Chapter 1. "....He's at the 50"
I'd been all uptight because it was December 24th and I wasn't absolutely positive Santa was gonna bring me that new Johnny Unitas football uniform I'd requested. I'd put my order in way back in June because I believed in early shopping but so far not a hint from the jolly ol man. It wasn't just that I wanted that uniform, the way a kid might want a new bike to see the world beyond his neighborhood, my request was purely need based.
You see, back then they didn't have leagues for kids to start playing organized football as early as they do now. It wasn't until you got in 5th grade that you could join your elementary school team but we had a bunch of little jocks in that neighborhood that were bitin' at the bit to get in the game. So we'd all meet after school and on Saturdays at "the empty lot", down by Lynn and Skip Murray's house.
We didn't have 22 people but on an average day there'd be 14 or so and that, along with a few parents and girls hangin around, made it all seem rather festive, if not official. There were only two problems with the whole set up.
One was, there were no actual rules as to how old, young, big or small you could be. You can imagine the matchups. And without a doubt, looking back, it was a disaster waiting to happen. Nowadays, you'd surely have 2 or 3 lawyers perched along the sidelines as well.
But those football dads weren't worried about brain injury, I suppose because they all had a little brain damage from using those leather helmets sans facemasks, they were given at Christmas.
But moms brains were fully functioning but back then they had very little power. Wait, what I mean is, their brains had power! but the women didn't have so much. Heck, they'd just recently got the right to vote!
One of the reasons it was so dangerous on that field was the age and body mass difference. In other words, some kids were bigger, stronger and or fatter than others.
The other danger on that field and it amazes me to even write this, was that some kids were decked out in full pads and all the others, well, weren't! Their protective gear consisted of whatever padding that was naturally present in T-shirts and dungarees. You'd have thought even the 'dain bramaged' dads might have had an issue with that but nooo.
Well, if you detect a certain animosity and mocking tone to this, you are very perceptive because I was one of those unlucky few that, did not have pads! I also had no 'body mass'. I was as vulnerable as a dry twig in a hurricane on that field but for some reason, neither mom nor dad seemed to care. It was baffling.
It's true. I was not provided life saving protective gear for that 'field of screams' but now if the temperature outside dropped below 60 , "you put on a coat before you go out there young man, you'll catch your death of cold," mom would yell. Just the rumor of rain meant I had to take an umbrella, rain boots and my yellow rubber rain suit. And if I sneezed, "Are you coming down with something? You get back in here young man," she'd demand. When Mr. Salk invented the polio serum we were rushed down to get that shot... Even before they tested it on rats!
She was very punctual on all vaccines and dental appointments. Pretty much any invasive and painful thing available mom made sure we got it quick and always under the sadistic guise, "it's for our own good."
The point is, for a woman that was so defense oriented, it just baffled me how she couldn't see the value of football pads. The story floating around was that she thought pads were dangerous. Specifically, she saw those hard helmets and shoulder pads and wooden thigh pads as a kind of a gladiator outfit. "Well mom," I thought, "those gladiators wore them.... because all the other gladiators wore them!!" That's what I should have said, but I was a respectful dry twig and quite honestly, I was just glad they let me play out there, because it really was a killing field!
But you do see the flaw in the thinking. "If Mike has a football uniform, then he's officially playing football, so I'll send him down there in blue jeans and a shirt and it will become, well, some other kind of sport."
In her defense, mom wasn't alone with this theory.
War and guns were big in those days. There were a lot tv shows dedicated to it and most every kid had a BB gun by the time they were 6. We used to play a game called "war." And it wasn't a computer game. No, at that time, computers were the stuff of H.G. Wells novels. At the time, Steve Jobs was so young he thought a hard drive was a long road trip. So our games were not virtual. But 'war' should have been.
We had about 3 acres in our neighbors backyards that ran along a creek. Just trees and snakes. The object of the game was to load your BB gun. Pick a tree and get behind it. Then open fire on the other guys. Just like on tv. Now looking back on it, it was surely crazy and certainly the reason so many of my buddy's wear eye patches but at the time, it was, well, it was just a different time.
