Football - Part 3c

While writing each of the last few entries, random memories flashed before my eyes. As I probed deeper, the lists of significant stories began to eclipse the underlying entries in detail and length. With over a hundred players and a dozen coaches stretching over two teams, entire chapters could be written on the circumstances surrounding just one story. For the sake of my time and your patience, a comprehensive telling of every story is not possible. Instead, I have (and will) try to to select the handful of anecdotes that are both unique and informative of the entire experience.

For starters, I remember suffering through two-a-days: practicing for hours in full pads in 90 degree heat, and being so tired between practices that I would sit on the edge of my seat, shirtless, chugging Gatorade and staring off into space.

I remember the Evanston game when I hit the opposing running back so hard and square that afterwards he told me he was seeing stars and wiping away snot-bubbles.

I remember learning new definitions for words like "Pittsburgh" and "Happy". The former refers to the post-practice conditioning drill in which players would run twice around the football field in two minutes (four times). The latter was a form of punishment in which a player would run continuously until he had a large smile across his face. On one such occasion a very stubborn teammate refused to smile and had to run for at least the last hour of practice.

I remember the only time I was threatened with a "Happy". We were "barbershopping" during our defensive end drills and I began talking with a female friend who was running by with the cross country team. When Coach Nichols asked whether I would rather run with her than play football, I called his bluff and took several half-hearted jogs in her direction. Though mad, he knew he could not make me run when we weren't even practicing to begin with.

I remember our beloved Coach Kardasz, a former (brief) player in the NFL and polar bear of a man, who would routinely keep us after practice for extended periods of time with random stories and commands. On the day of the first freshman dance he lectured our team for a healthy hour after practice on the virtues of being a gentleman. He would also give us unsolicited nicknames, such as "Golden Domer" for a blond-haired teammate with no interest in Notre Dame. Another example would be the following paraphrased exchange with a player:

"Shah, what the **** you looking at boy? Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
"I am coach, I swear."
"Don't lie to me..."
"I'm not coach, I got a lazy eye."

While apologizing in the moment, Coach Kardasz would refer to Shah as "lazy eye" for the next four years.

In addition, on the nights before games, he would call each player at his home to both make sure they were not out partying, and to give them his expectations for their play the next day.

Lastly, I remember the final game against New Trier, with the Conference Title hanging in the balance, when we stopped them on the goal line to lock up a win. The only thought, with the season over, was how long a break we would get before the next season began.

Football - Part 3b

I neglected to mention, in any of my previous entries, that my position on the Falcons was right defensive tackle. Given my lack of size and experience, I can only assume I was chosen for this position because of my quickness and ferocity. Like a hungry squirrel I would dart between the gaps of offensive linemen, bite at the ankles of opposing running backs, and pounce on any loose fumbles that fell my way.

When I joined the Hawks, I distinctly remember being asked whether I would like to become a "back" or continue serving as a lineman. After several seconds of careful thought, I chose to be a man. For the next four years, except for brief intervals when I was given additional responsibilities, my position was left defensive end. As shown in the picture on the right, in our 5-2 defense, typical in run-heavy leagues like high school football, my primary assignment was containment. (For this and all future pictures in part 3, my number was 65).


As you can see in the next picture, it was my responsibility to work through the lead blockers and, at the very least, force the running back to break back towards the rest of my team.

If I learned anything about the game of football during my freshman year, it is that teams succeed when every member serves a specific role in furtherance of the team's goal. By serving their role, each member earns the trust and respect of the man beside him. It is this respect which I still remember and cherish the most.

Football - Part 3a

Despite my hope of maintaining anonymity, it would be difficult to continue this story without mentioning the high school I went to or team I played for. Located in a northern suburb of Chicago, Maine Township High School South (Maine South) was my home for four adjective-less years. For those of you too lazy to click the above link, Maine South is an above-average public high school known around the state for two things: Hillary Clinton and its football program.

Hillary Clinton, the former First Lady, Senator from New York and presumptive Democratic nominee for President, graduated from my alma mater (as Hillary Rodham) in 1965. When her husband was first running for President in 1991, their motorcade created quite a bit of hoopla in my sleepy little city. Interestingly, while looking for information on Maine South I stumbled across this article about Hillary.

Just as Hillary has become a household name throughout the country, the football program at my school has earned a proportional amount of recognition on the state level. Despite having only 2600 students, Maine South competes and often succeeds in the largest "class" of schools. From 1992 to 2007 the Maine South Football team annually qualified for the state playoffs, reaching the state championship five times and winning twice. The consistency of its success disproves any notion that luck is involved. After totaling the approximate number of hours spent at summer camps, off-season workouts, doubles sessions, practices and games, I calculated that over my four years, I dedicated roughly 1,200 hours to Maine South football. It was those hundreds of hours spent after school and away from the pool, mixed with the blood, sweat and tears of hundreds of my teammates, that built that program year after year.

In the pages that follow I will try to glean the best few moments from those many hours, and hopefully provide a glimpse into the indescribable "tradition" of Maine South Football.

