PAPER HERO

There was a book written about Friday night lights. It was a

wonderful book. Ive read it three times. They made it into a movie, and it was surprisingly good. Ive seen the movie five times. A TV show followed, and it too was quite captivating for the first two seasons.

Friday Night Lights is all about the passion, the mystery, the joys and

crimes of that most American of traditions called high school football. In

spite of the overt political agenda that somewhat detracted from it, H.G.

Bissingers book wonderfully captured the passion and pathos of a culture predicated upon the symbiotic hopes of teenage athletes and the

adults who cheer them on, often to an unhealthy and idolatrous degree.

The story I am about to tell is not as ambitious as all that. It is

simply a tale of something that occurred on a Friday night under the

lights on a Florida high school football field in 1983. It is the story of

something that happened to me.

I was 14 years old, and I was the quarterback for the Anneewakee

Warriors. Or to be more precise, I was a quarterback for the

Anneewakee Warriors. My best friend Tom was the quarterback, the

leader of our team, tough as nails and with a rifle arm. I was his backup,

the second string QB. But when I say I was the second string QB, please

dont misunderstand. The only reason I found myself in that unenviable position was because other than Tom I was the only person on the team

who actually knew how to throw a spiral. That was about it. It wasnt as if I had actually beaten out anyone else to earn the position.

I was 511 and weighed 145 pounds with helmet and pads on. This was my first time ever playing organized football, although I had

dreamed of playing football from the time I could walk. But my mother

wouldnt let me. Often overprotective in the wrong ways, she was worried about the risks of football while being heedless of the real

dangers that were assaulting my childhood. It broke my heart whenever I

saw my friends headed to Pop Warner little league football practice after

school, knowing that I couldnt participate with them. I would often follow along just to watch, dreaming of the moves and cuts and spins

and speed that I could use against them dreaming of how they would never catch me if only my mother would give me the chance to don a helmet and put on pads. But she was recalcitrant, believing that football

was too violent and fearing that I would be injured.

When we played touch football during school recess, I would score

at will. I was the fastest person in my grade each of my elementary

school years. And I would always convince my classmates to play tackle

football before the teacher made us stop and go back to two hand touch.

I relished the physical contact, and I wanted to show my friends that

even though my mother wouldnt let me play organized football, I was nevertheless just as tough in fact tougher than they were.

I hated the fact that my mother would never let me play little

league football, and her decision left a scar of resentment that lingered

for years. It wasnt that my mother was against sports, its just that she had a disdain for what she perceived to be the inherent violence of

football. She signed me up for soccer when I was in the first grade, and I

was a natural. My speed gave me a decided advantage, and the sport

came easily to me. But as much as I enjoyed soccer, I wasnt passionate about it. I grew up in an era when soccer was never seen on TV in

America. I knew who Pele was, and I always made sure that my coach

let me wear number 10 in honor of him; but that was about all I really

knew or cared about soccer. Football was what I watched, loved, and

desperately wanted to play. I wanted to throw like Roger Staubach of the

Dallas Cowboys; I wanted to catch like Lynn Swann of the Pittsburgh

Steelers; I wanted to run like Georgia Techs Eddie Lee Ivory; and I wanted to tackle like Alabamas Jeremiah Castille. I fell asleep at night with a football in my arms, my football cards spread around my bed, and

praying to God to let me be a pro football player when I grew up.

But sometimes you just cant overcome your parents decisions or your parents genes. I was an elementary school playground superstar; but somewhere during my middle school years, puberty, natural

selection, and the laws of the universe cruelly rendered me smaller and

weaker than many of the peers over whom I had formerly excelled

athletically. During the 6th

and 7th

grades many of my friends grew hair

in strange new places, and this strange new hair somehow made them

magically bigger, taller, and stronger than me. I prayed to acquire this

gift of strange new hair that would also grant me new athletic

superpowers. My prayer was slowly and only partially answered. I did

eventually receive the gift of strange new hair; but for some reason, the

whiskers with which God finally blessed me werent accompanied by any athletic superpowers. I was still smaller and weaker than most of my

fellow competitors.

