There’s something steady about Trenton Kirgan—a kind of quiet, watchful awareness. You can sense it when he speaks, in the way he pauses to find the right words, and especially in how he talks about what he hopes to become: a physical education teacher, rooted not in ego, but in empathy.

Trenton is a 4.0 student, an Illinois State Scholar, and a former varsity lineman on the Knoxville High School football team. He’s a second-year certified high school official for football, basketball, and baseball. He’s been the kind of student who always kept his grades up, not because anyone demanded it, but because he demanded it of himself.

But what’s most memorable about Trenton’s story isn’t what’s on paper. It’s what’s under the surface.

During his freshman and sophomore years, life at home got difficult. His parents divorced, and as an only child, he found himself navigating emotional territory that didn’t come with a roadmap.

“I had people I could turn to,” he says, “but I didn’t want to have to turn to them. Eventually, I started confiding in a few teachers. One of them was Ms. Schaefer, my history teacher.”

That trust—earned slowly and safely—became a lifeline. And it planted a seed.

“I want to be that person for someone else,” he says. “Whatever a student is facing, at the very least, I want them to know they’re not alone.”

He’s chosen to attend the University of Wisconsin–Whitewater, where he’ll major in physical education. While Illinois State had long been in the mix, Whitewater’s retirement system and rural atmosphere tipped the scales. “It just felt right,” he says. “It reminded me of home.”

That word—home—means something specific to Trenton. It’s not just geography. It’s a mindset, a rhythm, a sense of place. He’s not trying to leave Knoxville in the rearview mirror. He’s carrying it with him.

Coach Hebard, another key figure in Trenton’s journey, noticed early on that something was off. One day, under the simple pretense of needing help with a recycling run, Hebard pulled Trenton aside and offered five words that stuck: “Remember what you can’t control.”

“That changed everything for me,” Trenton says. “After that, I started showing up again—to the weight room, to class, to life.”

Now, as a high school official, Trenton sees things from an entirely different perspective—literally. “You can’t heckle the ref once you’ve been the ref,” he laughs. “You realize how many small rules there are. You realize how hard it is to get everything right.”

He recalls one high-pressure moment—bottom of the ninth, two outs, full count. He made a strike-three call that ended the game, and immediately questioned himself.

“I was mad at myself at first. I thought I got it wrong,” he says. “But my partner reassured me. Said it looked good. Still, it took me a while to believe it.”

Later, the coach who’d shouted at the call came over and said, “You called a good game today.” That stuck too.

“Officiating has taught me not just about sports, but about life,” Trenton says. “You’ve got to get the angle right. You’ve got to understand that people see things differently depending on where they’re standing.”

That kind of wisdom isn’t common in teenagers. But Trenton isn’t common. He’s the product of quiet strength, good mentorship, and a growing sense of responsibility to something bigger than himself.

“I want to teach,” he says. “And maybe one day I’ll coach. But whatever I do, I want to be someone who helps others find their way.”

He hasn’t yet told Ms. Schaefer how much she meant to him. “I think she knows,” he says. “At least I hope she does.”

Someday soon, some student will say the same thing about Mr. Kirgan.

Because the best teachers aren’t just skilled in their subject.

They’re seen.

They’re steady.

They’re in the right position—

—and they understand that the angle always matters.