"Green-Stick" Submission #24

8^th grade football continued…

(Can you believe I’ve devoted three blog posts to this singular subject?)

green·stick frac·ture

ˌɡrēnstik ˈfrak(t)SHər/

noun

1.    a fracture of the bone, occurring typically in children, in which one side of the bone is broken and the other only bent.

That’s what I had. A “Green-Stick Fracture.”

Bruised, huh Coach Janovick?

“Yeah, but can I still play football?” I wondered as the doctor rubbed his chin and stared at my x-ray.

As if he read my thoughts, “I guess your football season is over, partner. This will take a good four to six weeks to heal.”

My thoughts were racing ahead of him. “Do I have to wear a cast?” I inquired.

“No, I don’t think so.” He explained as my dashed hopes revived. “We will fit you for a splint that you will wear for the next four weeks or so. You can actually take it off at night, after your activities have died down. But absolutely no physical activity involving your wrist until it heals.”

Let’s see… today is Friday. Practice is Monday. I have three days to heal sufficiently. I’ll be fine.

I went straight from the doctor’s office to football practice… wearing my newest fashion accessory on my left wrist. Coach Janovick glanced my way and then did a double-take as he spotted my splint.

He walked over to me. “Guess it was more than a bruise, huh?” He joked. “Did you break it?”

“No.” I lied in an attempt to downplay the injury. “I’ll be ready to go next week.”

Janovick gave me a skeptical look as he smirked and cocked his head.

“Next week?” He asked rhetorically. “I don’t think so, Munson.”

“Seriously. I will be fine.” I said with all the conviction that I could muster.

The following Monday, I sprinted to the locker room as soon as the final bell rang. I was on a mission.

The locker room was downstairs, just off the north side of our old gymnasium. The equipment room was adjacent to the locker room. I turned the door knob and was thankful that it was unlocked. I went in. It wasn’t well lit and it stunk of stale sweat.

I started rummaging through the leftover shoulder pads, helmets, practice pants… not exactly sure what I was looking for. Eventually, I settled on a couple knee pads and a roll of tape.

I carefully removed my splint and began to disrobe. It was amazingly difficult to perform this seemingly simple task with one hand. Reflexively, my left hand wanted to dive into action and help with the process and every time it did, my wrist sent an immediate bulletin to my head saying, “STOP IT! THIS HURTS, YOU IDIOT!”

Putting on my pads and practice clothes promised to be even more difficult and I wondered how in the world I was going to actually practice when I could barely undress myself. I dismissed the question from my mind before my brain had a chance to analyze it. I was going to practice! And the next game, I was going to be wearing my #32 orange jersey, ready to be the best safety that I could be!

My teammates began to filter into the locker room as I awkwardly attempted to pull on my undersized, practice pants. Impossible.

Paul Mott’s locker was right next to mine. He watched in amusement as I tugged on my pants with my right hand… hopping up and down… as though that might help the process.

“Do you need some help, Muns?” He offered.

Paul was a big kid. The biggest kid in our grade. He was gifted with intelligence but athletic ability? … Not so much. That never stopped him from participating in sports.

Paul and I never talked to each other much. (There was no Facebook back then.) We were certainly acquaintances but I wouldn’t classify us as “friends.” And so I was a bit surprised that he was so willing to help me get dressed for practice. I was grateful.

The final detail was to arrange the knee pads into a protective barrier on my fractured wrist. One on the top of my wrist and one on the bottom. Mott handled the tape job too.

“Thanks Paul.” I mumbled.

“Yeah. Any time.” He smiled.

Mott and I played out that ritual every day for the rest of that season. Each day, we got better… more efficient.

I trotted out to the practice field on the northeast corner of the school property and tried to blend in with the other players who were assembled in straight rows, ready for calisthenics. I didn’t say anything… I didn’t want to call any attention to myself. I was hoping that Coach Janovick had forgotten about my silly little injury.

He didn’t forget.

As we began our jumping jacks, I couldn’t get my left arm in sequence with my right arm. It hurt to move it and so I let it hang limply as I continued in the semi-circle motion with only my right arm. I looked like a pair of windshield wipers with only the passenger side wiper in motion.

Janovick walked over to me, gently grabbed my face mask and led me out of the formation, to the side of the practice field. He looked down at Paul’s handiwork on my left wrist.

“Has your doctor cleared you to play?”

“Yes.” I fibbed, as my lying eyes refused to make contact with his.

“So… you’re telling me that if I called your doctor right now, he would tell me that you are cleared to play football less than a week after injuring your wrist?”

