Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Move over Joe Namath!
Almost everyone remembers the legendary Joe Namath, Broadway Joe as his fans called him. Joe was a star quarterback for Alabama and the New York Jets. Although he is a member of the Pro Football Hall of Fame, he is perhaps best remembered for his panty hose commercials and his sideline response to Suzy Kobler who had just asked him what he thought about the struggling Jets. He said, “I want to kiss you!” Ok! Maybe after that comment he would not exactly be considered a role model. Actually, our college tenures overlapped, his football career was only starting while mine had ended prematurely four years earlier.
By the time I was in the Eighth Grade I had become a phenom in my PE classes playing football. I was a star rusher—a kid who could not be blocked. The following year I decided to go big time and try out for the varsity. I got a uniform but no playbook—which should have told me something, right off the bat. When we lined up for the position we wished to play, the coach took one look at me and said ,“Hey you! The tall lanky one; move over with the receivers.” Since I did not want to get on the coach’s bad side on day one, I did exactly that. The only problem with that was that I was slow compared to most of the other receivers and had trouble catching the ball. While I did not want to nit-pick the coach’s decision, I was sure that those two “minor imperfections” were the kiss of death for my football ambitions. Sure enough, I played only a few downs all year. But one day during practice I found myself playing defensive end. The center snapped the ball and I shot through the line and took the handoff from the quarterback and had clear sailing for a defensive touchdown. The coach was frantically blowing his whistle and insisted that I came back to the line of scrimmage and hand him the ball. After that moment I felt that I was destined to be put on the defensive line as a linebacker. The coach, however, failed to take note of my spectacular play. He was busying explaining to the quarterback that under no circumstances do you ever hand the football to a defensive player. Just like that my 15 seconds of football fame disappeared.
I was riding the bench during our second game, and all of them thereafter, when a strange thing happened. Dennis, one of our biggest tackles, was writhing on the ground in intense pain after a play. The problem was that he kept grabbing his balls where he had been kicked. The coach was on the field in a split second and was telling him in no uncertain terms that no matter how bad he was hurt, he was not to ever grab his balls. This was a public sport and such behavior was always unacceptable when any females were around. Dennis was in too much pain to notice if there were any females around or not. The coach explained that it was OK to grab his ankle, his knee, his elbow or his head, but not his balls. “But coach,” he groaned, “that is not where it hurts.” I thought that this was an invaluable lesson if I ever made it to the NFL (reality had not yet dawned for me). It was my first insight into what really happens when a player is injured in a game. A crowd gathers around to shield the player just in case he forgets and grabs his balls. When a player is helped from the playing field by his teammates the odds are that it is not his ankle or knee that is hurt, but his balls. If the player returns to the field in five to ten minutes, then you can bet your money that it was his balls. That was very useful information to know.
It was now the last game of the season. Thus far I had played a total of three plays. But this game was different. The coach stuck me in as a cornerback to chew out the regular at that position, although I had never practiced at that position. Someone called a timeout and during that lull in the action the coach finished his chewing out and put Bobby back in a cornerback. I was stuck on three plays for the year. But in the fourth quarter with the game on the line, the coach surprised everyone, including me, by pulling the left defensive tackle and putting me in his place. I was dramatically undersized for that position—a fact that was not lost on the opposition. They took note of my size and my nice, crisp, clean pants and ran four plays right at me. I tackled the runner four straight times—four plays and four tackles. Those were stats that most players would die for. There was only one problem. They had made two first downs on those four plays. And just like that, old number 38 was back on the bench.
On the road back to Magnolia the old yellow Ward school bus broke down. Now if you are a couple of seasoned coaches the last thing that you want to see happen is to be stranded out in the middle of nowhere with 35 obnoxious teenage boys after they have lost a game. But these were as I said, seasoned coaches. They put the 35 of us to work pushing the bus for about an hour. By then we were too worn out for any mischief. We finally made it back to town totally exhausted. Although I did not know it at the time, my football playing days were over. While my teammates continued to put on weight and grow in stature, I was stuck at a paltry 135 pounds and could not add any weight for another ten years. My dream of being a professional football player was over, but my memory of pushing that old yellow bus would be with me forever.
