THE PLAY'S THE THING

The late November air was cool, clear and crisp, and the sky was lit by a moon that would be full in a day or two. The football field had not been used recently, as our hosts had played three away games in a row, and was in perfect condition, softened just enough by a recent rain to be cleat-friendly, with the grass thickened to peak form.

There was an overflow crowd on both sides of the field, probably six or seven hundred in all. They were there to see the game for the championship of the Central Florida Conference between Inverness High and my team, the Hernando High School “Leopards” from Brooksville. Inverness wanted badly to win. They needed a victory to tie us for the championship. This was the last game of the season, we were undefeated, and they had lost to a team we had beaten. It was also their Homecoming game.

We arrived as usual about two hours before game time, driving the 22 miles between the towns in the best of our county’s Blue Bird buses. The assistant coach rode with us. He was a recent college graduate, not much older than us, so his rules of discipline weren’t especially strict. We couldn’t run up and down the aisles, or be otherwise unnecessarily aggressive, but we could make plenty of noise and we could cuss. The latter was an especially favored form of expression, increasingly so as our excitement grew and our nerves tensed with each passing mile.

We were also allowed to sing. As we pulled into our designated parking spot at Inverness High, we sang at the top of our voices our usual song of greeting:

Tramp, tramp, tramp, the crabs are marching,
In and out the shit house door.
Some are red and some are black;
Some have “Inverness” on their backs.
I don’t wanna guard the shit house anymore.

We were last year’s conference champions, so we were famous in the small towns in our area and a crowd of kids had gathered to greet our bus. As we stepped off, they called out the names of those they recognized, and trotted alongside as we strutted to the locker room.

What a wonderful night it was. Not only was the setting and the situation perfect for the game, but the time after the game was filled with promise and the anticipation that came only with being young and a high school hero. My best friend was also playing tackle next to my guard position on the right side of the line. That evening, for the first time, his father was leaving us a family car for the drive home with our girl friends, the two prettiest cheerleaders on the squad. There was the promise of victory on the field and the tingling anticipation of a different adventure in the car afterwards, possibly while parked on the moonlighted top of Chinsegut Hill. We were princes and this was our realm.

We had practiced the play for weeks. Coach was known for the creativity of his offense and usually introduced one or more new plays every week. But this was different. This was truly innovative, original, and resourceful; perhaps even an act of genius. When he first drew it up on the locker room blackboard, only those most directly involved in the deception of the play were present: the quarterback, the fullback, the center, my tackle friend, and me. We even walked through our parts in the locker room before going onto the practice field to present the play to the rest of the team, and then only to the starters on offense. That group drilled it alone after regular practice. The rest of the team never knew the play existed. Coach had designed it specifically for the Inverness game, which he knew was likely to be the one for the championship, and he instituted strict controls to preserve its secrecy. Total surprise was the cornerstone to its success.

We played from a single wing formation. The quarterback was not under center, but lined up several paces directly behind him in the backfield, with the fullback and two halfbacks arrayed in varying spots, depending on what play was called. The two ends were positioned slightly wide of the tackles, but never in the “wide out” pattern common today. I was at right guard and my buddy to my right, at tackle. We often shifted into a power formation, usually to the right, with the left tackle moving to our right. It was this alignment from which we ran the play.

With the line shifted right, the right guard frequently pulled out to lead interference or to execute a trap block. The defensive lineman opposite him was either cross-blocked by the center, trapped by the guard from the other side, or seduced by the faking quarterback to run past the play to do no harm. Our bread and butter play from this formation was to snap the ball to the quarterback, who faked a handoff to a halfback (usually chased by the defensive lineman I had let through) and then gave it to the fullback, a big, lumbering fellow, not fast, but hard to bring to ground, who ran directly into the hole I had just vacated. The tackles blocked their own men and moved directly for the linebackers. We rarely gained long yardage on that play, but we almost never lost any.

The play was to be executed as above, with one wrinkle. After I rose partially and spun around, I was to freeze, remaining in a crouch. As the fullback came by into the hole, he was to stick the ball in my gut! I had to remain as I was, bending over, cradling and concealing the ball, for a slow count of three. The count was essential to the deception, which was paramount to the success of the play. I was then to turn and run directly up the field through a thoroughly confused and disorganized defense and dash to fame and glory. That was the plan. That was the play.

Coach had carefully searched the rules to be sure it was legal. To be certain, however, he asked for and had a private meeting before the game with the officials and diagrammed the play for them. They ruled there was nothing intrinsically illegal about it, but they did tell Coach they had never seen anything like it and suggested it had to be perfectly executed to avoid any charges of foul play. The stage was set.

The first half of the game was a back and forth battle with neither team able to generate much offense, and ended in a scoreless tie. Before we returned to the field for the second half, Coach held back the starters and told us we were to run the play the first time we had the ball in Inverness territory. That didn’t happen until just after the start of the fourth quarter, when we blocked an Inverness punt and recovered the ball on their forty yard line.

In the huddle, the quarterback simply said, “You guys know what to do. Let’s go. On two.” I would describe what I felt at that moment, but I don’t remember feeling anything. I was numb, without sensation in either mind or body. But at the count of two, I moved instinctively. I rose slightly, spun, remained in a crouch and froze. The ball was miraculously nestled in my arms before I could begin to think. Executing that count to the fullness of three was the hardest thing I had ever done, but I was subsequently told I did it perfectly.

I spun around, started to run, and lifted my head. And, indeed, there it was: the path to fame and glory. A number of defenders had tackled the fullback or fruitlessly chased the faking halfback, the other tackle was lying on top of a linebacker, and the other had taken down one defensive back.

My feet sprouted wings. They glided along the top of the carpet of grass like skates on ice. There was nothing between me and the beckoning arms of the goal posts except open field.

And then I fell. Without explanation or outside stimulus, I simply fell and sprawled on the ground. Coach later asked me if perhaps a shoelace had come untied, but I could not offer even that saving explanation. I just fell.

I looked up to see my best friend glaring down at me, possibly with malice, but I hope with nothing more than pity. The only positive aspects to this disaster were that I had not fumbled the ball and I had made it to the fifteen yard line. With our opponents in total disarray while they tried to figure out what had just happened, we scored a touchdown on the next play, a pitchout to one of the ends, who walked into the end zone. It was enough to win the game.

Someone asked me later how things had gone on the ride home. I said I didn’t remember and it didn’t matter.