Left bench. That’s the position I play. I stand (we’re not allowed to sit) helmet-in-hand, a few inches in front of the hard metal seat.
I fantasize about playing a game of marbles right along the side of the bench—helmet on for comedic effect— lining them up and flicking them with slow, deliberate precision while my classmates howl with laughter.
What’s the worst that could happen? Coach kicks me off the team? If I’m going to just be a spectator anyway, I might as well be one sitting in the stands, soda in hand. Ahhhh.
Of course, I don’t have the guts to do that. So instead, I bide my time trying to predict what play Coach will call next. I’m betting “34 off-tackle”, a running play.
I’m right as usual.
The “off tackle” in the play is George Talbert, our left tackle, whose IQ rivals his uniform number: seventy-nine. With no defensive lineman directly in front of him, Talbert barrels forward to knock the snot out of a linebacker which he does with pulverizing perfection. Unfortunately, his assignment was the defender to his right, who is now free to wreak havoc in our backfield.
There is a reason we are undefeated though: number twenty-three, Darius Jones. Darius takes the handoff, jukes left, leaving the unblocked defender to grab nothing but air. He then cuts right, outrunning everyone. We watch his black-and-gold uniform streak thirty yards for another touchdown. He nails the two-point conversion too. Just like that, we’re up 48-0. Easy-peasy.
Coach is rotating the second string into the game then moves on to the third. I’m on the anti-Star Trek string—the one which no coach has boldly called upon before.
To my surprise, with 58 seconds left on the game clock Coach does the unthinkable: he looks my way. For a moment I freeze. Assuming he must be looking at someone else, I look over my shoulder. There is no one there.
He then turns to Bob Malfour, our first string wideout and resident suck-up. “What’s the name of number thirty-five?” Coach asks.
I stop breathing. Thirty-five is my number.
Malfour looks my way, then back at Coach. “Purzynski”, he answers.
“Hey Purdy,” Coach shouts. “Go play left corner.”
For the first time this season, I trot onto the field. I should be jumping out of my shoes, charging head-long onto my position. Trouble is, I’ve spent the whole season practicing at linebacker—I have no clue how to play corner.
To be fair, my uniform number is more consistent with a corner. Linebackers usually have numbers in the fifties. However, they handed out uniforms by string order; and well, by the time they got to me… It had grass stains and reeked of BO and barely fit, but number thirty-five was all that was left.
I should have tried out for corner. I have the speed for it; in fact, I am faster than most of the defensive backs on the team, including several of the starters. Physique-wise, I’m too small for a linebacker. But, Dad played linebacker and his war stories of tearing through running backs and ripping the heads off of quarterbacks might have influenced me. That and he always said corners were pansies.
Our opponents in the white jerseys run on first down. I sniff out the play and run with a full head of steam to the ball carrier, but the play is blown dead before I can get to him. On the next snap, I cheat up and bolt forward. There is a clear path to the running back. It’s going to be a perfect tackle in the backfield. Dad is going to be so proud!
I am almost to the runner when they fake the handoff and throw the ball. It’s a wobbly pass, but their receiver is wide-open.
Who’s the dumb ass that let him get so open? Oh crap. I take off in a sprint. I’m the dumb ass! I was supposed to be covering him.
The good news: the receiver caught the ball just seven or eight yards past the line of scrimmage. The bad news: none of my other teammates are anywhere near him and I was a full yard into the backfield when the pass was thrown. I’ve got a ton of ground to make up.
Bit by bit, I close the gap, sprinting past my teammates who’ve all but given up. By the twenty-yard line, I know I’ll catch him—I’m just not sure what side of the goal line it will be on.
We fly past the ten, the five…four…three…two… I leap at his right shoulder.
What happened next may sound too fantastic to be true, but I swear, it’s exactly how it went down. When my hand wrapped around his torso, it found the ball. Miraculously it slipped from his grasp directly into my hands.
For a moment I froze, stunned by what just happened. The receiver lunges for me. I leap over his arm, stumbling as he grabs my shoelace. It comes loose, but I am free, sprinting towards the other end zone.
At first, no one realizes what’s happened. Both teams stand frozen, watching like the play is over. But when it clicks, chaos erupts. Players from both sides rush towards me. At our twenty-five-yard line, I’m heading straight toward a defender in a white jersey.
Did I mention I’m fast? Straight-line fast. But juking defenders like Darius? That’s not my thing. My brother has that kind of quickness—but he plays soccer. He and my dad don’t talk much.