So I learned to play basketball, a sport where mastering the

fundamentals could give one an advantage over more physically gifted

opponents. I mastered the art of using my left hand as deftly as my right

hand. I carried my basketball everywhere I went, dribbling up and down

stairs, learning how to go between my legs and behind my back. I forced

myself to develop the proper shooting technique, shooting hundreds of

free throws every day in my driveway. I got pretty good, very good in

fact. And nothing gave me more pleasure than beating guys who were

taller, stronger, more athletic (and hairier) than I was. I couldnt control natural law, but I could prove that even the capriciousness of nature

must sometimes bow to the disciplines of human fundamentals. I had

found a new love. And like most other loves in my life, it would

eventually and frequently break my heart. But Ill save the cruel love story of basketball for another day.

Football had been my first suitor; and now at the age of 14, in my

freshman year of high school, I finally had the opportunity to truly

experience the sport Id always dreamed of playing. My mother, in a decision which Im sure she believed to be a protective one at the time, had sent me off to a reform school for troubled youths. Thus I suddenly found myself in an environment where I was surrounded by

criminals, pedophiles, and drug addicts and where, alas I was now able to play organized football for the very first time. Im sure the irony of this will not be lost on the reader.

So here I was, finally playing my dream sport at this reform school for troubled youths called Anneewakee. And I was excited. Sort of. For some reason, nature was still dragging her feet regarding my

physical development. At 5 feet and 11 inches tall, and weighing in at a

charitable 145 pounds, I was a scrawny kid on a team full of guys for

whom puberty was a distant memory some that had committed armed robbery and many whod had sexual intercourse by the age of ten. This was a whole new playground, and my basketball fundamentals were not

much use here. To sum it up, I was scared shitless.

But still, I was finally playing football. Or at least I was finally on

a real football team a high school football team. And as scared as I was, I was also thrilled. I was finally wearing a helmet, shoulder pads,

and football (not soccer) cleats. I was now a real football player!

The problem was that I wasnt playing the position for which I was best suited. Our head coach, Coach Mackentire, had assured me that I

would be a wide receiver. He had watched me run, noticed my speed,

and had thrown passes to me during tryouts. Even though puberty was

taking its time, I was still fast. And Id always had good hands. Id been throwing and catching footballs all my life, even though I had never put

on pads before. Coach had thrown me twenty passes in a row post patterns, slant routs, bullets and bombs. And I hadnt dropped a one. So he told me that I would be a receiver in the fall. And I was happy about

that. I didnt have any fear about running in open space, dodging defenders, diving and laying out to make a spectacular catch. Hell, this is

what I had been doing all my life in backyards, neighborhood streets, and schoolyard playgrounds. So what if everyone else on the team was

bigger, stronger, and meaner? I could still outrun them, I could still get

open, and I could still catch the damn football. I was Fred Biletnikoff

and Lynn Swann rolled into one, and all the Mean Joe Greens in the world couldnt stop me from catching every pass that would be thrown my way. At least thats what I thought of myself. I may have been scared, but I was ready to be a wide receiver!

But then Coach changed his mind and decided to put me at backup

quarterback. And as much as my childhood was filled with visions and

prayers of growing up to become the next Roger Staubach, I had no

desire to play the position now. Being smaller and weaker than everyone

else on the team and considering this was the first time Id ever donned football armor I lacked the requisite confidence and leadership that are essential to being a high school quarterback.

During practice I was relegated to leading the second team offense

against the first team defense. I would crouch under center, calling out

the signals as my hands trembled and my voice quivered. My

tentativeness disrupted the rhythm of my cadence, causing the second

team center to invariably hike the ball at the wrong moment. And the

result was that the first team defensive line would usually arrive before

the snap did, and in violent fashion. I would be ruthlessly hit before the

ball hit my hands. So I would fumble. And the defense would pounce on

the fumble and then high five one another in celebratory fashion. And

Coach would get mad. And he would throw his clipboard. And he would

say run the play again. And I would tell our backup center to snap the

ball more quickly this time. And the same thing would happen again.