Almost everyone remembers the legendary Joe Namath, Broadway Joe as his fans called him. Joe was a star quarterback for Alabama and the New York Jets. Although he is a member of the Pro Football Hall of Fame, he is perhaps best remembered for his panty hose commercials and his sideline response to Suzy Kobler who had just asked him what he thought about the struggling Jets. He said, “I want to kiss you!” Ok! Maybe after that comment he would not exactly be considered a role model. Actually, our college tenures overlapped, his football career was only starting while mine had ended prematurely four years earlier.
By the time I was in the Eighth Grade I had become a phenom in my PE classes playing football. I was a star rusher—a kid who could not be blocked. The following year I decided to go big time and try out for the varsity. I got a uniform but no playbook—which should have told me something, right off the bat. When we lined up for the position we wished to play, the coach took one look at me and said ,“Hey you! The tall lanky one; move over with the receivers.” Since I did not want to get on the coach’s bad side on day one, I did exactly that. The only problem with that was that I was slow compared to most of the other receivers and had trouble catching the ball. While I did not want to nit-pick the coach’s decision, I was sure that those two “minor imperfections” were the kiss of death for my football ambitions. Sure enough, I played only a few downs all year. But one day during practice I found myself playing defensive end. The center snapped the ball and I shot through the line and took the handoff from the quarterback and had clear sailing for a defensive touchdown. The coach was frantically blowing his whistle and insisted that I came back to the line of scrimmage and hand him the ball. After that moment I felt that I was destined to be put on the defensive line as a linebacker. The coach, however, failed to take note of my spectacular play. He was busying explaining to the quarterback that under no circumstances do you ever hand the football to a defensive player. Just like that my 15 seconds of football fame disappeared.
I was riding the bench during our second game, and all of them thereafter, when a strange thing happened. Dennis, one of our biggest tackles, was writhing on the ground in intense pain after a play. The problem was that he kept grabbing his balls where he had been kicked. The coach was on the field in a split second and was telling him in no uncertain terms that no matter how bad he was hurt, he was not to ever grab his balls. This was a public sport and such behavior was always unacceptable when any females were around. Dennis was in too much pain to notice if there were any females around or not. The coach explained that it was OK to grab his ankle, his knee, his elbow or his head, but not his balls. “But coach,” he groaned, “that is not where it hurts.” I thought that this was an invaluable lesson if I ever made it to the NFL (reality had not yet dawned for me). It was my first insight into what really happens when a player is injured in a game. A crowd gathers around to shield the player just in case he forgets and grabs his balls. When a player is helped from the playing field by his teammates the odds are that it is not his ankle or knee that is hurt, but his balls. If the player returns to the field in five to ten minutes, then you can bet your money that it was his balls. That was very useful information to know.
It was now the last game of the season. Thus far I had played a total of three plays. But this game was different. The coach stuck me in as a cornerback to chew out the regular at that position, although I had never practiced at that position. Someone called a timeout and during that lull in the action the coach finished his chewing out and put Bobby back in a cornerback. I was stuck on three plays for the year. But in the fourth quarter with the game on the line, the coach surprised everyone, including me, by pulling the left defensive tackle and putting me in his place. I was dramatically undersized for that position—a fact that was not lost on the opposition. They took note of my size and my nice, crisp, clean pants and ran four plays right at me. I tackled the runner four straight times—four plays and four tackles. Those were stats that most players would die for. There was only one problem. They had made two first downs on those four plays. And just like that, old number 38 was back on the bench.
On the road back to Magnolia the old yellow Ward school bus broke down. Now if you are a couple of seasoned coaches the last thing that you want to see happen is to be stranded out in the middle of nowhere with 35 obnoxious teenage boys after they have lost a game. But these were as I said, seasoned coaches. They put the 35 of us to work pushing the bus for about an hour. By then we were too worn out for any mischief. We finally made it back to town totally exhausted. Although I did not know it at the time, my football playing days were over. While my teammates continued to put on weight and grow in stature, I was stuck at a paltry 135 pounds and could not add any weight for another ten years. My dream of being a professional football player was over, but my memory of pushing that old yellow bus would be with me forever.