“Yes.” I lied… again… less convincingly this time.

He stood there and stared at me for about 10 seconds. Silent. If he was waiting for me to break… and tell him the truth… I wouldn’t… and didn’t. But he knew the truth. One look at me trying to do one-armed jumping jacks was all one, of reasonable intelligence, needed to see.

He sent me to the sidelines to watch.

Tuesday and Wednesday… I tried it again. Mott helped me dress and taped my wrist only to have Coach Janovick send me to the sidelines to watch. Each Wednesday, at the end of practice, the coaches would tell us the various starting teams for Thursday’s games. Punt team, punt receiving team, kick-off team, kick-off receiving team, offense and defense. Not surprisingly, I never heard my name mentioned.

I went home that Wednesday after practice and went straight to my room. I was depressed. I cried… and cried. I sobbed. Nobody knew… nobody cared. I was nobody’s priority during that time in my life.

I remember lying on my bed with red and swollen eyes… and quietly but audibly repeating a phrase over and over. “I can play, coach. Really, I can play. Please let me play.”

Now… you may say that this is strange, over-the-top behavior for a 13-year-old boy. I agree. It is odd. But it happened and it was such deep emotion that I can still feel it in my chest as I write about it today. I’m not a psychologist. I can’t give you a professional analysis. But I can hypothesize that this emotion was tied to the fact that playing on this team was about the only thing in my life, at that time that was positive, fulfilling and fun. And now… it had been ripped away from me.

I don’t remember exactly how many more 8^th grade games that were played that year… maybe six or seven. What I do know is that I didn’t play a single down in any of them. I still showed up and dressed out for every practice but sat on the sidelines most of the time.

My wrist did heal quicker than expected and I was allowed to practice during the final week of the season but what happened next only added insult to injury.

The 7^th grade team had their one and only game that final week. The coaches grabbed me and three additional scrawny 8^th graders and told us that we would be playing with the 7^th graders in their game, since none of us played much during the season. Talk about total humiliation.

Ed Burke, Mark Gibbons, Scott Lombardi and I… playing with the kids. I went from being the starting safety on the 8^th grade team to suiting up with the 7^th grade team. It couldn’t get any worse, could it? Stay tuned.

Before the start of the 7^th grade game against arch-rival, Woodward-Granger, Coach Janovick hauled the four 8^th graders to the center of the field to meet with the officials and the opposing coach. Initially, I thought “Cool! They are making us the team captains and we are going out for the coin toss!”

Not so fast. The purpose of the little pow-wow was so that Coach, in the spirit of full disclosure, could tell the officials and the other coach that he planned to use four 8^th graders in the 7^th grade game. We were brought out as props… visuals… so that they could see for themselves that we didn’t pose much of a physical threat on the football field. So humiliating. Could anything else go wrong? Stay tuned… again.

The officials glanced at us, shrugged and appeared apathetic. The opposing coach, however, was indignant that Coach Janovick would blur the lines of propriety by inserting illegal players into his line-up. He was willing to compromise, however. Once the game reached the fourth quarter, if one team or the other was clearly in control… then… and ONLY then, could we insert the 8^th graders.

Woodward-Granger took control of that game early and never came close to relinquishing the lead. I saw the field for one series of downs with less than two minutes to play in the game. I played right guard on the offensive line and got pushed around by a chubby 7^th grader wearing a green and yellow uniform.

That is how my illustrious football career came to a crashing conclusion. I never played organized football again. I had worked all summer to get in shape and showed so much desire even while injured… to no avail.

This was a microcosm of my life at that time. A bitter snap-shot. Another disappointment.

"I Still Had Sports" Submission #22

With so many facets of my life headed south, I could still focus much of my energy and passion on sports. I grew up in the Los Angeles area, a hotbed of year round athletic endeavors and a plethora of college and professional teams to root for. I was submerged in the sports culture for as long as I could remember.

My brothers collected baseball cards and when I was just 3 or 4-years-old, with my brothers' help, I had memorized the names of the players and the names of their teams just by looking at the baseball cards. This was so impressive to my mom that she would trot me out, like a dog and pony show, to demonstrate my amazing memory power every time a neighbor or friend stopped by to visit. Heck, I think she even walked me over to a few neighbor's houses so that they could get a special, in-home viewing of "Bart, the Magnificent!" She would mix up the stack, like a Vegas dealer shuffling a deck of cards, and then one by one, show them to me as I rattled off the player's name and his team.