And Coach would yell again. And I would get up, brush myself off, and

call the same play again (as Coach instructed, which would of course

give the defense an even greater and ridiculously unnecessary

advantage). And I would again plead with the center to please snap the

ball faster this time. And I would then bark out the signals with my voice shaking even worse than before. And once more I would get

pounded to the turf as the ball flew out of my hands and the defense

pounced on it and celebrated as if they had won the Super Bowl. And

Coach would cuss again. And he would take off his watch and tell me to

hold it along with his clipboard. And he would waddle up under center

to run the second team offense himself. And then he would fumble as

the defense actually tackled him, slamming his corpulent middle-aged

torso into the Florida Bermudagrass turf. And then the defense would

celebrate again like they had just won the Super Bowl. And Coach

would dislodge the partially swallowed whistle from his throat and

unleash a tirade of profanities that defied the laws of reason, anatomy,

and the English language.

The whole thing was embarrassing. Downright humiliating. And it

was also physically painful. I had always loved to throw the football. Id thrown a million spirals on playgrounds, parking lots, and suburban cul-

de-sacs. But how could I throw a spiral now if I couldnt even get the snap? And since most players on the team played both ways (offense

and defense), that meant the first team offensive line was also the first

team defensive line. And Coach Mackentire didnt feel the need to adjust things so that I could run the second team offense with at least a

few of the starters on the offensive line. So nothing got accomplished.

The first team defense never improved because they were never

challenged, and the second team offense never got any better because we

couldnt even execute the center to quarterback exchange. Whatever grandiose notions I had about being a football player were quickly

disabused. I came to despise my first love. I hated football now. And I

hated the fact that I now hated it.

But at least there was Tom.

Tom Braxton was not only the best player on the team, not only a

great quarterback and a great leader, but he was also my best friend. At

this reform school, where I was truly surrounded by truly troubled teens, Tom was an oasis of normality, a beacon of light in a wilderness

of fear and uncertainty. Neither of us belonged at Anneewakee; and as

soon as we met we bonded over this unspoken but obvious truth. But

besides that, Tom was the only person there who actually understood

anything about sports. It was incredibly refreshing to be able to talk to

somebody who knew as much about sports as I did. And yet our

friendship revolved around much more than that. Toms intellect, loyalty, and encouragement helped me to endure two of the most

difficult years of my life. We had both been unjustly thrown into a sea of

madness, and we found brotherhood in helping each other keep our

sanity.

And the fact that Tom was such a great quarterback also caused me

to look up to him. At practice he took me under his wing, teaching me

everything he could about the position. He constantly encouraged me.

He convinced me that I was actually capable of leading the team if he

should ever become injured. Even though it wasnt true, Tom made me believe that I was actually a good quarterback. Rather than being

embarrassed by me, Tom stood up for me. Tom commanded the respect

of the entire team; and since he accepted me everyone else accepted me

too (or at least they didnt fuck with me.) Such kindness, loyalty, and leadership are rare things in this world believe me.

Tom also helped save my life, or at least my health. During

practices I always dreaded the one-on-one tackling drills that the

coaches would arbitrarily decide to conduct. The team would be divided

into two opposing single file lines, with twin dummy bags set two yards apart in between. One of the coaches would toss the football to

one player, who would then try to run directly over the opposing player,

who would simultaneously attempt to slam the ball carrier directly on his

back. Since the dummy bags were set up only two yards apart, there was no way to rely on speed or agility to dodge the tackler or to tackle

the ball carrier without making full-fledged contact. This drill petrified

me because the smallest guy on the team could wind up going against

the biggest guy on the team. And since the drill was designed

specifically for contact and power, my maneuverability gave me no

advantage. Being the weakest guy on the team, I was always

significantly outmatched.

I was terrified of this segment of practice, and I always tried to find

a way to get out of it. There was only one hope of evading it. Whenever

I sensed that the tackling drills were approaching, I would ask one of the

coaches if Tom and I could go warm up our arms. And since the tackling

drills were always the last thing we did before we scrimmaged, the

coaches would usually thin this was a legitimate and natural request.

And this scheme worked for a while, but not for too long. It soon

became obvious what I was up to, and that made the coaches all the

more determined to toughen me up by making me participate in these

God-forsaken gladiatorial contests. So I started asking Tom to ask the

coaches if we could loosen up our arms, because I knew the coaches

would respect Tom. And that worked for a while, until the coaches

figured out that I was employing Tom as a surrogate, which made them

even more determined to include me in every tackling drill possible.