Like I said we all had BB guns, so you had to be careful when you shot at someone because they were armed as well. That is except for Ollie. His mom applied my mom's gladiator logic to the kid. My mom withheld pads, Ollie's mom withheld his bb gun!! It makes you wonder if these women had it in for us!
Yeah Ollie's parents bought him an air rifle! It was, I suppose a compromise between a gun and no gun. The ammo was cheap but that's where the advantages ended. You'd point your rifle at Ollie's butt and fire and strike meat and he'd retaliate with a yelp. That yelp let you know your aim was good. Then with a tear in his eye, he'd furiously pump that Daisy air rifle up, stick the barrel in the mud, to pick up a 50 caliber mud ball and fire it at you from some 100 feet away. It was, of course, all about intimidation. Nothing more than a theatrical exhibition because that black wad only went about 6 feet 'fore it fell to the ground. Of course while Ollie was exposed and taking careful aim at you, you'd be pointing your real gun at him and popping his lower extremities with singular, shinyBB's.
Honestly, we had no rule about it but we just got to where we didn't shoot at Ollie no more. Even if he shot at us. It just wasn't sporting. We may have been battle tested combat troops but we were American soldiers, and the Geneva Convention rules of engagement are specific. No man shall fire upon another man possessing only a mud loaded air rifle.
Sending that boy off to war without a real gun wasn't really all that different than sending me out on that field without pads. I can't help but think both of those women would instantly have changed their minds on the issues, if they'd spent only a few moments on a football field without pads or engaged in ball bearing shoot out armed with mud balls. Context is everything.
Yeah, I didn't like her take on all that but I loved that lady. Mom was a jock or jockette, whatever you called a girl jock in her day. She was on the state HS volley ball team at Andrew Jackson. Volleyball, at least back then, was a no contact sport, hence, the whole gladiator misunderstanding, I suppose? Who knows.
But even if mom couldn't see it, I'm sure you can see why, I needed! A uniform!!
And lo and behold, I woke up that Christmas morning and there it was. When I saw that thing I let out a loud girly squeak. Hey, I was only 6, give me a break.
Dad said, "quick boy, take it in your room and never, ever let your mother see you in it, you got me?" "Got ya Dad! and hey dad, thanks." He gave me a thumbs down and I grabbed that box and took off to my room.
It was a thumbs down cause of that 'dain bramage' thing. Just kidding of course. Dad was one of the smartest, wisest, meanest, most loving dads, a kid could have. Mom was all of that as well but for stay at home moms it can be harder to quantify things. It's just that sometimes housewives and mothers don't get opportunities to demonstrate their intellect and talents. Most men will go off to work and compete against the world. If he does well, he'd be promoted, given bonuses. He might be honored with plaques and complimented by peers, the community or a CEO. And finally, he brought something home every 2 weeks that made everyone notice, love and honor him. A paycheck!
A moms world is different. Stay at home mothers generally spend their lives, wiping, correcting, instructing and frequently chasing, kids. Sure, there is one day set aside to honor them. Mothers Day. Beyond that, there are no honors. No one to compete against to demonstrate proficiency. No promotions. No letters of recommendation or plaques that confirm approval of peers and excellence. In fact, the kids they sacrifice for, frequently resent them for properly performing the tasks a mother's job demands. Disciplining, restricting, and re-directing, protecting and nurturing. Sadly, a mother's reward, all too frequently, comes toward the end of her life when she sees her children grow into fully functioning, happy and well adjusted adults. She knows she will never ride the shoulders of coworkers or be the recipient of a standing ovation. So what makes them keep going? Only God knows!
Like I said, my mom was smart. She had a library card and it wasn't just for show. She'd bring books home for us kids to read and though I was a good reader, I hated it. I'd start trembling in my seat after about 10 minutes of holding on to a book. Any book. I just had to get outside and go do something.
