GRIDIRON MARTYRS - Segment 4 (Scroll down for earlier segments)



     Using some rope and a tractor, coach Hardman finally got the players out on the field for pre-game warm-ups.  He issued blinders to everyone so they wouldn’t be distracted by these giant alien creatures from a far-off school district…15 miles away.  Some players asked for blindfolds.

     After the pre-game warm-ups, both teams met at the center of the field for the coin toss.  We won the toss, so we had the choice: kick off, and let them have the ball first, or receive.  We didn’t like either choice. 

     The referee’s waited for our decision.  “Could we mail in our answer?” asked Billy.  The officials detected this as a stall tactic.  They refused our request.  There would be no stay of execution.  We decided to receive.

     As we broke out of the huddle and lined up for our first play, our quarterback looked at their defense.  Apparently he didn’t like what he saw, because he called time out and ran to the sidelines.  No one else liked what they saw either, so everyone ran to the sidelines. 

     After discussing several plays, including one that would take us across the mountains and to the ocean, where we would board a passing ship, Coach sent everyone back out onto the field.

     Just beyond the line of scrimmage was eternity. 

    The Predators tried some well-worn intimidation tactics…”You an organ donor?  You give blood?  We’re taking it tonight.”  Their tactics worked beautifully.  We considered appeasing them with ground chuck, but chuck was out with a sprained ankle.

     Instead we sent our fullback up the middle.  He disappeared into eternity.  Someone said they saw his ghost sprinting down the sidelines without the football.     

    We considered that an omen.   We went into preservation mode.  We tried the “inflate and hiss” tactic.  They were undaunted.  We tried the Possum Fake, complete with tongue hanging out.  They laughed mockingly.  We wondered if we still had time to make the ship.           

     Then someone remembered the words of one of our fallen comrades from the previous year: “If they get too close, lie down in the fetal position and cover your head and neck.  Don’t move until you hear the referee’s whistle.”  The line of scrimmage was close enough, so when Steve, our quarterback, barked “DOWN”, everyone dropped to the fetal position. 

     “That’s a great play, said Charlie.  “Let’s run it again.”

     After three drops to the fetal position, we punted the ball to the Predators.  On their first play from scrimmage, it was immediately evident that one of our players had left his common sense at home in a drawer.  He was attempting to tackle the Hulk.  Everyone watching gasped as Gary made a kamikaze run at the oncoming boxcar.  I couldn’t watch.  I closed my eyes and listened for impact.  When I didn’t hear the sound of someone being steamrolled into a decal for the football field, I looked up.  Gary had tripped and fallen, saving his own life.  Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. 

 

     Later, Gary recounted his experience.  "As I got closer to the Hulk, life took on new meaning.  I wanted to finish school and have a family.  And I didn't want to miss Maberry's recollection of these years in the football wilderness."       

     That close call reminded me how much I enjoyed my role as an observer.  One day this would make a great story.  I hope Gary enjoys it. 

 

 

 

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GRIDIRON MARTYRS - Segment 3 (Scroll down for earlier segments)


     It was soon game time.  I barely had enough time to get my spot on the bench warm when coach gave the call.  “Maberry, come here.”

     “Yes, Coach?”

     “We’re going to run a 32 end around.  Now get in there.”

     I ran into the huddle.  “32 end around,” I barked.  Then I looked across at the opposing line and my life flashed before my eyes.  I dreamed of one day growing up and having a family, but I knew that one step across the line of scrimmage, and all those plans could change.

     As everyone broke from the huddle, I broke for the sidelines.  I noticed all the players were waving as I was nearing the coach.  It looked as though they were waving for me to come back, but that couldn’t be, I thought. I’d just been in.  Besides, I had more important matters.

     “Why are you back?” asked the coach.

     “I have a question.  Does school insurance cover permanent disability caused by defensive linemen?” 

     Completely ignoring my concern for health, the coach said, “You were supposed to stay in.  You’re number 32.  The play was going to you on an end around.” 

     I may have been the white rat, but I wasn’t the dumb white rat.  That infamous play may have cost me future stardom, but more than likely it saved my life.  After all, as I looked at their lineman, I was certain this was an experiment gone awry.  The white helmet was a poor disguise.  I would be easy to track down in a sea of green and gold.   

     As soon as I realized the direction my life was taking…fertilizer for the football field, I came to my senses. 

     Knowing I might want to write a book one day, I chose to be an observer for the next three years. I watched everyone else become fertilizer.  Even today, every time I fertilize my lawn, I see the faces of fallen classmates.   

     I would love to see a town memorial honoring all those who gave teeth and various body parts during those three years.  They’ve never truly been recognized; not even their name and picture on a bag of “Weed and Feed.” 