The point is I need the help of blockers. I spot Tim Jones, lining up for a block against that white jersey. At the last second, I cut in the opposite direction and break free.
Ten yards later I found myself in a swarm of players from both sides. Defenders chase, but the same teammates who never gave me the time of day before were blocking for me as if their lives depended on it. We were in unison. A crack back block, a devastating blow and then Joel Sizemore—skinnier than me, if that’s possible—steps in front of a white jersey and holds him up just long enough for me to burst past. There is nothing but daylight ahead.
Inside their ten, I sensed someone closing in, but there is no way he can catch me. I am going to score!
Remember my shoelace? Remember your parents nagging you about making sure they were tied tightly so you don’t trip? Guess what happened next?
I managed to stay upright, but barely. I staggered, my momentum carrying me awkwardly toward the end zone giving that opponent a chance to catch up. A yard shy of the promised land, he leaped on me. He was bigger, stronger and had his hands on the ball, trying to do what I had done to their receiver.
The goal line was inches away. If I could just fall forward, but he was holding me up. I clutched the ball for dear life. Like a game of bear-trap with a squirmy 6-year-old, I wriggled with all I had. I was breaking through. Sensing that, with a violent jerk he tried to unleash me from the ball.
My helmet hit the ground face first. If you’ve ever hit your head, you know the first sensation isn’t pain. It’s a series of colored lights pulsing in your vision, followed by a hollow, dizzy feeling.
When I opened my eyes, I had an acute sense that something big had just happened but I wasn’t sure what. I smelled grass. I saw a man in a black-and-white striped uniform. My subconscious suggested I squeeze my fingers. My hands felt something slightly rough and leathery. A ball. A football. It came rushing back. I looked up to see the pin-striped man raising his hands into the air.
Touchdown!!! I had just scored a touchdown!
When I tried to stand, my legs wobbled beneath me, but my teammates were flying at me from all directions. They hoisted me up and carried me, like a hero, to the sideline, where I watched the waning seconds of the game.
For stealing the ball and being so elusive, I was dubbed “Butter.” Everywhere I went, kids in my school shouted “Butter” and gave me high-fives. The principle even mentioned my play during his morning message. My dad didn’t yell at me or call me “dumb ass” for a whole two weeks. Nobody asked who blew the coverage on that play and for a brief, glorious stretch of time, I was famous.
Did I mention “the play” as it became known happened on the last game of the season? Coach came up and congratulated me after my touchdown. He called it an amazing play and said I would definitely be moving up the ranks the following season. He even got my name right.
After the excitement settled down, however, I was thinking of hanging up my shoulder pads and going out for another sport. Maybe soccer? My dad will stop talking to me, but that seemed to be working out well for my brother. And who knows, maybe I’ll make a spectacular game winning kick, and my new nickname will be “Lasso”. You know, like “Ted Lasso.” Well, he’s a coach, so maybe “Bend-It”, like “Bend-It like Beckham.”
Then it hit me: I’ve spent my whole life trying to please my dad. Would doing something to spite him be any better? Returning that fumble had been a rush—one of the best moments of my life. Why give that up? Maybe it’s time to focus on what I want for a change.
A week or so later, I went to talk to Coach. I was super nervous, intimidated even. A week ago, I wouldn’t have had the courage. Now, fresh off my big play I found it.
“Coach,” I said. “Would, umm, it be alright if I tried out for kick returner next year?”
He nodded. “I think you should try out for punt and kick returner both. You’ve proven you’ve got the skill for it. I highly recommend practicing catching punts though. Everyone thinks it’s easy but catching a twisting football ain’t the same as shagging pop flies.”
He paused and opened the drawer to his desk and pulled out a tin of Skoal. “Stan P, as we used to call him, is your dad, ain’t he?”
I nodded.
“Your dad was a helluva linebacker— wreaked havoc on opposing offenses. I was a year younger than him and was both in awe and a little scared of him. “
“I’m sorry,” he said as he pulled off his hat and scratched his balding head. “We’ve got so many kids trying out I usually only get to know the ones on the first and second strings. I leave the rest to my assistants. They mis-evaluated you. With your speed and size, you should’ve been a defensive back from the start.”
He paused for a second, tapping the Skoal against his leg. “You should have known that too,” he said meeting my eyes. “You should have spoken up sooner. If it weren’t for a flukey play I might never have known where your true skills lie. Now you’ve lost a year of experience at corner and returner.” He suddenly tossed the Skoal back in the drawer and made a comment about not getting into bad habits. “You ain’t your dad son. You need to live your life, not his.”