I was all kid. My knees had scabs, on scabs. My feet were rarely seen in the company of shoes. My skin was brown as dirt because it usually had a little of it blended in. My fingernails were dirty 15 minutes after I cleaned 'em, if I cleaned 'em. I played any sport that had a ball associated with it and I took great pride in excelling at anything where you kept score.
Anyway, I got to my room, ripped open the box, got the instruction manual out so I could figure out how all those gadgets, straps and buckles worked. Within minutes, I was fully decked out and ready to hustle down to 'the empty lot' to show off my new stuff and collide with somebody!
But first, I had to make it out of the house. Shrewdly, I put my full length London Fog around me. Thank goodness those things were in style around that time. I don't know what a kid today could grab that would cover so well. For those of you that are wondering what a London Fog is, it was a line of short and full-length jackets that were very popular in the mid 60's. I suppose their primary function was to repel fog because they weren't designed to be warm and they weren't water repellent at all. But they were expensive. I know, illogical but it was the 60's? So what good were they besides concealing football uniforms? I really don't know but girls liked guys to wear them so guys wore them. Same with butch wax and penny loafers, ID bracelets, weejuns, Gant shirts with loops, cologne and yes even deodorant. All things that would be naturally repugnant to any sensible 12 year old boy. But boys at that age are many things but they are not sensible. Everything a guy wore and "liked" was based on what women approved of. Don't let em kid you guys, women really do run things. At all ages!
It was also 'cool' to wear Gant shirts with loops. If you liked a girl you had two ways of consummating the relationship, neither of which had anything to do with sex. Yes, it was the 60's and the beginning of "love ins" and all that, but we were only 12. And it was a different time, heck what could you expect, Beaver Cleaver was a kids role model not Charlie Sheen.
Anyway you had two choices, you could give her your bracelet or let her pull your loop. I got tired of buying bracelets so I thought I'd try the loop consummation and besides, just what good was that loop anyway? Being it was the first time for both of us, we were a little nervous. She put her finger in my loop, and gave a mighty pull. It came off cleanly, along with the entire back of my shirt. Perhaps it was the sheer embarrassment of the moment or the shock of seeing my skinny, sweaty and hairless body but it was only a few days before she handed the loop and the excess material back to me. Yes, another nullified adolescent nuptial and though there were no attorneys involved, this one even took the shirt of my back.
Ok, I had my uniform on and I started to head out of my bedroom, when I realized I still had my helmet on. Guess I'd been without one so long that I really didn't want to take it off. That did become a problem in school. But for now, I undid the chinstrap and threw the helmet out the window.
I walked calmly through the living room where everyone was still gathered, opening gifts, trying things on, and hugging. Lots of crying too. Some of it because they were thrilled with what they got and others because they thought they got shortchanged by Santa. Oh the joy of Christmas! I could hear mom reminding a crier that "Christmas isn't about all the gifts, it's about celebrating baby Jesus' birth". That kind of speech can work at anytime other than Christmas morning because though the holiday might be for Jesus, that morning for a kid, is all about gifts!! But it was really all mom had to use and it was always a fall back when the "joy" of Christmas got overwhelming.
Well, the point is, emotions were high so I figured it would be a breeze to slip by in my concealed uniform. I had my hand on the screen door and was only seconds away from freedom, when Mom said "Michael."
"Oh no," I thought, not "Michael." I was always Mike, until I was about to get in trouble, then I became, Michael. And if my crime was on the felony level, I became all 3 names. Michael Robert Denney. When I heard all 3, I'd just go call my attorney, cause I knew I was going down. But this was just Michael.
She continued after I said, "maam?" "What's that noise?" she asked. " Oh crap!" I thought. I'd forgotten. I got football cleats with my uniform. I was clicking like a minstrel show tapdancer walkin across that old linoleum floor. The jig was up! She looked me up and down, like only a mother can.
A mother can spot a hair out of place in seconds on one of her younguns. They have a kind of sonar, like porpoises I guess, I don't know, but men do not have it. You can be standing butt naked ready to go out the door and ask your dad, "can I go to the mall?" A dad would say, "sure, don't be late."Instantaneous problem detections is purely a 'women's only' gift from God.
