Home Town Heroes (standard:humor, 79295 words)
Author: Coach Mac	Added: Dec 17 2008	Views/Reads: 3568/3917	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
This is the story of a young man of Spanish heritage who comes from Louisianna to Rocin, Texas in the early 1970's to coach high school football. Along with his introduction to Texas football, he is introduced to Skipper, the town of Rocin, and his own mi

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Henry- Old WW I veteran who works as the janitor at the Rocin field
house. Has a run in with Mr. Smith the Vice-principal. 

Johnny Steptoe- Young kid who does nit have enough to eat. Skipper
shares his food with him, and starts buying him bread and peanut butter 
to keep in a locker so that he has lunch. 

Dell “Clydesdale” Schrick  - Large and raw boned youth, slow, but
powerful at the T.E. position. 

Jay “Juking” Jones- One of a pair of running backs. Can take a hit and
keep running. 

Mike “mincemeat” Mentz- A defensive L.B who can throw a football. Makes
a great play at running back for the pitch pass. 

James Stuckey III- Star basketball players, wants to plat for Skipper,
but parents would not let him, so that he could get a B-ball 
scholarship. 

Rico Vasquez- large lineman who is graduating Muley’s first year at
Rocin. Fight James after verbal exchange during lunch. Muley stops 
them, and Skipper sets-up the boxing event. 

Shamus O’Rourke- One of the founders of the town; Rocin named after him:
stubborn mule, bad -tempered human. 

James McStay- Another founder of the town. 

School: Rocin High School in Central Texas , between Houston and San
Antonio-headed out I-10. The community is based on farming (this is 
starting to change) and is mostly white in its make-up. Does have a 
growing Hispanic population. 

Sister Mary Margaret - Muley’s Catholic elementary school teacher. 

Mary Bella Koreneke- History department head at Rocin H.S. 

Mrs. Shupac- Garage apartment landlady for Muley 

Leon (Old Mac) McCall- old time farmer, retired and spend time in court
house square. 

“Tiny” Martinez- best B-B-Q around Rocin; heavy set man, with
restaurant. Caters for Muley’s wedding reception 

Ignacio “Iggy” Martinez- Owns the meat market next to his brother’s
restaurant 

Homer Hal Halichek- owner of burger. (Greasy hair, white T-shirt) joint
near school, ask about Skipper 

Edward”Zippy” Zipalac- The other running back with “Juking” Jones 

Sean “The Rooster” - not the Hen- Hennessy- back-up QB for Aussie at the
El Toro game. 

Nacho Rios- linemen Skipper send in during game between El Toro and
Rocin 

Mike “The Vise” Vacek- the other linebacker besides Mentz 

George “Godzilla” Godfrey- Fullback for Rocin. Large and strong 

Guadalupe “Lupe” Lopez- Center for team. 

James “and the giant peach” Jarvis 

Common sense in schools today is still an issue but on a larger scale.
When Zero Tolerance can send a student to jail and deprive them of the 
learning environment for a pocket knife brought accidental to school, 
we are losing a battle with our youths.  The professionals who tell me 
that giving a student three or four pops with a no-nonsense piece of 
oak is not promoting respect, but fear, I say - YOU BET! Fear is what 
keeps your students from making too many mistakes. Fear is what will 
keep the respect and authority in the schools, and keep the law out of 
it. Young people will make mistakes, that is a given, but should their 
mistakes be compounded by dealing them into the judicial system and 
giving them a criminal record? Over the past few years, I watched many 
of my own players lead down this twisted judicial path, and seen the 
effects it has on the family. When you compare the life a youth lives 
to a race you find, it is in running the sprints right out of the 
blocks that our youths lose themselves to the seven deadly sins, but 
the true measure of a youth’s life is taken many years from now in the 
long distance race of time. Skipper was not afraid to “lay the wood” to 
needed victims, but he used it very judiciously. Holes played it off 
with a treasure trove of paddle assortments and implied threats. But, 
should a firm and strong hand be needed to weld a paddle, then Handsome 
Harry was the best choice. For a man who spent his life going from bar 
to gym and back again, he was the one who could “light them up”. Two 
good licks from Harry’s paddle made a believer out of many a would-be 
felons. In all my experience, it is the fear of a consistent and a 
immediate punishment that keeps your athletes in line. 

Chapter One: 

Killer Bob 

**** 

I felt a strange sense of  homecoming mixed with a fear of the unknown
as I entered the new stadium in Rocin. The stadium had been named after 
Robert E. Zeminski, the head-football coach for Rocin High School the 
past twenty years. He had retired at least five years ago from Rocin's 
newly consolidated school district, but his memory had been itched on 
so many young men from these small farming towns and communities, that 
they gave him the highest tribute they had to offer: his name on their 
stadium. 

I jammed my hands into my leather bomber coat as a cool wind blew
through me on the shady side of the stadium. It was not a blue norther, 
but the wind was not aware of the difference as it cut through me and 
lifted what little hair remained on my head. No real damage that a good 
finger swipe could not fix, but I wish I had my cap. 

My path lead me into the stadium and up towards the top of the stands.
From this vantage point I could see the field, the sidelines and the 
end zones in entirety. There was no sound: no cheers, no yells, or 
whistle's, just the sound of your own thoughts as they bounced around 
your head looking to be chosen and nursed into a vivid memory. And as I 
sat down on the cold metal seat, I realized : what memories I have had. 


It had been a long time since I had sat in the stands. My retirement
gave me certain benefits such as sitting in the press box observing 
numerous high school football games. I had never sat in the stands at 
Rocin High School before. Or had I? 

No, I had sat in the stands at Rocin Stadium. It was the night I found
“Killer Bob” at the old stadium drinking alone in the stands. Alone 
with his fears, and mine. 

I had a habit of thinking of Ski as “Killer Bob”, I guess I was as bad
as the kids...heck I was a kid then and Ski scared me, but Ski's death 
had brought me back to the town of Rocin , and  fond memories of Rocin 
High School, which started my introduction to Texas high school 
football, and my mentor, Coach “Skipper” OäBryan. Ski's death had 
brought me full circle again to the home of my working youth, to the 
beginning of what the sportäs columnists called a “very successful 
career“ in coaching high school football. In those two years Skipper 
taught me more about life and people, than in the past twenty-eight 
years I spent coaching football. And, for that, I cannot thank him 
enough. 

I wish there was a way to break down the word love and separate it into
categories, but to my mind, love means a deep and abiding affection, 
and should not be confused with a robust and passionate feeling called 
lust. I can say I loved Skipper, and in the mix of words that penetrate 
my mind and erratically amble through my head, that mean many things, 
such as : respect, admire, care, trust, and yes, even a little bit, 
fear. Looking around  at the new stadium with its gleaming chrome 
rails, white shining cement, and sparkling fresh paint, I realize, this 
is what Skipper's love had built. 

But, it was in a much smaller Rocin Stadium then this one that the fear
Ski and I shared ended my second season at Rocin, and the love we 
shared was Skipper and the Boys. Skipper started  building this dream 
catcher my first year at Rocin. That was the reason he brought this 
unknown, untried offensive coordinator here. This is where my memory, 
my career, and my undying love for Skipper and our Boys starts. 

Skipper..... He is never far from my mind or thoughts. Perhaps one of
the highest tributes I can pay  the man was, I never made a decision 
without wondering, “what would Skipper do?”. I still wonder what 
Skipper would have done in our last few play-off games that last 
season. I wonder about a lot of things. 

**** 

I wonder why I did not melt as I drove that ä61 Chevy Impala down that
dusty iron ore road Skipper told me about that ran down the side of the 
school, and ended at the field house. Rivulets of sweat ran down my 
neck and buried themselves into my tight-collared cotton shirt, soaking 
the collar and collecting the dust as it filtered into the open window. 
If rivulets ran down my neck, then streams ran down my sides leaving a 
large amount of water damage on the sides of my dress-shirt. Not quite 
the best impression I had hoped to make when leaving the house of a 
college friend, whose parents owned a home there in Beaumont that 
morning. 

And, even with all that physical discomfort, I was in a euphoric state.
I was to be hired sight unseen as the offensive coordinator for the 
Rocin (pronounced “Roe-sin” by the locals) Bulls in South-Central 
Texas, between San Antonio and Houston. Not bad for a twenty-three year 
old from Homa, Louisiana. Not bad for a boy who had played a practice 
team running back at a division one school in my home state, and who 
played no more than five series in his senior year at Tech. This was my 
chance, and Coach Hoyt had seen to that. Coach Hoyt was my position 
coach at Tech, who roared when he talked, and thundered when he yelled. 
His hat rarely left his head, and on the rare occasions when it did, 
tufts of gray hair would gently move by the wind he created as he 
marched down the hallways of the College of Education, much like stalks 
of wheat, rippled by the wind in staggered waves of gusty air. He had 
sold my abilities to Coach Michael Patrick O'Bryan of Rocin High School 
in Rocin, Texas without having shook my hand or heard my voice. Now 
that is trust. A trust I did not want to let down. 

What I did know from Coach Hoyt, about Coach O'Bryan was they had serve
together in the Marine Corps during Korean “Conflict”. They had fought 
their way out of the Chosin Reservoir with the First Marine Division 
and their legendary commander Colonel, later General, Lewis “Chesty” 
Puller. The lessons they had learned there in that frozen fight against 
the Chinese, about themselves and other men, would be the building 
block for all their relationships throughout their lives. Every hard 
situation they encountered, they could look back on this time and say, 
“ I've seen worse”, or “ I've lived through worse”. They would judge 
the men they coached, taught, and played against by the standards of 
the Marines, and the measure of bravery that common men have during 
uncommon times. I found out later that Coach O'Bryan had joined the 
Marines near the end of the Second World War, left the Corps as soon as 
he could be mustered out to get married, and finish his college 
education on the G.I. Bill. He had almost made the civilian transition 
from Marine to educator, when he received a small letter in the mail 
asking him to report for duty in Korea. He was not alone. These men who 
had fought so gallantly on Iwo Jima, and Guadalcanal were now being 
called back into service, after about a four year absence. These men 
who had thanked God for the safe return of their lives and their sanity 
after W.W.II, were now being asked to return to a new task and a new 
enemy. The bitter taste of resentment could well have lead them to a 
desire to run, but they did not. They could not: duty called, and they 
reported. I would not understand the special pride men who have served 
in the Marines have until my son joined and became one of the Few, the 
Proud. I will never forget his letters, nor the pain I felt during his 
time in training, but , I also will not forget the strange feeling a 
man has when he observes his son doing something he did not or could 
not do. To give oneself to a greater cause then self; to hold oneself, 
and those he is responsible for, accountable to accomplish the mission- 
that is what my son did, and that is what Coach O'Bryan did every day 
of his life. To see my son, give up self, and join the ranks of those 
proud and fierce men, I cannot begin to explain the pride or 
overwhelming emotion that drained out of me and down my face the 
morning of his graduation. These memories volley around my head as I 
think back on Coach O'Bryan and the town of Rocin. 

Another strange detail I learned about Coach O'Bryan from Coach Hoyt,
was that he considered himself Irish but had never been to Ireland. He 
was not the only one who felt this way in a town founded by Irishmen. 
The whole town of Rocin was made up of a generous amount of Irish, 
German, Ceche, and people of Mexican descent. I should not have been 
amazed at this make up of the town, given my own mixed 
French-Spanish-Irish heritage, but these people seemed to like each 
other, or better yet, they liked football and Skipper. The more I mixed 
with the town people, the more I realized they considered themselves 
Rosin Bulls first, and individuals second. Their loyalties started with 
the team and ended with the team. That could be a mixed blessing 
sometimes. The last detail I learned about the man who would be my new 
Boss from Coach Hoyt, was that he had given up alcohol some years ago, 
and , I was told, you might not want to drink in his presence. I was 
not much of a drinking man but I did imbibe from time to time, and I 
wondered how this was received in a town made up of country folks who 
enjoyed their beer. None of this seemed to matter at the time. All the 
information I had learned was just back ground to what I had been asked 
by Coach O'Bryan through Coach Hoyt to do: I was to create an offensive 
power house that would get the Rocin Bulls to the state play-offs. 
Besides the dust and the heat of that morning, I was ready- sticky, but 
ready. 

Chapter Two 

The Beginning 

**** 

As I drew nearer the high school, I began to notice the typical brick
architecture of the 1930's, and how clean the school campus was in 
comparisons to other high school campuses I had seen as I drove through 
Southwest Texas. There seemed to be some pride in the school and the 
school ground's appearance. I liked the school already. I liked its 
strong lines made up of red brick and white-painted wood frames, which 
outlined the doors and windows. There was an openness about the whole 
campus, with the central building the focus and the out buildings 
arranged in organized symmetry. The school's broad fields looked like 
hay meadows, and the trees they had left on the perimeter where tall, 
strong and shade worthy. I hoped I would be able to use the car's dusty 
mirror before I meet Coach O'Bryan, or Skipper as I was to find out 
later he liked to be called, with the idea that I could arrange my 
clothes and hair, so that he would have the same impression of me. I 
wore my hair a bit long back then, and the dust and the wind combined 
from the open window to give it a Neanderthal appearance. 

I pulled into a somewhat shady spot near the field house, and stopped
the car, allowing the orange dust to catch up and enter into the gaping 
window of my car. The heat was not so bad here, but my shirt was 
already soaked with sweat and had achieved a somewhat smoky coloring 
due to the aggressive dust particles that had cling desperately there. 
All I could do was re-tuck this sponge I called a shirt, and straighten 
my tie. I opened the battered back door of the Chevy and took out my 
sports coat. I could not wait to put on this sweat producing blanket, I 
thought sarcastically,  but nothing could ruin the pure joy I felt in 
my heart on my first day here at Rocin. 

After the coat was fastened I took a moment to check out my appearance
in the Chevy's small driver's side mirror. I raked my hand through my 
hair to re-establish a part, and felt a sticky satisfaction concerning 
my physical deportment. I was as ready as I would ever get. A moments 
hesitation gave me a chance to make the decision to leave my new 
briefcase, a gift from my mother, in the car. First, I wanted to meet 
the man who would be my “Boss”, then second, I could show him what I 
knew with help from my new briefcase. 

As I directed my steps toward the field house; a white and red wooden
structure on the east side of the field, a rather  large man in faded 
denim overalls, a cotton undershirt and a dirty ,sweat stained Notre 
Dame cap came out of the middle door and, looking at me, stopped.  A 
slow smile spread across his face, and after a slight inquisitive 
glance, he spit a brown stream of tobacco juice onto the dry iron ore 
parking area in front of the field house. I decided, after only a 
moments thought, he must be the janitor, or grounds keeper, and I asked 
him where I could find Coach O”Bryan. He seemed to regard me with a 
strange and bemused look, and with a chuckle, spit again, and told me 
to follow him. I thought it rather foreign to see a Notre Dame cap in 
the heart of Texas, and on a janitor or grounds keeper at that, who 
obviously worked for the football team. I chuckled to myself as I 
followed him towards a dusty old school bus melting in the late morning 
sun. 

We got on the old yellow school with the dangerously rusted first step.
I almost stepped through to the ground on my first attempted at 
boarding, but the man in front of me grabbed my arm and helped pull me 
up. The bus was parked on the west side of the school, and we waited in 
an awkward silence. The silence gave me time to regard the face of the 
man in the review mirror. 

He had light blue eyes, that seemed even paler in the worn brown shoe
leather you might call a face. When he turned sideways you could see 
the strong hawk-shaped nose, and even make out the path of the crow's 
feet that raced to see which one could get to the corner of his eyes 
first. His hands, as they gripped the steering wheel, were freckled and 
surprisingly light of hair. The hair that was there had a reddish hue 
to it. I could not see under the cap, but I knew that the hair on top 
of his head would be cut short as was the fashion of the men of his 
era. He was obviously an outdoors' man. This was the type of man who I 
should ask about whether there was good hunting around these parts. I 
am sure there was good hunting, especially as we moved closer to San 
Antonio. These thoughts where interrupted when I noticed his eyes 
regarding me in the rearview mirror. Just as I had decided to introduce 
myself to the janitor, bus driver, or whatever, a young man ran onto 
the bus speaking hurriedly while bounding over the first step. 

“Skipper, I know I can do it! I wont let you down! 

“I know you won't Petey. We are in for a fine day so lets get going
before it gets even hotter.” 

This exchange lead me to change my mind about the janitor. This man must
be a coach, but if he was a coach why would the kid call him by the 
name “Skipper”? 

The man Skipper spoke again, “ Get everyone on board Petey, I want the
whole defensive secondary to make it today. Nobody drops out and nobody 
quits”. Petey responded in a militarily playful , yet respectful way, 
“Aye, Aye Skipper!” and was off. 

I was not too much into things military back then, Vietnam and its
protest had watered down my interest and understanding, but I believe 
the response had something to do with the Navy. I thought it was a 
silly thing to say and I vowed I would never make others say it too me, 
or even use it myself. 

Just as I had reconciled myself to this fact, I heard Skipper say ,
“Hold on, here comes the thundering herd!” 

Sure enough, twelve boys raced towards the bus and their feet began to
beat a hasty tattoo up the metal steps of the bus- skipping the rusted 
step- and down the aisle, choosing their seats as they went. Their 
voices were the loud and excited voices of young man headed out upon an 
adventure. I had no idea where we were going, but I felt the excitement 
becoming apart of me. 

The Skipper ground the bus into first gear, and we were off. The big bus
shot out of the parking lot, leaving a trail of dust behind us. We 
turned left onto Main street, and, with a quick exchange of gears, we 
were headed down the road and out of he town. The excitement turned 
into fear as I realized I did not know where we were going, or what we 
were doing. I found my thoughts getting louder in my head as the whine 
of the engine rose, and the noise of the “Herd” behind me took on epic 
proportions. After a failed attempt to make conversation with Skipper, 
I leaned my head and back against the window, picked my feet up, and 
decided to keep my ever increasing volumes of thoughts to myself and 
wait. This man, who had invited me with his Notre Dame cap, did not 
seem to be an idiot, and he had understood my question- or had he? My 
nervousness increased, but I did not want to show my ignorance to this 
man and these boys over the sound of the bus's engine. 

I watched the sun play peek-a-boo between the trees, and play its rays
in random patterns across the inside of the bus, sometimes blinding me 
with light ,and, at other times, hiding me in shade. Even the dust 
played into this game, as it floated downward , in and out of the light 
,and laid down gently on the first object that got in its way. After 
about ten miles the bus came to a stop near a small rest area. The boys 
unloaded from the bus and began a warm-up exercise similar to what I 
had done in college before a long run. Skipper and I had off-loaded 
from the bus while the boys stretched, and I found myself enjoying the 
shade here in the park, but still a little nervous about the time and 
my first meeting with Coach O'Bryan. 

I walked back  towards Skipper, and asked when I would meet Coach
O”Bryan. Skipper gave me another droll smile, and said soon. I then 
asked him about that, “Aye, Aye , Skipper”, response I had heard the 
young man spout off before the “Herd's“ arrival. He informed me it had 
started as a joke years ago, and it had stuck, and now, every kid who 
had him as a coach used it with some degree of respect and humor. 

I am not sure how the words actually came out of my mouth, but I gather
from his expression I had said something wrong. The moment they had 
left my mouth I wish I could have stopped them, and pushed back into my 
mouth without anyone hearing, or at least understanding them. I know 
that with my twenty -three years of life experiences and the socialist 
professor I had had for Central American history, I felt rather 
superior with intelligence. Now, as this man Skipper was just a coach 
or something, and I was at least his equal as a  college graduate, I 
may have felt the need to enlighten him into my way of thinking. 

Enlighten him I must have done, because his demeanor changed. This
Skipper fellow just looked at me with his squint-eyed, weather-beaten 
face, and for a brief time I felt the weather grow a tad bit cooler for 
a summer day in Texas. Then, his eyes relaxed, he gently nodded his 
head, pulled his hat down low over his eyes, and headed for the bus 
with a quick measured step. The boys had already taken off for the run 
back to school. I followed him tentatively, back to the bus as I 
realized my mistake and wished again I had not spoken about this 
declaration that had taken place between Skipper and Petey. 

I started to apologize, but the tall man in the cap, keep marching
towards the bus. I know I was worried about his feelings , but I was 
more then a little worried about what this man might say to Coach 
O'Bryan. I did not know what their relationship was like; could he be 
his brother, friend, or even fellow coach? These were troubling 
thoughts as the tall man would not respond to my atoned mental 
comments. 

Skipper had not turned the bus off, and as he got on he shut the door
before I could step up and onto the bus. He put the old bus into gear, 
and without looking down towards me, slowly started to move the old bus 
forward. I felt a wave of nausea hit me as I realized he meant to leave 
me here with the long walk back to Rocin High School, in my blister 
making new wing-tipped cowboy boots I had just bought for this 
occasion. I already knew I was late for my meeting with Coach O”Bryan , 
but both fears alone could have easily made me sick. With Skipper 
driving, the bus continued to creep forward, and all I could do was 
yell. 

“You're not going to leave me here are you? Please Skipper open the
door, I am already late for my meeting with Coach O'Bryan. “ In 
desperation, I began again, “ If I said something out of line Mr. 
Skipper, I am sorry!” 

Skipper stopped the slow moving bus, opened the door and spit, just
missing my new boots. 

“Son, he said, you have already meet Coach O'Bryan. You just rode seven
miles with him out to this here park, and unless you can make me 
believe you are a better coach at football then you are a 
conversationalist, you are going to walk the seven miles back to the 
high school. Comprende?” 

I nodded, and hurriedly entered the bus. I sat down, and looked up into
the rearview mirror and saw him smile. And, I thought, perhaps I would 
be able to eat lunch today without pitching my breakfast into the 
nearest convenient . This was the not so promising introduction to my 
new Boss. I learned a valuable lesson that day, and that is too keep 
your mouth shut until you know who is who at your new job. 

Chapter Three 

Meeting The Staff 

**** 

That's how I met Rocin's High School's head football coach. All the way
back on the bus Skipper and I talked football. When he wasn't laughing, 
his piercing, light blue eyes keep appraising me in the rearview 
mirror. I didn't realize it then but he was making up his mind about 
me. That I kept the job must have meant I had passed muster. 

The long yellow school bus , with the hot afternoon summer wind flowing
through the open windows, knifed its way through the iron ore parking 
lot of the high school and back towards the small stadium and field 
house. The field house sat on the right hand side, or east side of the 
stadium, with the two main practice fields to the right of the field 
house. If you want through the left hand doors towards the stadium, it 
was game time. If you went to the right hand doors it was practice 
time. If you want south, you where a coach, or you were in trouble. 
But, as a coach, there was a door that went directly into the office 
and changing room. We were headed there. 

Both of us alighted form the bus, and walked companionably into
Skipper's office to talk shop. This was my first chance to see inside 
my new office area, and I was not surprised by the cluttered condition 
of the desks of the men who worked here. The main room was not 
air-conditioned and smelled of stale sweat, old grass and mildewed 
uniforms. There were four desk in the room which , for some reason, 
faced each other, two on each side. Upon each desk was at least two 
spit cans: Coke or coffee cans, and crinkled up pouches of Red Man 
chewing tobacco. Also, on or around the desks were whistles, caps, and 
scarps of old food pickling and decaying on top of the desks. 