After all, it wasnt like there was any real need to preserve the health or life of a 511, 145 pound second string QB with the heart of the cowardly lion a kid who was obviously of no significant use to the team in any way, shape, or form.

So thats what all my childhood football dreams had become a miserable existence of simply trying to endure each practice with my

bones intact and my cognitive faculties relatively unaltered.

But as cowardly as I was, I was still an athlete, a competitor, a

skinny kid who may have hated tackling drills but who would prove his

mettle elsewhere. So I would try to win every sprint. I would try to be

first whenever we ran laps. And I would do my best to embarrass anyone

I could in any drills that involved pure skill rather than head to head

contact. But rather than ingratiating me to my teammates, this only made

them more determined to kick my ass when it was time for tackling.

And so it went, practice after practice praying each day that the coaches would decide not to conduct tackling drills that particular

afternoon. And amidst the terror I would find moments of joy whenever

Tom and I were allowed to warm up our arms, when I would then just be

a kid again, throwing spirals with my best friend and pretending I was

Roger Staubach. And Tom would make me believe that I could be Roger

Staubach.

And then there were the games. There were those mystical Friday

night lights. There was a football field bathed in an effulgent flood, an

isolated radiance in the middle of a black Florida panhandle wilderness.

There were the glistening helmets, and there was the freshly manicured

grass that shimmered in the nighttime anticipation of the oncoming dew.

And there were the bleachers, which held no more than a hundred people

on a good night. And we would gather in the end zone, behind a large

paper sign that read: Go Warriors! And we would run through the sign, and the night was brighter than noon, and we were football players.

And I was a football player. And God how I loved that part of it.

And tonight we were playing Academy Prep. And they were good.

Damn good. Better than any team we had played before. And we hadnt won a game all season. And we hadnt even been close to winning a game all season.

And the opposing teams always seemed to be possessed of extra

motivation when they played us. They all seemed to relish beating the

crap out of us, even though doing so was no great feat. Coach

Mackentire finally told us why. You see, our competitors were told that

our school was basically a juvenile detention center, and that we were all

criminals and rapists and drug addicts and essentially the scum of the

earth which of course was only partially true. So the opposing coaches would tell their teams that we were dirty players, that we were horrible

human beings, and that we deserved a good ass kicking on the field. And

since this was before the prevalence of the internet, the opposing players

had no way to verify whether or not any of this was true. And the

aggressive nature of football being what it is, I dont think any of the opposing players were too concerned about dispelling the information

their coaches were feeding them. As far as they were concerned we were

the bad guys, and we deserved what was coming to us.

And on this particular Friday night it was apparent that Academy

Preps coaches had really driven the point home in their pre-game pep talk. They were undefeated, and they had a running back that would

eventually play football for Navy. We were woefully outmatched, even

more so than usual. Their team was playing with viciousness, as if they

were fighting a holy crusade where ones heavenly crowns were determined by the amount of pain one inflicted upon the infidels. Tom

could barely execute a handoff, much less have time in the pocket to

pass. They were killing him. They were killing us. And they were

deriving sadistic pleasure from it.

I watched helplessly from the sidelines, as always. But there was

something about these actual games that neutralized my fear, at least to a

degree. I wanted to play. I wanted to get in the game, at least for a few

snaps. And I would usually sidle up to Coach about once each quarter

and ask: Coach, do you want me to go in and give Tom a rest for a few plays? And sometimes, since there was never any real chance of us winning anyway, Coach would actually send me into the game for a play

or two. And since I would receive the snap from the starting center and

have the protection of the first string offensive line, then I would have

no trouble executing one of the routine handoffs that was always called

when I was in the game. And as simple of a task as it was, I nevertheless

enjoyed it. To command the huddle, to call the play, and then to execute

that play in a real game as simple as it may have been well, this always made me love football again.

