Big Time Football
In October of 1961, Roger Maris hit his 61st
home run in the last game of the season, against the Boston Red Sox,
beating the 34 year-old record held by Babe Ruth. I wasn’t
particularly fond of Roger. After all, he was a Yankee and I was
clearly a Dodger fan. But the sports world in general revered his
accomplishment. In Ogden, Utah, word had spread
through the Wasatch elementary 6th
grade boys, that they would soon be elevated in status by graduating
to the prestigious Mount Ogden Junior High School, and would there
have the opportunity to become members of the Mount Ogden Rams
football team. There just wasn’t much more that could be aspired
to than that. The shiny blue satiny pants, the profile flattering
pads, the ram-horn helmets, and the white jerseys with blue circles
on the shoulders, were mighty to behold. The future was alive with
glorious possibilities for conquest and triumph.
Now was the time for advance preparation. A group of
us were not without initiative, and we organized ourselves to begin
practicing for future eventualities. Most of us had some football
equipment that we had been gathering from where we could, either from
Christmas gifts, birthdays, or even from the local D.I. I had laid
claim to a red helmet with a white faceguard and stripe down the
middle, and a pair of shoulder pads that made my shoulders look huge.
I pulled a red sweatshirt over the pads to complete the illusion. I
was now an invincible fighting machine, capable of moving and
destroying anything in my path. I could only imagine the stares I
was going to get from the girls who would be watching us at the
games.
As to my talent, I was sure that it would become
readily evident to all who had the opportunity to observe my skills.
I had many years of practice in the street at 3011 Circle Way. My
arm and accuracy were legendary among the boys in the neighborhood.
When we played “pass interception” I was the designated
quarterback for both sides, switching with possession of the ball.
Deany Peterson, Gary Hoxer and I loved that game, and we played at
every opportunity. I was sure I was ready to take my place
quarterbacking the sixth grade.
We had our first practice at Mt. Ogden Park, near the
foothills on the east bench of Ogden. I didn’t count, but there
must have been about 30 of us there. The shoulder pads were
glorious, all tightly enclosed by various colored sweatshirts. Some
of us had cleats, but there were no additional pads. We just wore
our good old levis with our helmets, shoulder pads, sweatshirts and
cleats or tennis shoes. A couple of players from the junior high
were there to see what we were up to. I noticed that there were
players there from other schools too. Some of them came from Polk
elementary and some came from Quincy elementary, both about a mile
from Wasatch, in different directions.
Bob Jones, a massive, rock-solid player player from the
junior high, quickly took control of the gathering. He
proceeded to get us lined up in rows for exercises. We started with
jumping jacks, all shouting out numbers – 1-2-3-1, 1-2-3-2.
1-2-3-3, and so on. Bob stopped us a couple of times and ridiculed
the way we shouted out the numbers, demanding that we shout out
louder like we mean something. Then we all laid down on the ground
on our back for “gut-busters,” where we lift our feet six inches
off the ground while Bob and a couple of his buddies walked around
and teased us about our flabby abs. He lightly punched a few of us
in our stomachs, to which we belted out groans. We did gut busters
until nearly everyone was groaning in pain. Then we did some sprints
until we all almost dropped. Bob and his buddies got their jollies
watching us all suffer.
When we were all dropping on the ground, bending over, and gasping
for breath, we were finally able to organize to play. I was excited
to show off my great arm. I was sure that I was the one who should
quarterback the team. Much to my chagrin, Bob began to move through
the crowd, selecting kids he knew for skill positions. He chose a
kid who was shorter than me, named Pat Dabling as the quarterback.
No one dared challenge Bob’s selections. He was way too buff and
way too much in charge of everything. I guess I should have felt ok
- after all Bob chose me to use my massive 130 pound intimidating
figure to be a starting guard. Except that I really didn’t know how
to block. All I did at 3011 was drop back and pass. Oh well, I
figured I could at least get in the way of the defensive players and
make it extremely had for them to get to Pat.
So all the players were divided up. 11 of us were on the offense,
and 11 were on defense. Offensive linemen were supposed to plow
through the defense so that the backs could move down the field and
score. Now it was time for the huddle. Everybody knew that the
purpose of the huddle was to figure out a play to run. The
quarterback would call the play. All the players gathered about 10
years back of the line of scrimmage (that’s where the ball was
laying on the field) and squeezed in real tight so that we could make
a secret play that would fool the defense. I found out real quick
that you had to hurry to find a place because everybody squooshed
together in a less than perfect oval . The first couple of times I
had to yell and punch a couple of guys to get a space. The defense
also got in a huddle right on the line of scrimmage, but it was much
shorter and less organized than the offensive huddle. One of the
defensive linemen was standing real still trying to pick up what we
were saying in the offensive huddle.