     There has been talk of a movie being made to commemorate those years.  It’s called Friday Night Lights Out.  It has an R rating for gratuitous violence.  If you allow your children to see it, I would recommend they wear a blindfold. 

     Our big rival was fifteen miles to our west.  They were known as the Predators; their name probably derived from preying on defenseless football teams.   

     We traveled by school bus; they traveled by circus train.  When they arrived for a game, we could hear them rattling their cages.  Soon we would hear a rolling thunder as whips cracked and players were herded by our locker room on the way to the playing field.  “If they think that stuff is going to intimidate us, they’re doing a good job,” said Clifford.      

     It was their names that caught everyone’s attention; names like Igor, Hulk, Troll, Fang, Crusher, and John.  Their fullback, Hulk, looked like a boxcar with legs.  When he ran, everyone stepped back and watched.  Hulk didn’t appear to have a neck…just a head between his collarbones.  He used his shoulder pads for a helmet.

     They had 150 players in uniform, standing along the sidelines, arms at their side, knuckles dragging the ground.  We had sixteen players in uniform, nowhere to be found.  They were discovered in the locker room with the door locked and lights out.

 

 

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GRIDIRON MARTYRS - Segment 2 (Scroll down for earlier segments)

     It was the ninth grade.  “Maberry, why don’t you turn out for football?” asked Charlie. 

     “I’m definitely playing this year,” I heard someone say.  Then I realized the voice had come from me.   By the time I had walked home from school, I was black and blue from hitting myself for such a poor decision.  I had my entire life in front of me.  Now I could see it in the rear view mirror.  There was an aid car with sirens and flashing lights!  It didn’t look good.  I considered changing my mind, but commitments were not taken lightly in the ninth grade.  Failing to follow through on my ill-advised decision would label me a black sheep; a fate far worse than treason.  Football would be life on the edge.  I just had to remind myself not to look over the edge. 

     The day for issuing uniforms came so quickly, I didn’t have time to plan an escape.  I watched expectantly as the coach handed everyone their gold pants, pads, and shiny gold helmet.  When it was my turn, he handed me my gold pants, pads, and then said, “Maberry, we don’t have any more gold helmets.  You’ll have to wear this white helmet.”  I felt like a white rat in a lab experiment.  I looked over the edge, to see if I could survive the jump.  The idea of being the black sheep began to look appealing.  Although I should have been penalized fifteen yards with a loss of down for bad judgment, I decided to play the white rat.

     After three weeks of turf n’ mouth, that fateful day arrived; game day.  My number was 32.  I played end, which meant I was on the end of the line.  This is great, I thought.  The opposing team will never notice me.  I was sadly mistaken.  During warm-ups, they couldn’t take their eyes off me.  “Look,” they yelled, “a white helmet!”

 

 

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GRIDIRON MARTYRS - Opening segment (Scroll down for previous chapters)


      There were two reasons I attended school: one, sports; two, sports.  I loved baseball and basketball, but I approached football with caution.  Although I played one year, I was more interested in health care.  It was Coach Hardman, the high school football coach, who spurred my interest in this area. 

     Every year during football practice, players would mysteriously disappear under the bleachers, never to be seen again.  I took this as a sign…a large, brightly flashing neon sign that screamed…DON’T PLAY HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL!  I considered this wise counsel.       

     Coach Hardman was also my geography teacher.  That alone discouraged me from playing football.  Just having him look at you with a furrowed brow was enough to make you take a step back.  When he gave you his patented glare, his eyebrows appeared to meet in the middle of his forehead.  If he thought he heard you talking in class, he would slowly raise his head from behind a book at his desk. Then, like the rising sun, two eyebrows appeared, forming a nice “V.”  I was certain they were going to jump over the book, run over to my desk, and slap me upside the head.   I felt like moving several desks back, in the next room.  The eyebrows were intimidating.  I knew I wouldn’t want to run into them on the football field.  Still, Coach Hardman managed to round up just enough guys to field a football team; guys that were willing to sacrifice everything for two eyebrows. 

     Several blocks from my childhood home, someone recently unearthed an old tattered jersey, some shoulder pads with the pads missing, along with splintered pieces of helmet and various bone fragments. 

     Some of the native townspeople were called in to identify these unearthed treasures.  What they discovered were ancient football burial grounds dating back to the early 1960’s.  The site was once called the “greenfield”, a field where kids in town would go to play football on Saturdays during football season. 

     I still remember getting those phone calls.  “Hey, Maberry, wanna go play some football; maybe chip a few teeth or dislocate a shoulder?” 

     “Great!” I’d say.  “See you there in a few minutes.”

     The “greenfield” was also where our high school played their football games.  It was on this very field where our football team would go down in infamy; flames, too, but especially infamy.  I’m surprised no one questioned why we had a football team.  After all, we won only one game in three years, and it’s still under investigation. 

 

 

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