August 1991. I sat in the old man's Astro van, silent as a corpse. As I recall, he retrieved me from the apartment eager to see me off to this new thing we decided I would try. Football. Some game I had seen from afar. Watching the Giants. Hating Buddy Ryan and the Eagles. Not having much of a clue otherwise. On that short trip from the apartment to the back doors of Lyman Hall, I knew that I wasn't ready for whatever it was I had agreed to do.
I arrived, said goodbye to the old man, and opened the heavy back door of the high school. There, standing on either side of the short hallway were about 30 of my classmates. All of them stared at me in disbelief. In their eyes, the phrase 'what's he doing here?' I knew the look because, if I had been a fly on the wall, I'd have asked myself the same question.
Long story short, I was the most introverted of introverts in middle school. I had few friends and little interest in friendship with anyone beyond those friends. My life was schoolwork. With an occasional little league baseball game in the spring. So, for me to have walked into the gym to play football was like Edward Scissorhands going out to become a pitcher.
One of the freshman coaches taught me hot to adorn myself with the football gear. Hip pads. Knee pads. Shoulder pads. Helmet. Mouthpiece. It takes a little while the first time.
And we proceeded with what we called double sessions and what others call two-a-days. I had no idea what I was in for. I got my assed kicked. And I was terrible. I couldn't catch a football worth a damn, so I certainly wasn't meant to be a receiver. I had no speed; running back and quarterback were out. Linebacker too. That left the line. I was 5'8", 150. Only 13 when I entered high school. And I was a lineman. That's why I got my ass kicked.
As if double sessions weren't enough, there was also the mandatory hazing for freshmen. Singing 'I'm a Little Teapot' in front of the others. (We continued singing the song every so often in the school cafeteria.) Oh, those seniors were an interesting group. Some would say mean. Others would say great football players. I'd say both. We had different types of relay races every day at lunch. The one I remember most, for whatever reason, was grape racing. The freshmen competed in racing grapes across the ground... with our tongues. Love that gritty sidewalk taste to this day.
Double sessions did actually end. And school began.
Every day except Sundays, from August to November 1991, I dragged myself down the high school's halls after classes and into the lockerroom. Every God forsaken day. The others wouldn't look at me. They didn't want to see the pain in my face. And I didn't want to see the pain in theirs. We'd see each other soon enough. Through those facemasks. In the dirt and muck and mud. In the creek at the bottom of the sandy precipice. We just walked together, dead men to the gallows.
Freshman football at Lyman Hall was not a sport. It wasn't about learning a game. It wasn't even about spending time with friends. Freshman football was nothing but a quarter-long nightmare inflicted by the Varsity Head Coach's son. We were at war, he'd tell us. We had to defeat the enemy. There was no room for the weak. Just the strong. Intelligence? Agility? There was no place for such attributes. Just unmitigated bloodlust.
There was a drill he called 'Ball in the Ring'. He, or one of the coaches, yelled the name of one unsuspecting victim. And then he threw the ball to another. The goal? The two victims run straight at each other and see if the impact knocks one or both out. If one of the two did not run directly at the other, he did it again. And again. And again. Until he was dizzy from the hits or until he got it right.
There was another drill. A classic. King of the Hill. Behind our playfield was a creek. Leading down to that creek was a sharp decline covered with beach sand. Everyone, in their full pads, skidded and slid down the hill until the entire team stood in the polluted creek. Again, the coach would call two unsuspecting victims' names. The two would battle up through the sand, throwing each other, punching, jabbing, kicking. Each one doing anything in his power to make the other succumb. The one who made it to the top claimed victory. The one who didn't remained at the bottom waiting for his next shot.
When we weren't doing 'Ball in the Ring' or 'King of the Hill' we hit. Sideline hitting. Open field hitting. Straight on hitting. Hitting from a sprint. Hitting on the line. Through the rain. The sun. The brisk chill of autumn. From 2 p.m. when school ended until 6 p.m. when the coaches stopped asking if we wanted more. We hit. And as the year progressed, we lost one. Then another. Then another. We started at just around 25 souls in August. We finished with 15 in November.
On Thursday November 21, 1991 the final 15 souls celebrated. After that final hit, we exhaled collectively; we had succeeded in braving the storm of freshman football like so many other before us. And we let our coaches know. We had but one game remaining, and the coaches could do nothing more to us. We went into the lockerroom, gathered our belongings, and waited for our respective parents, siblings, and friends to come get us.