Bob pretended to be the coach and knelt down on one knee in he middle
of the huddle. “Okay shut up!” he said. “We’re gonna start
up the gut,” he said. “ Hand-off to the fullback, between right
guard and right tackle on 2. Ready, break” Everybody stood and
looked at each other. “All right, I want to hear it, when I say
break, everybody says break, then line up on the line. Ready,
break!” We all shouted “break” with Bob, then trotted up to
the line and got down in a three point stance. I wasn’t sure
exactly how to do that - remember that all my training was as a
quarterback. So I watched what the other guys did. Let’s see,
spread your legs apart. bend over and put your right fist down on the
ground and lean forward on it. I looked down at the brown grass, then
cranked my head up to see two mean-looking eyes staring at me over
the single-bar faceguard of a helmet atop a huge blue sweatshirt. I
knew I couldn’t smile. This was serious business. Besides I
remembered that my brother had told me that if you smiled people
would take advantage of you.
Pat started to bark out signals. I must say, he could yell ‘em out
loud for bein’ such a short kid. “Ready, down, set, hut 1, hut
2.” I don’t remember clearly what happened next. I felt two
monster hands grab my shoulder pads and throw me to the ground. I
heard a great collision of shoulder pads and helmets right above me.
Then the collective weight of the whole offensive and defensive line
collapsed on me. I managed one mighty “Uhhh!” before my body was
pressed into the soft, muddy turf. After a couple of hours, the
bodies finally unpiled and I struggled to my feet. I saw the imprint
of my body, helmet and cheekbones in the soft mud. I gasped and bent
over and struggled for breath.
“Block, block, block,” Bob hollered. “Didn't anyone ever teach
you losers how to block?” He was in my face now. “What's your
name, kid?”
“Griffin,” I replied
“Well, Griffin. Your job is to keep Mr. Blueshirt outta here.
Bend your elbows and push into him with your upper body. Dig in with
your feet and bulldoze him.” Bob demonstrated, easily pushing
aside the blue-shirted monster I lined up against. Bob was actually
bigger than my blue nemesis, and Mr. Blue knew it, and easily gave
way.
“Okay,” I said, trying to put some moxi into my voice, “I got
it.”
“You better get it,” Bob responded. “Huddle up!” He turned
and trotted back to the clot of huddled up players. I followed and
squeezed and pushed my way in.
“Okay,” Bob said, “same play. We're gonna make this thing
work. Besides, they won't expect us to run the same play twice,
especially since we lost yardage on it the first time. Ready,
break!”
The players all joined in and shouted heroically, “BREAK.”
I jogged up to the line and got down. I twisted my head sideways and
looked down the line at the other players lined up. They were all
down in their three point stances, but were a foot or two behind me.
Then I realized that none on them were leaning forward on their hand.
They weren't putting any weight on it at all. They were all solidly
balanced on their feet, and they put a hand down to the ground as an
accessory, and not as a point of balance. It looked and felt a
little awkward, but guess I could to it. I turned my head and
looked across the line at Mr. Blueshirt. He was smiling this time!
What? He's thinkin' he's gonna push me down in the mud again! Well,
we'll see about that!
Pat looked right and left down the line, then began to bark out
signals. “Ready, down, set, hut1, hut2”
I started to raise up as Mr. Blueshirt stormed into me, slamming into
me and pushing on my shoulders until I fell on my back. Then he ran
over the top of me on his way to sack Pat.
“Griffin, what the heck are you doin?” Bob shouted, only he
didn't say “heck.” “You didn't do what I showed ya. All
right, everybody huddle up!”
We all got up off the ground, struggled back a few steps, then
squished together.
“Okay, this time pass block. Just stay in front of your man, and
Dabling's gonna hit Greenfield across the middle.” Jones looked
right at me. “Don't let your man through! On three this time.
Ready – Break!”
I sauntered up to the line again, and took my place in front of the
smiling Mr Blueshirt. I made sure I was directly in front of him
when I bent over in a three point stance. I bent my head back and
looked right at his middle, where his belly button would be behind
that stupid blue shirt.
Pat started to count.“Ready, down, set, hut1, hut2.jut3” I made
my head into a battering ram and surged into Blueshirt. He missed the
push this time and my helmet made solid contact with his belly.
“U-h-h-h,” he groaned. He didn't fall down, but he didn't move
anywhere either. He latched onto my helmet with both hands. I lunged
forward with my legs. Blueshirt fell on his back, lifting my feet
off the ground. My legs pumped in the air. Meanwhile Pat completed
the pass and Greenfield was speeding down the field. All the players
chased after him – all, except me and Blue. We got up just in time
to see Greenfield in the end zone and the players coming back.
“You got some noggin, man,” Blue said, catching his breath. Somebody later said
that Blue got the wind knocked out of him. I didn't know exactly
what that meant, but I decided that Blue was right, I do have some noggin. Mom was right. She always told me to use my head.
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