As Wally, Ondie and I led the team out of the locker room, we ran into Garfield's homecoming parade at the edge of the stadium and stopped, progress blocked by sports cars filled with sequined royalty. As fans cheered, a screeching voice jolted me into the moment.
"Hey, Bado, you suck! You hear me? We're going to kick your $#%!&, Bado!"
Following the sound, I found the "Nut", a fun-loving buddy from Garfield I'd worked with at Geauga Lake Amusement Park, standing in the Homecoming King's convertible Corvette. Grinning, the "Nut" -- an unlikely Homecoming King, to say the least -- pointed a scepter at me and yelled. Cracked up by a "Nut", game-night tension disappeared as we laughed.
That carefree attitude carried onto the field as did our penchant for devastating collisions. We'd loved to hit; winning for us meant leading on the scoreboard and beating the other team physically too. After a series where we threw our bodies at G-Men with reckless abandon, I grabbed Bo's jersey as we jogged back to the huddle.
"Are we having fun yet?" I asked.
"Hell yes!" He yelled. "Hell, yes!"
Loosening up enabled us to play our best game in a month and post a 14-6 triumph, putting the season back on track.
The next Saturday, we lined up opposite Streetsboro's hated rival, the Crestwood Red Devils. Down six with the fourth quarter clock winding down, Coach Keegan shifted me to split end to run the hitch and pitch play with Ondie, rather than lining up in my normal tight-end position. Jogging toward the Crestwood sideline to take a three-point stance, I heard the entire Red Devil defense, along with the coaching staff and untold rabid Crestwood fans yelling "Bado!" while pointing angry fingers at little, innocent me. Somehow, Tupta completed the pass, but the defense swarmed, stuffing any pitch attempt to Ondie.
We ran a few more plays, but never reached pay dirt before the clock expired, losing the back-and-forth battle, 13-7. Losing the senior-season contest against our arch-rival stung; but, post game, a couple players argued in the locker room, joking with each other about which one deserved the Robert L. Jackson award -- named for the Browns bone-crushing linebacker and given to the defense's hardest hitter -- more as a less-than-happy Ondie approached.
"Forget the #$!% award!" he yelled, smashing a star-covered helmet into a locker. "How can you even talk about who's Robert L. Jackson when we just lost?"
Taken by surprise, the players' mouths clamped shut, as did everyone else's.
"It doesn't matter what the #$!% you did. We lost, that's all that matters."
No one said another word; the coaches canceled the Robert L. Jackson award for the remainder of the season.
On the heals of that painful loss, things got tougher with state-ranked, playoff-contender, Southeast coming to town the next week. The Pirates, in fact, had been the squad that ended our freshmen season by knocking three of our players out of commission, including Ondie with a concussion. Once again, no one gave us a chance; everyone focused on Southeast's showdown for the league championship with Rootstown the following week, once, of course, the Pirates destroyed us.
The coaches designed a special defense, nick-named assassin, to stop the Pirates' talented running back, Steve Sigworth, making Ondie the assassin. On the game's second series, Ondie delivered a massive, and clean, hit to Sigworth, sending the super sophomore to the sidelines with a slight concussion for the remainder of the contest. Following Ondie's freshmen year retribution, the defense flummoxed the Pirates most of the night, so much that the head referee called me into a special third-quarter, on-field conference.
"The other team's complaining that your guys are biting and pinching," he said. "Are you doing that?"
"No. How can we bite through facemasks?"
"All right," the referee said. "Just tell them to stop it."
Trotting back to the huddle, I stifled a chuckle while looking at the team's two semi-pro biters and pinchers: Wally and Chopper. How they managed to mangle opponents through their facemasks remains a mystery to me to this day. Chopper, who lined up beside me at outside linebacker, in fact, spent the entire contest harassing Southeast's star slot man/wide receiver Dickie Reed, taunting him with an endless chorus of "Hey, Dickie, Dickie, Dickie, I'm gonna get you, Dickie". True to his word, Chopper got the better of Dickie the entire game.
"Guys, they're complaining to the refs about biting and pinching and he wants us to stop it," I said inside the huddle. "Wally, Chopper, you're really getting to them, keep it up."