But Coach would never let me do more than hand the ball off. My

favorite play was the option, and I begged Coach to let me run the option

play just once. Growing up, when I wasnt Roger Staubach throwing touchdown passes to Golden Richards, I was Walter Lewis running the

Wishbone option offense for the Alabama Crimson Tide. And I knew I

could run the option in a real game. The option played to my strengths speed and agility. I knew how to fake the handoff to the fullback, read

the defensive end, feign and juke, and either pitch or keep the ball. I

wanted to run the play so badly, but Coach Mckentire always said no.

(What is it about parents and coaches and teachers that cause them to

never give you a chance to do the very things theyre supposedly preparing you to do?)

And I also wanted to throw a pass in a real game. So one time,

thats exactly what I tried to do. We were losing to some team by four touchdowns, and Coach Mckentire put me in to give Tom a breather. He

told me to call right 22 blast, a typical run play where I would simply hand the ball off to the tailback. But I had other ideas. I was gonna catch

the defense and everyone else off guard by throwing a deep post pattern

from a play action fake. No one would expect it. I would throw a

touchdown pass and be hero, at least for a moment. So in the huddle,

instead of calling right 22 blast, I called right 22 blast, play action post. Then I broke the huddle by saying, ready! And nine others yelled break! right along with me. And we sprinted to the line of scrimmage. I was poised to throw my TD pass. But something wasnt right. I didnt see our fullback behind me. Where was he? What the hell was he doing? And then I saw him running toward the sidelines,

frantically signaling for a time out. And then I heard the referee blow his

whistle. And then I saw our fullback pointing at me and yelling, Coach, he was calling the wrong play! He was trying to change the play Coach!

He was changing the play Coach! The son of a bitch. Yeah, I was changing the play. I was trying to

score a damn touchdown! There were three minutes left in the fourth

quarter. We were losing by 28 points. What the hell did it matter if I was

changing the play?!

But Coach didnt yell at me. He just took me out and put Tom back in. Its funny how you can come so close to realizing visions of glory only to have some jackass fuck it all up. But sports are a microcosm of

life, and excuses are as valuable as fools gold. Perhaps I would somehow have another chance to do something worthwhile in a football

game. I guess I could always hope. But hope is a dangerous thing.

So on this particular Friday night, as Academy Prep pounded us up

and down the field, and as I watched by best fried valiantly pull himself

up from the turf time and again, I sidled up to Coach and asked: Coach, do you want me to give Tom a breather?

He shoved me out of the way. Theyre a pack of wolves! he yelled, loudly enough for everyone to hear. Theyll eat you alive, son! Theyll eat you alive! Take your helmet off and go sit back down!

My teammates snickered, stifling their guffaws only because they

didnt want to invoke the ire of the coaches. People in the stands laughed raucously. Everyone had heard it. They were slapping their knees and

pointing at me, asking one other if theyd heard what Coach had said. It was a grand joke, and I was the butt of it. I was humiliated once again.

In the locker room, at halftime, the trainer walked around offering us cups of Gatorade from a tray. Coach Mckentire came in and

knocked the tray out of his hands, sending a shower of Gatorade across

the room.

You all dont deserve any goddam Gatorade! he said. Youre playing like a bunch of pussies! They think youre criminals but youre just pussies! I wish I did have a team of criminals right now! But all I

have is a team full of worthless pussies! I hadnt done anything to deserve or not deserve Gatorade. But I

couldnt really see why my teammates didnt deserve any. I mean, they were out there truly doing their best against a private prep-school

football factory whose players had obviously been led to believe that this

was not so much a football game as a battle of good against evil, right

against wrong, God against the devil. And if Academy Prep represented

justice, then the universe was more than just bending towards justice; it

was downright prostrating before it.

Coach Mckentires motivational halftime speech didnt seem to help much in the second half. We continued to get our asses kicked (and

thats just the only way to say it.) And although Tom continued to take a beating, I didnt dare ask Coach if I could relieve him for a few plays. So I just stood on the sidelines, contemplating the unfairness and cruelty of

life.

I think the score was something like 38-0, about midway through

the fourth quarter, when Coach Hennings the special teams coach came over to me.

Do you want to return the kickoff? Sir? Do you want to run back the kickoff?! Im not gonna ask you

again! Yessir! I can do it! I know you can son. Just do two things, two things Yessir. First of all, catch the ball. Secondly, dont fumble the ball. And

other than that, just use your speed and run like hell! Yessir! I didnt believe it. Was this assistant coach playing a joke on me?

