In 1922, the Iowa State community was brave. We were trend-setters, a group who kicked prejudice in the face, who knew right from wrong and opted for the right.

Sure, we took some hits. Some teams refused to play us. Others flat-out attacked our star player.

But we stood firm, defending with vigor his right to play.

He was, after all, a star. He was a model of hope in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, a treasure in a world that often treated him as second-rate, as far less than an athlete who’s uncompromising demeanor transcended the football field.

He wanted simple things, things we all want: a degree, a place of his own back home and a chance to help those who weren’t as fortunate. And he knew what it took.

He was an intellectual, an animal husbandry major at Iowa State who passed 45 credits with a 90 percent average. He worked odd jobs to support his wife and his mother. And he played the game of football like few can, with heart, perseverance, a love for competition and a gift for making it look like a team effort.

For that, Jack Trice got the distinction in 1922 of being Iowa State’s first black football player.

For that, Jack Trice got the distinction a year later of being the only Iowa State football player ever killed because of injuries sustained in a game.

And he was killed, if history is correct in its accounts, because of his race. A white Jack Trice wouldn’t likely have been keyed on that fateful October day against Minnesota. A Troy Davis, he wasn’t. In fact, he played on the other side of the ball.

Trice broke his collar bone early in the game, but kept playing. His next injury was more serious. After a roll block, Trice landed on his back and was stomped on by the opposing team.

Still, he wanted to keep playing. The coaches wouldn’t allow it. Instead, they took a battered Trice to a Minneapolis hospital. But doctors there said he was fine, didn’t require treatment. He was anything but fine.

Back in Ames, he had trouble breathing. His lungs hemorrhaged. He bled from the inside.

He died the following Monday.

He died senselessly.

He died for no other reason than his color.

He died because he was a black man playing a white man’s game.

Nonetheless, he died a hero.

But what’s more tragic than Trice’s death, what’s more tragic than blatant bigotry leaving a woman widowed, what’s more tragic than a mother at her young son’s funeral and what’s more tragic than the attitude of hatred that allowed it all to happen, is that we forgot.

In 1922, we knew a man’s color mattered not.

So why then, nearly 75 years later, can’t we again do the right thing? The opportunity is here. We have a newly renovated football stadium that’s crying to be dedicated to a hero.

Why can’t that hero be Jack Trice? We’ve already named the field for him, and that’s just — for lack of a better word — weird. The current set-up, Cyclone Stadium/Jack Trice Field, doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue like Kinnick Stadium or Soldier Field.

The time is now to rename the stadium. There have been sporadic grumblings in the past, the most recent a few years back. But something — whether it be prejudice, apathy or most probably, money — has always gotten in the way.

The time is now to harness the Government of the Student Body-led drive and honor a great Cyclone hero.

Yes, Jack Trice was a black man. Yes, that may not sit well with some deep-pocketed alumni. But Iowa State football isn’t about catering to money.

It’s about grit and desire and courage and everything Jack Trice was. To not realize that is prejudice in itself, and worse yet, it’s cowardice.

That won’t do.

In 1996, let’s again be brave.

It’s time.