The Rocket offense exploded and the stunned Southeast faithful watched their state-playoff and league-title hopes vanish under Streetsboro's stadium lights as we posted a 40-22 senior-night victory.
*****
Tomorrow: an end to the season and to mud day
Three weeks into the season, the "worst" team in Portage County became the talk of the league, heading into its contest with state-ranked powerhouse Rootstown. Reporters who panned us a short month ago, showed up at practice to interview the upstart Rockets.
Akron Beacon Journal Football Feature, circa 1981 (left pic, Tupta; right, Ondie)
Friday night, we jogged into Rootstown stadium to face the best team in the league. Wally patrolled the field from sideline to sideline, hunting down Rovers from his middle linebacker position; Ondie intercepted a pass, only to be tripped up on his way to a touchdown. Entering the half-time locker room with the contest tied 0-0, I pulled off my helmet and found a blood-covered chin strap split in two. Chopper's father, our team physician, sewed a half-dozen stitches into my chin to stop the bleeding. We, despite our best efforts, failed to stop Rootstown and lost 12-0.
The next two weeks, the team continued taking it on the chin, getting thumped by Waterloo's Vikings and perennial small-school powerhouse, Mogadore; both those squads earned state playoff births. After the Waterloo game, I visited Robinson Memorial Hospital's emergency room to have a physician examine a pinched nerve in my spine. Groaning and stiff, I joined teammates on the mile of death around the stadium's cinder track Saturday morning. Jogging like crippled ninety-year olds, we tried to work out kinks created from one too many pulverizing hits.
On a three-week losing skid, demoralized and teetering at the brink of everything falling apart, our championship season needed a savior. Rescue came from sophomore lineman "Bo", who stopped me in the locker room after Tuesday's trying practice.
"What's happened to you?" Bo asked.
"What are you talking about?"
"It used to be great being on this team. I loved coming to practice. You guys always made it so much fun, but it's not fun anymore."
Bo nailed it: we'd lost our sense of playing with reckless abandon. Misplaced the madness and mirth of things like the team's Bill Murray's Stripes movie inspired shouts of "That's the Fact, Coach Black!" with hand-ringing consternation. We'd fallen into the same trap countless others do with all levels of sports: becoming too serious, putting too much emphasis on winning. The world would keep turning no matter what happened at ours, and countless other, Friday night battles.
Huddling, the seniors recommitted themselves to Ondie's sage Beacon Journal article quote: "we're not hung up on winning, but we're not looking forward to losing either" by focusing on fun during the upcoming contest against the Garfield G-Men. Three victories already exceed everyone's wildest expectations; we had nothing to lose and everything to gain. On Friday, we'd leave our hang ups behind, sprint onto the field and enjoy ourselves: wasn't that why we strapped on blue and gold helmets in the first place?
Laughter always defeats seriousness. That's the fact, Coach Black!
****
Tomorrow: saved by the "nut"
Fast forward to 1981, post numerous conversations with the other seniors about winning and losing as a team and "mud day/get the freshmen" shenanigans not occurring on our watch, we yanked on shoulder pads for the season's first contest against the Woodridge Bulldogs. Before it, Head Coach Keegan asked Ondie, Wally and me, as captains, what we wanted to do if it came down to a late-game decision between kicking an extra point to tie or attempting to win via a two-point conversion.
"We play to win," Ondie replied.
"Definitely, go for two," I said.
"Yeah, tying is like kissing your sister," Wally -- who had a sister we all wanted to kiss --added.
Area football pundits didn't think Coach Keegan's question mattered much. Both newspapers covering the Portage County League, the Record Courier and Akron Beacon Journal, picked Streetsboro's Rockets to finish a miserable 1-9. One win might have been one too many given our football history. Only six guys -- the five reunion karaoke crooners, plus Jack -- played every year since 7th grade. That six-pack tasted countless defeats: in 7th, we lost every game; in 8th, we won one; our freshman team got disbanded without a victory.
But we believed in ourselves, the coaches and the talented junior and sophomore classes, even if no one else did. If the shoe with screw in spikes fits, wear it. Lack of belief outside our locker room became the season's rallying cry: everyone thinks we suck, let's prove them wrong.