It was somewhat good to see things were not so different then in our
coaches' office in college. There was no need to ask Skipper about 
hunting, for upon the walls were stuffed heads of deer, bobcats, and , 
believe it or not, even a Texas longhorn. Each animal had a variety of 
objects hanging from his horns or head. Whistles and stops watches were 
the most prevalent hanging from these horns, but there were even a few 
Christmas ornaments littered among the antlered designees . I had to 
admit, I felt comfortable in this bizarre environment. 

Skipper and I sat down in the room, and began to talk. As Coach Hoyt had
told me, Skipper spoke of the team and his belief that the next two 
years were the most important to the success of his program and the 
town of Rocin. He believed that with the talent of his upcoming 
sophomores and junior classes he could build the type of team that 
could win the state play-offs. This was the best group of athletes he 
had seen in his almost twenty years in this town and he did not want to 
let the town, nor his Boys, down. When I questioned him about “his 
Boys”, did he mean the team? 

He looked at me for a moment, and with a sobering stare, stated without
flinching, “No, I mean all the boys who have every played for me.” This 
surprised me. What did they care, besides pride in their home team? I 
asked him . Again he looked at me , and stated, “ These boys, who have 
vomited, bleed, sweated, cursed, and both loved and hated me need to 
have something of their own. This win would not be for me, or just for 
the team, but for everyone who every played for me.“ 

Skipper kind of smiled then, and said, “ I know it sounds a little
silly, but it is my truth, and what I want to give them. These next two 
years I have the chance to get to that state play-offs and you are 
going to get us there. Your job is to do your offensive magic to make 
points, my job is to keep them from scoring points.” And with a knowing 
and confident grin, he pronounced, “Together we can make this happen.” 

I felted elation at being selected as the offensive savior of this team,
but scared too. All this information Skipper had handed me had 
overwhelmed me, and I needed sometime on my own to think. This was not 
to happen. 

I heard the voices before I saw anyone. Their playful voices sounded
like men who knew each other well, and could tease and joke without 
taking offense. I turned towards the door and in walked three suntanned 
and double-knitted, polyester shorted men. They ranged in age from 
their late twenties to early forties. 

I was introduced to Bob “Killer Bob” Zeminski, Harry “Handsome Harry”
Smith, and Earl “Holes” Schuyler. Killer Bob, or Ski, as Skipper called 
him, was about twenty nine and had joined up with Skipper as soon as he 
finished his tour in Vietnam, and graduated from college. 

He looked very military with his trim athletic build, closed cropped
hair and mirror sun-glasses all the policemen seemed to be wearing 
now-a-days. Handsome Harry lived up to his reputation. He had blond, 
collar length hair, parted down the middle and held in place with some 
type of hair spray that I only saw him use once. The can of hair spray 
was so large it had to be held with two hands while still manipulating 
the nozzle on top. I laughed so hard, Harry never did it in front of me 
again. If there was a mirror or window glass around , you could bet 
Harry was looking in it. The man was a little vain, and seemed 
distracted a lot. I guess it had something to do with all the husbands 
in the area  who always seemed to be looking for him, and all the 
running he was doing to get away from them, but still finding time for 
their wives. Earl, or “Holes”, on the other hand was a different breed. 
I liked him right away. He was a large humorous sort of guy, whose 
loyalty to his position players was second only to his enjoyment of a 
well placed practical joke. I once asked him why he was called “Holes”? 
He smiled his devil may care smile, and remarked, “When I was growing 
up the men always called me either an “A-hole”, or a “Butt-hole” for 
all my practical jokes. Today, in polite society, I am just called 
“Holes”. Kinda keeps the folks guessing- don't you think?” 

Even though I could not get use to Killer Bob's silence and those weird
mirrored glasses, I grew to enjoy the company of most of those men and 
care greatly for them. I learned a lot from each one of them: whether 
it was what to do, or what not to do. 

**** 

Coach O'Bryan introduced me to the other coaches and told them of my
very limited credentials. Killer Bob had temporarily been running the 
offense, and though I could not see his eyes, I could feel the heat 
that came through those mirrored images. I seemed to be making an enemy 
on my first day without even trying. 

Skipper again declared his thoughts on these next two years and how
important they would be to the success of the team and the importance 
of wining the state title for all the boys. “Gents, Sanchez is the real 
deal. He and his offense are going to get us where we want to go! Ski, 
you will take over the defensive side of the ball, working with the 
secondary, and continue to work with the receivers. Harry, you will  
work with Sanchez here, with the running backs and quarterbacks, while 
continuing to work the linebackers. Sanchez, you will work with the 
defensive ends, and Holes, you and I will continue to work on the 
offensive and defensive line.” Ski took off his glasses and rubbed his 
eyes. You could tell he was not convinced, and he was waiting to be 
asked what was the problem. Skipper saw this and asked, “What is it 
Ski?” 

“ Coach“, Ski responded, “ he's just a kid. He is younger then me, and
with less experience. The first year we will be breaking him in, and by 
the second year he just might be a good coach. But, taking us to the 
state play-offs? I don't know about that, Skipper!” 

Skipper took his time to answer, but focused his full attention on Ski. 

“Ski, he comes highly recommended by Coach Hoyt of State. He volunteered
to coach at Jeff Davis High School in Louisiana during his last two 
years at State for Coach Babe Taylor. Both of these men I personally 
know and trust, and because of this trust their word is good enough for 
me. I hope you all understand, and if not, I am sorry, but that is the 
way it is going to be.” Skipper declared. 

Ski, held Skipper's eyes, and neither one blinked. Finally, Ski broke
contact and looked away gently shaking his head in disbelief. I could 
not blame, nor fault him. 

The room was silent as the other coaches took in what was happening. I
had not realized I was to be such an abrupt catalyst for change. 
Harry's and Hole's eyes where on Skipper, when Ski turned his head back 
towards him. “Am I still the JV head coach?” Skipper shook his head yes 
without taking his eyes off Ski “ What is he then?” Ski asked. Skipper 
responded, “ He my first offensive assistant. He will call the shots 
when I am not around.” Ski, with a look of disbelief, exclaimed, “ What 
are you?” Skipper, with a twinkle in his eye, proclaimed, “ I am the 
BOSS!” This statement seemed to break the tension with slight smiles 
all around, a shakings of the heads, and a few guffaws from Holes. 

Some questions are asked by Harry and Hole about the type of offense I
was planning to run  and why I would run it. I gave them my best 
answers and they seemed satisfied, accepting of my knowledge- but I 
know I was not home free. The true test would come when Skipper was not 
around, and the first day of practice. 

About this time, Holes got up and went to the toilet. I thought nothing
of it, but Skipper and Harry exchanged some looks. “ Did you'll go to 
the city café? Skipper asked Harry responded, “ You know it.” Ski, not 
looking at me but talking towards me none the less, exclaimed bitterly 
“ You're in for a treat.” 

Holes conducted his business in a timely fashion ended by the hearty
flush of the commode. He shut the door, and came out smiling. He turned 
his head to the side, and rolled his eyes bringing his head back to the 
center. From this gesture I could tell I did not want to go into that 
bathroom any time soon. And, based on the others faces, of shaking 
heads, and fanning hands I knew they agreed with me. 

I turned back towards the door when I heard it open. In breezed a man
who must have considered himself of importance, measured by the way he 
carried himself and how offended he looked at the sight of the coaches' 
office. I was to learn later that this was Vice-principal Smith. He was 
dresses in a dark suit with a large navy and powdered blue polyester 
tie. He was a medium sized man, about thirty-five, but his waist line 
was vastly in expanse of his age. 

With a smug, uptight expression,  he walked into the coaches office and
let them have it. Smith bombasted the coaches,“ Why is it I ask for two 
days for you people to bring me hammer, and you are all too busy, and I 
come in here and I find everyone of you sitting down and doing 
nothing?” I could see his comment had hurt Skipper who, much like a 
horse, reared back his ears, tightened his face and narrowed his eyes 
in anger. I found myself a little scared for the safety of this man in 
the dark suit. But, before Skipper could speak, Holes does. 

“ Mr. Smith, I believe the hammer is on the middle shelf there in the
bathroom over the commode.” Holes said and then pointed toward the 
bathroom door. 

“ Isn't that right Harry?” Holes asked innocently. 

Harry just nodded, and restrained a smile by looking down. Mr. Smith
looking put out and disgusted, marched between the desks and into the 
bathroom shutting the door behind him as if the vulgarity of him being 
viewed in the facilities was beneath him. 

Holes moved over towards Harry's desk and with large eyes and shallow
gulps of air, looked down at Harry's desk and both of them pretend to 
be interested in the papers scattered about. About this time, the 
bathroom door burst open and out barreled Mr. Smith, moving as fast as 
he could without running. He was gasping for air harder then Holes was 
at that moment, and therefore did not notice Harry and Holes trying to 
hold each other up and keep from laughing through clinched lips. As 
Smith moved closer to me, a obscene smell proceeded him and caught me 
off guard making me catch my breathe and hold it. 

In a hurried gasping fashion of breathing and talking, Mr. Smith
abruptly moved past the coaches and breathlessly mentioned, “ I've got 
to go,... please send ...me.. the hammer.... as soon as possible.” 

“Will do, Mr. Smith”, Holes was able to produce before, seemingly,
falling down laughing at Mr. Smith's obvious discomfort. 

As he exited the room, the place exploded with laughter from everyone
but, Skipper. Yet, slowly his anger defused itself and was replaced 
with a slow spreading smile that turned into a hearty laugh, and then 
replaced with a deep belly laugh. When we were able to pick Holes up 
off the floor, the merriment wore off and we went back to work 
organizing, and planning for our first day with the boys. Before I left 
that afternoon, Skipper then warned me about the cabbage lunch buffet 
at the City Café. This was my first taste, or should I say smell,  of 
Holes' humor, but not my last by far. 

Chapter Four 

Skipper and his Boys 

**** 

The next day brought about my meeting with the all the football players
who had showed up to met the new coach. All the coaches and players 
were there, and we met in the coolness of the shade, protected from the 
sun by the bleachers of the stadium. Skipper had a habit of using nick 
names so as to remember the names of his boys. But, he did not stop 
with just his boys, he also had a habit of using them with his coaches 
if he forgot their names. My full name is Emile Robert E. Lee Sanchez, 
or Emile Lee Sanchez for short, thanks to my parents' Spanish, French 
and Southern heritage. Therefore, for the first twenty-three years of 
life I want by the name of Emile, but Skipper, as can be his habit of 
listening but not retaining, got a little mixed up and during the 
introduction.. He looked down at some notes he had made, but without 
his glasses he struggled, and after a short pause, followed by 
determined resignation, raised his voice and said, “I would like to 
introduce you to our new offensive coordinator, Coach “Muley” Sanchez“. 
I did not hear the rest of the words he spoke. I just kept looking over 
at him shocked. He had thrown the Emile and Lee together, mispronounced 
them, and came up with “Muley”. I now had a new nick name, and thanks 
to Skipper, it stuck. He used it whenever he needed to tease , or 
instruct me, which seemed to be all the time. The other coaches 
followed suit calling me Muley whenever the players and students were 
not around.. To his credit, I do not believe the other coaches ever 
heard Coach O'Bryan call my anything but Coach Sanchez before this 
event. He used his own memory keeping device all the time. I remember 
asking him how he chose certain kids nick names. He just smiled and 
laughingly told me he used something similar to their real name, so 
that he could always keep it handy, and the kids felt special. If their 
name was Cook, he called them “ Cookie”, if their name was Lee, he 
called them “ General Lee”. I know it worked, but how he keep the ten 
different  “ Smithy's” he had had over the years separate, or the seven 
“Jonesy's” I do not know. But, when they came back to visit he always 
had time for them, and he always remembered their nick names. That was 
what he had done to me; he had added my names together into a memory 
device, given it a visual, and come out with a Mulie. After my 
introduction, and the variation or butcher-ation made on my first two 
names, the boys went on their own to work out. I don't remember having 
this put on a sheet of paper to be memorized, but Skipper had a unique 
belief system when it came to working out. This belief system probable 
came with him from the Marines, but he had put voice to it. He believed 
that the only way to train his boys was for them to outlast their 
opponent. This meant conditioning. And, he conditioned all the time. 
Even his offensive line conditioned, and to please him they would 
condition during the hot summer months when they were not baling and 
loading hay, by running around the track inside the stadium, or up and 
down the stadiumäs steps. Petey and the defensive secondary boys, who I 
had met on the bus my first day were expected to run long conditioning 
runs during the summer to toughen them up. Keeping their size large was 
not an issue. The linemen, both offense and defense, ran shorter 
distances, but used the track in the evening at the stadium. Linemen 
may look slow, but upstairs, where the the mental work is processed, 
the boys are lightening quick. I overheard one old coach speak at a 
football clinic speak on telling the difference between a defensive 
lineman and a offensive lineman, after the substitution rule change, 
which allowed teams to make use of two platoon football teams. He said, 
that the way to separate the two groups was to run them into the ground 
during a practice, then allow them a break near some shade. This is 
when the two groups begin to decompose into classic linemen deviations. 
The defensive linemen types would take a short break, then pick up a 
football and begin to throw it around, challenging each other. 
Offensive linemen types would, on the other hand, stay in the shade, 
resting, knowing that any minute they would be called into action, and 
have to give rather generously of their limited energy. That old coach 
knew what he was talking about. 

Most evenings, I would invariable find Skipper leaning on the chest
high, chain linked fence that surrounded the stadium watching his line 
boys going round and round and encouraging them to do more or go 
faster. The boys always seemed to go faster within 50 yards of him, and 
slow down 50 yards past, but they tried. One young man in particular 
drew my attention. He was definitely over weight and not in good 
physical condition, with his shimmel shirt riding above his cavernous 
sized navel, and his huge stretch-marked stomach rolling like a 
counter-balancing apparatus; just watching him was painful, but he was 
game to try. His last name was  Hale, and therefore you can guess his 
nick name: that's right “Whale Hale”. He did not seem to mind, but for 
the first two months I could never bring myself to call him Whale. I 
stood with Skipper my second evening there at Rocin High School 
Stadium, and I watched his boys jogging around the track. The day's 
heat had cooled down some , but it was still August in Texas, where 
even standing still the humidity would find you and stick with you 
until it had grown into goblets, and needed more room to roam. In which 
case it found the room in your socks, shirt, or even shorts: which was 
the most uncomfortable. Hale was on his third laborious lap, when 
Skipper spoke to me. “ Have you ever heard about something called CPR?” 
he asked. “No, Sir.” I responded. “Well, it is dealing with bringing 
back the dead, or keeping someone alive long enough for medical help to 
arrive. It's real name is Cardio Pulmonary Restitution, hence CPR.” He 
informed. In my mind , I thought this was a rather strange thing to 
bring up, but I realized Skipper was trying to tell me something. We 
keep the silence between us until Hale joged, or waddled by on his 
forth lap. Skipper looked at me in his amused sort of way. “ You see 
Whale over there? If he goes down, the two of us will have to perform 
this thing called CPR. One of us will have to put their mouth on his to 
blow air into his lungs, the other will have to push on his chest. ” At 
this point, I now clearly understood where Skipper was headed with this 
CPR discussion, but I waited. “ You ever play paper, rock , scissor? “ 
he asked. I laughed hesitatingly, “ Once or twice when I was a kid.” “ 
Good,” he said, “ when Whale goes down, winner gets chest, and loser 
gets lips. Ready...., on three.... One- Two- Three- Shoot!” 

This was my introduction to Skipper's sense of humor.  It seemed
mean-spirited at first, and though he laughed at his boys expense he 
stilled loved them. When Hale lost his grandfather in a farming 
accident, it was to Skipper he turned to for love and comfort. I 
remember walking by Skipper's office seeing the two of them holding one 
another, and  I suspect crying though Skipper would probable not have 
admitted to it. That boy would not have found comfort without Skipper's 
broad shoulders to cry on. The Coach was always there for his Boys. 

Chapter Five 

Meet The Boys 

**** 

When two-a-days started and the boys were all seated in neat little
columns and rows I got my first taste of how he “addressed the troops“, 
as he called it. “Gents, I would like to begin this motivational period 
to talk to you about the challenges of fire fighting. To go into a 
burning building and bring out babies, and old ladies as the building 
is burning and falling down around you takes guts. To climb up a 
mechanical ladder two or three stories, and turn on your sprayer and 
aim it at the raging fire while clinging to that ladder for dear life, 
my friends, is the definition of a hero at work. But, you Gents are not 
fireman. One, you are too young, and two, you cannot aim. So the next 
one of you little fireman who goes into my head (bathroom), and 
proceeds to put out an imaginary fire all around the toilet including 
the toilet paper roll, is going to cause this team to punish until they 
puke.” “Do you Gentlemen understand me?” “Yes, Sir!” “Great”, he 
responded,” I've missed you Boys, now lets get to work.” 

During this beginning of two-a-days, I had the pleasure of meeting many
of the Coach's Boys. One of the boys that sticks out in my mind was 
David Shepard. He was one of the two captains on our team that year. He 
was big and fast, and quick to put up his fists to end an disagreement. 
I would watch him unload on other players that year, friend or foe, 
with a devilish passion. It was not till a “Meet the Coaches' Night” 
that I begin to understand his anger. In coaching, as in teaching, the 
apple is the great fruit we use to make comparisons. I call it the 
“apple theory”. In it the apple theory holds, that the apple-player, 
does not fall far from the tree-parent. I meet David's father. David's 
father was a large man also, whose anger rode the surface of his 
presence like a captain of his ship. He bullied his way into the 
booster club meetings, cutting people off verbally, and would stand up 
and shout at anyone who got in his way. As a despot, or tyrant he would 
have been an excellent cast, if one was making a movie; we were not 
making a movie, and as for the role of parent, he was not well casted. 
After this meeting I begin to watch him interact with David. I was not 
the only one though. I also saw Skipper watch, and take mental notes of 
all David had to endure. The father did not like the way he looked, 
played, or spoke. I watched him slap him after our first loss that 
year, for missing a finger tip tackle on a juking, deceptive-type 
runner that could have saved the game for us. It took everything I had 
not to walk over there confront David's father, but Skipper beat me too 
it. Mr. Shepard was standing next to his old Dodge sedan, where he had 
been waiting for David after the game. Skipper approached with a rapid 
pace. “ Mr. Shepard“, he began, “ Off campus David is yours, on campus 
he is mine. And, while you are on campus you will be kind enough to 
keep your hands off him.” The two men stood there sizing each other up, 
both leaning forward in an aggressive stance- neither flinching, nor 
backing off. I found myself more curious, them fearful in how Skipper 
would handle this hostile situation. The only one I felt sorry for was 
David. Win or lose, he would not have a good night tonight at home. I 
waited. Skipper's face was stretched back from the front of his face. 
His ears were laid back much like a horse before he bites. His fist 
were clinched, and there was no doubt in my mind Skipper had decided he 
would make his stand on this issue right then. Looking back on this 
scene from the security and seasoning of years gone by, my reaction was 
just like one of the kids. Like the kids I wanted action, but without 
the benefit of experience, I was unsure what action was needed. Mr. 
Shepard finally spoke through his anger. “ Listen, you 
son-of-a-........., what I do with my son on or off campus is none of 
your business. The next time you challenge my authority over my son , I 
will kick you're a...” With a step forward, Skipper closed what little 
of the proximity remained fast. With fist clinched, these two were 
going to go at it, and there was nothing I could do. But, I was ready 
to help the Boss out should he need it, even though my money was on 
Skipper. There may have been some slight doubt in my mind how this 
event would have turned out had not Mr. Smith, the Vice-Principal, come 
onto the scene. I was not a big fan of Mr. Smith, but on this occasion 
he proved why he was given a position of responsibility. “ Gentlemen”, 
he stated in a commanding voice with his black suit hiding his 
corpulent size in the dark, “ I have alerted the police, and they are 
on their way. I will ask you both to stop this confrontation, in front 
of  the players and the public. Mr. Shepard, you need to leave the 
school grounds immediately, and Coach O'Bryan you need to go back to 
the field house and wait for me there. Should either one of you want to 
talk about this issue further, please make arrangements with the school 
secretary to see me at your earliest connivance tomorrow.” Both men 
eyed each other, but Skipper was the first to leave, turning quickly on 
his heels, and heading out of the anticipating parking arena. He walked 
swiftly, and angrily back towards the field house. I followed , but 
keep my distance. Skipper entered the main office, and went quickly to 
his office and sat down. He did not shut the door, nor did he turn on 
the lights. He just sat there in the darkness until Mr. Smith walked 
into the main office area. Mr. Smith, continued walking on through the 
office area, looking around with disgust as he barreled towards 
Skipper's door. He was met at the door by the Boss, whose eyes were 
still narrowed with anger. Smith had just made it past the door, and 
into the darkened room which blazed with light as soon as Skipper hit 
the switch. The door closed with bang, and voices rose in an angry and 
urgent volume. I heard Skipper's voice rise over Smith's voice, like a 
aircraft carrier versus a sailboat. “ That Boy is going home to get the 
snot beat out of him! I cannot protect him if you do not let me do my 
job.” “Your job, Coach, your job?”, he bellowed, “ You would have no 
job if you had got into a fight with that man. Then who would you 
pretend to protect and serve? We would have had to fire you, and that 
jerk would have sued the school!” I continued to listen, trying as I 
might to find something to keep me busy. I did not want to leave in 
case Skipper needed me, either to talk to or to witness. “Smith, you 
are a timid old woman! I do not pretend to protect them, I do it! I 
have no choice. I cannot hide behind the district policy, or my desk as 
you do. If I had lost my job tonight because I fought with Davidäs 
father, then I would have lost many of the things I hold dear, but if I 
did nothing, then I would have lost my self-respect. And, when all is 
said and done it is self-respect that defines a man. I would rather be 
remembered as  a man who fought for what he thought was right then a 
man who stood by helplessly not knowing what to do and doing nothing. I 
cannot be you! Mr. Smith fought to control himself. I could not see his 
face, but I could feel his frustration growing as he played Skipper's 
words across his mind again after the first installment questioned 
courage. “ Coach O'Bryan, you are a self righteous man. You and your 
coaches are a sorry lot, and so help me, if you lose this season, I 
will do everything in my power to throw you and yours out of this 
school and out of my district! The principal has only one or two more 
years, and then I take over. I can wait. Your days are almost over. No 
more of that, äAye, Aye Skipper' crap!” With that, Smith must have 
turned around, because the door opened with a bang, and Smith walked 
rapidly out of the office and out the door. “ Coach Sanchez”, I heard 
the growl from the inner office, “ drive around and look for David. He 
will probable be near his house, over by White Street. When you find 
him ,bring him back here to me.” I was a little confused. I had not 
seen Skipper talk to David since the issue started between him and Mr. 
Shepard tonight. How did he know David would not be at home? “Skipper“, 
I asked, “what makes you think David is not at his home with his Dad?” 
He looked at me with those intense blue eyes for a moment before 
talking. I guess I really was missing something, but I could not put my 
finger on it. “Muley,” he began softly with an edge of hardness, “ I 
have had personal experience. I know, he will be there. Just find him, 
and bring him back. I will take care of the rest.” “O.K. Skipper. I am 
on my way.” I found David near his house, just south of White Street, 
sitting along the ditch of a vacant lot. He came silently to the car 
when I drove up and stopped. He acknowledged my presence with a 
grudging nod, and  got into the passenger seat. We drove to the field 
house an uncomfortable silence , not knowing what to say, so saying 
nothing, as words and questioned formed and evaporated in my elementary 
mind. At the field house, a figure loomed in the Mercury vapor light 
which cast a hazy gray light on the area spot-lighted. It was Skipper 
in his Notre Dame cap. He turned slowly towards the car's headlights 
and waited for me to stop. He must have seen two heads in the vehicle, 
as he walked towards the passenger side of the car and greeted David, 
first with a handshake, and then with a side hug-  a hug more common 
among men then women. David began to cry. After that night, David 
stayed with Skipper for about a week, and then he disappeared for a 
time from the town of Rocin. 

