“No Gridiron Glory”

Out To Pastoral

by John Idol

HILLSBOROUGH, NC—(Weekly Hubris)—8/16/10—In an earlier column, “Playing Sockball,” I wrote about learning a few rudiments of football when I entered the eighth grade at Appalachian High School in Boone, North Carolina. I took to the game, tag in its intramural form, and set my goal on going out for the varsity when I became a tenth-grader. I wanted to play he-man stuff, not un-padded, un-helmeted, non-tackling stuff. Real football, the kind of sport leading to bruises, bloody noses, even concussions.Or, perhaps, a separated shoulder.

To be one of the walking wounded, to be able to strut and swagger down the hallways or in the cafeteria, to be one of the jocks beloved by adoring jockettes: what a life! Here was glory, to be sure, here was fame, here was the chance to sweep one of the prettiest co-eds into my arms and gloat openly about my triumph! Never mind that this unmatched rise to fame and love would come in a small high school, one more noted for its losses than its victories. L’s would turn to W’s when I donned the silver and blue of Appalachian High, when I showed my stuff as one of its Blue Devils.

But, then, fantasy wrestled with reality. And reality was my dad. What he knew about football, outside of the few things he’d observed when we tore up the grass of his front lawn playing sockball, led him to believe it was too dangerous. He didn’t want me, at 140 pounds soaking wet, bruised, battered, or broken by thick-necked, heavy-hammed ruffians who delighted in knocking little guys around.

What he didn’t know was that scales registered my weight as just about average. Hulky guys were rare at Appalachian High, and in the league where the Blue Devils played. If he’d let me play, I felt good about my chances of making the team as a receiver or pulling guard. My one-handed snares of the sockball had taught me how to catch a ball with just one hand: Cradle it, baby, cradle it—such was my technique.

If I proved adept at blocking, my speed, tenacity, and eagerness to be a good team player could possibly put me in the line-up as pulling guard. I never pictured myself as a quarter or running back: not a good enough arm for the first, and too little grit for the latter.

But first I must make a good case to Dad. I told my mom of my yearning and enlisted her help in persuading Dad to give the thumbs up.

Her support would be essential if I were to live my dream of winning glory on the gridiron.

I waited until Dad had finished supper and lit a Camel. A good meal and a cigarette usually put him in an agreeable mood. “I want to try out for the football team,” I said, as he blew a smoke-ring across the supper table.

“No,” he said, taking another draw. “No, you’re not gonna play football. Too dangerous.”

“Some boys get hurt, I know, but their injuries are usually minor,” I argued.

“But some injuries are bad. They cripple a boy for life, and I ain’t gonna let that happen to you.”

“I want to play on the line,” I said, “and that’s not where most boys get hurt.”

“Never can tell who’s gonna get hurt,” he said. “It’s a rough sport anyway you look at it. It don’t make no sense to me why a boy as smart as you wants to play.” He took another draw on his Camel and began pushing back from the table, a sure sign that he’d said his final word on the subject.

“Please let my play,” I begged, tears now spilling down my cheeks.

“Looks like he’s got his heart set on playing,” said Mom. “Why not let him try out for the team. He may not make it, and he might not like it once he sees how rough the sport is.”

“No,” he said again, this time more firmly than before, for he knew me well enough to convince him I’d not quit the team, no matter how hard I was knocked around. “Johnny would hang in there even if he got his neck broke.” He then left the table.

I remained there for a few minutes, sobbing and sulking. The sulking went on for several days. Much later, when Mom and Dad were away, I sat studying in the living room with my older brother, Ken.

“You still sulking? he asked.

“Yes. Dad doesn’t really know the game and he’s overprotective.

“Why do you want to play so bad?” he probed.

“I like the game, and I want to be somebody. Now I feel like nobody. All those guys with sweaters and letters are somebody, and all the girls are crazy about them. No girls ever look at me,” I said in my teen-age angst,

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he said. “If you want to be somebody, why don’t you hit your books hard and show everyone what a good student you are?” (This advice coming from a college student who’d been elected to the National Honor Society at Appalachian High.)

Out of my sulkiness I replied, “If I hit my books, all the boys will call me an egghead and the girls won’t give me the time of day.”

“You want to make something of yourself?” he said.”Just try doing your best in class and see what happens.”

Since I had a week or more of sulking to do, I didn’t leap to my feet right there and then and say, “Thank you, Big Brother, for your good advice.” But hit my books I did, turning a leaning towards nerdism into a full-blown case. My grades shot up, I read ahead in texts for chemistry and physics, and complained to my teachers about the pace of our studies. “Much too slow,” I insisted. We never reached those fascinating chapters on atomic energy.

To this talk with brother, Ken, I trace my membership in the National Honor Society, Phi Beta Kappa, selection as Distinguished Alumni Professor at Clemson University—and election to the president’s office of The Society for the Study of Southern Literature, The Thomas Wolfe Society, and the Nathaniel Hawthorne Society.

But my love of sports didn’t die, as my fellow columnist, Skip Eisiminger can testify. Over a 25-year stretch of slow-pitch intramural softball at Clemson, I was credited with over 500 wins as a pitcher.

What’s gridiron glory compared to all that?!

PS: After a four-year hitch in the Air Force, I wooed and wed a high school classmate—not one of the jockettes, but a real sport nonetheless. My best catch of all!