The crew socks rule crew: 82=Bado; 32=Wally; 10=Ondie; 56=Boardwine; 64=Chopper
Prognosticators predicted us to drop week one's contest at Woodridge, but at the half, we clung to a slim 7-6 lead. Neither squad mustered much offense during the second half. At one point, while sacking the Bulldogs' quarterback for the third time, I toppled to the turf with a massive calf cramp. Wincing in pain, I heard something amazing, disturbing and energizing: thinking I'd been injured, Woodridge players and fans clapped and cheered. To their dismay, Coach Stoner worked the cramp loose and I returned to the field a play later (don't let anyone ever tell you sportsmanship used to exist in high school sports, but is dead now. It didn't exist then either).
Things looked bleak for the Rockets late in the third period. Leading 12-7, the Bulldogs trapped us inside our ten yard line and angled to stuff our offense, gain excellent field position and march in for a score to put the game away. But Ondie ripped off a seventy-yard rumble, finally being corralled inside the Woodridge twenty. A couple plays later QB Tony Tupta lofted a touchdown pass to me. A fourth quarter interception locked down the 14-12 victory. One week into the season, we'd already met the "experts" expectations.
Week two, we shocked Portage County gridiron pundits a second time by beating the Windam Bombers. Since we played the Bombers at home, our buses avoided being stoned by unruly Windam fans (they said good-bye via a metal-denting rock shower after last year's contest at their home field). In the first play of week three's battle with Aurora's Greenmen, I crashed into the back of their option-running quarterback and he fumbled. We scooped up the pigskin, returning it for a touchdown. It was all downhill for Aurora from there and the Boro coasted to a 31-6 victory.
***
Tomorrow, road bumps in Rootstown
Huffing and puffing to catch my breath, I wished I'd brought the inhaler. Boobie destroying Dr. R. also ran the event, finishing almost a minute before me, but, with 529 participants, I failed to see him. Post race, I looked for Frank, who planned to run before heading off to Michigan State, but didn't find him either. Several runners, pushing it to the limit, collapsed as they crossed the finish with more than one breaking the puke threshold. Race volunteers carefully scooted them to safety, pouring water over their spent bodies to beat the heat.
Bob from the Findlay Striders donates event proceeds to Hancock County's Special Olympics
Strolling to the car, I grabbed the pink phone to snap a couple pictures for Will; Open Circle Yoga sponsored the event for the third straight year. Figuring a picture worth a thousand words, I took one of bottleneck bridge too. Returning to the VW, I found a less than picturesque scene: one of Findlay's finest stood beside the car, pen and pad in hand.
"Oh man, you're not giving me a ticket are you?"
"I am," he said.
"What for?"
"You're parked in a fire lane."
"What do you mean? Where's the sign?"
"They're all up and down here," he said.
Looking up, I found officer right: signs lined the roadside. When I'd pulled in, cars filling the area blocked my view. With them gone, no parking signs sprouted everywhere.
"Where was I supposed to park? The lot was full."
"That's the event organizers issue, not mine."
"But I'm right here, ready to leave, do you have to give me a ticket?"
"They made a couple announcements over the PA asking everyone to move. I've never seen it like this; we need to keep this lane open in case of an emergency."
"I didn't hear any announcement...." I said before catching myself. I'd parked in the wrong spot and returned to the course to take pictures. Leaving post race would have avoided a citation. The ticket happened because of my poor decisions, end of story. It was time to own up to what I did, stop whining and act like a supposed grown up.
"How much is it?"
"Ten bucks."
"All right, I guess I can handle that," I said. "Look, I'm sorry for hassling you."
"Don't worry about it," he replied while handing me the ticket, "everyone does."
Driving home, I looked at the douche bag staring back at me in the rear-view mirror. I'd broken the law and deserved the ticket. The police officer didn't need any grief from me or anyone else who parked illegally. In fact, Findlay's police took pay and benefit reductions this year and might face layoffs in 2010 if tax collections failed to materialize. Even without those challenges, no officer deserved to be hassled for doing his job.