Chapter Six 

The Boy is More Important 

**** 

Two-a -days is not a great time of year for the coaches and the boys.
What with the yelling, screaming, conditioning, and cramping. And, that 
was just what the coaches went through. Two-a-days was both a 
conditioning time, a reviewing time, and a time for implementing new 
formations and plays- both offensive and defensive. Putting in the 
Wish-bone offense alignment was not too hard, as the boys had seen it 
on television, watching such college teams as Texas and Alabama line 
their players up in the correct positions. Learning the calls and 
signals was harder as the boys were not prepared for this prior to my 
coming. The in-between time from the morning and afternoon practices 
were a hard time for some of the players. In the country, many of the 
boys had to help their fathers out on the farms, doing chores and 
haling hay as this was one of the busiest times of the year for farmers 
and ranchers. The time to make hay is when the sun is shinning. I have 
heard this often, and its statement is true. If you need the hay for 
your livelihood, you will cut, bale and hail it, even during football 
season. I do not know how they did it. I remember helping out my 
grandfather and his friends hauling hay, first onto the wagons, and 
then into the barns. It was not just the labor which took my endurance 
away, but the cramps in my forearms from gripping strings after strings 
of those square bails. Even taking a shower after this grueling work, 
and lathering up with soap could be a painful experience as the hands 
took on a mind of their own, and locked themselves into a position of 
painful no-use. A few of these country boys told of putting the truck 
into “granny”, which is your lowest gear, getting out and letting it 
roll, all by itself with no one driving, while the boys threw the hay 
bails onto the attached trailer. Those were some hard working boys we 
had playing for us in Rosin, and some hard living. 

Our two-a-days were hard, with a few losing their breakfast, and others
wishing they could, as the nauseous feeling in their stomach could get 
stronger then their feeling of pain from the exercise. On a whole, the 
boys looked in good shape thanks to the work out program Harry and 
Holes had worked on during the summer months. The seventy's were a time 
of limited water distribution and salt tablets for athletes. Hydration 
was not an issue, but toughness was. The boys had one water break per 
work-out. There were times they got none. No one dropped out of heat 
exhaustion, probably because every young man work outdoors during the 
summer months in these farming communities. 

**** 

One individual who had felt the effects of two-a-days, but had left
after our first loss was David Shepard. Rumors of Shepard smoking and 
drinking, and even stealing were all over town the rest of that 
football season. And, it was in the midst of  preparing for our game 
against Harris High School that Deputy Zychek brought David into our 
office that Monday evening. Deputy Zychek was a good man, who had 
played ball for Skipper years ago. All he said was, “Skipper, David's 
in trouble and he needs to talk with you.” It was after the afternoon 
practice, and Harry and I were at our desks. We could not help but over 
hear this exchange. Coach O'Bryan keep the door open and I heard every 
word. Skipper withheld verbal judgment, but his look was both intent, 
and , yet, sympathetic. David, and some of his friends, had been caught 
taking items out of the back of the local discount store and reselling 
them to others for a profit. This profit had then been used to buy 
marijuana , or Pot as it was known. David had been in possession of 
both the stolen goods, and a significant amount of pot when he had been 
apprehended. David Shepard was eighteen that September, and he was 
going to jail. Skipper talked quietly and let his eyes and manner do 
most of the comforting. He rested a gently hand upon David's shoulder, 
but he spoke only a few words. He told him he would do what he could, 
but there would have to be a price to pay. David nodded his 
understanding, and then left with Deputy Zychek. I felt a deep sadness, 
not only for David, but for the team. He may not have been the nicest 
captain, but he was the one the boys had turned to on the field. He was 
the one we had counted on from that Monster spot to get the ball 
stopped and the job done. He had been hard to replace. Skipper did not 
make it to practice or school that day nor the next. I began to feel a 
little angry with him. How were we going to beat Harris High without 
having all our coaches here to explain the job, and what needed to be 
done? No matter how bad I felt towards Davidäs plight, we, as coaches, 
had a job to do, and Skipper was not doing his. He was letting his 
Boys, and his coaches, down. It was after Thursday's practice and the 
boys were still on the field , with the team huddled up for closing, 
that I noticed Skipper and David walking towards us. I had never seen 
the Coach all dressed up. He was in a light gray suit, with black wing 
tips shoes , a red and navy blue bow-tie and a fedora style hat. It 
reminded me of my youth and the way men use to dress when they went to 
work, or even to church each Sunday morning. After watching him, I knew 
I also needed a gray suit, because it sent a refined image in the Texas 
summer's heat . Without looking at David , Skipper told the team of 
what had happened and where David had been. The boys knew most of the 
story, but they listened intently to what Skipper was saying. Skipper 
had been to see the county judge and had worked out a deal. He had not 
been able to get David off the burglary charges, but the judge agreed 
to letting David join the army. Instead of going to jail, he would 
serve two years, and then be given a clean record with his honorable 
discharge. The boys were a little shocked, Vietnam was still going on, 
and David most likely would be headed there. David apologized to the 
team for his actions. It was here that the tough shell that David had 
covered himself in broke in a wave of emotion. He could not speak, the 
lump in his throat would not let him. And, with the tears starting to 
swim in his eyes and the magnitude of what he had done, and how it 
reflected on the team, he turned around and followed Skipper back 
towards the field house. I waited awhile before I went into the office 
area. I wanted to talk to Skipper, but I wanted to do it quietly 
without all the other coaches hearing. I wanted an explanation, or 
reason why he had skipped practice  for almost three days. I could not 
understand his decision. When I finally entered into the coaches' 
office, Skipper seemed to be waiting for me. He was sitting in the 
common coaches area, still in his suit,  playing with his hat all by 
himself. “ Coach, I just want to know”, I started out asking, feeling a 
bit sheepish, but a gathering strength with each new word,  “ why you 
brought me here if your emphasis was not on winning? Why was it so 
important for you to help Shepard, when the team is counting on you to 
lead them to victory tomorrow against Harris? “ “ Emile”, he said- I 
guess he had not forgot my name after all, “ that boy, really  that 
man, is a fine young man. He is honest, and brave. He has never lied to 
me.... I cannot say that about my own son. I love him. Heck, I love all 
my Boys. And, if I can save even one, from the hardships I have had, or 
seen then maybe there is a chance that I have saved a life. He will 
learn from this mistake. All our Boys will learn from his mistake. But, 
what I want those boys on our team to take away from this is: They are 
all equally valuable in my eyes. They are so precious, that I will 
forgo my plans and dreams to show them how much I think of them, and 
how much I care.” He looked down, and paused for a moment, when he 
looked up his face was strong with emotion. “Make no mistake about it, 
“ he declared, “ I love these boys. I have trained them, whipped them 
and held them. They know who I am. I would rather charge hell with 
three of my good boys and a bucket of water, then to have all the 
athletes in the world and a fire hose. They trust me, and I will not 
lose that trust. No, Sir! I will not lose their trust because a game 
was more important them they were.” His passion had risen with these 
words, and he spat these last words out as if it had left a bad taste 
in his mouth. In the pause that followed, his next statement showed his 
passion had abated. “ Sorry, Muley. I have been having this very 
conversation with myself since yesterday. And, though I respect your 
right to ask that question, I believe I have made the right choice. 
Sometimes Carl, you have to make a stand. If you keep giving in on your 
values and beliefs, pretty soon you will have nothing left.” I was awed 
by the sheer power of his words and what they meant. Back then,  I 
didn't know if I could ever feel the same way that he felt, but for 
that moment in time, I loved and believed in Skipper. I wanted to be 
that good Boy of his that carried the bucket of water, and stood 
shoulder to shoulder with him putting out whatever fire came our way. I 
was coming to understand Skipper's philosophy, and much of it would 
become my own. Two days taken off was a lot of time during football 
season, and I am not sure I would have taken both days off if I was 
him, but the life of one of these boys was worth the price, any price, 
I was beginning to understand. 

Chapter Seven 

A Question of Faith 

**** 

Skipper's comments about David that night, and my suspicions about
Skipper's own up-bringing caught me by surprise. It took me a couple of 
days to muddle through his words in my own head, even as we lost that 
game to Harris. With my Roman Catholic upbringing, I saw Skipper as 
acting on his faith. His actions spoke louder then his words and maybe 
that was what our Boys saw in him. I decided that when I next had an 
opportunity to talk privately with Skipper, I would ask him about his 
faith. With such an Irish last name and a Saint Christopheräs medal 
around his neck, my money was on him being Catholic. I never was sure 
what the difference was between Roman Catholic, and Irish Catholic, but 
my French mother did and I would take her word over almost any others. 
I had grown up in a nice Catholic parish in southern Louisiana, and 
what my mom did not know, my Abuelita, my father's mother knew. My 
opportunity to speak with Skipper came on a Monday night when we 
exchanged films with Cleveland High. The Coach and I made the exchange, 
and went back to our office to set it up and view it. Before we turned 
the projector on, I worked up the nerve to ask what religion he was. 
Skipper just smiled. “ What's the matter,” he kidded, “ did I forget to 
tell you the name of the Catholic church?” “ No, I was just wondering 
what your faith was and your thoughts on religion?” Skipper eyed me for 
a time, gave a small amused snort, and said,” Catholic, sort of... but, 
not a practicing Catholic.” That caught my attention. I asked him, what 
did he mean? “ I don't go to church every Sunday, I don't go on holy 
days of obligation, and sometimes I even go visit different churches to 
hear their messages. He smiled again and observed ,“I tend to think of 
myself as a Protestant-leaning Catholic. I don't believe in all things 
Catholic, and I don't agree with every Protestant group. At times, I 
just go get my Bible- some days a Catholic Bible, some days a 
Protestant Bible- and read it. There is not that much difference-  same 
Jesus. That's my religious beliefs.” “ And how will you be saved?” I 
asked knowing this could be the true test of faith between these two 
groups. “Through the Grace of God”, he answered. “ But should your 
question have been , which will lead to salvation: Grace or deeds?, 
then my answer must be both. You see Muley”, he went on, “if you have 
faith in Jesus the Christ, then the reflection of grace is deeds, and 
therefore the reflection of deeds is grace. These two subjects live in 
the same house, and one cannot be removed without the other. Both enter 
and exit using the same door.” I don't know if I agreed with him, but I 
liked his answer. Skipper had a way of putting things together that 
caused me to think, and each week I think I grew a little wiser with 
his help. 

Nearly every day I watched Skipper's faith in action. Whether it was on
the football field, in the school, or in the community. Yes, he could 
make fun of others periodically, but I think he always felt guilty and 
tried to make amends.  The team itself showed its spirit or, if you, 
will faith, by holding food drive's and jacket- blanket drives 
throughout the year, especially at Christmas time lead by Skipper. Not 
that he was perfect mind you. He had his faults, but they were more of 
the exception then the rule, and when they were evident, they were 
glaringly so. Harry ran the weight room, and based on the adoring looks 
he gave his muscles, he know what he was doing. He even keep some 
weights by his desk to get that extra pump in when he was watching 
films, and waiting for his next date. The constant click of his hand 
strengthener during the dark hours of film watching use to grate on my 
nerves. The only relief we received from this noise, was when Holes 
would steal them from his desk, and Harry ran around threatening 
whoever took them. 

**** 

St. Joseph's Catholic church was faithfully served by Father Thomas
O'Carroll.  This interesting priest once told the story of the three 
lives of Thomas: Fighting Tom of his youth; Doubting Tom of his 
twenties; and Father Tom, “the man you see before you”. He too had 
served in the Army as a Chaplain during World War II. I am not sure 
where the deviation occurred; between Doubting Tom, and Father Tom: 
before or after the war? Once he shared a sermon in one sentence, “If 
you are fat, perhaps, it is because you are a glutton”- end of sermon. 
These short sermons were great days for the local farmers, as they 
could return early to their dinners and labors. I shared this priest 
and sermons every Sunday with Holes and Ski. Ski was still not very 
friendly, but Holes and his Misses knew some nice young ladies, and 
Holes was not so afraid to push them off on me: big ones, little ones, 
and annulled ones. After the football season, off-season was the only 
thing that took up my time and I enjoyed the dating scene very much. 
But, I missed home, and church had a way of making me feel comfortable 
and at peace. Some things had changed since Vatican Two, but the 
traditions were alive and well at Rocin's only Catholic church: St. 
Joseph's. 

Holes and his wife sang in the choir, and, behind them sat four of the
most mischievous, fun-loving boys you would ever want to meet. When it 
was time for the ladies in the choir to sing the high notes, upward 
warbled four of the most horrible falsettos you could have ever heard. 
They carried that tune, as if they were mucking out a horse stall and 
using the same bucket to sling both. These four were distinctly related 
to Holes, both in humor and coloring. Their noise would continue till 
Holes marched backward and behind them pretending to read the missalet. 
The falsettos would usually taper off before Holes had the time to 
reach down and distribute to their bottoms a hard-turned pinch. If they 
did get pinched, the whole congregation would know by the yelp that 
follow Holeäs arrival at the disrupting pew. I never tired of this 
comic routine. I am sure Holes and his wife did, but I eventually hired 
two of those boys as assistant coaches, and I watched them and their 
own encounters, and adventures in child-rearing. They gave as good as 
they got with their own brood. Ski on the other hand would not spend a 
second longer then he had to talking with me, or anyone else at St. 
Joe's for that matter. I had taken his place, he believed, as heir 
apparent, and he would not forget this injustice, nor would he let me. 
He sat towards the back of church, crushed into a an empty pew end, 
looking moody and solemn. He was a talented coach who demanded nothing 
less from his kids then excellence. If he had one fault, I recognized 
by this time, it was his inability to give of himself to his athletes. 
He was not warm and kind, he was hard and demanding. Every player knew 
where they stood with him, and he viewed no favorites in those 
reflecting glasses of his. I admired that trait in him. 

**** 

St. Joseph's was not the only church in Rocin. There were many spirit
filled churches that demonstrated both generosity and competition. In 
particular, the Catholic, Baptist and Lutheran churches and their 
annual boat race down the Rocin River. The boat race was the brain 
child of both Father Tom of St. Joseph's Catholic church, Pastor Chuck 
of the Prince of Peace Lutheran church, and Rev. Hope of the New 
Covenant Baptist church to raise money for different charities in the 
county. On a certain Sunday in February a portion of the collection 
from that day's take would be held out and used to update and restore a 
row boat by each congregation. Now, there was some concern by the 
Catholics that because they did not tithe, the Lutherans  and Baptist 
would have the upper hand in the contest, but that did not stop Father 
Tom. I believe, with whatever little amount of money he made , he added 
a generous portion of his own funds to keep the race competitive. All 
three churches would meet after services on the Sunday of Spring Break 
on Schrick's Bend; an area upriver from the churches and the town. The 
row boats would be made ready by the men while the woman set out 
concession areas loaded with homemade foods and candies. The finish 
line tape holders were those families who bided the highest to buy this 
right. Everyone else who had made the trek took up positions on both 
sides of the banks and rooted on their champion while buying 
refreshments and concessions from the senior ladies of the three 
churches. The Lutherans felt that Pastor Chuck was the better bet, 
should they want to bet, because the walk form his house to the 
Lutheran church was longer and more uphill then Father Tomäs walk from 
the rectory to the Catholic church: though I think both of them could 
have reached their destination in thirty steps or less. I thought this 
argument, regarding the walking, was rather thin, but enjoyable. I even 
enjoyed the light discussion on Father Tom's workout habits: lifting 
the beers off  the counter, and the ability of crushing the cans 
between his breasts- I would say his pectoral muscles, but you would 
have been hard pressed to find them. Even Brother Hope had his 
detractors, based on his fleshy size and the amount of water he would 
add to the boat due to the generous amount of sweat he produced during 
his sermons, and physical excursions. Even the non-church goers enjoyed 
this event, and bought eagerly from these big-hearted church folks, 
laying down their money to buy concessions with the proceeds going 
towards charities from around the county. I thoroughly enjoyed the 
sense of community that this event brought about. Everyone seemed 
joyful and happy. There was even a barbershop quartette With a 
tremendous amount of fanfare, the Lutherans unveiled their boat, HMS 
Martin Luther. Clapping and chuckles were heard from scattered areas 
around the river. Not to be out done the Catholics unveiled their own 
boat which they had christened, HMS Saint Ignatius of Loyola. The 
Catholics also applauded and whistled , eager for the race to begin. 
And, last but not least, the Baptist uncovered their boat, with the 
proud title: HMS Paul's Journey. The Baptist seemed the most determined 
this year, as they had not win in the past four tries. All the blame 
could not have been laid at the feet of the rower, Brother Hope, but 
there was a general feeling that the Lutheran who had sold them the 
boat was not as concerned with honesty as he was with winning. All 
these rumors were fun to listen to and enjoy, but I took little stock 
in these light hearted attempts at justifying reasons for not winning. 
Reasons were started with a chuckle, and ended with a laugh. That was 
all I needed to understand it was all in good fun, therefore that is 
the way I took it. The spirit of competition and the camaraderie of the 
race was good for all churches. I don't think it really mattered who 
won that year, at least form my position and point of view, for I would 
have had to take the word of someone else seeing that I began viewing 
the race near the middle. The beginning point of the race was filled up 
with spectators and concession personal. The end of the race was also 
full of people, but the difference was, it was for those who really 
seemed to care who won. The middle was reserved for those who were not 
hungry, did not care about winners, and came to enjoy the festive 
atmosphere. 

Chapter Eight 

Swimming in Faith 

**** 

Looking across the river, I saw Skipper. He was sitting near the river
bank in one of those aluminum lawn chairs, with three or more of his 
former players in attendance. He looked comfortable and relaxed in his 
faded denim overalls, white T-shirt, tennis shoes and ever present 
Notre Dame cap. The question on my mind was, which church was Skipper 
counting on to win? I tried to make eye contact with him across the 
narrow river, and moved closer to my side of the river bank. I 
wondered, as I moved closer to the edge, what Skipper thought of this 
charitable event and the money they raised. I was in the midst of these 
day-dreams moving closer to the edge, when I noticed a particularly 
beautiful girl just in front of me coming up the bank. We passed, and I 
took my eyes off the trail down long enough to get a last look at her 
from the corner of my eyes. She had a way about her that was almost 
breathe taking, and I let my eyes linger a little too long. I have 
always had a good sense of balance, so therefore when my foot slipped 
on the wet clay, I reached out and caught hold of a small tree with all 
my strength, thinking I could stop my fall, and no one would be the 
wiser. Little did  I know that the tree I grabbed was dead, and decided 
at this time to cease standing up right. It snapped, and I shot down 
the river bank, looking at the up-coming green water with dire 
expectations. Therefore, I had the unexpected pleasure of not only 
falling in love that afternoon, but also of falling into the river. 
When I came out of the cold water my first thoughts were of Skipper and 
what he was thinking. He did not disappoint. He was sitting in his 
aluminum chair laughing and, to my excellent eye sight, tearing up. My 
next thoughts were of the girl, and I turned around, spitting water out 
of my mouth and looking for her. I do not think she had seen me. She 
had disappeared into the crowd. All I could hear in my red-faced, 
damped shame was the crowd calling me “Fish” and “Jonah“. As I trudged 
out of the emerald green water and up the banks of the Rocin River, I 
truly hoped I would met that girl again. 

**** 

The following Monday brought me no end of grief with me being the butt
of many humorous jokes. I would have stayed there for quite a bit of 
time if Harry and Holes had not come up with a new project. Mouse 
catching. It seemed that Holes brought his lunch from home daily, and 
sometimes he brought extra food to stay in his locker or desk in case 
he was hungry, or forgot his lunch. This worked out well until we came 
back from the weekend boat race. We all had come in early to start or 
finish paperwork that was needed for the classroom. Holes made his 
usual grand entrance, producing a snorkel and goggles, and placing them 
on my desk without saying a word, while informing us of his weekend and 
the activities of his four boys. Being a true story teller, I think he 
stretched his stories until the truth was nestled to far under the 
elasticized material one would be hard pressed to find it again, but I 
liked to listen. As he opened the side drawer to his old and stained 
wooden desk, his voice trailed off from the story he was telling. “Dang 
it,” he exploded, “ There has been a mouse in this office, and he will 
be sleeping peacefully today, as he has a full belly from eating my 
chips!” With this Holes holds up a big bag of potato chips with gnaw 
marks, that, as he was holding it up, pieces of shredded paper and thin 
crumbs of potatoes were falling out onto the desk and the floor. Harry, 
who was combing his hair in the bathroom mirror near the office while 
he flexed his biceps each time he reached the bottom of his hair and 
reached up to start over, looked over at Holes, with a concerned look 
on his face. “ Are you sure it was a mouse?”  He asked “If it was not a 
mouse, then it was a small rat. Quit playing with your hair and looking 
at yourself, and come over here and look at these gnaw marks!” Holes 
sputtered. I joined them both, while Ski looked on trying to act 
uninterested, yet not getting any work done while keeping an ear and an 
eye on the unfolding events. Standing there besides them looking at the 
mess that was Holes desk, I felt a little uneasy realizing that I could 
have possible shared the same food with the mouse, not knowing he may 
have left tasty tidbits in the bag along with the left over food. We 
had to do something. I looked around at the walls with the stuffed 
heads of animals, and the day old trash that seemed to grow like weeds; 
overnight. First, we needed to clean the office, and second catch that 
darn mouse. Holes must have felt the same way, but his priorities were 
a bit different. Holes wanted to catch the mouse, and it became 
something of a good-natured challenge for him. He asked Harry to bring 
him a couple of weights from the weight room, and find a bit of rope. 
Then Holes opened up his lunch bucket, and took out the chicken he had 
brought for lunch and de-boned  it. He then wrapped the chicken back 
up, placed it back in the lunch bucket. Even Killer Bob watched this 
part of the operation with interest. Holes then took the weights and, 
using a stick to hold up the weighted plate, placed some of the bones 
and chicken matter under the propped up weight. He then attached the 
rope to the stick that was holding up the weight and laying the excess 
cord in in front of him, he walked out of the bathroom backward. The 
reason for the bathroom as the choice of the mouse squashing, was made 
evident as we made a through search that morning looking for more 
evidence of the thieving, cunning mouse. The evidence lead us to 
Harry's locker in the bathroom, where he keep his nutritious snacks and 
meals. Once we had the locker open and examined the contents we found 
shredded bags and containers containing food and nasty nuggets left by 
the rodent himself. Ski, had quit pretending a disinterest, and was 
standing behind me, looking over my shoulder when we made this find. He 
and Harry were grossed out, they left the bathroom, and Holes and I to 
our discovery. We had a problem, every coach down here had to teach 
classes. There was no one who would be free to stand outside the 
particle open door all day with the loose end of the rope in his hand, 
and pull it when the mouse came out to enjoy his chicken under the 
weighted umbrella. What to do? Holes had an answer. We would use the 
non-participating P.E. boys who always stood around, or looked at the 
plant and bug life going on around them instead of enjoying the fun and 
games of sports. These kids were not hard to identify, he usually found 
them bending over an ant hill and observing the eating habits, and path 
finding abilities of this independent tribe of ants. I thought this was 
a good idea and watched the trap, while he went out to find two of 
these kids from his first period class. Why we did not use a trap of 
some kind is beyond me today. But, the thrill of the hunt was strong in 
my youth, and Holes' outrageous leadership was infectious. Skipper came 
in about this time, and stopped to look at me noticing my unique 
position outside the bathroom door. He gave me a rather strange look, 
shrugged his large shoulders, shook his head and went to his office. I 
felt an embarrassing flush rise to my face, as I reflected on what I 
was doing and why. This was crazy! The Boss is going to think I am 
going nuts. I need to get to class. I left my post about the time Holes 
returned with his little squad of soldiers. I could see he only picked 
the most likely candidates. I was impressed by their willing and eager 
attitude. I keep thinking to myself as I ran off to class: Maybe we 
will catch something. It was not till the end of the day I heard about 
the accident in the coaches' bathroom. It seemed Mr. Smith had come 
down to make a surprise inspection of the field house and see what mess 
the coaches had made of things in there. The students on duty had had 
to leave their post because the light we had left on for them had gone 
out. They had left to see the janitor about getting a new one. It was 
at this time Smith had come in, snooping around, and had noticed the 
door to the bathroom had a rope outside of it. He had tried to turn on 
the light, but without success, and then wandered into the bathroom to 
discover the reason for the rope. He never found it. His foot hit the 
wooden peg, and the weight dropped just like it was suppose to trapping 
the mouse, or toe underneath and causing pain or death. In Mr. Smith's 
case it caused pain, and trauma. The students had returned in time to 
hear and then report to us of Mr. Smith's unique vocabulary skills. The 
students ran out to get the nurse, who then had to found a rolling 
chair and two strong football boys to get him back to the nurse's 
office. There were some scary moments when Mr. Smith was almost pitched 
out of the chair during the harrowing journey from the field house to 
the school building. With the gravelly parking lot being uneven, and 
the wheels catching on each little obstacle, the journey was perilous 
with each stopping and starting, sputtering and yelling along the way. 
It was a successful hunt in some ways. 