Id never even considered the possibility of running back a kickoff. But hell, I could do this! I was fast, and I wasnt scared of confronting bigger, stronger, but less agile tacklers in open space, where I could use

my speed and quickness to at least ensure they wouldnt get a solid hit on me.

When do I go in Coach? Now son, right after this two point conversion. I was too excited to even consider the fact that Academy Prep had

been going for two all night long. Up by five touchdowns, and here they

were again, still going for the two point conversion instead of kicking

the extra point. Talk about disrespect! But this unjust and

unsportsmanlike conduct by their team was a million miles from my

consciousness at the time. I was about to return the kickoff, and I was

fully committed to the task at hand. I was either gonna score or be

carried off the field on a stretcher. And I didnt care which, as long as I

didnt fumble. And I was so full of adrenaline that they would have to surgically remove the football from my hands. This was my moment.

Now coach?! Yes! Now! Get in there! Dont fumble! Use that speed and do

what you know how to do! I sprinted from the sidelines, mouthpiece in place and chinstrap

fastened. This is how heroes are made. My heart raced and my mind

surged with visions of glory: I was going to receive the kickoff, tucking

the ball in my arm and then eluding potential tacklers as I raced 80 or 90

yards for a touchdown. It wouldnt matter that my touchdown would have little bearing on the outcome of the game. What would matter is

that my teammates would pile on top of me in congratulatory

celebration. I would earn their respect, gain their approval, prove that I

was not a coward after all. And even if I didnt reach the end zone, I would run with courage, securing the ball without fumbling as I was

crushed to the turf. Either way I would prove that I was a real football

player after all.

These were the thoughts that flooded my soul as I raced onto the

field. Whatever fears I had were surpassed by the thrill of the

opportunity that lay before me. This was something I could do, and I

was all too ready to do it.

And thats when I heard it. As I was halfway onto the field, sprinting to the spot from which I would launch my run to glory, coach

Mckentires stentorian voice echoed through the Florida night for all to hear:

What the hell is he doing?! Get him off the field! Who sent him out there? Theyll kill him! Theyll kill him! Get his goddam ass off the field! Get him off of the field!

I ignored it. After all, Coach wasnt even talking to me; he was talking to somebody else everybody else. But he wasnt specifically addressing me. So I kept running onto the field to take my spot. The way

I reasoned it, Coach Hennings was the one who had given me the

instructions, and I was going to follow those instructions. I couldnt disobey a coach.

And then I heard it again: Whats he doing?! Get him off the field! Get his ass off of the field! Now! Theyre wolves! Theyre a pack of wolves! Theyll kill him!

I looked to the sidelines and saw Coach Hennings waving me in. In

fact, it seemed like everyone present that night was waving me in teammates, coaches, fans, and anyone within a ten mile radius. It seemed

like the entire Florida panhandle was screaming at me in unison:

Get off the field! Youre not a football player! Youll get hurt! Youre wasting our time! GET OFF THE FIELD!

I had endured humiliation, embarrassment, disappointment and

shame on this football team. And I dont mean collective humiliation, embarrassment, disappointment and shame; I mean personal

humiliation, embarrassment, disappointment and shame. And there is a

significant difference, I can assure you. The thing I had loved most was

now tormenting me in unimaginable ways. And this was the lowest

moment of all, the worst humiliation, the cruelest disappointment.

You do your best to control what you can control, to give yourself

a fighting chance, to maintain hope that an opportunity will come your

way, and then life and the bastards of life strip it all away from you. At

least thats how it feels sometimes. And thats certainly how I felt right then, at that moment, on that Friday night under those unremitting lights.

So I jogged back to the sidelines and took a seat on the bench,

watching the final minutes tick away, wishing I was invisible. I was no

longer just disappointed, I was now mad. I was pissed off. I was sick and

tired of being treated like this. I was sick of the fact that these coaches

were more than happy to subject me to their goddam sadistic tackling

drills, but they werent willing to let me see real playing time in real games where I might actually have a chance of making a positive

contribution. I was seething inside. I was fed up. But I was also helpless.