That's sort of embarrassing to think about now. I'm sure there was a lot of eye rolling going on.

I was a decent athlete back in the day but far from great. If I wanted to succeed, I had to push myself.

The summer before 8^th grade, I spent a good portion of my time trying to get into shape by running everywhere I went. When my neighborhood buddies would ride their bikes downtown, I’d run alongside of them. I was hardly an intimidating physical specimen, in fact, I was a scrawny runt. All the more reason to work myself into football shape and improve my chances to earn some playing time.

My first year in tackle football was the 7^th grade. For some reason, back then, the 7^th grade team had a single game all season. The rest of the time, we served as tackling dummies for the 8th grade team.

I played linebacker during that one game and even picked off a pass. It was such a rush to make a big play like that in a game, I was exhilarated. I was also in a daze. I think I shed the initial tackler before being blindsided before I could gain any positive yardage. But that one play in that single game got me so pumped up for 8^th grade football.

The 8^th grade football team had a full complement of games… eight of them, if I remember correctly.

When the school year started in the fall of 1972, football practice started also. I went all out. I was dedicated to being the best I could be. I lacked size, I lacked speed, I lacked strength… but I did my best to mitigate the effects of those inadequacies with my heart and my hustle.

After practicing a few days in our gym shorts and t-shirts, we were advised to head to the equipment room to be assigned our gear, which included our pads, our helmet, our practice jersey and our pants. By the way, our practice pants would be one in the same as our game pants.

I remembered from 7^th grade that most of the practice/game pants were ancient. Vintage 1958… or somewhere close. I did know that there were a few newer pairs sprinkled in there because I remember last year, the Gio twins (Tim and Greg Gioffredi), had newer looking pants and they looked more sleek and intimidating than the players with the old, torn and baggy pants.

So my objective was to be at the head of the line to snag a newer looking pair of pants. I was the first in line and indeed, got a newer looking pair of pants. Unfortunately, after loading them with a hip girdle, thigh pads and knee pads the next day before practice, it took the help of three players for me to get them on. As small as I was… these pants were way too small for me. I couldn’t run in them… I could only waddle… real fast. But I looked cool because my pants were newer. Enough said.

The day before our first game, the coaches sat us down to read through the starters on offense and defense. He started with offense and I waited excitedly to hear my name… “Quarterback, Isolini. Tailback, Cowles. Fullback, John Long.” He continued until he finished with all 11 starters. My name was not called. Not a huge surprise, I guess. I wasn’t fast enough to be a back and I wasn’t big enough to be a lineman.

So, I waited to hear the defensive starters to be named.

He started with the linemen and then moved to the linebackers. I waited. He got all the way down to the two safety positions. “Mac Cowles, strong safety.” One more position. “And Munson, you’ll be at the free safety position.”

When I heard my name called… I swear I also heard angels singing, fireworks exploding and all of Boone County breaking out in raucous applause.

Maybe that’s a slight exaggeration but the point is, I was almost delirious with excitement. This was the age in which I absolutely fell in love with the concept of competition. I was consumed by it. I thrived on it.

Even into adulthood, "competition" had a great influence on me. I can remember living alone in my apartment in 1980, a few months before getting married. I played church league softball on Saturday mornings and I would spend Friday nights tossing and turning because I was so excited to go out and compete the next morning.

Back to 8th grade football...

Our first game was at Ogden. We didn’t take a school bus for some reason. I distinctly remember riding in a van with about three or four of my teammates. We were a rowdy bunch, each taking turns bragging about what we were going to do to our opponents. We were so tough!

I sat next to Curt Chapman and wondered why he wasn’t participating in the bravado like the rest of us. He just stared straight ahead. Didn’t say a word. I mean… Chappy was cool like that… didn’t always say a whole lot. But man… this is the first game… surely he was amped! Maybe he was just getting his game face on. Meditating. Praying. I don’t know…

As we pulled into the parking lot of the football field in Ogden, we found out why Chappy had been so quiet as he showed us, in living color, what he had eaten for lunch. Before any of us could pile out of the van, Curt projectile vomited all over the seat in front of him and onto the floor. Apparently, that’s all he needed because following that event, he instantly became as hyper as the rest of us.

As for the inaugural game of my 8^th grade season… we lost 32-0. But… I played the entire game on defense. I don’t think I did anything spectacular but I don’t think I played bad either. All I know was that I had a blast and I could not wait until the next game!

"Chicks and Popularity" Submission #18

Popularity is a concept that creeps into the consciousness of most kids at some point, early in life. For me, it was about junior high. Like most kids, I wanted it, but didn't want to be obvious in my pursuit of it.

