Josh had lost both legs in a war already fading from public memory. But that day, he rose—gripping the armrests, jaw set—determined to meet Darryl eye to eye.

A hush fell over the terminal. United States Senator Richard Shelby was there, pressed and polished in the sticky Alabama heat, along with stunned business travelers frozen mid-commute. Then Darryl’s voice cut through it all, low and firm, full of warmth: “Josh, if you don’t mind an old Alabama football player giving you a gift from a couple of Auburn greats—I’d be honored. Welcome home.”

Josh took the ball. His fingers brushed the leather as an exuberant smile went across his face.

The terminal exploded with applause—a wave of emotion crashing through the space, drowning out even the jet engines. Josh’s wife clutched his shoulder, eyes shimmering. Senator Shelby nodded gravely. Even the briefcase-toting crowd clapped with an intensity that surprised them.

A moment of pure, unscripted humanity took place, which simultaneously was a seed of something bigger.

Two months later, the Lettermen of the USA was born.

Now, a hundred years on, Xavier stood in the snow, that spark still burning in his chest. His salt-and-pepper hair dusted with flakes, he watched as the night came alive. A fleet of drones rose into the sky, humming softly. Their lights formed the Lettermen of the USA emblem—a stylized envelope crossed with a laurel branch—glowing like a beacon against the dark.

Then a voice rang out, deep and sonorous, cutting through the cold.

All eyes turned to the tower’s entrance, where Director Angie Boland emerged—her silver hair pulled back in a no-nonsense knot, her presence sharp as a blade in the swirling snow. In her hands, she held Darryl’s leather journal, cracked and weathered, each page a living relic.

As she opened it and began to read, Xavier felt time fold in on itself.

The past was here. The legacy is alive.

And he, a living thread in its tapestry, stood ready to carry it forward.