There was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

I sat on the bench, stewing in rage, wallowing in self-pity and

despair, wishing I could crawl away somewhere and hide. Then

suddenly I noticed a commotion on our sideline. I stood up to see what

was happening. It was Coach Mckentire. He was apoplectic, scurrying

up and down the sidelines screaming instructions to each and every

player:

DO NOT SHAKE THEIR HANDS! DO NOT SHAKE THEIR HANDS! GO STRAIGHT TO THE LOCKER ROOM! STRAIGHT TO

THE LOCKER ROOM! DO NOT SHAKE THEIR HANDS! DO YOU

UNDERSTAND?! STRAIGHT TO THE LOCKER ROOM!!! IF THEY

WANT TO GO FOR TWO EVERY TIME THEN THEY CAN KISS

MY ASS! DONT SHAKE THEIR HANDS! Coach Mckentire was right. That was pretty unsportsmanlike of

them to go for two after every touchdown. In fact, it was really poor

sportsmanship, even if they did think we were criminals. And

sportsmanship was very important to me. My little league soccer

coaches, my coaches at basketball camp and most of all, my father had always emphasized the importance of principle, virtue, fairness and

integrity in athletic competition. If sport wasnt about sportsmanship, then what was the point? And if sports didnt teach you about life and how to live it, then what was the purpose of all the sweat and struggle

and heartache and pain?

So there I was on the sidelines, seething in self-pity as the seconds

ticked off the clock full of resentment, bitterness, and rage. I had been a laughingstock on more than one occasion, and tonight I had

experienced the worst humiliation and disappointment of all. But what

was worse was that nobody seemed to care. My feelings didnt seem to matter. My very existence didnt seem to matter.

And as I watched Coach Mckentires red-faced jowls screaming, DO NOT shake their hands! I suddenly knew exactly what I would do. I would march across the field and shake hands with those

motherfuckers. I would show Academy Prep and more importantly, I would show Coach Mckentire and every teammate and every fan and

everyone else who laughed at me or ignored me what true sportsmanship is. This was one play that I could call all by myself, and

nobody could blow the whistle or call a time out to stop it. Fuck all of

yall! Ill show you! And thats what happened. The clock hit zero and my teammates

headed straight for the locker room. And I headed straight across the

field to shake hands with the Academy Prep bastards that had beaten us

to a pulp and rubbed our faces in it all night long. And as I walked

towards them, with my helmet still on to hide the tears that were

streaming down my face tears of frustration and anger and guilt and shame they started running towards me. At first I thought they were about to kill me, beat me unconscious, the one criminal they could lay

hands on and exact vengeance from. But suddenly they were hugging

me, patting me on the back, trying to lift me up on their shoulders.

Their whole team was gathering around me, and all I could say

through my tears was, Im sorry. Im so sorry. Youre the best player on your team! said one Academy Prep

player. Youre a hero! Youre the greatest player on your team! Youre the greatest player on your team!

Im so sorry, I stammered. They didnt mean it. I promise you they didnt mean it. Im so sorry.

I doubt if anything I said was intelligible to them through my sobs.

And I wondered why in the hell I was apologizing to these bastards that

had taken such great pleasure in pulverizing us and rubbing our noses in

it all night.

And before I could make any sense of what I was saying or doing,

or what they were saying or doing, my head was suddenly wrenched

around by my facemask. Coach Hennings was jerking me away from the

Academy Prep players and dragging me off the field as he shouted in my

ear: Were a team! A team godammit! You do what the team does! Do you understand me! Who in the hell do you think you are?! You do what

the team does! He dragged into the locker room and that was it. Nobody said

anything to me, other than a couple of guys who walked by and snarled

the same sentiment as Coach Hennings, This is a team! You let down the team man. You let down the team!

I still dont know how to describe what I felt as I showered and changed clothes in the locker room that night. I guess I knew that I had

done the right thing, but I also knew that I had done the right thing for a

lot of the wrong reasons. And if you do the right thing for the wrong

reasons, how right can it really be?

I dont know why I didnt think about Tom throughout the ordeal. He was certainly there when it happened. He was the leader of our team.