Well, she said " looks like you've put on quite a bit of muscle in the shoulders" Well, at this point everybody knew, that everybody knew. She was just playing with me, like a cat does a mouse, long after she's made her mind up to kill it!
But I mean really, who wouldn't have noticed it. I looked like a 6 year old Ray Nitchcke under that London Fog. In fact, I filled that jacket out so much you could clearly see the number 19 on my Jersey. Plus with my new cleats I was good 2 inches taller. Sure, I had had some growth spurts but nothing like what I was expecting people to believe. 2 inches, in 20 minutes! I wasn't Wilt Chamberlain.
No doubt, my enthusiasm to get on the field had blinded my good sense. There was no way I could have made it through that interrogation room. And I was fully prepared to have to go back and take off my pads and put on my blue jean uniform.
Well, about then something beautiful happened. Instead of saying my name again, she said, "Earl Lauder Denney." Yeah, she said all 3 of them. Dad was gonna take the fall for this attempted deception. I really felt for him too but I had a game to get to, so I didn't stick around to hear how he did. I bolted out that screen door, grabbed my helmet from under the window and clicked like a tap dancer all the way to 'the empty lot'
It was my day. I was officially a football player. As far as I was concerned I should have had that uniform 2 years ago, everyone else did. But on this day I would begin to put the past behind me. Today, I would hit some of those people that had hit my unprotected and skinny bare bones over the years. It was a new era for me on Bridgewater circle. Let the games begin.
Now that I had pads, the first thing I noticed was, I wasn't nearly as concerned about the age and size of the other guys. It's like you're looking out the front of a Sherman tank when you've got a helmet on. And with those pads you really feel invincible, kinda like, well, a gladiator.
As you are well aware, it was my first uniform, which is why I had to read the instructions for all the doohickies, buckles and straps. And one of the most difficult straps to master showed up in two critical places. The shoulder pads and the pants. Those straps have a specific way they need to be operated. The instructions say to "take strap A and loop it through the two narrow buckles. Then run it back towards strap B but first"...
Now, I'm going to stop here because those two words, 'but first!!' are very important. What they are saying is, before you do the thing you might be inclined to do next, do this thing first!! I of course was in such a hurry to get dressed and out the door I didn't catch that "but first!!" line. That line, in it's entirety was, "but first, loop the strap back OVER and through the small 'clasp'. OVER was important.
'The clasp'. Visually it looks like a metal jaw. It's serrated and when properly applied, grabs the cotton strap and holds on until the user decides to release it. Which is generally after the game, or injury or until the player has to pee.
Well, all my straps were tight, so, I had no reason to think I might have missed a step when getting dressed. And football aint like parachuting, where before you jump out of the plane some guy checks to be sure your straps are all fine. In football you're on your own. A players equipment is his own domain and personal responsibility. That's a big thing they hammer you with in sports.
I learned about equipment care the hard way.
I was in 7th grade at Landon Jr. High. We had a pretty danged good team and a great coach. He had only one flaw. He was a cusser. It wasn't so off putting to me because my dad incorporated many of the same, shall we say, colorful, words when expressing frustration with any animate or inanimate object or situation.
Cussing itself wouldn't be so bad except it's generally associated with anger and loss of control. Which around the house could mean, well, about anything's possible.
Same with Coach Bartholomew.
It was game day. I could hear the sound of the rattling bleachers as students stomped them to raise the level of intensity in the gymnasium. There was already a lot of enthusiasm because we were playing Dupont. They had beaten us once and today was to be our chance to salvage our pride and season. We were getting dressed in our basketball uniforms. Since it was a home game, we wore white. As I slipped my jersey over my body, the guys started laughing. I stood there looking around so I could join in. When I couldn't figure it out I asked, "what's so funny?" Bimi Young said "your jersey it's..." He couldn't even finish before he and everyone else busted out laughing, only this time the volume went up a notch. It finally hit me that these people were laughing at me but I still didn't know what was so danged funny!
