A dozen African-American quarterbacks started a combined 112 NFL games during the 2001 season. While those numbers represent all-time league highs, it is likely not a single one of those 12 QBs can correctly identify the first man of color to take a snap in a modern-day NFL game.

Then again, no one could blame Donovan McNabb if he never heard of Willie Thrower. Ditto Steve McNair, Michael Vick, Aaron Brooks, Daunte Culpepper, Charlie Batch, Quincy Carter or Tony Banks.

And even though Kordell Stewart plays 30 miles south down the Allegheny River from where Willie Thrower established himself as a prep school star, operating the single-wing formation at New Kensington (Pa.) High, it's understandable that the name would likely register a blank with the Pittsburgh Steelers star.

Unless you were born in Western Pennsylvania, weaned on the lore of that area's gridiron history, there is little chance of familiarity with Willie Thrower. I first heard of Thrower from my dad and my uncles and, in subsequent trips to the hamlets of the Allegheny Valley, his legend became a part of my football rearing.

	“	But he was a lot more than a thrower. He was a passer, a guy who could fit the ball through the eye of a needle when he needed to. ”
		— Hall of Fame quarterback George Blanda on Thrower

But as they say about a bad joke, well, you had to be there.

The irony is, Willie Thrower was no joke, and his football deeds no laughing matter. You've got to dig deep into the pages of encyclopedic tomes such as Total Football to unearth the fact that Thrower, then 23 years old, played two games for the Chicago Bears during the 1953 season. He completed three of eight passes for just 27 yards and tossed an interception before coach George Halas released him.

It was 13 seasons before another black man lined up at quarterback in an NFL game.

The printed professional football legacy of Thrower, who died Wednesday at age 71, occupies all of 3½ lines, and two of those detail his height and weight, birth date, high school and college. It is preposterous, though, to suggest that Thrower's contribution to the game can be limited to a puny half-inch of agate type.

For many players of this era, the history of the black quarterback in the NFL commences with the glory days of Doug Williams, who earned most valuable player honors in Super Bowl XXII. It's likely, of course, that players such as McNabb and Stewart and McNair still would have become high-profile performers in the NFL even if Thrower had never made his two-game cameo. But to diminish the importance of Thrower's contribution, from a competitive and social standpoint, is incredibly shortsighted.

Those eight passes Thrower tossed in 1953 before Halas decided he didn't really require a third quarterback on the roster certainly were not the galvanizing event of, say, Rosa Parks refusing to move to the back of the bus. Neither should Thrower's brief NFL career be tossed into the trash bin of history, nor discarded as an afterthought occurrence. He earned less than $10,000 on his only league contract, but his legacy is far richer than that.

Thrower's son, Melvin, on Wednesday told the local Valley News Dispatch his father was "a giant." But be careful before you charge a grieving son with hyperbole, because Willie Thrower overcame insurmountable odds to simply make it out of the river town where his name and his deeds meant so much.

One of the game's most aptly named athletes, Thrower could fling the ball 70 yards on a line. "But he was a lot more than a thrower. He was a passer, a guy who could fit the ball through the eye of a needle when he needed to," said Hall of Fame quarterback George Blanda.

When the historians click off the names of great quarterbacks of western Pennsylvania lineage -- John Unitas, Joe Namath, Joe Montana, Dan Marino, Jim Kelly and others -- the famous litany never includes Thrower. It's an unfortunate oversight. In the bigger picture, the one beyond the field, his accomplishments were every bit as significant.

A humble and giving man even as a youngster, Thrower's celebrity drew thousands to the New Kensington games on Friday nights, and he led coach Don Fletcher's team to a pair of Class AA titles in the late 1940s. The games also drew college recruiters, many of whom came armed with scholarship offers, only to withdraw them once they noticed through binoculars that Thrower was black.

It took an enlightened administration, and plenty of convincing on both sides, to get Thrower into Michigan State, where he became the Big Ten's first African-American quarterback. After his stint in the NFL, Thrower played three years in the CFL before retiring and returning home to western Pennsylvania to raise his family and work in the community.

Battling diabetes for the past eight years, Thrower spent much of that time spinning yarns at the local Elks lodge, where on Wednesday night his fellow members toasted his memory. There will be thousands of prayers whispered for Willie Thrower over the next few days, oratories by those who recalled him not only as a football star but more important as a good guy.

It would be fitting if the fraternity of black quarterbacks who now star in the league could recall Thrower with a prayer of thanks.

Len Pasquarelli is a senior writer for ESPN.com.