Do you remember playing (or trying to play) sports when you were younger? Growing up, I had siblings who played tennis, baseball, basketball, soccer, lacrosse, and even horseback riding. Seeing all their trophies and accolades, I felt the pressure to participate. With my love for movies, music and theater, I decided to play football in middle school. Nothing to do with my lack of friends at that current juncture. Just pure love of the game. I was put on offensive line, second-string center, and never played a single game my entire sixth and seventh-grade years. Sam Bohner, with his unforgettable name, was the starting center, and he was so good. Until eighth grade. Sam injured his hand playing tetherball. That’s right. Tetherball. As a result, Sam had to wear a brace on his right hand and couldn’t snap the ball anymore. I got called up.
I’ll never forget the first game I started at center. Eleven years old and a dream – to take the team to state. My first game was against Champion Middle School, and it felt like we were playing at a college campus. Probably had something to do with the name. Champions field was grass and that communicated to us that they could afford a groundskeeper. Wild. The school I went to was new and up-and-coming, so our facility was nothing like theirs. We had a nice football field. But our actual school classrooms? Trailers. Priorities, I guess.
It was cold and raining in September when we played Champion. I had spent the entire week being told by my peers how massive the nose tackle was on their team. “He’s 6’1”, 275 pounds. That’s pretty big for an eighth grader, I guess.” I remember thinking that was pretty big for a human being. We talked about him like he was Goliath, even started calling him that by name. Huge but nothing I couldn’t handle. “It’s all about the angle, Chuck. You’ve just gotta stay lower than him, then he’s done for.” None of us were over 5’ 5”.
When Champion came out of their tunnel during warm ups, I felt a familiar feeling—the same one I had when I first saw the wall of Helm’s Deep destroyed in The Two Towers. An explosion. Massive soldiers marched to their drum, staring us down with their red eyes. The biggest difference? This was real life, and so frightening I couldn’t give two shits about Middle Earth.
To make matters more stressful, I was on the kickoff return team as well as center. Being on special teams was the equivalent of when my school used to hold a “fifth quarter” for all the kids who didn’t get to play in the actual game. The coaches stopped doing that once they realized they could dump us all on special teams so we felt like we contributed – and so they could get home faster. We were the leftovers. Even now, I’m not sure what my face looked like as the Champion team ran by, but our special teams coach looked at me and said in front of everyone, “Wills, are you scared?” We were a Christian school, and told daily not to lie or we would go to hell, so I squeamishly said, “Yes, sir!” He took a deep sigh and said, “Okay, Chuck is off kickoff return. Who wants his spot?” Bohner raised his hand—the one with the brace on it.
“Sam, you’re in. Chuck, go have a seat.” I remember thinking I was supposed to feel embarrassed. Coach Jones wanted me to feel ashamed, but I was so relieved. I needed to get my mind right before my big debut in front of all zero family members that made it out to see me. Also, we were all bad at special teams—we were children being expected to know how to do things that professional athletes get paid millions of dollars for. And even they don’t get it right all the time. Plus, no one really knew what was supposed to happen after the ball was kicked, right? Maybe I’m just projecting because I was embarrassed. Regardless, we quickly learned that Champion knew how to run special teams, and they had an amazing kicker. I remember standing on the sidelines thinking, there are college scouts here, and that kicker is getting a scholarship today because that ball went so far. Both of those things weren’t true. We lined up on the fifty-yard line for the first play. Things felt so much bigger at eleven.
Finally, it was time for my debut. Starting center. All those hours practicing. Or hours watching practice. The bear crawls we had to do in full gear. Feeling weird about having my friend Bryson at quarterback putting his hands below my crotch. Getting yelled at by Coach Reynolds in front of everyone for always messing up the timing. Coach Reynolds. He was the meanest coach we had. Yet, he was only a volunteer. Strange that in his spare time after work, he would come to our practice and lose his voice yelling at us all evening. His daughter was in our grade, and Amy once shared how hard her mom worked to keep the ship floating at home. Maybe she needed his help at home more than we did on the field. But that’s football, baby!
As I got to the line, the rain really started to pick up. It was intense. Movie-like. We were all feeling the same thing. Each one of us had played out this exact scenario in our heads while throwing the ball in the front yard with our siblings. The underdogs versus the state champions. Our mismatched uniforms and forgotten pads. Their custom jerseys with their names on them. At their home field. It was our time to show them what we were made of. And I was the one who decided when we were allowed to move. I mean, yeah, the quarterback calls the timing, but nothing starts until I move that football.
Goliath squared up in front of me. His shadow cast over me entirely, which was extra impressive given the lack of sunshine. He had eye black over his entire face. I found it problematic but had to focus up. No time for that. I put my left hand on the ground and my right hand on the football, remembering the advice at the lunch table. “Go low. Use gravity against him. If you trip him, he’s done. He won’t be fast enough to get up and do anything.” My job was to snap the ball and aim for the legs. I was ready.
With my eyes locked on Goliath’s, I snapped the ball. After Bryson had it, I made a leap for Goliath’s legs. His arms reached out to block Bryson’s pass, but I hit him right above the ankles, and he wasn’t able to jump. In fact, he started to fall. Goliath went down. Bryson found his man and threw it with everything he had. It landed perfectly in Reece’s gloves. He took the ball and sprinted into the end zone. A stride too long for them to catch. Touchdown on the first play!
Can you believe that!? That’s exactly how things play out when I’m in the front yard with my brothers. The most improbable scenario resulting in an outcome made for Hollywood. Things like that don’t happen in real life — because it didn’t. In the words of Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, “Let’s see that in an instant replay.”
First play of the game. We were at the line. First play I was starting. Pouring rain. Face to face with the giant. Like a cartoon bull, he let out a snarl that caused steam to come out of his nostrils. Bryson started to make the call. “White 80.” Is it too late to ask if the snap is on one or two? “White 80.” Christ. “White 80.” It’s too late to ask. “Down. Set.” Screw it, let’s make it one. “Hut.”
I snapped the ball, and Goliath put both hands on the back of my helmet with a force so strong my face mask became a part of the gridiron. As he went to sack our quarterback, he took a strong step forward, landing his size thirteen cleat and all 275 pounds of muscle on my right hand. End of football career.