It was up to me to live Plato's sage quote: "be kind for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle". While I didn't mind looking like Lex Luther, I did mind acting like him.
****
Up next, Sunday funny. Then, commiserating an anniversary of sorts.
Rubbing shaving cream over the stubble, it hit me that today's scissor journey had just replaced my all time favorite haircut, which happened in Washington, DC. Interning at the Library of Congress for a semester, I lived in the Woodner, a hotel converted into student and local resident apartments, located at 3600 16th street beside Rock Creek Park, about three miles from the White House occupied by President Ronald Reagan.
By the middle of the internship, my mop top needed trimmed, but the wallet remained low on cash flow. Calling local places, I found a five-dollar special at a beauty parlor about a half mile away. Crossing over 14th street -- I walked or took buses everywhere -- I entered DC's predominantly African American neighborhood, strolling for twenty blocks through the Northeast quadrant without seeing another pale face.
Arriving at the salon, I found iron bars protecting the windows and swung open the door, ambling into a different world: pictures of dozens of African American women's hairstyles circled the walls under the ceiling; the magazine rack featured Ebony and Jet. In the salon chairs and waiting area, a half-dozen surprised, middle-aged, African-American women stared at the sunglasses wearing, twenty-year old giant standing in the doorway in a blue trench coat.
"Can I help you?" Asked the hairdresser.
"I'm here for a haircut."
"You are?"
"Yeah."
"For real?"
"Yeah, I need one."
"Ok, take a seat and I'll take care of you as soon as I'm finished."
Being the only white guy in an African-American beauty parlor might have startled me at the beginning of the semester, but I'd experienced so much DC diversity in the last six weeks that it failed to register. In fact, I rode the 14th street bus four times a week. Once it left downtown, I often became the only pale face sitting on it: an excellent experience and education for a sheltered Streetsboro kid. The hairdresser finished with the woman and I plopped into the chair.
"You know," she said. "I haven't cut a Caucasian in quite a while."
After uttering the greatest haircut line of all time, she pushed a handful of bobby pins into my hair. Wanting to ask when she last cut a Caucasian -- no hairdresser had ever deployed bobby pins in my doo before -- I kept my big trap shut and ended up with a nice trim. Taking my five spot, she told me her husband owned a record store on 14th Street. Learning I lived with a bunch of college students needing haircuts, she handed me some business cards. None of my fellow interns, surprise, took advantage of the thrifty-trim offer, but we did visit the record store where -- since I already owned Bryan Adams' Cuts Like a Knife and Pink Floyd's The Final Cut -- I purchased the Smith's Meat is Murder album.
Maybe Emily's haircutting skills had been murder on my scalp, but what difference did it make once the hair disappeared under the razor's edge? The final cleaning (aka the headmaster ritual) took three different razors to complete: shaving your head requires a lot of effort. Assistance from Will on the back side finished the Lex Luther transformation.
"Man, you are not a good looking bald man," Will commented.
"Dad, please, put on a hat," Matthew added.
****
That cut almost makes tomorrow's race report below anti-climatic, almost.
Time to hit the highway
Nothing left to do
But it feels like my shoes have been crazy glued
Feet don't fail me now
-- Utopia http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wK0MUVnHpUU&feature=related
Standing on Findlay Emory-Adams Park grass, watching colorful hot air balloons float across the blue morning sky, I listened to the MC's pre-race announcements.
"To organize the start, let's have everyone planning to finish under seventeen minutes line up in the first few rows," he said.
The gazelles strode onto the blacktop and then the MC/announcer asked for anyone running under twenty. Circling the assembled throng, I ducked under the rope taking a place among the under twenty-four-minute finishers and tugged the red chili pepper headband over my skull for protection. The MC counted down from ten and more than one-thousand legs sped toward the wooden bridge looming two hundred and fifty yards in the distance. At it, the equivalent of a four-lane highway converged into one country road. Like everyone else, I aimed to slip through the slogger funnel without getting squished.
The clumping masses stride toward bottleneck bridge
As the pack rumbled forward, I knew the bridge would cause a close shave, but nowhere near as close as the one I'd experienced less than a week ago in my kitchen.
******
Tomorrow: on the cutting edge