Chapter Nine 

End of Season/ Texas Deer Season 

**** 

My first season with Skipper and the Boys came to an end. The team had a
record of seven wins and two losses. Our last game of the season would 
be played against Hartford High School in the primitively rough, yet 
stoutly handsome, environment known as the “Rock Garden”  stadium. A 
win against Hartford would put us in position to play in the play-offs 
for this year, a loss meant we could pack it up and close shop for the 
football year. According to rumor, the “Rock Garden” stadium had been 
built by prisoners from the state run prison facility close by. I am 
not sure, but the fans were coarse enough, and the players big enough, 
that I could appreciate the rumor that their mom or dad had been guest 
of  the penal facility.  I could  appreciate the fact even more when I 
saw two of their players drive up in old dilapidated car, with , what 
seemed like, two children of their own a piece.  Later I saw them in 
their uniforms before the game, hugging and kissing their kids along 
the chain-linked fence that ran across the football field near the end 
zone. As I watched this unfold from the opposite end zone I realized 
that no matter how poorly I thought about the school and their adult 
sized players, I had to admit I admired their love for their children. 
It was one of the confused emotions you feel, such as when you are rear 
ended in a car wreck, and when you get out mad and confused, it turns 
out to be an old friend you have not seen in some time. Needless to say 
we ended that game in the forth quarter with about three of their best 
players in the stands signing autographs and shaking hands with their 
admirers. Many of the small children lined up  against the rock, and 
fan retaining wall, receiving hugs from their  heroes and, I believe, 
their fathers, while enjoying this lop-sided victory against the Rocin 
Bulls. The game was not our finest hour; Aussie had gone done with a 
shoulder injury to his throwing arm, and “Juking” Jones, one of our 
tandem backs, sprained his left ankle on a pull out to the right side 
on the cleats of Rico Vasquez, as Rico went down under the onslaught of 
the swarming defensive front line, known as the Hartford “Assassins”. 
Petey and Mentz (known as “Mincemeat” to the Skipper, for his 
aggressive style of play from the linebacker position), left their 
positions on the defensive side of the ball, and joined their offensive 
team mates on the offensive side of the pig-skin. Petey took the hand- 
off from center and delivered it in a panic hurry to Mentz, who only 
know how to plunge up the middle, and gut whatever he could before he 
went down. Grit, not skill was Mentz's style of play. The mood on the 
bus was one of  disappointment, and  anger over the loss of this game 
against Hartford. The seniors suffered the most at this time. Their 
chance at a run for the state's high school play-offs was over. They 
came on the bus with angry tears covered in dirt, sweat and blood; like 
mini hurricanes coming ashore with stinging rain and ripping wind. We 
had played hard this season, and had nothing to apologize for, but the 
injury to your pride, like this loss when you are young, can last a 
seeming life time, but normally over in a few days. 

**** 

I cannot help but believe these same small fans who were giving and
receiving hugs of adoration were the brawn behind the stone shower  the 
team received on its way out of town. This was not the time of the head 
bangers, but I believe we could have received an honorable mention in 
this category, as Skipper had the Boys put on their helmets as a shower 
of rocks were unloaded on our bus on the way out of town and glass 
splinters filled the air. And  I , after some reflection on the matter, 
have reason to suspect the larger fans of planning the long delay at 
the red light, the only light in town, on our way out. This red light 
had hardly changed from red before it turned to green on our way into 
town. There was not even a car at the intersection when Holes decided 
to down shift and proceed through  the light. Tonight at the 
intersection numerous cars and trucks were parked on either side of the 
street, and adult laughter filled the air as the people-planned meteor 
shower attacked our bus, and the first windows gave way under the 
flinty assault. I should not have been surprised with Holes at the 
wheel of the bus that there was a grinding of gears, and a barrage of 
bad language. What did surprise my though, as I was standing in the 
aisle of the bus checking on helmet placement for the players, was the 
rapid acceleration that throw me into a seat back and down onto the 
floor as we shot through the intersection. I only had enough time to 
look through the back window to see that Holes had run a red light, and 
that a police car had turned on it lights and siren as if to give 
chase. As I continued to look out the back window, and the players 
helped me up off the floor boards of the old gasoline powered bus, I 
noticed that the police car was not giving chase and the people of the 
town were crowding into the street bent over with laughter as their 
amused contorted bodies grew smaller and the street lights began to 
fade to black. I would not forget this strange form of home town fun as 
we drove through the dark, cold countryside with the wind whistling in 
through the broken windows, nor would I forget to hold on to the seats 
in the aisle at every red light when Holes was at the wheel. Their fun 
should have ended before they endangered our players. I knew I could 
never stomach this type of behavior from our fans in Rocin, and based 
on the look on Skipper's face after the incident, neither could he. As 
our bus pulled into Rocin after an hour and a half windy drive in the 
cool of the November air, I felt exhausted. All I wanted to do was to 
go home and go to sleep, but this was not to be for the coaches. We had 
to start the clean up and clean out of the buses.  Injured players and 
equipment were the first priority. Next, would come the arrangement of 
rides for those players who did not have a ride home. Many players 
offered each other rides, but there were a few we had to take care of 
and take home ourselves.  Uniforms, towels, and assorted items had to 
be placed in the washing machine to get a start on the next days 
cleaning activities.  There was no need to worry about the processing 
of game films, as the season had ended for us, and we would concern 
ourselves tomorrow with the cleaning up and putting away of the 
football equipment for next year. The season had ended. The Rocin Bulls 
had ended my first year with a record of seven wins and three losses. 

**** 

As we prepared to leave Skipper called us together, shook our hands and
thanked us for our efforts this year. I had watched him walk around to 
each of his Boys, shaking their hands, patting them on the back, and 
offering the strength and warmth of his personality. I had felt it 
myself, seen it in his eyes, and sought to imitate it myself. This too 
was a giving of himself device that Skipper used, but I do not think he 
thought of  this practice as a devise or tool. It was his way. After he 
finished his thanks, he grinned a sad, but honest smile and said: “ 
Well gents”, he started. “ Next year is our year. And, I am going to 
need all you folk's help to get us out of district play and into the 
big time.” The three of us looked at him and shook our heads “Yes” all 
the way around. “ Now, Mr. Helfrich has kindly offered us a white tail 
hunting trip out on his place west of town next weekend.” A half smile 
tugged at the left corner of his mouth as his eyes searched me out and 
he continued. “ Muley, I don't know if you have ever been hunting, but 
if this is your first Texas hunt, you are in for a treat. Helfrich is a 
stingy  old timer, and he won't let just anyone hunt there. I have seen 
some of the finest deer around these parts taken on his place.  And, if 
you need proof, just ask Iggy over at the meat market.  Iggy processes 
most of the deer meat around here. Now, he is always asking the hunters 
if they want the horns; some do, some don't, but those that leave the 
horns will find them tacked up on the walls of the processing shacks 
with their names and locations of the hunt .” 

I wondered as he said that, if the size of the deer racks were in direct
relation to the size of the their vanity, courage, or something else. 
But no matter what, this would be my first deer hunt in Texas, and the 
sleepiness was starting to leave me, and excitement was taking its 
place. The other coaches seemed to take the news in stride, but they 
did seem a bit more alive on the way out the field house door and soft 
words and gentle jokes marked their passage towards their cars and 
trucks. I was more then ready for sleep, as I pulled into my driveway 
and realized I had drove home without consciously knowing what I was 
doing till the car's head lights lit up the garage that housed my 
apartment. I went in through the unlocked door, walked into my room, 
and fell asleep fully clothed on top of the covers. I slept the welcome 
sleep of exhaustion, and as the next day was Saturday with no other 
games to prepare for till next season, I slept till about ten o'clock, 
a welcome change from the usual Saturdays in season what with 
processing of film, exchanging film, cleaning up, and getting ready for 
next week's game. 

Chapter Ten 

A Gun? 

**** 

I awoke to that single ray of sunlight that had found its way between
the blinds and into my eyes. I am not sure how it had found me this 
morning, but I was of the mind to change it before I went to sleep 
tonight. I laid in bed and let the morning beckon me from my slumber, 
with hunger as its bosom companion. I needed something substantial to 
eat after an evening of sweet treats provided by the team mothers 
before each game. I do not know how they had time to do it, but their 
time and generosity grew in importance as I grew older, had kids, took 
on more responsibility, and found less and less time to help others. 
After  a moment's thought, I decided to enjoy  a large meal at Heinz's 
City Café. The old man who ran the place, Manuel, knew how to keep the 
breakfast buffet stocked. To this day I am not sure how clean that 
place was, but I never got sick from eating there, just sticky from  a 
non-descript substance that seemed to combine all the attributes of 
grease with a touch of glue, which adhered to all the tables, chairs 
and counters which surrounded the interior of that “grease spoon“. The 
restaurant had a large plate-glass front window, that people could peer 
in and see who was in there eating. This also worked the opposite way, 
and allowed people who were eating to look out and see who was in town. 
Still, it was the kind of place the people of Rocin gathered at the day 
after a game to banter, gossip and make plans. Another reason  I went 
to Heinz's was because I had a notion that I could find, or borrow a 
deer hunting rifle for next week end's hunt from one of the older 
regulars who frequented the place. I did not want to indulge on 
Skipper's generosity, or the other coaches to find a rifle. I wanted to 
try and obtain it on my own without being beholden to them. Although 
the food was good, and plentiful at Heinz's, I made little inroads into 
finding an instrument of death to hunt deer with. My next choice was to 
check with old Mac about a gun. I knew I would find him in the town 
square, holding court with any tourist or traveler who might have come 
to town, and like a spider with prey in his web, he would not let them 
go until he had showed them the town's sights and they had visited 
Heinz's City Café for Mac's well earned free meal; the payment for a 
sight-seeing job well done. I found old Mac right where I had thought. 
I would. He was sitting on a bench in the middle of the town square 
near the city hall looking for victims, or, should I say, tourist. He 
still had on his straw cowboy hat as the weather had not gotten cold 
enough to change to his soiled and stained gray felt. But, what I 
really liked were his “kill'em in the corner cockroach killer” boots 
which were on display from underneath his rolled blue jeans as he sat 
with his legs crossed at the knees. He claimed the pointed toed boots 
were like slippers to him, and without them he could never have been 
the best two-step/polka dancer in southwest Texas. The broad brim of 
his cowboy hat shaded his eyes, as I had to squint from the bright 
sunlight that looked into my face as I sat down and turned towards him. 
He smiled a crooked smile at me, and allowed me to see the brown 
stained teeth, and flakes of chewing tobacco dancing about his mouth 
and on his teeth. I found myself smiling back. “How the hell are you, 
Muley?” he started. “And what the hell do you need form me?” he 
finished. It was as if he could read my mind. A habit others in this 
town also seemed to share. “Mac, I am going hunting next weekend with 
Skipper and the others, and I did not bring my deer hunting rifle down 
with me. “ He just looked at me and waited for me to ask. “ Do you know 
where I can borrow a gun for next weekend?” “Muley“, he began, “ I got 
an old rifle just waiting for you to take her out. Now, she is old, but 
she is good. I've never seen a gun shoot straighter. “ I began to feel 
a sense of relief, and even pride as I realized I had taken care of my 
little problem of no rifle. Now I was going to get one, without the 
help of any of my co-workers. I had done it. “ Meet me here tomorrow”, 
he continued, “ after church and I will give it too you.” “Thanks so 
much Mac. I really appreciate your help.” I stated with a feeling of 
elation. 

**** 

The next morning after mass, I headed down to the town square, but I
could not find Mac. I decided he must have meant after late mass, so I 
waited around for a couple of hours more. Still no sign of  him. With a 
small amount of disappointment, and a sinking feeling, I went home, and 
tried to call Mac. First, I called the operator, and asked her to put 
me through to Mac's number, and then I sat down, holding the phone, 
waiting to be put through and listening to a third party phone 
conversation talk about Friday's game and how bad the offense was. I 
tried to explain, but in a third party conversation ,you share a line 
with someone else, and you have to wait your turn to make a call, or be 
heard. Finally, the operator came back on, and let me know no-one was 
answering at Mac's place, and I should call back later. I thanked her 
and tried to think what I should do next. The question was, should I 
look for a new means of obtaining a gun, or should I sit tight, do 
nothing because I still had four days before it was needed? I decide to 
sit tight. Mac would come through. 

The school week started , but still no word from Mac. I tried to call
him again on Monday and Tuesday but without luck. I had decided that, 
if I could not get ahold of Mac by Wednesday , I was going to find 
someone else. Thank God , Mac finally sent a note with one of the bus 
drivers on Wednesday morning: I was out of time and patience. Mac's 
note contained some unusually spelling, but then again mine was never 
perfect either. He wrote that the phone line to his place was out of 
order, and he would be out of the county till Friday morning working on 
a lease in Ledbetter, but it would be no trouble for him to bring it up 
to the school at lunch time. This was before all the troubles the 
schools were having concerning guns and students. I still remember a 
time when the students use to go hunting early in the morning, came to 
school at the beginning of the school day, and locked their guns in the 
trunk of their cars, or the floor board of their trucks and went to 
class without killing anyone. Time, schools, and young people have 
changed. Mac's note made me feel so much better. I was happily 
satisfied again. I was going on my first Texas white tail deer hunt, 
and it was as close to South Texas as throwing a rock a dozen times 
over. Life was good, and I had done it all on my own- well, with a 
little help from Mac. 

**** 

Friday morning came with a rush of adrenaline. I was up early packing,
and preparing my gear for hunting. I have always had a tendency  to 
over pack: two pairs of gloves, four pairs of socks, three pairs of 
pants, and two head warmers- just in case. I now realize this is my 
nature, but back then I was hard pressed to explain it. As for 
footwear, I put away my cowboy boots, and took out my army surplus pair 
so that I could wear them to school to re-break them in. I was hoping 
that Vice-principal Smith did not notice, but the true test would be in 
going into the teacher's lounge and no one running out to go tell Smith 
that Coach Sanchez was wearing army boots to school. I left my hunting 
gear in my car, and went directly to my classroom, hoping Mac would be 
early. He was not, therefore I started writing the lesson on the board. 
As I wrote I began to consider how many of these student would view 
deer hunting as wrong. I wondered how many had an opinion they would be 
willing to share. I decided that the Great Depression could wait till 
Monday, and perhaps Mrs. Zemicki would be willing to share her 
struggles during the Hoover-Roosevelt years. I would like to see math 
do something like this: I loved teaching history! The first three 
classes worked out just the way I thought they would. Most of the boys 
in those classes hunted . No one challenged their right to hunt or kill 
deer, but forth period was different. Two young ladies spoke up, and 
based on their experience, including the movie “Bambi”, they believed 
it was wrong. How could hunters kill animals that could richly 
communicate and have such emotional feelings? I was ready to intervene, 
but was beat to the punch by a young lady named Sarah. Sarah let it be 
known she had been deer hunting every year of her life since she was 
five. She and her family stored the extra meat at Iggy's Meat Market, 
and cured and tanned the deer hides themselves. From the hides they 
made slippers, purses, wallets, knife sheaths, and seat cushions. And, 
she challenged anyone in class to check and see if they did not have 
something made of leather on, and if they did, tell her how it got here 
without killing an animal. Sarah  eyes stared challenges all around the 
room. None rose to meet her, because they had never seen her open up 
and talk like this. I was amazed by her brass and skill: a deer every 
year since she was five? That would be about twelve deer all together. 
I think I had a new found appreciation for Sarah. 

After Sarah's outburst, all the other classes basically remained about
the same. Hunting was forgiving in this farming culture as killing 
animals was an accepted means of putting food on the table. But my mind 
was on my own hunt for a rifle and by the end of the school day there 
was still no sign of Mac. 

Chapter Eleven 

The Necessity 

**** 

I waited in my class room till Holes wandered in and sat down to talk
with me about hunting and what type of rifle I had. We talked about the 
benefits of a 30-06, a 270, and even a 30-30 for brush hunting, and as 
we talked I found myself growing more frustrated and concerned I was 
going to have to open up to Holes, and when I did I would take a good 
amount of joshing, and kidding. I was not ready for that event. Holes 
asked again what type of rifle I planned to use, but this time I could 
not ignore the question. “ I guess you will just have to wait and see”, 
was my thin reply. Holes smiled at me and a slight chuckle shuck his 
frame. “Muley, do you even have a rifle for this trip?”, he questioned. 
I must have blushed a purple hue, because I felt the heat on my face as 
surly as if someone had thrown hot grease on me from a smoking skillet. 
I was caught, but my pride would not let me answer truthfully. “Of 
course I have a rifle for this trip”, I replied angrily, “but I want to 
surprise you folks. There is no way I am going to tell you what it is 
and ruin the surprise!” Holes' smile had left his lips, and made a new 
agreement with his teeth. The  smile now appeared , stretching his 
cheeks back and forcing his teeth forward, even his eyes seemed 
bejeweled and sparkling as they had seemed to have read my face and my 
lie. Holes keep smiling, but responded quickly,” O.K. Muley, there is 
no reason to get this sore.  You keep your little secret, I cannot wait 
to see what you have brought. Skipper said we will leave by 3:30. We 
got about fifteen minutes. See ya outside.” I was relived, but 
confused. If I was going to tell anyone it would be Holes. Now that 
opportunity was gone, but I still had my secret safe-but for how long? 
Mac better hurry the Heck up! 3:28pm came way too quick. I was not 
ready, the rifle was not here. Still, I was not going to be late. I 
went out to my car, grabbed my duffle bag, and walked to wards 
Skipper's old truck, and my prideful disgrace. The other coaches just 
watched me as I made my way towards them, and their amused faces. Just 
as I thought all was lost, a rattle bones of a truck pulled up, and out 
swaggered Old Mac with a hard leather rifle case. Thank God! Was the 
only words that came to mind, and my spirits soared. Pride was still in 
tack, and a spirit of love towards old Mac was renewed with vigor.  I 
was saved, it was almost a religious moment. Old Mac handed me the 
rifle case, and a small ammo bag he took out from the bed of the truck. 
Listen Muley”, he stated, “you might want to check on your rifle now 
before you get to deer camp.” Harry piped in, “ Yeah Muley, let's see 
what you are hunting with. If you show me yours I will show you mine.” 

There was a chorus of laughter from the others there by the vehicles,
even Ski. But I would not be trapped. I had made it this far, I would 
make it to camp. “No way Mac, Skipper and the others are ready to go. 
We were suppose to leave by 3:30. I don't wont to make them late.” 
Taking Mac by the arm I steered him away from the coaches. “Mac, I 
cannot thank you enough for bringing me the rifle, and helping me out. 
But, I trust you, and know you brought me a fine piece to hunt with. 
So, if it is alright with you , I will wait and check out your rifle 
when I get to camp. “ Turning towards him, I stuck out my hand, looked 
him in the eyes, and genuinely thank him with a firm grip, and without 
giving him time to make another loud statement about his gun. I 
hurriedly turned towards the others and  called with excitement, “ 
let's go! I'm ready and willing.” I had only taken a few steps towards 
the truck when Skipper threw me the keys and stated. “Muley, I need to 
talk with Ski, you can follow us to camp. Stay close, Holes is leading 
and likes to drive fast. “ Turning towards Ski's car, Skipper made a 
general command, “ All right, let's move out.” And like race car 
drivers we all hurried to our vehicles, jumped in and started the 
engines. I was excited and nervous. I had no idea where we were going, 
just a general idea of the direction. That would not help much if we 
got separated.  Off we went, Holes and Harry in the front, Ski and 
Skipper in the middle, and me bringing up the rear. As I made the left 
turn out of the school's parking lot I turned to wave at old Mac. He 
was just standing there by his truck with a pleased smile on his face. 
He waved a gentle country wave back and forth, and then he passed from 
my vision as the bricks from the school took over. 

