Football was rough and I loved it. I felt mean going into the first game, against Tellico. Like the first gig, it was my first live action football contest. I couldn’t reason how they could possibly beat us. I figured they knew they had no chance. Well, we won, with very little thanks to me. No one criticized my work as a tight end, though I could charge myself with plenty of blame from there, but I was a joke as a defensive end. My idea had been to go after the ball and make every play I could. My job, on the other hand, was to protect the flank. My most spectacular play of the game was to run down a loose running back and cream him with a flying tackle to save a touchdown. My heroics sound great except that the play got outside of me in the first place, and not for the first time during the game. Great running by our all-everything fullback was the big difference. A lesson awaited me.
At practice on Monday, the coaches didn’t seem too happy that we had won. They were particularly sour on me. “We’ve brought in someone to help you,” they said. I attest that I needed help. Not long afterwards, a car drove up and a guy named Ox (this is nearly his real name) stepped onto our practice area. I couldn’t believe Ox was going to be working with us. He was a football god, a monster, the biggest, toughest guy around. I’d seen him up close during a basketball game (a lefty, he played center for The Mighty Tornadoes) at the old high school gym when I was in 6th grade, and he was the starting tight end and linebacker in football for several years through the 1967 season. He stood about 6’4”, and weighed around 220lbs.
Actually, I liked Ox’s no bullshit approach. He was very clear about what he wanted. We started to rebuild the defense that day, starting from scratch. Two new guys, students who had failed 7th grade the year before, had joined the team. They were big, mean boys who added much needed muscle to the interior of the defensive line. I thought Ox was gonna kill us, but that wasn’t the case. I’d heard people say that Ox was a dummy, but that’s not the Ox I knew. Temporary coach Ox taught us our jobs in minute detail, and he explained the overall plan in exactly the same way. A week before a home field rematch with Tellico, he drew a diagram on a chalk board in the varsity dressing room that showed the entire scheme of the defense. He looked at me. “All you do is go there,” he said, and made several emphatic swipes with chalk, “and don’t let anything outside of you. When the play turns in, D’ll take out the blocks, and DD’ll put the make on him. You understand?” “Yeah, I understand.”
“Ok,” he said, “I want yuns to understand one more thing. If you don’t do what I tell ya, I’m gonna whup yuns’ goddamned asses! I ain’t bullshittin ya, I’ll whup yer goddamned ass. You sure you understand that?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t let him get outside. Don’t let him get outside,” Ox said, tapping the board with the chalk.
I knew he wasn’t going to have to whip my ass. I totally understood the defense and how it worked, having been first taught practice then theory. The work paid off when we shut out The Bears 19—0. I had to fight off two blockers on every play, but was somehow able to hold my ground the entire game. I told the coach they were killing me, and he said he knew that, but I’d just have to hang tough. It worked out.
We were beaten by Englewood a couple of weeks later when our coaches decided to take the team off the field and leave before the game ended. A horrible mess ensued after that, and the team was unable to finish the season. I tried out for and made the basketball team. I’d made the team in 7th grade and was ready for some playing time. Everything looked good, but there’s always trouble ahead.
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