If you walk through the tunnel at Darrell K Royal-Texas Memorial Stadium in Austin, you’ll see every Longhorn player reach up to touch a large, black-and-white photo of a smiling young man in a number 28 jersey. That’s Freddie Steinmark. To some, he’s just a movie character from My All American. To others, he’s a tragic sports figure. But who was Freddie Steinmark really?
Honestly, he was a kid from Colorado who wasn't supposed to be there. He was 5'9" on a good day and barely tipped the scales at 160 pounds. In the world of Division I college football, especially in the late 1960s, guys like that were usually tackling dummies, not starting safeties for the best team in the country. Yet, Freddie didn't just play; he became the heartbeat of a national championship squad while a tumor the size of a grapefruit was literally eating his leg from the inside out.
The Undersized Dynamo from Wheat Ridge
Freddie grew up in Wheat Ridge, Colorado, and basically lived for three things: faith, family, and football. He was a straight-A student (later a chemical engineering major, which isn't exactly "football player light") and a three-sport star. But his size was a massive problem. Most big-time recruiters looked at his frame and walked away. They saw a "water boy" build.
Darrell Royal, the legendary Texas coach, saw something else. He saw a kid who never took a play off. Royal took a gamble on the "scrappy" kid, and Freddie repaid him by becoming a starting safety as a sophomore. By 1969, Texas was a juggernaut. They were running the "Wishbone" offense and steamrolling everyone. Freddie was the defensive signal-caller—the brain of the secondary.
Playing Through the Unthinkable: The 1969 Season
Throughout the 1969 season, Freddie started feeling a dull ache in his left knee. He didn't complain. That wasn't the "football way" back then. He told himself it was just a bruise or a strain. He used analgesic balm, taped it up, and kept hitting people.
By the time the "Game of the Century" against No. 2 Arkansas rolled around on December 6, 1969, the pain was agonizing. It was the kind of pain that keeps you up at 3:00 a.m. staring at the ceiling. President Richard Nixon was in the stands. The national title was on the line. Freddie played nearly the whole game, hobbling but refusing to come out until the very end. Texas won 15-14.
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Six days later, everything changed.
The Diagnosis That Shocked the Nation
Freddie finally went to the doctor after the Arkansas game because the pain had become unbearable. They took an X-ray. What they found was a "spot" just above his left knee. It wasn't a bruise. It was osteosarcoma—a malignant bone cancer.
The doctors told him the leg had to go. Immediately.
On December 12, 1969, just a week after winning the biggest game of his life, Freddie Steinmark had his left leg amputated at the hip. He was 20 years old.
The Cotton Bowl and the "War on Cancer"
Most people would have stayed in bed. Not Freddie. On New Year’s Day, 1970—less than three weeks after losing his leg—Freddie appeared on the sidelines of the Cotton Bowl on crutches. He stood there in the cold, cheering as Texas beat Notre Dame to solidify their National Championship. That image of the one-legged athlete in a heavy coat and a Longhorn hat became one of the most iconic photos in sports history.
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But his impact went way beyond the football field. Freddie didn't just "go away" to die. He became a public face for the American Cancer Society. He wrote an autobiography called I Play to Win. He talked to the media with a smile that made people forget he was fighting for his life.
"I want to be a coach. I want to help kids. I’m not going to let this stop me." — Paraphrased sentiment Freddie shared frequently during his final months.
President Nixon was so moved by Freddie’s grit that it actually helped push the National Cancer Act of 1971 through Congress. When Nixon signed it, launching the "War on Cancer," Freddie Steinmark’s name was mentioned as a primary inspiration. He wasn't just a football player anymore; he was a catalyst for medical history.
What Most People Get Wrong About Freddie
Because of the movie, some people think Freddie was a perfect, almost saintly figure who never struggled. That’s a bit of a Hollywood gloss.
- The Breakup: He actually broke up with his high school sweetheart, Linda Wheeler, for a period because he was scared of what his diagnosis meant for her future. He eventually realized he couldn't live without her, and they got back together, even getting engaged before he passed.
- The NFL Dream: The movie makes it look like he was a lock for the pros. Realistically? Most scouts thought he was too small for the NFL. His "All-American" status was more about his heart and academic standing than a pro-scout’s checklist.
- The Pain: We often gloss over how much he suffered. Osteosarcoma in the late 60s was a death sentence. There was no targeted therapy. He endured brutal chemotherapy that made his hair fall out and his body wither, yet he still showed up to practice to help coach the freshmen.
Why Who Was Freddie Steinmark Still Matters in 2026
Freddie died on June 6, 1971. He was only 22. But if you look at the survival rates for osteosarcoma today, they’ve skyrocketed. In 1969, it was a 15-20% survival rate. Today, thanks to the research funding Freddie helped spark, it's closer to 70%.
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He’s the reason the "Steinmark Scoreboard" exists at Texas. He's the reason there's an annual award for the top scholar-athlete in Colorado. He proved that "heart" isn't just a sports cliché—it's a literal force of nature that can change federal law.
Practical Lessons from Freddie’s Life
If you’re looking for a "takeaway" from Freddie's story, it's not just about "trying hard." It’s about:
- Advocating for your health: Freddie played through pain that would have stopped most people, but his delay in seeing a doctor (while culturally expected then) is a reminder to listen to your body now.
- Legacy through attitude: You can't control the "diagnosis" life gives you, but you can control whether you show up to the "Cotton Bowl" of your own life.
- The power of a single story: One kid from Wheat Ridge changed how the U.S. government funded cancer research. Your voice has more weight than you think.
To dive deeper into the technical side of his legacy, you can look up the National Cancer Act of 1971 records or read his autobiography, I Play to Win, which offers a raw look at his mindset during those final months.
Next Steps for You:
If you want to see the visual history, I recommend checking out the 1969 "Game of the Century" highlights on YouTube to see #28 in action before the diagnosis. You can also visit the University of Texas Athletics website to see the "Freddie Steinmark Fund" which continues to provide scholarships for athletes who embody his spirit.