**** 

After a twenty minute ride we finally got onto I-10 and headed West
towards San Antonio. I was still excited as I turned on the radio and 
listened to old country music on the scratchy AM station. I found my 
self singing with Hank Williams, “ Move it on Over”, and doing a 
particularly fine job as usual when no body else was around. As I made 
myself at home in Skipper's truck cab, I made a mental inventory of 
what was there in case I would need it. The first thing that caught my 
eye was a dented old soda can used as a spittoon. This was not 
unsettling as I made use of the same fluid receptacle in my own car 
when need be, but the idea of fluid led me to take account of the fact 
I had not gone o the bathroom in quite awhile. That is when the urge 
started. The urge was gentle at first, just a reminder of all the 
coffee I had been drinking that morning, and later on in the early 
afternoon as worry concerning Mac and the gun lead me to lose count of 
the numbers I had partaken. The more I drove, the greater the urge 
became. It was during the first few minutes of  my problem that Holes 
must have decided to make his vehicle sprint, which made Ski press down 
on the gas pedal, and then I had to put the hammer down on my 
accelerator. Skipper's truck was up for the challenge, but I was not. 
The issue was pressing on my bladder harder then ever. I was trying to 
use the breathing techniques I had learned in sports to control the 
pressure, but that just made me feel light headed. One thing was for 
sure. I would not let them know I was in pain. I would not ask them to 
stop for me. Was I not a man! I would control this situation..... I 
hope...wouldn't I? Oh, crap! It was as I passed the second gas station, 
that I realized I was in trouble. Pride or not, I had to do something. 
With desperation as my traveling companion, I rested my eyes on the 
spit can. A new sense of promise filled my head. Then, I was taken down 
a notch by the small opening presented on top. No matter, I knew what 
must be done. Taking the wheel firmly between my knees, I retrieved the 
can and placed it in my crotch. Keeping my eyes on the road, and my 
foot on the pedal, I took hold of the can with my left hand, and using 
my thumb on the opposite hand, pushed down on the opening  to widen the 
hole. It was at this point that I realized our skin is not quite as 
tough as the thin metal the can is made of and when your skin loses the 
battle you bleed a lot. Man, did I bleed. Now I was juggling eyes on 
the road, foot on the pedal, left hand on the can, right thumb pressed 
into my jeans for direct pressure to stop the bleeding and mind over 
matter to control urinating in the truck. O.K. lesson learned. Step 
Two. When the bleeding had somewhat abated, I decide to try my luck 
with the hole the size it was, no matter the problem with leak edge. 
And leakage there was. All over the truck seat, and my jeans, but 
again, my pride was still in tact even if messy and wet. I had to make 
two attempts with the can, each time holding the soiled can out the 
window and letting the fluid drain out while a mist tried to fine its 
way back towards the window opening as I continued to move and gyrate 
to keep from being hit by the contents. I was not aware how problematic 
this was till I reached deer camp at night, thankful the others could 
not see my still wet jeans, and reach in to grab my duffle bag which 
had ridden in the bed of the truck right behind the drivers seat in the 
direct path of my liquid waste. I was shocked and mortified. Pride was 
a vengeful task master, that could laugh in your face , while you 
suffered the cold consequences of your decisions, literal cold as I 
stood there in the cool night air in wet pants. I was not ready for 
Pride's second strike. The rifle would be my down full. It struck me as 
I helped unpack, and readied the camp for occupation. I had to check 
the rifle. And, check it alone. I finally had an opportunity to check 
the rifle when I had finished the camp set-up. It was dark and most of 
the work had been by the light of the camp fire and the many flash 
lights each of the coaches had brought. I made off to a corner of the 
camp like I was going to the bathroom, strolling off with the leather 
case which surrounded the gun I was to use on this trip. I stopped near 
a large oak tree, large for that area, hoping the width of the tree 
would provide cover and stripped off the leather case. It at least felt 
like a rifle, if somewhat long and oddly shaped. Then, holding my 
breathe, I turned on the flash light and took a look at my prized 
procession. It was a black powder rifle. A Gosh-Darned, gun powder 
measured, load it from the barrel, drop a bullet into, ram down the 
projectile, black powder rifle! Dear Saint Anthony! In all my life I 
had never shot one before. I was in deep trouble. Trouble that was made 
brilliant by the flash lights that flicked on all-around me with deep 
chuckles and guffaws cannonading around me. Deeply embarrassed, I could 
have lived with this injury to my pride, but then Ski's voice announced 
to the crowd: “ Oh my God, he has pissed himself! What a coward!” The 
urine on my pants had not dried quickly enough, and Ski's sharp eyes 
had found it, just like he could find the weakness in an opponents 
offense. I could have cried. 

Chapter Twelve 

The Hunt 

**** 

That night as I sat around the campfire making my excuses about the
state of my pants, the butt of all jokes, and deserving of them, 
Skipper keep his own counsel until I made an effort to speak. “Sorry 
Skipper,” I started, “ I guess I wanted to do this on my own- the rifle 
and all, I did not want to ask for help. And even the bathroom break, I 
did not want to be the weak link on your staff.” Skipper gave me one of 
his thoughtful stares, and finally spoke. “ Muley, most of us are 
secretly flattered when someone thinks we can help them. We are even 
more flattered when someone asks for our opinion. By asking our 
opinion, they have let us know how much they think of us. Do not be 
afraid to ask for help.” “Skipper, I acknowledged, “do you think  I 
should use that black powder rifle tomorrow?” I asked with a grin. 
Skipper smiled and let out a low chuckle. “ Why don't you ask Holes, 
it's his rifle. I even imagine he has a rifle you would feel more 
comfortable with, if you would just ask him.” “Thanks, Skipper” He 
nodded and sipped his coffee. I started to get up and look for Holes. 
Skipper stopped me with his words. “Muley”' he stated as he looked into 
the Mesquite fire, “ next time bring a jar.” “Got it.” I replied, and 
meant it. 

**** 

The next morning I approached Holes before we left camp to go hunting,
and with a bit of sheepishness, I ask him for his help in obtaining a 
new rifle. Holes just smiled, and without his usual verbal wit, swapped 
guns. We had already awakened at about five in the morning to the sound 
of Skipper making coffee and breakfast. The bacon was sizzling on the 
grill, and a large pan of scrambled eggs was being coached along. He 
was  making enough noise that we all took it as a sign to get up 
without being told. I debated how long I would stay in my sleeping bag, 
as I could feel the cold on my face and a certain numbness in my toes. 
I was even a little concerned the zipper, which had been a might 
contrary last night, would not open, and the sight of me hopping around 
seeking help was playing strong in my mind.  Ski was the first one out 
of his sleeping bag. He went off a bit of distance to relieve himself. 
Harry joined him, and let out a smell that took could take the good off 
the smell of a pan of fried bacon. Ski let out a desperate, “Gawh” and 
hurtled back towards the camp to get away from the pestilence of the 
smell. By this time we all were awake and out of our “fart sacks” 
showing enough teeth with our smiles as Harry returned to camp to 
encourage him to greater ambitions and feats of strength.  My bag's 
zipper had shown the good sense to release quickly and let me out 
without incident. I felt my luck was changing. The coffee was strong 
and the food was good as we squatted down around the fire to enjoy our 
meal. The camp fire brought a sense of family to us, as we ate in a 
comfortable silence with Skipper drinking his coffee and watching the 
rest of us. There were no worry lines around his eyes this morning, 
although I am not sure how well he slept. Clean up fell to me and Harry 
on this cold morning. We had brought drinking and cleaning water in 
large “jerry cans” , and had left them outside that night. We did not 
try and heat the water, just put it in a plastic rectangular container 
with some liquid dish soap, and threw the tin plates and cups into it. 
Skipper did not want his skillet in that mess. He just wiped it out and 
declared it ready for service for the next meal. I looked at Harry, but 
he just smiled, and shook his head- accepting but not really believing 
in what had been stated. But, no one complained. It was after Harry and 
I finished the dishes that I sought out Holes and asked for his help in 
swapping out the rifles. I was grateful to Holes for the mild humor, 
and even more grateful when he offered me a ride to my blind, and some 
of his chewing tobacco. I had not had the presence of mind to buy any 
during my continued worries about rifles and hunting. The band aide on 
my thumb had come loose during the dish washing, and Ski, who was in 
charge of the first aid kit, silently handed me another one to stop the 
blood from joining the leaves and twigs from Holes' chewing tobacco 
pouch. I have to admit I had thought nothing of it. 

**** 

Never having been on this ranch, I had no idea where I were going or
when I would get there as the group parted company: Skipper with Harry 
and Ski; myself with Holes. Skipper and Holes had been out here before 
in the early Fall clearing the senderos and cleaning and fixing up the 
blinds. Holes' old station wagon took a beating on the mesquite and 
other thorn bushes  lining the trail out to the deer blinds. Thankfully 
the roll down windows were up or I would have received an unwelcome 
hair ripping and face gauging from these said bushes. Holes did not 
seem to mind too much as he drove through the dark and talked about the 
blind I was too be in. He explained that my blind faced a shallow creek 
with a stand of winter rye and oats down each wing of my senderos. To 
the rear was some rough brush that Holes suggested I keep an eye on 
from time to time. I was ready. I had been hoping to go deer hunting in 
Texas, and now was my chance. I could not wait to tell my Grandfather 
about this hunt. The deer blind Holes lead me too was a one and a half 
story high clap board affair, with curiously placed hunting windows, 
and boards so rotten that when I went up the rickety wooden ladder, 
bits of the wood which made up the blind landed in my eyes and open 
mouth.  Even in the flash light envisioned world, I could make out what 
a treat I had been handed by my fellow coaches. No wonder Holes had let 
me off so lightly when we exchanged the black powder rifle for the 
30-06. When I had made it too the top of the blind, and before 
entering, I shined my light back at Holes only to see a row of grayish 
ivory flashing back at me. I knew I was being had again, and the only 
thing to do was fellow Skipper's advice. “Holes”, I started,” Do you 
have any advice for me before you leave?” Holes' smile stretched a mite 
larger and he commented. “Muley, I wouldn't rock around up there too 
much, and when you fire a round, grab hold of something, perhaps the 
sides, as you will find yourself see-sawing on these spindly legs.” 
With this advice I shined my light down towards the small iron pipes 
that made up the four legs. No new paint on these four, just an orange 
rust holding the section of pipe together, My eyes followed my flash 
light out to the tie downs which helped anchor the blind and keep it 
from leaning and rocking. These wires were made of antiquated barbed 
wire, that would probable snap in half before it would give. Holes' 
light snapped off and with a couple of deep guffaws I heard him place 
the station wagon in Drive, and the rustle of gravel as he drove off. 
My first Texas hunt was not what I had planned, but  I was going to be 
happy no matter what- just as long as I didn't sneeze, or cough! After 
Holes left, I shined the flash light around the blind. There was an old 
paint splattered folding chair, and enough cigarette butts to make the 
Marlboro Man proud. Using my glove as a broom, I sweep out the butts 
and a couple of bullet shells; the shells letting me know that someone 
had had a chance to shoot something from up here in this stand and 
survive with this spindled legged cracker box intact. I closed and 
tried to latch the swinging half door, but found the round clasp had 
been torn off the rotted wooded frame. I would have to remember not too 
lean on this side when checking my fields of fire. Now that my house 
keeping was over, it was time to start settling down and prepare for 
the hunt. I unfolded the old chair and sat down, gentle wiggling to 
into a comfortable position with out compromising the tension anchor 
lines and their comfort level. While I waited for the blind to stop 
shaking, I found myself worried that the nausea made manifest from the 
swaying back and forth, would not compliment Skipper's breakfast and 
that it would come up to join me in the stand, but I made it. Next I 
loaded the rifle with three shots, one for the kill, one if I did not 
make the kill the first time, and the final bullet for insurance. Now, 
I would wait. I do not know how soldiers feel when standing guard duty 
alone, but I believe this was close to it. The feeling of being alone 
and waiting on the enemy. In  the dark every one of your sense 
heightened to a state of  extreme alertness. Noises and shadows 
fighting for your attention, but all you are looking for is a mature 
Bambi. A strange abrupt noise arose form my front, and I held my 
breathe till I could identify it. It sounded like an animal, but way 
too loud for a deer. Maybe these Texas deer really were monsters? I 
should have asked more questions before I went out here-Dang it! With 
the light headedness, it finally dawned on me the realization that I 
needed to breathe, and a raspy jagged breath was sucked in through my 
mouth and nose. The strange noise from the front continued and grew 
closer. I took hold of my nerves and the 30-06 Holes had given me, and, 
using all the stealth I could muster, placed the instrument of death 
out the window of the blind. The shaking of the blind only lasted a few 
moments, but as the dawn began to break, I could just make out a gray 
shadowy movement form among the brush near the creek to my front. 
Worried my senses were playing tricks on me, I keep my eyes on the 
light gray movement and hoped it would move again. It did. I caught the 
movement and put my eye to the scope attached to my rifle. The figure 
was hidden by the brush, but what caught my eye was the biggest rack of 
horns I had ever seen. By Gosh, these Texans were right, everything in 
Texas was bigger! I'd show those other coaches! In my rifle sights was 
the evidence my luck had changed, and with the animal's death I would 
show them a thing or two about Louisiana boys. I'd show'em! I waited 
for the deer to step out, so I could have a good view of his shoulder 
for the kill. But, soon I found myself trying to count horns. I knew he 
had two large main antlers, but I could not decide how many tines came 
off the main shoots. Sometimes I thought it was three and other times I 
thought it was two. Either way I knew I had a eight point or a six 
point, and it was a huge big deer! As the daylight grew stronger, I 
knew I was getting ready for the kill. Something about the deer's body 
seemed odd even if it was hidden by the brush. And the antler's looked 
almost as thick at the base as a soup can! But I brushed off any doubt, 
knowing my luck had changed. My legs were tucked in behind me and the 
chair, as I took a deep breathe, and prepared to shoot this beast. 
Finding myself still uncomfortable and wanting a clean shot, I gently 
tried to ease my foot out of its position under the chair rail. My foot 
would not budge. I tried again, and still no give. With my frustration 
level building, I gave a tremendous pull, and not only did my boot come 
free, but so did pieces of the building as it began to violently shake 
and rock, making me fear for my life and the safety of the rifle in the 
uneven cut window frame. Like a bucking bronco, the blind pitched and 
rolled, and I just held on to the sides hoping the anchor lines would 
hold and I would not find myself on a fast ride to ground level. By the 
time I realized I was not going to die, and that the free ride was 
ending, I looked back out the front window of the blind in time to see 
a large gray colored cow with at least two feet of horns on either side 
and one point apiece on each horn jogging off down a game trail. I had 
almost killed a cow! Thank God, I did not  kill that gray cow with only 
two horns! I looked at my thumb, and remembering the rifle incident, if 
I had shot that cow, I would have had to run away in shame. There was 
no way I could have faced those other coaches, especially Skipper. Same 
old luck...or maybe not. A good thing was I didn't have to explain the 
shot, or the kill. 

Chapter Thirteen 

Ask Questions 

**** 

I spent the rest of the morning waiting for Holes to pick me up and
doing a bit of thinking. I was a more somber guest in his station wagon 
while we rode back to the camp site then when we left out that morning. 
I had learned some new lessons this trip. I needed to ask questions, 
and learn to listen more often then talk. Skipper smiled at me as I 
made my way to the camp fire and poured me a cup of coffee. “Here you 
are Muley, just made it fresh.” I nodded and spoke my thanks. Harry 
joined us at the fire, sat down, and asked. “How was the hunting Muley? 
I didn't hear any shots going off in your direction.” “It was fine.” I 
replied. “How was yours?” Harry's face took on a confused look. “Not 
bad , except no one told me they had cows on this place, and I almost 
opened up on this gray colored cow this morning.” Ski had joined us at 
the fire at this time and spoke up. “How in the world could you mistake 
a cow for a deer? Are you blind or something?” Skipper turned his 
knowing eyes over towards me and I colored up. “Harry“, I enjoined, “ I 
have almost made that same mistake myself. Just be glad you didn't shot 
it.” Ski looked at us dumbfounded and asserted, “You are about the 
stupidest two coaches I have ever encountered. How are we going to win 
a state championship, much less district with a coaching staff like 
this? One cuts his thumb making a mobile urinal, and the other almost 
shoots a cow!  Jesus Christ, whatäs next?” “Bob“ Skipper calmly 
observed,” call on that guy when you really need him and not when you 
want to tell someone how stupid they are. It's a bad habit, and one I 
don't cotton to much” Skipper gentled smiled and stated, “ I would 
appreciate it.” This helped let out some the sting. Ski just nodded and 
walked away. While Harry left to go help Holes make lunch, I watched 
Skipper adjust to find a comfortable spot on one of the logs that 
surrounded the camp fire. “Skipper, you told me I needed to ask more 
questions, so I would like to ask you one.” “Alright Muley, go ahead.” 
“What is life really about? I asked. Skipper took his time looking at 
me, and finally said, “You must have had a lot of time to think up in 
that deer blind today.” “Yeah, too much.” I agreed. Skipper looked back 
at the dying afternoon fire, and spoke as if viewing something form the 
past. “Many years ago in the town where I was raised, we had something 
called a steeple chase, do you know what that is Muley?” I shook my 
head, determined to listen and not talk. 

**** 

“ A steeple chase was a race that started at a fixed point some distance
form the church's steeple. Once the race was underway the goal was to 
reach the church's steeple first, and it did not matter the path, or 
the obstacles in the path, you only had to win. “ Every year right as 
Spring started, young men from around the area would report to the town 
hall and sign up to join in this race. I was one of them. I never was 
fast enough to win, but I tried for years. I loved it, not just the 
race, but the excitement, and competition. The whole area seemed caught 
up in this event, with mothers baking and fussing, fathers explaining 
their own losses in this event many years ago, and young people 
dressing up and flirting. And every year, I would pass this old man, 
struggling and straining , not to win but finish. “ “ You know what I 
mean, Muley?” Skipper asked. Again I nodded. “ Well, the last year I 
ran the race, before I went off to war, I had lost my footing hurtling 
a fence and cut the back of my leg open. This slowed me down somewhat, 
but thanks to a pretty girl with a silk scarf, I used it to tie up the 
wound and keep on running, or hobbling.” I smiled, I could picture 
Skipper trying to be brave for the young woman who owned the scarf. 
Skipper continued. “ The old man had passed me while I attending to my 
leg, and now I was catching up to him, only to watch him trip and hit 
the ground. I stopped to help him up. He seemed older then my own 
grandfather, and still he was making this race each year. He had badly 
twisted his ankle and was not sure if he could finish without help. He 
then asked me for my help. I did not want to do it. I wished I had not 
stopped for either my fall or his fall. “ “I was petty selfish back 
then wasn't I?” Skipper asked with a grin. “ But I did it Muley. I 
helped that old man finish the race. And along the way I gathered some 
insight, that has grown stronger as I have grown older.” I knew Skipper 
wanted me to ask what that  insight was, and I obliged. “What was it 
Skipper?” “It's is not whether you win the race, but did you 
participate!” I thought he had lost his mind. Participate, not Win? 
What type of BS was this? Was the  Old Man pulling my leg? I waited for 
Skipper to speak again with a credulous look on my face. “Muley, life 
is a race, but we do not have to win- just participate. And by 
participating  we gain understanding and insight. We do not sit on the 
side lines and become depressed, we engage life and take from it 
adventure, excitement and life's own vitality. Now this doesn't mean we 
cannot practice and get better, or that we cannot demand perfection 
from ourselves or the players who play for us. 

What it means is we cannot sacrifice our Boys on the alter of our
success. We cannot use them while they are injured just to satisfy our 
need to win. We have to teach them to play hard, and strive to do 
better, while loving  and encouraging them. “ I felt a little lost. Was 
this not the reason Skipper had brought me to Rocin? To Win, not just 
the district play, but to get us to the state playoffs, and win again? 
“Skipper, what are you trying to say, I am confused? “I am saying 
Muley, life is too short to teach them it is the destination that 
matters. I believe it is the journey. Only through the journey process 
do we grow and only through losing to we gain the needed strength to 
win the next time out.” “But, Skipper“, I questioned, “ you went to war 
so what about war, is it still the destination or is it about losing? 
“Muley”, he answered, “ war is different. You win when you survive, and 
you lose when you are dead. Football is not war, it may be a way our 
young men can challenge each other, but it cannot be confused as war. 
War is death; yours or somebody else's death. We want to bring life to 
our Boys. We want them annealed and harden by fire, but soft enough to 
care for others.” Skipper seemed to warm to his subject, as if these 
feeling were always on his mind, and his mind was giving full birth to 
them in the spoken word. Perhaps he was like the gathering storm, and 
the gale picked me up and carried me with it, for I felt his energy, 
his intensity and it was becoming my own. He continued, “Teaching and 
coaching these Boys right from wrong is not only a job but our 
vocation.  We are teaching them how to make decisions in times of 
crisis, and how to protect and help each other during these times. We 
cannot allow them to be soft. They must reach beyond themselves to 
something greater then their own instant gratification: that is the 
Goal. Our preparations are the journey, and the goal is the state 
championship. I liked the Coach's words, but I had a question for him: 
“What journey are you on Skipper, and what is the Goal?” “  This is my 
journey, Muley.“, he laughed, “my journey is to help others as I have 
been helped, and my goal is to one day be worthy of  heaven.” 
“Skipper“, I echoed his slight laughter, “you know you are still a 
Catholic at heart?” “But not a perfect one”, he acknowledged. We both 
waited and stared out at the smoking wood in the fire ring as our 
thoughts sought consideration in our heads. “ Did you enjoyed the hunt 
this morning?”, Skipper asked, breaking the silence. I nodded my head. 
“ Then are you disappointed you did not kill anything, or did it give 
you a chance to think and prepare?” I thought of that gray cow with the 
long horns, and my blaring escape from killing him. “ Coach”, I 
responded, “ this whole trip has been a learning experience I would not 
have traded for anything, even the biggest deer on this place”- or cow 
I thought. 

Skipper looked around at the two sticks of firewood we had left to cook
the afternoon meal. “Come on Muley, lets go find some more firewood.” 
Before Skipper could leave the dying fire, I gathered the nerve to ask: 
“Skipper, I commented quickly, “how do you know you have made the right 
decision, how do you justify a decision? “Muley, you know you have made 
the right decision when you can look into the mirror each morning 
without blushing, when you see it reflected in the eyes of your Boys 
each day, then you will know it, because it allows you to face each 
person with a firm grip and unblinking and unashamed eyes. When you can 
do this, you have made the right decision. “ “Muley, give me a minute, 
I need to make water.” With that Skipper stood , took the coffee pot 
off the fire grate, and threw the coffee and grinds out. Then, he 
walked away from the fire and out to the area we used as the toilet. I 
looked away as Skipper started his business. My world was still in a 
pensive uproar as I pondered what Skipper had said. This always 
happened whenever I spent time talking with Skipper. 

Chapter Fourteen 

Off-Season 

**** 

Back at Rocin High School, our boys were paying quite a price that year
in the off-season. Skipper was merciless. But, he was not the only one. 
The other coaches had found my weakness- pride, and I came in for my 
fair share of merciless ribbing. Holes left one of his kid’s 
slip-and-slide near my desk after practice one day to remind me of the 
ride down the banks of the Rocin River. Even Killer Bob gloated over my 
free ride, the hunting trip ,and continually smiled while hearing of 
the details behind my notoriety in the town. The town of Rocin would 
not let me forget my sins either, and on the afternoons when I ran my 
errands and on the weekends, I felt myself blush endlessly at the 
finger pointing, head nodding, and spastic giggling that I received. 
Small sounds like “splash”, and “ whoosh” trailed behind in my wake, 
making me quicken my steps and hurry my errands with, I am sure a 
delightfully pink expression darkened from my embarrassment. 

But Skipper did not let his coaches or his boys have that much time to
laugh and giggle. He still loved them and placed his arm around them 
from time to time, but he drove them to excel and do more. All the 
coaches worked together, taking their cues from the Boss. It was at 
this time, I began to see Killer Bob’s quality. He timed and memorized 
everything. He keep us on schedule. 

When he blew that whistle to change stations, the coaches knew he meant
it. He would stand there with his tight polyester shorts cinched tight 
to his waist, and mirrored sun-glasses glinting in the sun while he 
stood in an aggressive, arrogant, hands-on-hip stance, until you 
followed the directions blasted from his whistle. And, you can bet, we 
all did, even Skipper, rather shamefaced at being too caught up 
teaching his linemen, and not hearing the whistle until the third or 
forth blast from Ski’s screaming whistle siren. 