He was my best friend. But I guess some things you just have to do by

yourself, and you have to live with the decisions you make by yourself.

Maybe Tom knew that it was just something Id had to do alone. Maybe he knew that he had to sit back and let me act this one out on my own.

Or maybe, knowing me as well as he did, Tom knew that my actions

were tainted with vengeance, pride, self-righteousness, and hypocrisy.

Ive only had a few truly great friends in my life (I can count them on one hand) and theyre all able to sense my bullshit from a mile away. I hate them for it, and I love them for it. Tom has remained one of my

best friends throughout the years; and his loyalty, kindness, and

encouragement have helped me make it through many other difficult

times in my life. He will always be my brother.

At practice the following Monday, Coach Hennings came up to me

and apologized.

Im sorry for what I said, and for what I did. I was wrong, and what you did was right. And I want to tell you something: Always follow

your convictions. Always follow your convictions. Remember that. I always appreciated what Coach Hennings said, and I have

remembered it even if I havent always heeded it. I never harbored any ill will towards Coach Hennings. He was simply caught up in a moment

of passion, as was I, and we each reacted the only way we knew how to

at the time.

There is no glorious ending to this tale. I never got to run the

option. I never got to throw a pass. I never got to return a kickoff. I

never became a great football player. And unlike H.G. Bissingers story of Friday Night Lights, mine is not a story of valiance in defeat. I just

kept going to practice, kept trying to evade the tackling drills, and kept

handing the ball off whenever coach decided to put me in a game. And I

never played football again after that one season.

* * *

Years later, when I had dropped out of college and was floundering

between dead end jobs, dead end relationships, and living a dead end

lifestyle, I received a letter in the mail. It was from the parent of one of

the Academy Prep football players. This is what it read:

Dear Mr. Wood,

I am a Sunday school teacher. I am also the father of one of the

Academy Prep football players that played against your Anneewakee

Warriors team a few years ago. I have often talked about your example

of courage, integrity, and sportsmanship in my Sunday school class. I

hope that the young people I teach will be inspired by the brave stance

you took when you crossed the field alone to shake hands with our team.

I can tell you that I and many of the other parents in the stands that

night had tears in our eyes after watching what you did. It was one of

the most inspiring things Ive ever witnessed. I wanted to write to you and thank you for your wonderful example. I hope that life is treating

you well.

Sincerely,

Allen Owen

I dont know how Mr. Owen found my address or why his letter arrived to me at that particular time in my life. But I wept when I read it.

(Yes, Ive cried a lot in my life.) I wept with guilt and shame, not only because this dear man had no idea what my true motivation had been

when I crossed the field that night, but also because at the time I

received his letter I was using drugs, selling drugs, getting girls

pregnant, and basically doing everything that a Sunday school teacher

should tell their students not to do.

But I also wept because I realized that his precious letter had come

from God. Amazingly enough I was actually a professing Christian at

the time albeit a woefully fallen Christian. And Mr. Owens letter was a divine voice that reminded me that my life still had value, that my life

could still serve a purpose, that my life could still somehow touch others

in a positive and meaningful way. So I sat there that afternoon and read

that letter over and over again. And I cried, and I prayed, and I writhed

in guilt and hope and shame and faith and sorrow and gratitude. I was

flooded with emotions. But mostly I was overwhelmed because

somebody saw something good in me and had cared enough to take the

time to let me know it. Somebody had shown me that my existence

actually mattered after all.

The truth is that I had basically forgotten about what had occurred

that night on that high school football field in Florida. But somebody

had remembered; and for some reason they had chosen to remind me at a

time in my life when I desperately needed reminding. I saved that letter.

And from time to time I pull it out and read it again, because sometimes

I still need to be reminded that my life matters.

So that is the story of a paper hero the story of a boy who prayed to become a football player, and who became a Christian instead, and

who then became an even greater sinner, and was then reminded that he

was created for good, and who has struggled ever since to live

accordingly.

God is present in friends, and strangers, and letters, and foes. God

is present in disappointments and defeats and broken hearts. And God is

present with paper heroes that fight windmills under Friday night lights.

By

GEBRE MENFES KIDUS

(Reynolds Wood)

QB #15