Put Me In, Coach

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 109 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, when I gazed 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 to his men, “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, line up at safety,” Coach ordered. “If the runner breaks through the line, it’s your job to stop him.” Rocky Stone, our fullback, took the first handoff and the line opened like drawn curtains. It was he and I. 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.” Rocky 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 boyhood best friend and mentor Jaybird for advice. “Keep sittin’ on the bench, and you’ll never play,” he said. “Be a man — walk up to him and say, ‘Put me in, Coach.’”

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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. Quarterback Brick Battson 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, a chalk line was beneath me, and a man in stripes above me was pointing his arms to the heavens. I scored my one and only touchdown! Jaybird’s porch light was 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 told me to say: “Put me in, Coach.”