Ski kept order and method to Skipper’s seeming turbulence. There were
times though, when nothing could change Skipper’s mind, nor move him 
from his self-appointed mission. It was not just winning that drove 
him. He wanted them to always perform at their best: whether it was in 
school or on the field. If they started goofing around, losing their 
focus, he hammered them. And, if they ticked him off, there was no 
practice, just re-motivation of those young minds. He always talked to 
them, but you could see it was personal with him. He took his 
expectations out on them, but after it was over he would make an effort 
to seek them out and explain to them, if he comforted them it was not 
out of guilt, but out of a need for understanding on their part. He was 
never negative about them. And if his talk sounded negative at the 
beginning, by the end of it there was no doubt how much he needed them, 
and how important their performance was to the success of the whole 
team. Now, this sounds strange, a man who just punished these boys in 
his anger, is now comforting them with his fondness and expectations. 
It was strange to me also, but the more I watched it the more I began 
to understand his ways. I asked him about this ability not to lose kids 
after he had ripped into them during practice or games. Before he spoke 
he spit out a brown stream of tobacco juice, and smiled. “Muley, I once 
coached a terrible game early in my career, and left that field with an 
injury to my pride that would not go away. I went over to my Boys, and 
laid into them. When I was not yelling at them with my mouth, I was 
blasting them with my eyes. I focused on all the people who I felt 
betrayed by, and , without a doubt, I wounded their spirit. At no time 
did I tell them what they did right, at no time did I encourage them. I 
told them what they did wrong, and blamed each one for our lose. “ 
Skipper’s voice and actions betrayed his depth of feeling as he 
continued. “ I almost lost three very important boys to me that night. 
I went home, and looked at the source of my anger; I looked back at 
their faces in my memories and I could not sleep. The reason I could 
not sleep was that the fault of that loss needed to be laid at my feet, 
or wrapped around my head tightly, hopefully not depriving me of 
oxygen, but of my shame. I was angry at myself, guilty, and embarrassed 
because I had not adequately prepared them to defeat that team. I made 
up my mind then and there, that never would I fix blame on a team, or 
an individual. The blame lies with the coach. And, should I lose my 
temper with a player, I would always go back and let that person know 
what I really think of him; what are his qualities and how I want us to 
fix the problem that we share.” With that Skipper smiled. “And 
sometimes I just act mad, so they will run a little faster around the 
track.” With a chuckle he added,” Now, that’s what I call good 
coaching.” And off he went, with his khaki trousers, and faded Notre 
Dame cap, leaving a line of brown spit as if a trail to follow back 
towards the field house. 

**** 

I don’t think what he said was new to me, but it made an impression.
Looking back, there are times I am not sure what was my own original 
thought, or what I took from his thinking and sharing. I guess it 
really doesn’t matter. He is apart of me. I think Skipper said to me 
once, he was a product of all the men he had ever known. He had taken 
from them the things that worked for him, and made them his own. Even 
the men he did not like or trust, he knew he did not want to be like 
them, and therefore, choose not to carry himself in the same manner as 
they did. Skipper always had a way of making everybody feel special and 
needed. Besides the nick names he would try to remember something 
special about each one, and ask them about it later. This tactic was 
not a gimmick, but a way of life for him. He used it very successfully, 
not only with the boys but also with his coaches. I think every coach 
that ever coached for Skipper feels like he was the closest to him. I 
know I did. I knew by the end of my first season, that Skipper had good 
friends in town. He was involved with Rocin’s Rotary group which met 
the second Tuesday of each month during the afternoon for lunch. 
Skipper would try to make these meeting, and encouraged me to come. At 
the time I didn’t, but I wished I had because some of these people were 
also involved in another group which was a big part of Skipper’s life. 
The Hibernia Society of Rocin was a strangely large crowd. They too 
only meet once a month, wearing kilts, tams and assorted Irish tweed 
garments. They did not seem to take this organization too seriously, 
for they had no a service object: no selling or contributions for 
projects or causes. They met so that they could have fun listening to 
Irish music, dancing and conversation. I did not understand the depth 
of their commitment to titillation until I went to a meeting in 
January. I was invited by Skipper, but I did not come with him, as I 
had committed myself to improving my strength and endurance, through 
lifting free weights with “Handsome Harry”. I had lifted weights over 
the years while I had been involved in sports, but Harry made it a 
science. He exploded a muscle group, through multiple sets and reps. I 
had the hardest time that night curling my drink to my mouth, and 
straightening my arm, as both would send a torrent of pain and 
stiffness to the offending muscle group. I had not planned to go out 
that night, but I did want to learn a little about the history of 
Rocin, and the people who called it home. And that I did. 

Chapter Fifteen 

A History of Rocin 

**** 

Leon (Mac) McCall was a former professional rodeo rider,  or so he said,
who had broke every bone in his 64 year old body at least once. He had 
a small ranch west of town, but I don’t think he was there very often. 
If God had ever smiled on a cowboy, it was him. He had enough money 
from his sale of real estate, and enough work that by eleven o’clock in 
the morning he was done for the day, until feeding time about five 
o’clock, which was when he fed the horses. He could smile that fairly 
toothless smile all day long, and with it, radiate good will and peace 
on earth. He was a joy to be around, and fun to hunt with, as I found 
out later. His favorite place was the town-square’s bench outside of 
the courthouse. 

He sat there day after day enjoying the visual scenery provided by the
passer-byes in his faded and frayed blue jeans, snap button work shirt, 
and worn down, pointed toed “cock roach killers“. If they stopped to 
talk to him in the morning, they would still be there by the afternoon, 
listening to and enjoying his stories, yet wondering how they would be 
able to get away from him for lunch without hurting his feelings. If 
Leon could hold on till after twelve- thirty, most folks would offer to 
buy him lunch. Then he would unwrap himself from the bench, and amble 
over to Heinz’s City Café with them in tow to sample the town’s hardy 
food stock. One could not be a food aficionado when they ate here, but 
there was always more then enough food slung across the large plates so 
that when you left there you were satisfyingly full. He ate pretty well 
during the summer months because he was such a genial regaler of tall 
tales and cowboy historian. 

Leon found me two minutes after I walked into the American Legion Post
where the Hibernia Society met. I had chatted with him outside the 
courthouse myself when I first came to Rocin , and bought him a meal at 
our first meeting at Heinz’s Café. Also,  I had seen and spoke with him 
many times since our first meal at the City Cafe at St. Joe’s Catholic 
Church  before our chance meeting that night. I was still a bit tender 
on the subject of the black powder rifle he had lent me, but he had the 
good sense to stay off of that subject. 

His walk through the American Legion Hall led me to believe he had been
there at least an hour prior to my entrance, as he unsteadily made his 
way towards me. His seasonal felt cowboy hat sat nestled down across 
his right eye at a jaunty angle giving him the look of the Wild Irish 
Rover he used to be in his youth. He placed his left eye upon me, and 
even that eye seemed to be feeling too ill to travel as it rolled 
around dangerously in the socket. As he leaned against the wooden bar 
for support, he began, in his Texas drawl, to point out the people who 
sponsored this monthly meeting, and the ones who spiced up the event. I 
listened as he enthralled me with stories about his life and the 
changes he had seen., all the while I was scanning the room for the 
whereabouts of Skipper. By the time I got around to buying him his 
second drink, he had changed topics and was starting into the early 
history of Rocin. 

**** 

He began by telling me that Rocin had been part of a small land contract
during the time of the European Empresarrios, who came to Texas for 
land in the early 1800’s. There had been two Irish colonies: one was 
the San Patricios Colony and the other was the Armagh Colony. Early on, 
in the development of the San Patricios Colony, there had been a 
disagreement in land distribution and two of the men had decided to 
take their followers and supplies and make their own colony. But, along 
the trail, the two leaders: James McStay and Shamus O’Rourke had a 
disagreement over a women traveler who had shown both men affection on 
alternating nights during the journey west towards the new colony. It 
was at this point the story stopped as I bought Leon another beer. He 
turned his face towards his new glass of the amber liquid, and gave it 
a benevolent smile as if looking at a long lost friend and enjoying 
their companionship. As he drank, I looked the large smoky room over 
again for Skipper, finally finding him sitting in one of the round 
tables which were placed in a semi-circle around the saw dust plied 
dance floor. He must have been watching me for sometime, for when I 
looked over at him, he gently raised his glass of iced tea in a silent 
toast as if acknowledging and thanking me for the amount of time I had 
given to Leon that night. I raised my glass back at him, and we drank 
at the same time, almost laughing as if a silent joke had passed 
between us. I had just placed my glass back down upon the wooden bar 
when I realized Leon had taken up the story of Rocin again. “The town 
of Rocin“, he started, “was named after Shamus O’Rourke who had lost 
the affection of the women based on a coin toss between the two men, 
since the women could not make up her mind as to whose company she 
enjoyed the most in the middle of the night.” He followed with slightly 
slurring words, “Jimmy McStay had taken part of the followers and that 
good looking gal and continued to head northwest, O’Rourke, on the 
other hand, had taken his group and figured to head due west with some 
slight northward movement as his mind wandered and become poisoned by 
anger and resentment he felt towards his old side kick, Jimmy. He 
finally stopped at a place that would become the town of Rocin, not 
knowing that McStay had stopped north of him and together they formed 
the colony of Armagh. Now, Shamus would never marry after this tornadic 
event and became an angry old coot.” Leon was not sure whether the town 
was named after the draft horses Shamus used to haul freight to the 
closest railroad station, or after the way he treated folks from the 
north side of the colony and settlement. In Spanish, the word, “rocin”, 
means work horse or rough man, both would have fit in well with the 
attitude of Shamus to Jimmy, or the draft horses Shamus used to pull 
freight around the area. All this I got from Mac as he rambled on about 
the Armagh Colony of old. I finally excused myself from the verbal 
barrage of Leon’s history lesson, and reminding him of his humorous 
generosity concerning the use of his black powder rifle during this 
past deer season hunting trip, made my way towards Skipper’s table. 
Skipper was wearing a thick wool Irish fishing sweater, and a old eight 
piece tweed cap. The Irish Society had hired a bag-piper for the night 
along with an Irish musical group, that played with fiddles, tin 
whistles, flutes and accordions. The sounds, smells and the clothes all 
made me feel as if I was in Ireland, but the closeness of this 
falsified Irish community made me wish I was back in Louisiana with my 
relatives, enjoying all the accouterments of my Spanish-French Cajun 
upbringing. I watch Skipper dance with, what I thought of as, out of 
character for him, unusual vigor that night, and I found myself 
enjoying this strange evening, and the town of Rocin. 

Chapter Sixteen 

Prettiest Girl 

**** 

I found myself enjoying this town even more when Skipper introduced me
to the prettiest woman in Rocin who may have watched me fall into the 
Rocin River during the row boat races between the three churches. How 
he knew this was the girl, I have no idea. But like I said, Skipper did 
not mind listening, and when someone from the Lutheran church told the 
story about the new coach going for an unexpected dip in the Rocin 
River while enjoying the view of a pretty young woman from his church 
during the annual race, Skipper probable just asked for the name of the 
girl. He got it, and shared it with me the very day he embarrassingly 
introduced us after school in the coaches’ office. It has been a 
tradition at Rocin High that whoever was the new coach that year, and 
until another new coach arrived, he would have to give the sex-ed talk 
to the Physical Education classes- this included the football team. 
Therefore I was given the prestigious task my first year. Holes 
thoroughly enjoyed my discomfort, and tried to ruffle my composure with 
Playboy pictures stuck inside my text and notebook. He succeeded more 
then once. I had inherited this job from Killer Bob who had taken over 
for Harry after an incident when Harry was teaching the class. He had 
started with an introduction to his subject that had caused a stir in 
the town and turned the town mothers against him as the illegitimately 
enlighten educator of love between the sexes. His first salvo on sex 
education sent the town mothers to the town fathers, who in turn bent 
the ear of the school principal. The saving grace here, was that the 
principal went to Skipper himself, and left Asst. Principal Smith out 
of the loop. Though I am not sure what Harry had said in his first 
class, whenever the subject was brought up, Harry left the room in 
haste. But, because of this opening, he had been placed on waivers, and 
sent to the showers, and the more solid and serious Killer Bob had been 
given the mission. Now it was my turn. After helping with off-season 
equipment pick up that afternoon, I was called to Skipper’s office by 
one of his linemen. At first I was a little worried I may have done 
something wrong, but I could not figure out what that could have been. 
I continued on my way past the assistant coaches’ office, stopping at 
Skipper’s closed office door, knocking upon it, opening it, and poking 
my head into the room. I saw he was with a young woman, and believing I 
was intruding, I begged their pardon, and started to close the door and 
wait outside. I was brought up short by Skipper’s command to, “ Come on 
in, Muley”. With a gleam in his eyes, he teasingly remarked,” Coach 
Sanchez, this is Nurse Beckingdorf.” I could not believe my eyes! This 
was the girl from the boat race! Skipper continued, “She is here to 
show you the particulars on the Venereal Diseases class you are 
scheduled to give next week to our Boys. Now, I will leave you two 
alone to get to involved in the subject matter.” With a whimsical look, 
Skipper got up from his desk and proceeded from the room, leaving me 
red-faced and embarrassed with the girl of my dreams. 

Her name was Anne, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and the type of figure a
man cannot talk about , but only dream of. I was in love; love at first 
sight. I had heard of it, and wanted it, but I had not expected to find 
it in this small Texas town. I listened to what she had to say, but I 
could not understand it; thankfully so, as the subject she was talking 
about was not one I could have shared with any women including my 
mother. My thoughts were on would she remember me, and how can I ask 
her out after this conversation? Her words seemed to go over me, and 
around me, as I stared into her strikingly clear blue eyes, and perfect 
skin. I looked at her golden hair, and delicate features and felt 
myself taking a deep breathe for courage and steadying myself to ask 
her out. Her last sentence included the words: “warts” and “ sores”, 
not the two best words to begin a courtship. I almost gave up, but her 
kind, genial smile was an encouragement to me. After she had exhausted 
her disconcerting topic, I took a deep breathe, and shakily asked her 
out. She blushingly said yes, and after we had a good laugh at the 
awkwardness of our situation we fixed the time and place for our first 
date. She, very kindly and conveniently forgot, that the reason I fell 
into the river was making a decisive effort and maneuver to get a 
better look at her coming up the river bank during the boat race. 
Skipper and Holes had set the whole thing up, and later that afternoon 
had laughed uproariously at my benefit, but I joined them both 
understanding the humor, and the fact I received something very special 
out of this little comic episode. Life in Rocin was good, very good. 

Chapter Seventeen 

First date 

**** 

Anne: what a treasure. After the first meeting she had to put up with
the date cretin. I have always tried to be a romantic guy, but it never 
failed, whenever I would go out with a pretty girl something strange, 
weird, or horrible happened. Our first date night was one of these 
occasions.  I could not believe this beautiful girl had agreed to go 
out with me. I also could not believe that Skipper had made this happen 
after the boat races and my inopportune swim in front of Anne and the 
town of Rocin. 

I ran home and took a hurried bath in the old claw-footed bathtub that
had come with the garage apartment. I always felt a bit like a king 
whenever I had a moment to enjoy a bath in at home. Many times I just 
showered at the field house, and I never touched the bath until the 
weekend, but that night I felt like a king and still was able to hurry 
as I had no intention of being late. I even re-shaved the bearded 
region around my face, and splashed it with a liberal dose of Brute. 
The sting of the after shave made me feel like it was the end of the 
old me and the beginning of the new. The teeth were next, and I started 
by flossing and then brushing. I hardly ever flossed back then, and 
besides the substantial amount of blood  and crud on the white string, 
afterwards I found those annoying and marginally painful lumps that 
start to poof out between the gaps of my teeth after a white string 
gauging attack. These bumps, while not comfortable, were never really 
noticed by your date. I brushed back my wet black hair, and after 
putting on deodorant from an aerosol can, I took a quick look-see in 
the mirror to see if I was presentable to the prettiest girl in town. I 
passed, not great, but I could always throw in the part about playing 
college football, which sometimes helped me appear more adventuresome 
then I actually was. 

Dressing was not hard, as I had only one suit: black to marry them or
bury them as my Uncle use to say, and two sports coats. I choose the 
lighter colored one, as it was still warm during this part of the year. 
I did have to dig around to find a pair of clean pants. After a hurried 
and frantic search, I finally decided on blue jeans, not because they 
were the only ones clean, but because I wanted Anne to think it was 
sort of a causal date. The jacket made it special, and the blue jeans 
made it causal- at least I hoped this is what she would think. I was 
getting more nervous by the minute. As far as shoes, I would wear my 
relatively new wing-tipped cowboy boots, after all this was Texas. 

**** 

I should have remembered to clean out the car before I got all dressed
up, but I didn’t. I ran out to the car opened the door, and stared at 
the trash that had accumulated over the past few months. I had taken no 
dates out recently, and the football players I had taken home only 
giggled and left no lasting comments. I could not have Anne see my car 
in this condition. I ran back upstairs and grabbed a broom. I was 
starting to sweat in my light colored jacket as I ran back down the 
stairs and decided to throw it off in the grass, before I opened the 
car door and stuck the broom inside and started to rake out the trash. 
I keep checking my watch as I worked, it was clear I was still early, 
but I was losing my time cushion fast. Mrs. Shupac , my landlady, came 
outside and in a firm but gentle way reminded me to pick up the mess on 
the driveway before I left. I ran up the stairs, grabbed a brown paper 
sack, and, now dripping with sweat, ran back down to pick up the left 
over bits of food, and the wrappers. This was accomplished quickly, and 
seeing the trash can open with no lid down the alley, I made a most 
satisfactory throw into the open can with the full bag of trash. On 
this note, as I ran to my car, I felt the world growing warmer and 
happier. I reached down and picked up my jacket, throwing it on as I 
got in the car and started it up. Backing out of the drive all I could 
think about was Anne; her smile, hair, face, and , well, everything 
else. But as I drove I began to smell the unpleasant aroma of dog 
feces, or should I say dog mess. The longer  I drove the stronger it 
smelled and I did not have that far to go. Anne’s house was two more 
streets away.  I braked the car hard into a parking lot, and cursing my 
luck under my breath, I jumped out and checked my shoes. Nothing. I 
stuck my head into the car and looked to see if I had wiped it from my 
shoes onto the heavy vinyl of the floor boards. Nothing! What was going 
on? I could not really smell it when I had got out of the car, and I 
had only caught a light whiff when I reentered. I checked my watch, and 
jumped back into the car, thinking, perhaps, it was on the tires. This 
made pretty good sense to me, and I did not bother looking. The smell 
came back strong and brutishly hard as I turned down Anne’s street and 
stopped the car. I took one more look around the inside of the car, 
checked the tires and saw nothing. I was right on time, and I was not 
going to be late, therefore, I went to the door and nervously rang the 
bell. I should not have been nervous. Anne met me with the biggest 
smile and had the warmest welcome. It was like I had known her forever, 
and it made me feel as if we were meant to be together, or at least 
meant to have a good time. She invited me into the house to meet her 
parents. Her father was one of three City of Rocin’s police officers, 
besides the police chief, He was a strongly built bull of a man, but he 
greeted me with a generous smile and a firm handshake. Her mother could 
have been an older reflection of her daughter. And the warmth in which 
she greeted me was one of incredible tenderness. The family was real 
and loving. This was not faked, and neither was the discomfort with 
which Mr. Beckindorf was experiencing. He was looking around, with a 
strange look on his face, as if he had watched a Clint Eastwood movie 
and was trying out a new squinty eyed expression. But the crow lines 
around his eyes began to deepen, and his eyes seemed to lock onto mine 
as if to say ,“there had been no smell in this house before you got 
here!”  I decided at that point to suggest we get going. Mr. Beckindorf 
did not make a big fuss about where we were going or when we were 
coming back. He seemed preoccupied with the strange awful scent that 
had entered the house when I did. I swept Anne along in my hurry, and 
with my hand gently, but firmly in her back we made it to the car. I 
opened the passenger side door for her, and hastened around the car to 
my side. Anne seemed quite pleased with my attention, until we reached 
the end of her street. I caught the panic in her eyes from the corner 
of my right eye, as she tried to make sense of the overpowering dog 
scent in the car. She began to take small shallow breathes and her head 
began turning slightly as if looking for something without seeming to 
get my attention. Her kind heart would not let her speak of the 
difficulty she was in. I knew I should have told her, but I could not 
bring myself to speak of it either. This fuming perceptible dog tang 
was not going to ruin the best night of my life, no way, no how. Little 
did I know Anne not only had a keen sense of smell, which I grew aware 
of as she turned red holding her breathe, but she had keen eye sight as 
well. In a gulping breathless tone Anne told me to stop the car. I did 
it in an unbelievable hurry so as not to make her waste her breathe by 
saying it again. With the dust cloud rising through the open windows of 
the car, she took her long fingers and pointed at the right side of my 
jacket and then reached up and held her noise. One did not have to be a 
great detective to gather information to discover guilt, I was the 
guilty party, and I knew it. I jumped out of the car and tore off my 
jacket. Quickly I looked at the offending party, and with embarrassment 
and anger, I throw it down on the ground. At that point in my life I 
knew two things about myself and that jacket. One, I wanted to leave it 
and my embarrassment on the ground and drive off, and two, if I drove 
off without the jacket, I would not have the money for another one fro 
a long time. Logic won out. I apologized to Anne, and went in search of 
a faucet. I cleaned off the offending article of clothing at a house 
across the street and two doors down, and tossed it into the trunk for 
a through cleaning later. Anne had just watched me throughout the whole 
decision and cleaning episode. She had not spoken, but sat there 
quietly in the car watching me with gentle understanding blue eyes. 
When I returned to the driver’s seat, I waited for the joking to start, 
but it never did. She just pushed over beside me in the car, took my 
arm in hers and laying her head on my arm asked me where I had planned 
to take her. I felt an enormous amount of relief and thanks. Not only 
was she beautiful and smart, but also caring and considerate. I knew I 
had found my girl. 