On Friday, November 22nd it rained. No, it didn't rain. It poured. The rain had started the night before. I heard it when Bonnie Raitt sang that God awful song, Something to Talk About. It just didn't stop. All day. All freaking day! But it's football, I said to myself, we'll play in this. I spoke these words in the hallways to my teammates. Yes, they said, we'll play. We have to play.
We didn't play.
Instead, we had a practice in the gym that evening. A practice in the gym meant minimal hitting and maximum running. We ran until we dropped. Literally. Baseline to baseline. Suicides. All sprinting. With the pads on. Sprint again. When we couldn't sprint with the pads on anymore, we took them off and sprinted more. And sprinted. And sprinted.
When 7 p.m. rolled around, the coach smiled and told us he'd see us the following day. When he left the gym, we all looked into each others' eyes and witnessed the utter terror. Another practice. Another session in torture.
I went home that evening and wept. Yes, I wept. I told my mother I wasn't going back, that I was quitting football forever. I couldn't bear another practice. I couldn't bear another go at 'Ball in the Ring' or 'King of the Hill'. I just couldn't. And I wouldn't. I refused. But it was all an act. I knew I would go. Because I'd have to deal with my father if I didn't. Because I'd have to explain it to my teammates. Explain to them why I had quit. And I wasn't going to do that.
The next day, we watched as the sun rose over a damp field. There was not a person in sight. All the other fall sports had ended. Even the varsity team had the luxury of this Saturday off. I had always taken some solace in the fact that someone else was watching just in case this crazy man tried some stunt that was beyond comprehension. But, on that day, he had the freedom to do whatever he wanted. After stretching, he screamed to the heavens 'Good Morning, Vietnam!' and proceeded to have us hit each other in every way imaginable. 'Ball in the Ring'. 'King of the Hill'. And every other variation, including some he had seemingly imagined over that previous rainy night. By noon, our spirits and bodies were broken. We limped off the field. There was no boasting; there were no comments. We would not test the football gods again.
We went out and played valiantly that Monday against our crosstown rival, the Sheehan Titans. But they were too good, too strong. And we had all of 15 people playing against their significantly deeper sideline of at least 30.
I don't think we won a game that year.
But, my God, we learned how to be tough.
I arrived, said goodbye to the old man, and opened the heavy back door of the high school. There, standing on either side of the short hallway were about 30 of my classmates. All of them stared at me in disbelief. In their eyes, the phrase 'what's he doing here?' I knew the look because, if I had been a fly on the wall, I'd have asked myself the same question.
Long story short, I was the most introverted of introverts in middle school. I had few friends and little interest in friendship with anyone beyond those friends. My life was schoolwork. With an occasional little league baseball game in the spring. So, for me to have walked into the gym to play football was like Edward Scissorhands going out to become a pitcher.
One of the freshman coaches taught me hot to adorn myself with the football gear. Hip pads. Knee pads. Shoulder pads. Helmet. Mouthpiece. It takes a little while the first time.
And we proceeded with what we called double sessions and what others call two-a-days. I had no idea what I was in for. I got my assed kicked. And I was terrible. I couldn't catch a football worth a damn, so I certainly wasn't meant to be a receiver. I had no speed; running back and quarterback were out. Linebacker too. That left the line. I was 5'8", 150. Only 13 when I entered high school. And I was a lineman. That's why I got my ass kicked.
As if double sessions weren't enough, there was also the mandatory hazing for freshmen. Singing 'I'm a Little Teapot' in front of the others. (We continued singing the song every so often in the school cafeteria.) Oh, those seniors were an interesting group. Some would say mean. Others would say great football players. I'd say both. We had different types of relay races every day at lunch. The one I remember most, for whatever reason, was grape racing. The freshmen competed in racing grapes across the ground... with our tongues. Love that gritty sidewalk taste to this day.
Double sessions did actually end. And school began.
Every day except Sundays, from August to November 1991, I dragged myself down the high school's halls after classes and into the lockerroom. Every God forsaken day. The others wouldn't look at me. They didn't want to see the pain in my face. And I didn't want to see the pain in theirs. We'd see each other soon enough. Through those facemasks. In the dirt and muck and mud. In the creek at the bottom of the sandy precipice. We just walked together, dead men to the gallows.