Coach Bartholomew's office was only about 30 feet away and he heard the commotion. He came roaring outta there yelling "what the hell's going on out here, don't you know we're about to play a damned game?" He was referring to that old unwritten rule that you should be serious and quiet before a game. And laughing is not being serious. He saw it as a sure sign that our minds were not on this game and he was going to redirect us. So he was hoppin mad. Well, soon as he asked his question, he took one look at me and said "Denney! get in my office. Right now son!"
Now that word' son' can be a warm and fatherly term or it can be used as a replacement for, 'dumb ass'. Coach Bart, as best I can recall, only used it as a synonym for dumb ass. It was always included with some other disparaging words. Like, "son, if I've told you once..." well,you know the rest. Or, "son, when I tell you to pass the ball, pass it. When I want you to shoot the ball, I'll tell you to shoot it. You hear me, son?" For emphasis, it was frequently preceded "of a bitch," but that was reserved for referees or kids that smoked.
Coach Bartholomew was a wiry left handed shooter. His face was prematurely weathered and he spoke with a strong northern accent We suspected he was from somewhere up north, like maybe North Carolina but kids don't bother with actual geographic locations unless it's on a test.
He was sexually straight forward too. Guys our age loved that because without people like him we wouldn't learn a danged thing about sex, except what we could glean from the rumor mill or Glamour Magazine. Guys like Coach Bart prepared us for the hard to grasp realities of the opposite sex. We needed educators like him. Direct and politically incorrect. Here's a perfect example. One night game, we were in a visitors locker room and they had failed to provide him with a chalkboard eraser. Frustrated, Coach Bart said a couple of descriptive words to further reflect his anger and then reached into his pocket, pulled out a quarter, and inserted it in a machine. Well out popped a chalkboard eraser. At least that's what I thought it was. I learned later that we were in the girls locker room and well, it was not an eraser. It did function well as one though. Crass and resourceful!
He was fearless as well. They're good guys to have on your team, unless they turn on you. I'll be honest with you, Coach Bart had never looked at me or yelled at me like he just did.
Was it April 1st? Was this all a gag? Was I still asleep and having one of those sports dreams where I dream I miss the winning shot or can't run fast enough? Or my worst one, that a coach would call me off the bench to get in the game, I'd yank off my warmups and head toward center court with no pants on!! It was recurring too! Probably due to coaches pounding that 'equipment care' thing down our throats.
I walked into his office and he slammed the door and declared "Denney, you're not playing." He was dead serious but I swear to you all, I did not have a clue why. So I asked him. "Why Coach?" and he said "don't get smart with me son." Just get out there and take that damned pink uniform off and get in your street clothes. You're sitting this one out."
I walked out the door and thought "did he say pink?" "I think he said pink." I looked down at my jersey and it looked fine to me. A little dingy maybe, but not pink.
By now, any inclination the guys might have had to laugh was shot all to you know where. What was a joke, was now a serious matter because Coach was cussing and we haven't even lost yet. Plus, I was a starter on this team and we were about to go head to head with our rival and arguably the best team in the city.
As I was getting into my levis, I quietly whispered to Johnny Cox, "Hey Johnny, is my uniform pink?" For fear of his life, he only nodded. In the affirmative.
My heart sank! But at least now I knew why I was being discriminated against. It was all just a big mistake. I figured my sister or mom had washed my uniform and they had all sorts of pink things. That's what happened. Now armed with the facts, I headed back to Coach Bart's office to straighten the whole matter out. I was willing to just let bygones be bygones, for surely, when he hears what had happened, that I was the victim of a careless, if not mischievous sister. And that I had only moments ago, learned that I had a disability, color blindness! Surely he would apologize for his insensitivity and tell me to get back in my pink uniform.