Football - Part 2b

Consisting of some of the best athletes in the area, our Falcons football team went nearly undefeated during the regular season. Unfortunately after several rounds of playoffs our wild ride ended against Elgin, a few game short of our goal of a national title trip to Florida. Nevertheless nearly all our members went on to succeed on the high school, and even collegiate level. For example:

QB Erik Benz went on to star as a middle linebacker for Lane Tech High School and later for Northern Illinois University.
FB Josh Piazza earned a scholarship to play football and baseball for Notre Dame High School, and later played baseball at Valparaiso University.
RB Vic Shroeder went on to be a star running back for Maine West High School as well as earn State titles in Track and Field.
and RB Neil Sherlock went on to star for Maine South High School, setting several school records, before earning All-State honors in both Football and Track and Field. He also later went on to play CB for Harvard.

Despite these successes, what I cherish are the friendships formed and memories shared. Besides the general friendships I formed with the rest of the team, I was also fortunate to be reintroduced to an old friend for the first time since our earliest years of little league baseball. Indeed our current close friendship can be traced directly back to this shared experience. As fellow rookies, BD and I were able to view events through similar perspectives. Besides the great plays and vicious hits, we both remember the sights and sounds and smells of our first year of football.

We remember listening to Coach Piazza, the first of many short and stocky football coaches I would have who would berate us for the most basic and obscure of faults. Several times, when his face would turn a dark crimson, we would wonder whether our mistakes would finally give him the heart attack we all expected would occur.

We remember chanting our team's song (identical to the one in "Remember the Titans", except for the dancing) as we ran around and onto the field. Besides sending chills into the opposition, the site of several dozen children calling for blood had to make both sides' parents wonder what life lessons our coaches were teaching us.

We remember watching our star running back, after being tackled awkwardly and dislocating his shoulder, have his shoulder literally "popped" back into place by one of our coaches.

We remember feeling every hit we made and took, perhaps none more so than the one we received before every game from our Coach Benz. As we all lined up to sing the National Anthem before the game, Coach Benz would walk down the line head-butting each of us - forehead to helmet. In addition to brain damage, this triggered an explosion of excitement that did not wane until the game was over.

Lastly, we remember choking back tears when we our season ended short of our goal. We did not reach the national championship, but we did establish an expectation of success that would help us all during the next step in our football lives. While some of us would play for other rival schools in the area, most would form the nucleus of the next freshman class of Hawks.

Football - Part 2a

Nothing prepares you for your first hit. Not for the anticipation and fear beforehand, or the impact and struggle in the moment, or the joy and pain after. I still remember that first hit, along with everything that came with it.

Eight years ago, I was dropped off at my first practice unconscionably unprepared for the experience. My ineptitude extended even to the most basic tasks, such as knowing which pads went where. A week behind my teammates because of an ill-timed Boy Scout canoe trip, I tried, at my first practice, to simply stand in the back and follow the others' lead. Unfortunately, I quickly learned that this was not an option. In what now seems like wanton negligence bordering on child abuse, I was ordered to drop into a three-point stance and hit the guy in front of me as hard as I could. After a moment's hesitation I did so, closing my eyes and burying my shoulder into that of the man across from me.

What I felt was nothing. There was neither pain nor release, only a muffled thud and a hurried exhale. Whatever fear of inadequacy or pain quickly vanished. I dropped back down and waited to reload. The second time around I threw even more force into the hit. This time, instead of a muffled thud there was a sharp crackle of metal hitting plastic.

Ross Tucker, former NFL center and special teams player, wrote an op-ed piece for Sports Illustrated in which he described the "collisions between the wedge and the wedge breakers are some of the most vicious in football, and it takes a special person to want to perform these duties... You have to either crave physical contact, be a little crazy, or maybe a combination of both." He wrote that piece a week before Kevin Everett was nearly permanently paralyzed on just such a hit during the Buffalo Bills regular-season opener.

If the hit Tucker described is used as a base value (10) on a scale of the intensity of hits, my first hit was a 0, and my second maybe a 1. It was nothing, and yet still something. It gave me confidence to keep playing, even when the next day, exhausted and sore, I wanted to quit. The years of memories and friendships after would not have been possible without that cowardly imperfect hit.

Football - Part 1

Last night my father sent me a one sentence email informing me that my high school alma mater had just lost its quarterfinal match against an annual powerhouse. Most people, when faced with this news, would either be indifferent or saddened. My response was the exact opposite – joy. In the five years since I graduated, my school’s football team has made it to the championship game three times, and lost each one. In those five years my attitude towards my former team has not waned. To understand my continuing resentment, and to provide a new topic for discussion, I thought it best to lay out my history with the sport with whatever stories I can remember. As always, I invite any comments, questions, or more importantly, additional stories.

Growing up I played pick-up tackle football nearly every day at lunch and after school. As a skinny kid with speed, athleticism and great hands, I was easily among the best receivers in my grade school class. The thing I remember most vividly from these early years was that I, along with the best quarterback in our grade, refused to play unless we could be on the same time. With this “magnet” deal, we could almost guarantee victory. This dominance continued until junior high when my interest in football superseded that of baseball, and I began pressuring my parents to allow me to play competitively.

In 7^th grade my parents stalled long enough to deny me the opportunity to play in either the regular or traveling leagues. The following year my frequent protests finally convinced them to let me play. Being a year older, and a few pounds heavier, I was ineligible to play in the regular league. As such, my first competitive football game would be as a Falcon.