Freshman football at Lyman Hall was not a sport. It wasn't about learning a game. It wasn't even about spending time with friends. Freshman football was nothing but a quarter-long nightmare inflicted by the Varsity Head Coach's son. We were at war, he'd tell us. We had to defeat the enemy. There was no room for the weak. Just the strong. Intelligence? Agility? There was no place for such attributes. Just unmitigated bloodlust.
There was a drill he called 'Ball in the Ring'. He, or one of the coaches, yelled the name of one unsuspecting victim. And then he threw the ball to another. The goal? The two victims run straight at each other and see if the impact knocks one or both out. If one of the two did not run directly at the other, he did it again. And again. And again. Until he was dizzy from the hits or until he got it right.
There was another drill. A classic. King of the Hill. Behind our playfield was a creek. Leading down to that creek was a sharp decline covered with beach sand. Everyone, in their full pads, skidded and slid down the hill until the entire team stood in the polluted creek. Again, the coach would call two unsuspecting victims' names. The two would battle up through the sand, throwing each other, punching, jabbing, kicking. Each one doing anything in his power to make the other succumb. The one who made it to the top claimed victory. The one who didn't remained at the bottom waiting for his next shot.
When we weren't doing 'Ball in the Ring' or 'King of the Hill' we hit. Sideline hitting. Open field hitting. Straight on hitting. Hitting from a sprint. Hitting on the line. Through the rain. The sun. The brisk chill of autumn. From 2 p.m. when school ended until 6 p.m. when the coaches stopped asking if we wanted more. We hit. And as the year progressed, we lost one. Then another. Then another. We started at just around 25 souls in August. We finished with 15 in November.
On Thursday November 21, 1991 the final 15 souls celebrated. After that final hit, we exhaled collectively; we had succeeded in braving the storm of freshman football like so many other before us. And we let our coaches know. We had but one game remaining, and the coaches could do nothing more to us. We went into the lockerroom, gathered our belongings, and waited for our respective parents, siblings, and friends to come get us.
On Friday, November 22nd it rained. No, it didn't rain. It poured. The rain had started the night before. I heard it when Bonnie Raitt sang that God awful song, Something to Talk About. It just didn't stop. All day. All freaking day! But it's football, I said to myself, we'll play in this. I spoke these words in the hallways to my teammates. Yes, they said, we'll play. We have to play.
We didn't play.
Instead, we had a practice in the gym that evening. A practice in the gym meant minimal hitting and maximum running. We ran until we dropped. Literally. Baseline to baseline. Suicides. All sprinting. With the pads on. Sprint again. When we couldn't sprint with the pads on anymore, we took them off and sprinted more. And sprinted. And sprinted.
When 7 p.m. rolled around, the coach smiled and told us he'd see us the following day. When he left the gym, we all looked into each others' eyes and witnessed the utter terror. Another practice. Another session in torture.
I went home that evening and wept. Yes, I wept. I told my mother I wasn't going back, that I was quitting football forever. I couldn't bear another practice. I couldn't bear another go at 'Ball in the Ring' or 'King of the Hill'. I just couldn't. And I wouldn't. I refused. But it was all an act. I knew I would go. Because I'd have to deal with my father if I didn't. Because I'd have to explain it to my teammates. Explain to them why I had quit. And I wasn't going to do that.
The next day, we watched as the sun rose over a damp field. There was not a person in sight. All the other fall sports had ended. Even the varsity team had the luxury of this Saturday off. I had always taken some solace in the fact that someone else was watching just in case this crazy man tried some stunt that was beyond comprehension. But, on that day, he had the freedom to do whatever he wanted. After stretching, he screamed to the heavens 'Good Morning, Vietnam!' and proceeded to have us hit each other in every way imaginable. 'Ball in the Ring'. 'King of the Hill'. And every other variation, including some he had seemingly imagined over that previous rainy night. By noon, our spirits and bodies were broken. We limped off the field. There was no boasting; there were no comments. We would not test the football gods again.
We went out and played valiantly that Monday against our crosstown rival, the Sheehan Titans. But they were too good, too strong. And we had all of 15 people playing against their significantly deeper sideline of at least 30.
I don't think we won a game that year.
But, my God, we learned how to be tough.
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