A quick self-assessment yielded a few conclusions...

Looks: Somewhere north of hideous.

Athleticism: Better than some, not as good as others. Probably in the upper 50^th percentile.

Intelligence: It was there… somewhere… largely untapped and lacking in regular exercise.

Wit: Quick. Sometimes cutting. Fed when it generated a laugh but ignored when it hurt feelings. (Not a good thing)

Were these the ingredients sufficient for a popularity pie? I didn't know but would soon put them to the test.

Seventh grade was a good year. It was my third full school year in Madrid and I felt like I was hitting my stride. I hung out with a group of guys that seemed to garner the most notoriety and attention… Ed Burke, Mark Gibbons, Mac Cowles, John Long, Kevin Gibbons, Scott Lombardi… to name a few.

And then there were the girls… ah yes, the girls.

I already had a couple GINO’s (Girlfriend In Name Only) in the 5^th and 6^th grades… Lori Smiley, Mary Bimbi… maybe a couple more. But this was now 7^th grade and time to step up my game. I wasn't exactly sure what that meant or where it would lead me… but I knew it was time.

Actual photo of Joni... a couple years prior to 7th grade

As I scanned the female landscape of the Madrid Junior High School, there were a number of pretty, smart and nice girls, but for my money, one stood out… Joni Dalton. She had long, brown hair, was very outgoing and extremely kind. I didn't know of anyone who didn't like her.

Rule number one in the pursuit of a girlfriend in junior high is similar to rule number one for a lawyer in the courtroom… only ask a question if you already know the answer. And in this case, the answer must be in the affirmative or I was abandoning my mission! I dispatched my good buddy, Mac, to infiltrate and collect the needed intelligence.

We were all on the blacktop playground on the west side of the three-story school building. You
could hear the chatter of pre-adolescent boys as they worked in unison to get the merry-go-round spinning a million miles an hour. The girls, on the other hand, talked quietly in groups of two and three. We always thought they were talking admirably about us boys, when in reality, they were comparing notes about Donny Osmond.

Mac approached a small pack of young females and motioned for Joni to come talk to him. He was cool and well-rehearsed as he articulately posed the complex, emotion filled question, “If Bart asked you, would you go with him?”

“Go with him?” “Go steady with him?” “Go out with him?” “Be his girlfriend.” Whatever the vernacular of that day, necessary to procure your buddy a girlfriend… that’s what Mac asked.

I watched from a distance… palms sweating, heart racing. I looked for a clue as to her answer. An enthusiastic nodding of the head accompanied by an ear to ear grin would suffice. I saw neither. Five seconds after Mac initiated contact with her, he was heading toward the school doors as the bell had rung, signaling us that the teachers were once again ready to torture us with grammar worksheets and useless mathematical formulas.

I fought through the sweaty crowd of fellow students until I caught up with Mac. I grabbed him by the arm. “Well?!?”

“She said yes.” He said, matter-of-factly… then he smiled.

I smiled too… as the butterflies took to flight in my stomach. Now what do I do?

I lay in bed that night, running scenarios in my mind about how to actually ask Joni to be my girlfriend. I was always much braver in my imagination at night than I was in reality the next day. In my vivid imagination, I was Romeo… minus the puffy shirt and long hair… in realty, I was a blithering idiot, yet to master the English language.

Days passed. I couldn't work up the courage. Any script that I had mentally prepared the night before always seemed to melt into a pile of nonsense when the time came to actually approach her. 

I needed a prop… a symbol… something that took some off the attention off of me and my words.

A ring! That’s what I needed. Chicks dig jewelry.

I had no money and Madrid had no stores that sold rings even if I did have money. Maybe mom had one.

Mom seemed to get a kick out of my request as she lugged her jewelry box from her bedroom to the kitchen table. As she opened it up, I saw a veritable treasure chest of cheap, costume jewelry. Avon specials. Mom didn't own anything expensive.

She helped me pick out a gaudy ring with a huge, diamond shaped setting made up of small red, white and blue phony stones. It was big enough to cover half of Joni’s hand… almost. And it had that fancy, one-size-fits-all band that you could push the end up under the setting until it fit perfectly.

If this didn't sweep her off her feet… I didn't know what would!

I had Mac give her the ring for me.

I didn't know if she liked it but when I passed her in the hallway, she was wearing it. Couldn't miss it. She smiled at me and my heart melted.

And so it began…

But where would it lead?