Chapter Eighteen 

Second Date and Another Woman 

**** 

I made it through the second date with only a flat, but the third date
is the one that almost did me in. Instead of chewing tobacco most the 
time, I chose to chew gum in hopes this would sweeten my breathe. I 
chewed it in the classroom and out coaching, and especially when I was 
nervous. As I was when I went to pick up Anne for the third date. We 
were not even out the door when Anne’s interest in football took over 
our conversation, and by the time we reached the stop sign at the end 
of her street, I had agreed to show her how to throw and kick the 
football on the high school football field as a lark. Anne was athletic 
enough to do anything she wanted to do in sports, and a willing 
learner. Though she did not have the shoulder strength, she rolled back 
and fired that football like a champ, a little girlie, but man, what a 
girl! It was the kicking part which almost did me in. I decided that as 
a coach I did not want Anne to kick without warming up her legs. I had 
seen too many guys hurt themselves without a proper warm up. Also, I 
wanted to impress upon Anne how important a job I had besides teaching 
health and sex education to adolescents. We started out with the 
hurdler stretch, where you place one leg out in front of you, and the 
other one you bend and place your foot behind you. We were able to 
stretch both legs easily, especially since Anne was in pants. The 
problem was I decided we needed to do butterflies to warm up the groin 
muscles. This exercise is called butterflies because you place your 
heels together and bring them into your crotch, so it looks like your 
legs are butterfly wings. I knew this was not necessary but I wanted to 
show off to Anne how limber I was. Boy, was I limber. As soon as I 
pulled my heels into my crotch, and pushed down with my elbows, that 
was all it took. Anne was right in front of me, watching me, mirroring 
whatever I did. The only thing was I had a full tank of gas from the 
beans I ate last night, and it sang a note off tune-right in front of 
Anne! This was par for the course. She just rolled onto her left side 
and broke up laughing. There was nothing I could do. I had not had any 
warning, and could not have recalled it if I wanted too. I felt myself 
go crimson from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. But, I 
decide to stay in the butterfly position and act like maybe it never 
happened. Perhaps she will think it was my pants ripping, embarrassing, 
but on the scale I seemed to be weighed on, not too bad. Anne was 
laughing so hard, she could not breathe. I could hear nothing , but a 
small inaudible gasp for air every few moments. Finally, a long drawn 
out, “ Oh MY Gosh” erupted from her and spewed out onto the football 
field covering me with shame. I guess my little ruse was not going to 
work, and I decided to relax my butterfly position, without upsetting 
my colon. While I was thus entangled, Anne had gotten to her feet, like 
a prize fighter who is punch drunk, and launched herself at me. I could 
not believe it she had tackled me, and I loved it. She gave me our 
first kiss right there and then. She explained to me she had never had 
a date that had felt so relaxed he could do THAT in front of her. We 
both broke up over that, I rolled on top of her and kissed her lips 
deeply. I knew everything was going to be alright  after this tackling 
session. And, because one is never enough with a girl like Anne, I 
decided to go in for another kiss. At that very moment I went in for a 
second kiss only this time on her tender white neck The wind moved her 
hair as I made my romantic approach, and the gum which I keep in my 
mouth at all times competed with my lips to see who would get there 
first. The gum won. Panic again! And gum was stuck! Just when I thought 
it was over, I am back in panic mode. I knew what I had to do. I could 
not lose face twice in one night, so I set about trying to get the gum 
out with my tongue. The only problem with that was my tongue was bigger 
then the gum and only succeeded in pulling in more hair from around her 
neck. I felt myself begin to lose hope. I knew I had to tell her. But 
no! Another idea came to me, one born of necessity: all I have to do is 
cut the gum out, and teeth are meant for cutting. I began slowly, and 
methodically. Starting with the first hairs up front, I began to gnaw 
away, and at the same time making excited noises like I was enjoying 
kissing her neck. The noise and urgency, I think, began to give her 
clues something was amiss as I chomped harder at the middle of the gum 
tangle where more hair was located. If I had had better acting skills, 
I believe I could have gotten away with it , but acting under  the 
pressure of losing face, and perhaps losing the girl, the urgency took 
over, and completion of task was utmost in mind. With these clues she 
knew something was up. She pushed me away at the same time I cleared 
the gum tangle. With a questioning look she saw the hair and gum ball 
on my lips, with the realization dawning as I spat it out upon the turf 
in triumph what had happened. As for me, triumph turned to 
embarrassment when I saw my scheme had been found out. I did not know 
what to say, except I am sorry. I tried to explain about the gum, the 
wind, and her hair moving, but all I got was the same Clint Eastwood 
look her Dad gave me when I met him for the first time at Anne’s house. 
Her finally words on the subject that night are probably the secret to 
our marriage, “ Don’t ever do anything without asking me!” 

**** 

The second lady in my life was Mrs. Mary Belle Koreneke. I met her on my
second day at Rocin High School. I had just obtained a key to my 
classroom, and I was not expected by Skipper until about ten o’clock 
that morning. I figured it was a good time to check out my classroom, 
and see what was needed to dress it up before the next school year 
started. I had been told by the principle that if I needed anything I 
was to go see Mrs. Koreneke in Room 103. She was in charge of history 
teachers, and she would be my mentor this first year. I was feeling 
pretty sure of myself, but after visiting my room, I decide to go down 
to Room 103 and  introduce myself to her. I found Room 103 alright and 
I stuck my head in, but there was no sign of Mrs. Koreneke, just the 
smell of cigarette smoke and a slight haze near the cracked open 
window. I decided to investigate, because I had seen the sign that 
stated NO SMOKING in big letters near the office in the front of the 
school. Mr. Koreneke’s desk was near the open window with a small 
petition behind it. It was just big enough to hide a person sitting 
down. And that was how I met Mrs. Koreneke. She was sitting down, 
staring out the window and smoking a menthol cigarette. She must have 
heard me coming, because she had not turned around, but asked in a 
strong raspy voice, “So, you are the new history teacher.”. It was more 
like a comment then a question, and more like resigned acceptance then 
joy. I did not think she had the right to judge me so quickly without 
knowing me. I was preparing to engage in verbal combat. She stopped me 
with a look. She turned to face me, and beamed a smile both mischievous 
and familiar. She had short red hair without a hint of gray. Her eyes 
were at first hidden behind those silver cat glasses women and girls 
found fashionable in those years. But later I saw they were a clear 
blue. Her face had been weathered by both the sun and tobacco, but it 
beheld a strength and ruggedness that was both handsome and attractive. 
She was in her sixties when I met her, but she ran that wing of the 
high school building as a earl would have run his fiefdom. She knew the 
principal was the boss, but everything needed to go through her to get 
passed up to him. If you needed school supplies, she got them for you. 
If you needed advise in handling a student, you went to her. And if she 
didn’t like you, you did not keep your job at Rocin High School. I did 
not receive all this information that morning, it came to me over time. 
Time spent watching her and learning from her. She was amazing the way 
she worked people: mothering on one hand and dictatorial on the other. 
She looked at me through her cat glasses with the smoke curling up 
around her, and asked the question that was on all the teachers’ minds. 
“ Coach Sanchez, are you a coach or a teacher?” I paused a moment to 
figure out what she was asking. If I said coach, she would not believe 
I liked history and teaching, and if I said teaching she probably would 
watch me and decide for herself. “I am not sure Mrs. Koreneke.” I 
started, “ I guess I am a teacher first, and a coach second, but both 
seem to be helping students.” Again Mrs. Koreneke smiled her familiar 
smile. “What does Skipper call you....? “Coach Sanchez”, I answered. 
“Don’t worry, he will come up with something, he always does.” she 
remarked. “That man, he couldn’t pronounce his own name if he had not 
been born with it.” “Well, Muley“ she continued,” that was an honest 
answer you gave me about teaching and coaching, and I am looking 
forward to working with you. If you have any problems, you come see 
me.” She smiled and turned to look back out the window. I realized I 
was excused, and as I turned to go, she made one more observation for 
me. “Coach Sanchez, I hope you realize that smoking in school is 
against the rules, and in the future I would appreciate you knocking so 
that I can use the window and prepare for your entrance.” There was a 
twinkle in her eye as she stated,” You do know what I mean? Don’t you? 
“ I nodded. “Good“ ,she acknowledged,” I will come by and check on you 
later.” 

**** 

And she did. She never missed an opportunity to teach my something about
people. She always made me feel welcome, and periodically she would 
invite me outside her room where the teachers’ picnic benches were to 
eat her home made fried chicken, or chicken fried steak for lunch. She 
was one of those people who could acknowledge the difference between 
students and teachers. If a teacher smoked on campus, they took their 
chances. But if a student smoked on campus he was a “flippin 
degenerate”. The same applied to possession of a knife. A teacher/coach 
is an adult with many types of jobs to do, and a knife is just a tool 
for cutting.  When a student was caught with a large knife, his parents 
made a big deal of Holes having a pocket knife during a football game 
on school grounds cutting tape off a player. Mrs.Koreneke, stood up at 
the facility meeting and laid the logic out for us. “ To start with, 
Holes is a grown man, and not some teenage adolescent with something 
phallic to prove. Second of all, he has to cut items daily as part of 
his job, including tape, mouth pieces, and jerseys. This little jackass 
and his cow of a mother should realize that the only tools the mule 
headed one needs are paper, pen, textbooks and brains. “ And with a 
grin, “No offense, Muley”. “No kidding”, Holes responded  before I had 
an opportunity to, “ if only we had the tools to make more touchdowns 
as easy as cutting tape”. That was the end of the meeting, but it left 
me with a fond memory. My own mother was back home in Louisiana, and Ma 
Koreneke treated me like one of her own-with love and care. 

When Ma Koreneke found out I was dating Anne, she made sure I dressed
nicely, and knew the best places to eat out when we were out on a date. 
I even took Anne on a long afternoon date to San Antonio, where a 
former student of Ma’s had taken up residential and financial success 
in that rare picturesque city by opening a restaurant near the River 
Walk. The lunch had been wonderful after visiting the many Missions 
that dot the landscape throughout the city, and when I opened my 
pitiful wallet to pay for the meal, I was told the bill had been paid 
in full. Someone else had paid. I was glad Anne had not been present to 
see my relief at the news, but when pressed, the manager had looked me 
in my eyes and told me he had taken care of it as a gift to his 
favorite teacher, Ma Koreneke. He also told me that there was no way he 
could truly ever repay her for all she had done for him, and therefore 
this was a token of his esteem. I never forgot that. As a teacher, one 
never knows how far into another’s life we have crept. Whether on cat’s 
soft feet the memories flow into their thoughts, or like an elephant 
roaring in with the rough surf, demanding an accounting of why a 
decision was made, and how can one be so stupid!  I remember both types 
of teachers in my own life, but only one type fondly. Mary Belle 
Koreneke was one of these to both students and rookie teachers. 

Chapter Nineteen 

The Kitty and Old Henry 

**** 

I cannot begin to explain the things that moved Skipper, but a few items
stick out in my mind when I look back over the years with an eye tuned 
towards understanding his motivations. First, Skipper had a knack of 
being a bit of a hypocrite when he was trying hard not to be one. This 
maybe hard to understand but just thinking back I can think of a few 
examples which still brings a chuckle to my throat. Those red Folgers 
coffee cans were a bit odd looking when I first arrived, sitting on the 
coaches' desks as dirty, rusty symbols of some long ago wakeful 
triumph. Sometimes the coaches would put the lids back over the red, 
dented cuspidor so as to keep the contents from pouring out should the 
can be hit by someone in haste to leave the office or caring balky 
equipment to and from the field. This was the state of the office 
spittoons when I arrived. Now Skipper did not believe in using 
profanity around his Boys, and he stuck to it. He made the rest of us 
walk this same line, and all of us had to make a quick apology to the 
Boys when in a rare moment we might slip and let an unflattering word 
get away. I had grown up in Catholic schools when I was younger, and 
had lost the habit of using impolite words in polite society after an 
incident with Sister Mary Margaret and a bar of Ivory Soap. As far as 
the other coaches, they fought their own battles over this 
issue-including Skipper. Holes' contribution to this rare event came 
after he attended a play put on by the high school drama department. He 
not only attended, but every year he would slip into a play and have a 
minor part, which he claimed generated more revenue for the school due 
to an increase in ticket sales the night he was performing. I doubted 
it, for the drama department never let me see the ticket sales results. 
It seemed that during the months the play was in rehearsals a “kitty” 
was used to help keep profanity off the stage and out of the theatre. A 
“kitty” would seem to be like a purse, where when you screwed up and 
used foul language, you had to add a dollar to the purse, or “kitty”. 
This money was then used to have a party after the play was over and 
splurge for food or entertainment. Holes came in with this idea one day 
after Skipper had a firm talk with all coaches after a particularly 
hard day in the off-season. Holes took one of the dented Folgers' 
coffee cans, walked over the bathroom and rinsed it out, before making 
the declaration that the can could be used as the “kitty” to hold a 
dollar each time we swore or cursed around the Boys. We all laughed 
about it, but agreed to use it and talked about how small a party we 
would have with the amount of money we would raise due to foul or 
profane language. Even Skipper liked the idea and agreed to keeping it 
in the coaches' office. But, I had not counted on the Henry and Mr. 
Smith incident. 

**** 

Henry was seventy odd years old, and had seen many sights in his
lifetime besides being the janitor for the field house. He had gone 
overseas with General Pershing's Rainbow Brigade during World War I, 
and had survived the Ardennes and numerous mustard gas attacks. How he 
had survived so long after these attacks and his habit of chain smoking 
, I do not know-but he had. He had worked as a cowboy, a policeman, a 
logger, and now a janitor. His most interesting short lived jobs 
included working as a security guard and body guard in Hollywood during 
the 1940äs. I think this was the main reason Henry and Skipper seemed 
to be such good friends. Skipper enjoyed spending time talking about 
movies and actors with Henry, and Henry enjoyed sharing insider 
information about the people he had meet. Every once in awhile after 
hours, you could find those two enjoying a beverage in Skipper's 
office: scotch for Henry and a small bottle of soda for the Skipper, 
laughing and talking about their love of movies and gossiping about the 
people they knew in Rocin. There was not too much to do in Rocin in the 
evening if you were not working, as the television stations in Houston 
and San Antonio had a hard time reaching Rocin in those days. Every so 
often though, Henry seemed to lose his focus on reality and his light 
hazel eyes seemed to dart about with  a paranoid agitation, looking for 
the enemy or a surprise mustard gas attack. When this happened, the 
coaches or teachers ran to get Skipper so that he could calm Henry 
down. This dementia is what caused Mr. Smith-the Vice Principal, and 
Henry to butt heads. Henry had an old military cot in the laundry room 
hidden to the left of the washing machines, where he could lay down if 
he needed to rest. He usual needed to rest sometime after ten in the 
morning and before one  in the after noon. Sometimes the nap lasted 
from ten to twelve , but Henry always got the P.E. and athletic clothes 
washed and the dressing rooms cleaned up prior to football practice. 
The Boys loved to come into the field house and see him working with 
his stained coveralls, and Rocin baseball cap placed on his head at a 
precarious angle. Because Skipper treated him with respect, the boys, 
and the rest of the coaches treated him the same way. A couple of 
students over the years had even interviewed him for school reports 
over World War I. He loved telling a good story, and Skipper loved 
hearing them. The day Henry's problem become general knowledge was much 
like any other Spring day in our high school world. Henry had started 
the clothes in the dryer that morning after mopping the dressing rooms 
floor, and had fallen asleep in his cot, keeping warm while enjoying 
the rhythm of the dryers. Soon though, he began to feel slightly cold 
during his restful slumber, and awoke to find the pilot light off on 
one of the two dryers, and the startling rank smell of natural gas 
filling the air. Before Henry could make a through investigation of the 
problem, Mr. Smith, on the prowl, had come into the field house and was 
making a quick inspection of the problems in the athletic department 
that he would addressed when next he spoke with Skipper. Besides, it 
was a well known fact that Mr. Smith did not like Henry and could not 
wait to catch him sleeping on the job. Henry, for his part, returned 
the feeling with similar vigor. Like a full bellied pot-stove in his 
dark suit, Mr. Smith waddled into the laundry room, and found Henry on 
his ancient knees, looking into the bottom portion of the dryer trying 
to find the problem. “ Henry,“, he demanded, “ what have you gone and 
broke now? Henry just pointed, and grunted, “Pilot light is off.“ Mr. 
Smith, who loved his polyester and wool suits, and hated dirt, throw a 
clean towel onto the floor and knelt down beside Henry, nudging him out 
of the way with and elbow and a look of contempt. Now, the way Skipper 
told me the story, may not have been the way Mr. Smith saw it, but I 
prefer Skipper's version probably because it always made me smile. It 
seemed that Mr. Smith, with dripping disdain, turned to Henry and asked 
for a light to get a better look at the problem under the dryer. Henry 
with a gleam in his eye, reached into his shirt pocket and took out a 
box of matches, and with deliberate care took one single match out of 
the box, shut the box and looked into the frightened bi-speckled eyes 
of Mr. Smith not more then six inches away from Henryäs green eyes. For 
Smith, the world must have gone into slow motion as fear took hold of 
his senses. Unfortunately, his rotund little body did not move as well 
as it once did, and as he moveded to get out of the way of the 
impending destruction of the field house, he jumped up and dove out of 
the way, hitting his foot on the edge of mop pail while his short 
stubby legs tangled up with the mop itself, tripping and trapping him 
into a pile of filthy, sweaty athletic uniforms. When Mr. Smith finally 
came up for air, he saw the match had not been struck, and the slight 
smile that was on display across Henry's face he became livid as he 
realized the joke that had been played upon him. “You 
son-of-a-biscuit”, Smith shouted, only he used the correct term for a 
female dog. Henry light the match. The sight of the corpulent, squatty 
figure of Mr. Smith running out of the field house in cowboy boots, and 
dark suit with the brightly colored polyester tie, shouting “GAS!” 
should have been strange enough, had it not been for the old man with 
silver white hair, coveralls, and a Rocin baseball cap who was 
following Smith and closing ground rapidly with a pronounced limp. The 
race was on. Skipper caught sight of this peculiar race on his way back 
to the field house and watched in amazement as Henry tackled Smith to 
the ground. Skipper swore the only words Henry keep repeating, as he 
pulled Henry off of Smith, were “these damn Krauts”. He was suffering 
from what would become known as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or- 
when he felt threatened- flash backs. 

Chapter Twenty 

The School Board 

**** 

After the incident, the old janitor was relieved from his job for two
days, and a special session of the school board was called to hear his 
case and consider his dismissal. Skipper, as a follow veteran and 
friend, went to help represent Henry and his feat in the school board 
session. After an impassioned plea by Henry, the Board left and 
returned in an hour's time with a verdict of guilty, and sentenced him 
to be fired from his janitorial duties within the district. This would 
be a crushing blow to an old man who had very little left in life but 
his time with the coaches and Boys of Rocin. Skipper stood up in his 
slow measured way, cleared his voice and asked to speak to the school 
board. He was a tall man made taller by the old and dejected man 
sitting beside him. I was there for this part, as was most of the town 
of Rocin. The school board was made up of men from around the town and 
area of Rocin. Encouraging smiles and acknowledgements came from some 
of these men who had had sons play football for Skipper and thought the 
world of him, plain faced were those who had not. “ Gentlemen”, he 
began, “ when I first came to the town of Rocin in 1952, I was greeted 
by a man who was out cutting the grass around the football fields. He 
was not so gray or so old, but he was very kind to a strange man in a 
strange place, and asked me to share his lunch with him. I spent a 
wonderful afternoon listening to stories about the town and people that 
would become my home.” Every eye in the room was either on Skipper, or 
Henry as they sat their listening. Skipper paused and scanned the 
school board members from left to right checking their eyes for 
understanding. The Coach's eyes stopped at one of the members on the 
right side of the table. “ Say Ben, he even asked me to say a prayer 
for your mother who was sick with pneumonia at the time. Skipper looked 
to Ben's left. “And Paul, he was so happy with you and Linda on the 
birth of your new son, he almost sounded like he was the new 
grandfather. I can even remember when Randall there threw up in the 
locker room after a tough days practice, and Henry mopped it up without 
complaining, patted him on the shoulder and went and brought him a 
glass of water to rinse out his mouth.” “Folks, this man who sits in 
front of you has nurtured and prayed for you people for more years then 
I care to remember, and now you are making the decision to send this 
good and righteous man away, and never allowing your children a chance 
to be loved by this man.” Skipper's eyes took on the all to familiar 
look of flint, while his squint and voice betrayed his deep feelings 
about what Henry's friendship meant to him. Henry keep his eyes lowered 
to the floor, looking like the old frail man he was. “ My friend 
Henry's only fault was having being a veteran during W.W.I, and during 
a moment of crisis, reliving a memory where he had to fight or die. We 
can not blame Henry for this experience, even if he did volunteer to 
fight and die for his country- your country.” “And now, as he  has 
reached the twilight of his remaining years without his cherished wife, 
or children- except for those of us who look on him like family- we are 
sending him out with nothing going nowhere? We owe this man more then 
that! He did not mean to attack Mr. Smith, and he has apologized. What 
else will we have him do? “ Some of the heads around the table were 
slowly beginning to nod in agreement as Skipper continued. “Many of you 
fought in World War II or Korea, or knew people who did. We watched 
brave men cry, and young men die. The dead are forever young, but the 
ones who survived are old and gray. Henry survived World War I. He 
survived and taught our youths the  skills he learned as a young man 
defending our country. He has taught them respect, honor, valor, and 
honesty. And how do we show him our thanks and give him respect -by 
firing him because of one forgetful and stressful moment? “Because if 
we must judge him on one moment or action of his life, let us use his 
act of volunteerism for the First World War, or the loss of breathe he 
suffered in the mustard gas attacks he endured, or even the Silver Star 
he earned at the Ardennes.” Skipper's voice had risen with his feelings 
during this discourse to the school board. Now, he returned to the 
quiet  yet commanding voice, which held long pauses to control 
feelings. “I am asking that you, the school board, give him another 
chance. Give this brave veteran the chance do the job he has done for 
all these many years, and influence the lives of another generation of 
young men as they pass through this school on their journey through 
life.” Henry's eyes lifted off the floor, he raised his head, and 
squared his shoulders. The years dropped off, and there in the chair 
next to Skipper sat the man who had fought the Germans and lived to 
roughly enjoy old age. One who had treated the boys under his care with 
kindness and fairness. Rather at opposites with the way Mr. Smith had 
treated an old man in the laundry room. Henry did not ask to speak to 
the board himself, but the effect of Coach's words had made a 
difference in his appearance. He had heard in public what Skipper 
thought of him. And, with the esteem he felt for Skipper's opinion, he 
looked on himself in a new light. Whether he got the old job back or 
not, he was still a man with dignity and pride. Nothing could change 
that. I watched and admired this change in Henry's demeanor, while he 
stood up, and thanked the school board for their time. Then, he turned 
around and walked away from the table he had shared with Skipper, and 
with all eyes on him, proudly walk down the aisle and out the door. The 
admiration I had felt a moment ago was now lost in sorrow and 
veneration as I watched Henry leave, so much so, that at first I did 
not hear the crackle of a clap as one set of hands pounded together to 
create a rhythmic noise of approval. This one set of hands was joined 
by another, and then another until the whole group was standing up, 
looking out the door that had just been vacated by Henry. I had been 
sitting with the other coaches throughout the proceedings, and I knew 
who had started that clapping. It had started right next to my right 
ear. The only person who had been right next to me was, my nemesis, 
Killer Bob, who had begin the standing ovation. And picking it up from 
him was Holes, who seemed not just proud of Henry, but defiant after 
Skipperäs gallant speech. The school board upheld their ruling. Henry 
would no longer be employed by the Rocin School District. It was the 
general opinion around the field house that the school board had to 
take the side of Mr. Smith to let him save face. The older I have 
gotten , the more I understand politics. I understand it, but I do not 
like it, and I wish that common sense or a sense of righteousness had 
taken hold of the school board on that day, but it was not to be. 

