Six feet tall and 150 pounds of confused muscle and rock hard brains, I crouched down into my three point stance opposite six foot two, 230 pound left tackle Dennis Brouhard in our first full contact reserve scrimmage. In what I now recognize as a combination of manic homicide and a profoundly funny joke, Coach Pesavento had judged me to be a perfect specimen of a defensive end. And here came the punch line, in the form of "27 offtackle, FB lead".
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I'd never played organized football in my life to that point. Other than the previous ten days of three-a-day practices, I'd never worn pads, had never experienced the raunch of a team locker room, ... had never been so profoundly tired in my life.
Throughout latter elementary school and junior high school, the old neighborhood buddies would play tackle football, usually on Mr. Munshower's huge front lawn, for hours at a time. Some were strong athletes, many of us weren't. One went on to start for two years as a cornerback for the Wisconsin Badgers. Strong athlete or not, in the neighborhood, you played hard yet stopped short of cleaning a guys clock - no one wanted to hurt or scare off anyone. We needed the dudes.
I wasn't a total loser; ... I was FAST. I could outrun anybody. I was the fastest guy in the neighborhood and, now, the fastest guy on the team. Yet I was a pathetically lanky lightweight, clueless as to proper blocking & tackling (or any other football related) techniques. All I was, was fast.
Add to that the fact my family had changed school districts in the summer prior to my freshman year. These guys on the football team were the first people I'd met in our new location. None of them seemed terribly interested in tolerating a new glasses wearing splinter who didn't know where to put his hip pads. But I was terribly desperate to learn to play the game, to be a part of a real football team, to show that I had the ability to play the game. I just needed some serious learning. It's amazing what kids can tolerate when motivated; in retrospect, I now realize it was painfully, painfully lonely. But I also know that loneliness didn't seem to matter much to me - it was never hard to climb into the car to go to another practice. I loved the idea of playing football that much.
Coach Pesavento ("Pez" of course, but never ... NEVER within earshot, as Brouhard found out later that season) was not much into teaching. What he was, was into yelling. And almost never by a persons proper name. Early on, he adopted for me the proud name "Stooge" - after a particularly badly blown play during an early practice where the quarterback saw fit to throw the ball so it got stuck in my facemask. Pez used language not much recognized these days for its educational potential. "G*d d@mn it, Stooge, what the f#ck kinda joker are you, ... you ever hit a sled before?" NO, ... I had never hit a blocking sled before. Despite the fact I had exceptionally strong legs, it was only after a week of three-a-days flopping myself against the sled that our starting halfback kindly showed me how to properly hit the sled - with my shoulder, lowering my back and butt, and driving forward with my legs - that what had become the comic interlude in sled drills stopped. The road to acceptance on the team was going to be longer than I'd hoped. But I was going to do whatever I could to make it.
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So, ... it's "27 offtackle, FB lead"; but I don't know it yet. "Ready, ... set, ... B1, ... B2" and the ball was snapped. I did my best to drive into the massive offensive tackle and then move around him to my right to seal off the left side of the line. Dennis had other ideas. At least that's what I gathered after about ten seconds. I remember a blur, a bunch of greyness, grass, a loud rumbling sound, a louder whistle, and then quiet. ... nothing.
It was only about four seconds, maybe five, but it seemed to be a much longer period of time. I had no sensation of playing football, of being anywhere, I just WAS. Then the unmistakable shrill shriek of Pez cut partially through the greyness: "Moose (Brouhard), what the f#ck are you doing?" Then arms under my shoulders - they were Dave Palmer's, our best halfback - he pulled me up, looked at me and asked "alright?".
I just stared, at the time, I couldn't comprehend what he'd said; he clearly took this blank stare as "yep, I'm fine, let's go" as he turned and trotted to his offensive huddle. Brouhard was walking back to the huddle too, just shaking his head. Pez was staring at the Stooge, no look of sympathy, just staring at me. I learned only in the locker room after practice that Moose had hit me so hard I'd flown backwards a couple of yards and landed on my head. It was so violent that some players had stopped mid-play, prior to the whistle. Yet somehow, Palmer, the ball carrier, had tripped over the tangle of arms and legs that was me on the ground. I'D GOTTEN THE TACKLE, despite my semi-conscious and inanimate state. All thanks to Brouhard. Fortunately, they ran plays to the other side of the line for the next several plays, and then put another tackle in place of Brouhard. While at the time I didn't know exactly what had happened, I knew from the laughs and looks of disdain that it couldn't have been flattering.
Embarrassment is a powerful motivator. The Stooge kept rushing with reckless, underpowered, and unskilled abandon. Within a couple of plays they called a screen pass in my direction. Of course, they let the less-than-massive defensive end into the backfield, and then the starting QB tossed a screen pass high over my head towards Dave Palmer, who had streaked by me to the left flat. Wait a second! This is right up my alley, and UP I jumped. I know I mentioned I was fast. But I could jump too. I was dunking a volleyball (couldn't yet palm a basketball) in eighth grade, ... anyways ... Up I went ... please Lord, ... I can get this. SMACK! I hit the ball up ... it's sailing straight in front of me ... I can get this, ... I GOT this! I catch the ball and NO ONE was gonna catch me, ... 25 yards to paydirt and six points. I'm nearly as numb as I was after Brouhard's hit. I just turned and stood in the end zone for a moment, and waited - for what I wasn't sure.
Nobody was rushing towards me, other than the QB who seemed intent on hitting me despite the fact I was in the end zone and the whistle had blown (he ran past me, in a show of some discipline, as I was sure he was horribly embarrassed to have been intercepted by such a joke of a player). So I just trotted back to where the players were. They were looking at me much the same way they did after Brouhard's shotput of me just a half a dozen plays earlier.
Pez finally broke the ice, "Nice play, Stooge". ... thanks, coach.
I didn't play the next series, and when I finally played again, it was as wide receiver. I didn't have any balls thrown my way, but it was a statement that registered with me and my teammates. Guys started talking to me a little, more like they were including me in conversations rather than talking directly to me. And I'm getting called by my real name, not Stooge. I got more advice from teammates regarding blocking and tackling. The coach moved me from back-up defensive end to safety. I liked the position, although I had a lot to learn about coverages - and I learned from my teammates and from the various yellings of Pez ("Stooge, what the f#ck are you doing covering the wideout on that play?, your man was either the wingback or doubling up on the f#cking halfback out of the backfield - get your f#cking head outta your @ss!", ... yep, he likes me).
I was never good enough to start a game at wide receiver or safety that season. And he stuck me in at defensive end every once in awhile just for giggles I guess. But I got better, and played more and more as the season progressed. I learned that you gain some measure of respect when others see you trying hard, working through obstacles and persevering. I never became a good HS football player, and I never ran around with many of the strong players on that team - although my best friend to this day was a guy I met that first summer of organized football. But I had the respect of most of those guys. It felt great to be included, to laugh as one of them after coach lifted Moose up by his neck with one hand when he called Pez "Pez" to his face (instead of "hey coach", ... to Moose's terror, out came "hey Pez").
This is the point where the author is supposed to say "these were the life lessons of sports that propelled me to become U.S. Senator" or "CEO of Boeing" or "Ambassador to France" or whatever ... Nahhh. Just Dave in Indy, writing in a sports blog to a handful of readers. Nonetheless, I came to love football even more as a result of this experience. And I DID gain great life lessons that I suspect I never would have otherwise picked-up, at least not so early in my life.
Nothing profound, ... just a memory I thought I'd share.
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