Wrong! You see it all goes back to that equipment care thing they try to teach you. Learning a lesson is a big thing with coaches. A lot of them believe that's the only function of youth sports, to teach lessons. It's hard to argue with that but there are varying opinions on the best way to apply punishment. Some believe in the multiple chance technique and others, and every coach I ever had, believe in the one strike and your out approach to learning. Neither one is wrong. The multiple chances approach, on it's face, would seem the best but it does have it's flaws. For one, it's tough to keep track of which chance a kids at. The one strike method keeps it all nice and simple. No ambiguity. When you do whatever it is you did, you know even before you talk to the coach you're gonna get punished.
My dad showed up after a while and he walked up and sat in the stands like he'd done a hundred times expecting to see his boy play. Instead, he saw me sitting on the bench. In street clothes. His mind went wild trying to figure out why. Nowadays, a kids has to be convicted of burglary or public drunkeness or calling a girl a chick, to be kept out of a game. But it was a different time.
But honestly, I'm not sure if there's ever been a kid kept out of a game for such a reason. A pink uniform?! Yeah, I was some bad dude! Better get that kid on the straight and narrow cause there's no tellin' where this could lead. Sock abuse maybe? Sneaker hygiene issues? Ok, I'm being a little nasty about it but after he learned that it all was not my fault, it just made no sense to not let me play. I couldn't see it, I mean coach, what was I supposed to do? I could not see pink!!
But that was Coach. Right or wrong. I loved that man. And he's gone, I still love him. One of the best coaches I ever had. Coach Bartholomew.
As you may recall, before things went pink, I was describing how I had hurriedly fastened all my buckles and mini winches on my new uniform and that I had no one to check my work. Oh, what I would have given to have a pre- flight checker because when I caught that pass at the 12 yard line, I started heading up the field at full throttle. I had designs on scoring my first touchdown in my new Johnny U uniform. I could see the goal line 80 yards a way and I was determined to get there. The crowd was rooting for me too because they knew I'd been wanting that uniform. Crowd was bigger than usual too, being Christmas morning, everyone was out showing off everything they got. But I was wearing what I got and I was a 4 1/2 foot and very skinny Sherman tank with one goal. The goal.
What happened next was the original perfect storm. The one in the movie was weather related, mine was more a description of the series of events that lead to an aircraft falling out of the sky. Most airline crashes are usually traceable to some seemingly insignificant event. Mine was no exception.
First, one kid tried to tackle me and when he grabbed at me, he exposed the flaw in my metal clasp positioning, so I felt my pants loosen a bit. No alarms went off in my head though, more a little yellow warning light but not a problem because things seemed to stabilize when I got into open field. I was near the 35 and heading toward midfield when things took a turn for the worst. My skinniness, combined with my body motion, had set off an alarm!
Of course it wasn't a real buzzer but you don't need a real buzzer to tell you your pants are falling down. Your legs will scream it. The legs know. Pants are really the only thing legs have to worry about once you've dodged all tacklers. Well, it's true. I had cleared all the would-be tacklers and had actually been increasing the distance between them and me. But now they were catching back up because of my wardrobe malfunction. I knew it was important that I hang on to the ball, so I dedicated one hand solely to ball holding, while the other was assigned the unenviable task of holding my pants up while I ran. It is of course impossible and those guys behind me knew it. They also knew they were gonna catch me. The only question was when.
It was all made considerably more stressful because those cheers I'd first heard when I caught that pass, had a whole different tone. Now, it's hard to hear all that well through those 2 little ear holes but to me, it sounded a little like laughter. So knowing the endzone was no longer a possibility, I glanced to the sidelines, and yep, it was confirmed. They were laughing. They were cheering as well but the primary emotion was laughter. Who could blame them. Heck I'm even laughing as I type this recalling that morning 50 years ago.
Yeah those guys caught up with me at the 50 yard line. And there was a pile of people on me so big they looked like they'd been dumped on me by a dump truck. And they were all laughin', I could hear em through my ear holes. Even people on the sidelines, girls and all came and piled on.
It actually turned out alright. That's because the guys I played with were a great group of kids. Now I'm not saying I didn't get harassed. Heck, even today, when I see one of those guys, they grab my belt to check it!!
But mom. My dear mom. I'm sorry. Like usual, you were right, those football uniforms are dangerous.