In high school, football was more than a sport to me; it was an obsession. I dreamed of strapping on pads, cleats and helmet and doing battle with worthy warriors from other schools.
At the start of my senior year, when I weighed in for the Leland High School Fighting Cubs, Coach Ruscoe snickered as he jotted down 115 pounds.
Dressed out, I resembled a malnourished mannequin. The thigh pads were halfway down my shins, the kneepads almost touched my shoes, and my helmet was a size too large. Even so, gazing through the facemask I felt invincible and fantasized about crowds cheering as I streaked for glory.
Coach Ruscoe and Lord Nelson of British naval fame thought alike. During battle, the admiral shouted, “Damn the maneuvers — go straight at ’em.” That’s how Coach coached: no nonsense — block, tackle, move the ball forward.
It was our first pre-season scrimmage. “Reed, take the safety position,” Coach ordered. “If the runner breaks through the line, it’s your job to stop him.”
George Rae, our fullback, took the first handoff and the line opened like drawn curtains. It was just him and me. The last thing I saw was his knee exploding into my facemask.
When I came to, the field was round, owing to the fact that I was looking through the helmet’s ear hole. As Coach bent over me, I choked, “I’m fine … fine.” What I really wanted to say was, “I want my mama.” George Rae straightened my helmet as he trotted back from the end zone. Coach switched me to offense.
Defense or offense, I was a benchwarmer, but I yearned to play, so I went to my old mentor, Jaybird, for advice.
“Keep sittin’ on the bench, and you’ll never play,” the old black man said. “Be a man — walk up to him and say, ‘Put me in, Coach.’”
One Friday night, we were two touchdowns ahead of the Itta Bena Golden Warriors, and I knew it was now or never.
“Put me in, Coach,” I stammered. His baleful glare sent me slinking back to the bench.
The Cubs were twenty yards from another score when I heard the thundering command: “Reed! In at left halfback.”
I sprinted to the huddle. Brick Battson, the quarterback, called T-24, my play. The hand-off was perfect, the line opened, and glory was mere steps away.
Suddenly, a huge, growling tackle materialized in front of me, and we clashed in mortal combat. When I hit the ground, there was a chalk line under me and a man in stripes over me, pointing his arms to the heavens. I had scored my one and only touchdown!
Jaybird’s porch light was still on when I got back to the farm that night. He knew I’d come by to tell him about the game, and was waiting up. He was so proud of me, especially when I told him I was man enough to say what he’d told me to: “Put me in, Coach.”
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