**** 

Should Henry have been given another chance? The unanimous consensus in
the field house was - Yes!  The School Board had got it wrong. The 
coaches returned to their office, and threw themselves down at their 
desks with nods of disbelief. Skipper did not say anything, but that 
did not stop Holes. He began to curse and swear, until Harry reminded 
him of the Kitty, and the payment of a dollar for each swear word that 
had been uttered, that would have to be placed in the red coffee can on 
his desk. Holes reached into his skin tight coaching shorts, and only 
came out with a small pouch of Redman chewing tobacco and a ring full 
of keys. At this point, due to his exasperation with the situation, his 
language reached a new level of flowing, similar to the profane rappers 
that share the air waves with religious and political talk shows today. 
Holes keep this up until Skipper got up from his chair, left his 
office, and moved towards Holes' desk. Once at the desk, Skipper opened 
the coffee can lid, and reached into his pocket. He then pulled out one 
twenty dollar bill, and then a ten dollar bill, and put the money in 
the can without saying a word, never taking his eyes off of Holes. The 
Coach then turned around and left the field house without saying 
another word. Harry, smiled at his old friend Holes, who had stopped 
speaking after Skipperäs actions, and said: “ Looks like Skippers O.K. 
with your word choices. I guess you can keep it up.” Holes looked at 
him in disbelief, and then back at the coffee can in disgust. “Harry, 
this is the äKitty'”, Holes exclaimed, reaching over to my desk, 
grabbing a different dented red coffee can. “The coffee can Skipper put 
the money into was my spittoon. Now, before I say another word, get 
your butt over here so that we can clean the money off. I have not 
gotten Skipper's money worth yet.” Killer Bob stared in stupefied 
disbelief at the two of them gingerly picking the money out of the tin 
can, and tipping the brown, lumpish contents out into the sink. 

Chapter Twenty One 

A peaNutty Buddy 

**** 

There were other things about Skipper that were not hypocritical. One of
these events was the peanut-butter  event. Never let it be said that 
anyone coming to Skipper needing food was turned away. Harry had told 
me of the Steptoe boy who always found himself with Skipper at lunch 
time. Johnny Steptoe was the son of a gas pipeline meter reader, who 
spent much of his hard earned money on booze. Johnny had neither money 
nor food for his dinner, and would make his way out to the field house 
so no-one would see him go hungry, or he would not have to suffer while 
watching the other students eat. According to Henry, before he left his 
position as janitor, during one of these lunch interludes, Skipper saw 
Johnny sitting on one of the benches outside the door  going into the 
locker room. Skipper stopped by the corner of the field house and 
studied the young freshman before he spoke to him gauging his age and 
reason for being there.   He had not seen him out for football, or 
track, and he looked way too short for basketball. “Hey there, Young 
Man“, Skipper started with a growing smile,” You new or something?” 
Johnny just shook his head and looked away embarrassed. The old pine 
plank he was sitting on sat there just as quietly as he did. Coach , 
standing up in the doorway, leaned an elbow on the door sill, and 
cocked his cap back over his head and thought silently.  He had seen 
this look before over the years, and he was guessing the boy was 
hungry.  Maybe that explained why he was so small and puny. “You know, 
I was fixing to eat my dinner, how about sharing it with me?” Johnny 
looked back toward Skipper hesitantly “There is way too much for me, 
and I would not be able to finish it all today, and a portion of it 
would have to be thrown out“. Now, I'm not doing you any favors, and 
actually, you would be doing one for me.” Johnny thought this over, 
smiled and gently nodded his head. “Well”, Skipper declared, “let's go 
to my office and have a look. “ This was just the beginning of the many 
shared lunches between the two. Ever day after that Johnny could be 
seen in Skipper's office sharing lunch with him. It was a heart warming 
sight the big white man and the little black boy. Though he never 
played football Johnny would be one of Skipper's boys. And when Johnny 
wrote his first book, he dedicated it to the man he shared lunch with 
his freshman year. Even Harry would find some spare coins to buy Johnny 
a candy bar now and then. What Skipper did not know was that Johnny's 
dad , though a drinker to excess, loved his wife very much, and proved 
it five times over six years. And, though Johnny was the oldest, he was 
not the hungriest. Therefore with each year another Steptoe would enter 
the high school, and another mouth to feed. When Skipper finally 
figured this out, he changed plans. He could not stop feeding Johnny 
and the others, he would just have to change their eating patterns. 
Once there were two Steptoe kids in high school, Skipper gave them 
their own locker in the field house: Locker Number One. Then, he gave 
them a combination lock with the combination to allow them to get in 
when needed. And finally, he gave them a large jar of peanut butter and 
honey, and supplied them with a new loaf of bread every week. This 
changed to a new loaf every three school days, once there were four 
Steptoes in the school at the same time. I had a hard time believing 
“Handsome Harry”, who told me this story after it was told to him by 
Henry,  until the day I took off from school for a much needed Rest and 
Relaxation day, and having slept in, made it to school in plenty of 
time for lunch and to prepare for off-season that afternoon. Since I 
was on my own time and in no hurry, I went down to the field house and 
into the locker room looking for evidence of the famous locker, Number 
One, next to Skipperäs office. There before my eyes were three students 
eating peanut butter and honey sandwiches while sitting on the blue 
painted wooden benches neatly placed in front of the lockers. I could 
not believe my eyes. They looked at me as an intruder, and I very much 
felt the part, as I had nothing to hide me from their enquiring and 
suspicious eyes. I had come looking for them, had found them, and could 
not think of anything to account for my being there. Harry's entrance 
into the locker room helped me make an excuse and gave me an 
opportunity to leave. He nodded after me with a knowing smile, which 
allowed me to turn red, as I turned left to leave the building. But, I 
was soon to find out this was not unusual among teachers, supporting 
their students. Ski supported one of his players, and even Harry 
supported one of his players whose mother , no surprise here, was an 
attractive divorcee. The difference was Skipper did it in the open, 
with more then one student. It was school gossip and with gossip there 
is always an ear for the hearing, that was Mr. Smith. A directive came 
down from Mr. Smith, that no students could leave the cafeteria, and go 
down to the field house during lunch for any reason. A point had been 
earned by Mr. Smith, but counter-point was not too far away. Skipper, 
upon hearing this decree took his concerns for the Steptoe's to the 
high school principal. A new directive came out from the principal's 
office the next day making the Steptoe's boys, Students Assistants, to 
the coaches during the lunch period. In this way the boys go to eat, 
and Skipper added more fuel to Mr. Smith's fire concerning the 
conspiracy to get him in the coaches' office. I have often viewed 
Skipper and the other coaches through bits and pieces of memory. They 
stood by each other and their Boys, whether players or just adapted 
students. They armed me with the knowledge how to share and care deeply 
for our Boys, our school, and our town. 

Chapter Twenty Two 

People Do Change 

**** 

There were a couple of more interesting things that happened during that
first year at Rocin. David Shepard returned from boot camp and Military 
Police training in February. The first place he came to visit was the 
field house , and the first person he came to visit was Coach O'Bryan. 
He meet Skipper right before off-season practice, as it had taken him 
about a day and half ,coming by bus, from Alabama. He did not look the 
same: he looked better. He had always been tall and muscular, but, now 
he held himself ram-rod straight, and looked you directly in the eyes 
as a man should. Even his grip was firm with strength, and, in my case, 
seemingly with genuine warmth. I was surprised at how glad I was to see 
him, and see him looking so well. I guess the military life had 
appealed to him after all. He had won some honors coming from his 
schooling, and had been made a rank similar to that of corporal. If I 
appeared glad to see David, then Skipper was ecstatic. He not only 
gripped his hand readily, but pulled him into a bear-hug in front of 
all the boys scattered around trying to re-energize after a stout work 
out. This  collision of tender paternal bonding surprised all of us, as 
could be witnessed by the look of astoundment on the players faces. I 
do not know why I was surprised, but I was. I look back with the 
advantages of time, and believe it was because of the depth of emotion 
that surfaced on Skipper's face. I saw moisture build up in his eyes 
and begin to over flow, dropping over the rim of his eyes skipping down 
his face as a pebble skips across a pond with bold and brave jumps. I 
felt the lump in my own throat, growing large and tightening up my 
windpipe with tender emotion. David's response to Skipper's greeting 
was one of surprise, at first, but he returned the paternal greeting 
with such affection as to end any ideas of impropriety. His tears could 
not be stopped, and could only be compared in duration to his huge 
smile, which would not, or could not, leave his face. The only problem 
I had with this reunion was the fact that it took Skipper's attention 
away from working on my offensive game plan I was putting in during the 
off-season after the boys had gone home. At Skipper's insistences, all 
coach were excepted at these meetings in the field house. None seemed 
to mine the extra hours put in after work, except maybe Harry, as it 
limited him to a date nearby, instead of foraging further a field for 
feminine companionship. At that time in my life, I am sure I was a 
little envious of the Coach's success and friendship with the boys. He 
had years of experience doing this, and all I had was months. The only 
word I could use to describe this relationship he had with them was 
Love! I wondered then if Skipper had any children of his own. I knew he 
had been married sometime in the past, and he lived by himself now on a 
little five acre plot of earth he called his ranch. Holes would know 
the answer, and I resolved to ask him when we were alone  after the 
work out today. 

**** 

After the meeting, which Skipper had missed to take David out to lunch,
I tried to Holes alone to ask questions about Skipper's early life. 
But, Harry and Holes were cutting up and I could not get Holes alone. I 
chose not to waste any more time and I asked them both about Skipper's 
children. “ Skipper had one son,” Holes said, “ but they were never 
close.” Harry nodded in agreement. “ He left when his mother left 
Coach.” Holes and Harry looked at each other with a kind of telling 
glance. “ Skipper's son died in a car accident five years ago.” Holes 
delivered these words sadly. “ He was a real ring-tailed cat. “ He 
continued. “ A wild man.” Harry agreed “ He had numerous run-ins with 
the law before he was fifteen years old and caused a lot of grief for 
the Old Man.” Holes  divulged. I felt miserable. Why did I not know 
this? Why had I not asked earlier? There was nothing I could have done, 
but still, I could have walked more gently if I reached these rocky 
paths of inquire. Skipper had said nothing to me about this area of his 
life. “ Muley, Skipper thinks these kids are his, if you haven't 
noticed yet.” stated Harry. “ I sometimes think he believes if he loves 
them, disciplines them and helps them, he is making up for not being 
there for his own son.” Holes agreeing with Harry,” It is his 
penitence. And though he loves them, I believe it is his guilt that 
drives him.” But, there was absolutely nothing he could have done for 
that boy of his that he didn't try, short of forcing his wife to come 
back to him.” “She left him because of all the time he was spending 
coaching and scouting football.” he added. Harry looked over at me and 
winked,” that's the reason I wont get married.” he quipped. Holes shot 
Harry a look that could have said,” shut your mouth,” but didn't. With 
this reprimand, Harry quieted down and let Holes finish. “ There was 
only one kid, but it's part of the reason he is who he is, and why he 
does what he does. I know he turned to alcohol for awhile, and maybe 
for a little while it helped, but it did not last long. He put the 
bottle behind him, well, I think he put it behind him. I haven't seen 
him drink in years.” I thanked them for sharing this information. 
Because of this trust we shared, I now had a little more information to 
shed light on Skipper's life and what made him tick. I do not think I 
could have handled the death of my son as he had. If he had chosen this 
mission of helping others to justify his guilt, then so be it. It was a 
worth whiled mission and one to be proud of. This fact had been 
exhibited by the look on David Shepard's face, and the look in 
Skipper's as they meet in the field house that day; I did not begrudge 
that feeling one bit- at least, not after that. 

**** 

February was an interesting month that year with another sudden
appearance, only this time it was the missing link for my offense. 
Jimmy “ Aussie” Knowles entered my life ,and later, into the record 
books of Rosin High in the same year. His parents had moved to 
Australia seven years before to work for Esso and the off-shore oil 
exploration. 

He had had to learn to fight to be accepted by the youthful Australians,
and being a good athlete, he had been accepted after a few wins ,and 
some painful loses. His dad had been a high school quarterback growing 
up in Texas, and loved to throw the football, therefore Aussie was his 
constant throwing companion while in the Land Down Under. And Boy, 
Aussie could throw that pigskin. The only problem I had with Jimmy was 
his long, free-flowing hair. Though I was highly impressed with 
Aussie's throwing and athletic abilities, what I was not impressed with 
was his rather take-it-easy attitude towards life. But Skipper just 
smiled, and asked me to give him a chance. This was easy for him to say 
as I was the quarterbacks coach, and Aussie had just slung his long 
golden locks around and out of his face, and stated that he wished to 
try out for quarterback in an accent the girls found adorable, and the 
boys found a bit effeminate. I was ready to just say no, that is until 
he picked up the ball and lofted the prettiest dang pass I ever saw 
about one hundred yards down field off his back foot. But when he threw 
off his front foot, and drilled one of our better receivers, with a 
pass that could have gained five yards more based on velocity alone, I 
was excited. Needless to say, I was impressed and with a haircut, this 
Australian  was my type of football player-a good one! . 

I almost lost out on coaching one of the two best quarterbacks I have
ever seen in high school football. I was ready to make Aussie's hair an 
issue. I told him he could not come into the off-season program without 
getting a decent haircut. He just looked at me, nodded and walked off. 
He was not rude or disrespectful, just decided. Every day during last 
period, for this was his Student Aide period, he would come out to the 
stadium and watch our boys go through the off-season program. And, 
every day I would see Skipper, stop and spend a few minutes chatting 
with him. I do not know what was said, but they always seemed polite to 
each other. Me, on the other hand, I was angry at the Aussie for not 
following directions and choosing not to become part of our football 
program. My feelings were hurt, and I would refrain from talking to him 
until he did what he had been told. In other words, I would ignore his 
existence, I would shun him. The other coaches followed suite, except 
for Skipper. All Skipper every said to me was, “give me a little more 
time, he is softening.” I waited. And, I waited some more. I was on 
pins and needles, and feeling betrayed by Skipper's since of warmth to 
this disloyal Hippie from Down Under. About week three, I found Aussie 
dressing out and I hit the roof. I went and sought out Skipper. I told 
him, I would not abide Aussie coming in here and making a monkey out of 
me, by dressing out with his long hair still on his head. On the 
athletic field, it was still the time of crew cuts, and no hair on the 
collars or over, the ears. I also told Skipper, if Aussie went on that 
field with his long hair flying, I would needed a letter of reference 
because I was going looking for a new job! Skipper gave me a serious 
look of consideration with his chin held in his cupped hand. “ Are 
those your final words on this subject?” he asked in a serious tone. I 
nodded that they were. With a light smile betraying his intensions, 
Skipper told me,” Knowles is suiting up as a manager today, and 
tomorrow he will join us as a freshly sheared recruit for our football 
team.” he smiled even wider when he saw the look of disbelief on my 
face. 

The wind was out of my sails, and I felt the relief of nervous energy. I
was not sure how to leave the room. I guess I was in a minor state of 
shock. I hesitatingly smiled back at Skipper, and turned to leave, but 
stopped to ask him what had made Aussie change his mind. Taking a 
moment to enjoy his response to my answer, Skipper finally told me the 
secret. “ I told him, with that amount of hair, it is my professional 
opinion, that it would be unsafe for him to play football and risk 
injury or the loss of hair. I also told him we needed him to make the 
state play-offs and I was tired of watching him hold up the fence over 
by the field. So basically the old poop or get of the pot line. He is 
getting off the pot.” I looked at him in disbelief, “ Is that all you 
said to him?” Skipper nodded. “ You basically told him it was unsafe, 
and we needed him?” Skipper just smiled and nodded again.” Some times 
just letting them know they are special, and that you need them is 
enough. It was for Aussie. Now, you get to training and grooming your 
quarterbacks outside there, and I will show our new manager around.” 

Chapter Twenty Three 

The Fight 

**** 

As my first year at Rocin drew to a close, May brought another example
of Skipperäs philosophy to fruition This was the time of the school 
year when nerves are on edge and tempers flare. The second week in May, 
Skipper held a meeting to discuss fighting with all his male coaches. I 
was told that each year, during the last two months of school, young 
men take every insult and witticism uttered by another to heart, and 
are ready to engage in battle. I looked on this, my first year, as so 
much talk, but I was to find out it was true. Rico Vasquez was a barrel 
shaped offensive tackle, who handled the taller defensive linemen with 
a great center of balance and bull strength. He had the smallest legs 
you ever saw, but what they lacked in length, they made up for in 
strength. He had no length to his stride, and therefore went without 
speed, but his quickness would have made him a great boxer. I was just 
thankful he was not the center, because the quarterbacks would have had 
to squat down real low, or get on their knees to receive the snap at 
the line of scrimmage. The only problem I could see concerning Rico was 
his fierce loyalty towards the team. No one could say anything against 
the team in his presence. Especially anyone who would not play 
football, but instead choose to play basketball, and was taller then 
him by a foot. This someone had a name, and an aloof style that drove 
those on the football team half crazy with his condescending attitude: 
James Stuckey the III. Stuckey was the center for the Rocin basketball 
team the past three years. He was 6'6” that year, and the local papers 
were proposing him to be All-District again, and perhaps an All-State 
candidate this, his last year at Rocin High. I just knew him as the 
tall kid that wouldn't play football for us, even though he was a 
gifted athlete and an intense competitor. I don't think he would admit 
to it, but his parents may have been part of the reason he did not play 
football. They did not want him playing a collusion sport like football 
so that it would minimize his chance of getting hurt, and increase his 
chance of getting a scholarship to play basketball in college. Not that 
his family would admit they needed the help financially, but every 
little bit helps when you are from the country, and a scholarship would 
give them bragging rights within the community of Rocin. James on the 
other hand, had to build up his defenses as to why he did not play 
football, and therefore, chose to look down upon those who did. With 
this prideful attitude on James' part and Rico's fierce loyalty towards 
the team, these two were bound to come into physical conflict. And 
conflict they did. It was during my lunch duty on Tuesday afternoon, 
and I was nodding hello and chatting to some of the students and 
players from my classes, when I first heard there was a problem. The 
rectangular lunch room tables were arranged in a scattered pattern 
around the cafeteria. Rico sat with the football players and their 
girlfriends, while James sat with a table of up-and-coming socialites. 
The identifying terms that are used today might be Jocks verses Preps, 
but whatever the terms, they were at odds: Rico representing the Jocks, 
and James the champion of the Preppies. These two group sat back to 
back, and had enjoyed humorous exchanges all year long without troubles 
until today. Things had reached a volatile point between the two 
groups, and I found myself in the midst of it. 

James had taken it upon himself to talk about the brutish sport of
football, and how the weight training had begin to make them look like 
gorillas, and in some cases, “thick necked bulls and short, stout 
legs“, turning around and looking directly at Rico. That stung Rico, 
and he barked back, “ At least I am not afraid to play football!” The 
gauntlet had been thrown, and both young men stood up to retrieve it; 
ready to do battle there and then. I felt the adrenalin start pumping 
in my body, and into my head, and faced with a fight or flight response 
myself, I closed in on these two. I would not have them fight in here 
while I was on duty in the lunch room, and I took it as an affront that 
they would even think about fighting here. But, I was not quite fast 
enough. James, under pressure this year after an injury, to play with 
pain, attacked with a straight jab to Rico's face. Rico took the punch 
like an oak tree takes a dull axe stroke-unflinching, and caught James' 
hair in his left hand, twisted it up, and landed a hard right handed 
punch to the left side of James' face. That is when I got there. I 
grabbed Rico's right hand, and yelled at him to stop. His eyes and grip 
were rock hard on winning this battle, and I could not get him to focus 
on me. He just keep twisting and pulling James' hair, trying to work 
his right hand free of my grasp. James was throwing some wild punches, 
with a a couple of them landing harmlessly on Rico's upper body and my 
back. I realized after a few yells, Rico was not responding to this 
noise level, and changed tactics. I got near his face, and quietly 
asked him to stop. His eyes finally focused  on me, and with 
recognition, came obedience. He let go of the hair and backed off. 
James stood there holding his hair and the right side of his head. Rico 
stood there with blonde hair strands in his hands-a lot of hair! 
Instead of taking them both to the principal, I took them to the 
Athlete Director for the school: Skipper. He would know what to do. 
Skipper was eating his own lunch with Johnny Steptoe when we arrived. A 
roast beef sandwich wrapped up in wax paper. I was feeling a little 
hungry myself, and wished I had remembered to bring my lunch kit from 
the cafeteria. That could wait. I was ready for Skipper to light into 
them, but if this was my expectation, but I was way off base. Skipper 
dismissed Johnny, waited for him to leave, asked them both what 
happened. He listened quietly as they both took turns giving their own 
versions of the incident, listening with his eyes and ears, squinting 
when he needed clarification, and nodding when he understood. He then 
asked James to leave the room, and he spoke with Rico. “ Rico, he 
started, “I trust you to make good decisions. You are one of the best 
leaders we have on the field. But, I cannot have you engaged in a fight 
in the lunch room in the middle of the school day.” Skipper looked 
deeply into his face, until Rico blushed and looked uncomfortable. Then 
Skipper spoke. “ You are one of my Boys. I am so proud of you, and all 
the hard work you have accomplished this year. Just this one little 
episode, and you could have ruined the reputation you have so carefully 
built. You wanted a chance for a football scholarship, so that your 
parents did not have to worry about paying for your college. You have 
that chance of getting out of the fields and becoming an engineer, but 
I cannot guarantee you that opportunity if you continue to behave 
recklessly. The head coach at Sam is too busy to put up with this 
nonsense. I need your word that you will leave him alone, no matter 
that he had it coming. I want your word that , for the rest of the 
year, you will put this matter behind you, and make an effort not to 
fight. “ “Your word”, Skipper repeated again. Rico sorrowfully and 
respectfully gave it to him, and they both shook hands in the solemn 
ritual that men have when they trust each other.  I knew Rico would 
keep his word, he had given it to Skipper. But Skipper stopped him at 
the door with by calling his name. “Rico, he said and Rico turned 
around, “if you have to fight, and I am not telling you too, mind you, 
but if you have too, you get two pairs of gloves and come back here to 
the field house. I will referee, and you two can get this out of your 
system.” Rico smiled, nodded his head, and left with a bounce in his 
step. I was a little surprised, but Skipper did not bother to enlighten 
me, and told me to call in James. James came in a bit tentative, yet 
surly, and waited to be told to sit down. The Boss invited him to sit 
down right away, but sized James up in silence for a time before 
beginning to talk with him. We had all agreed, we being the coaches, 
that we could sure have used James on the football team, but no one 
else had bothered to talk with him since Killer Bob struck out with his 
parents. I waited expectantly to hear how Skipper would start off this 
conversation. “James”, Skipper started, “ you are a fine young man who 
has an opportunity to play basketball in  college. That sure is 
something. Most folks around here have yet to shake the hand of a young 
man who has played college ball-any type of college ball! I am very 
happy for you. But I cannot have you and Rico fighting in school. You 
are both leaders in your peer groups, and on your teams. This will only 
lead to trouble for both of you and the school. I want your word this 
will end here and now. “ This last statement Skipper delivered with a 
hard and intense look. I hoped James would catch on quick. He did not. 
“No, Coach. He attacked me, and it's not finished. I am going to get 
him. Today, tomorrow, the next day, I will  get mine!” I was surprised 
James was this vocal to Skipper, but the Coach just waited, and so did 
I. “ James “, he explained, “ I will do whatever it takes to have your 
scholarship offer revoked, if you chose this route. But, I am going to 
offer you this one, and only one alternative.” I could feel the stress 
set in for James as Skipper let his face do the talking. His eyes took 
on the hue of  ice berg blue, with an intensity that would have pierced 
rock. His small framed glasses sat on the base of his hawk shaped nose, 
and with the sharpness of his face gave him the appearance of that same 
said bird hunting prey. James was the prey, but what was Skipper 
hinting at, I did not know. I waited. 

**** 

“ James”, he delivered, “ if you want to really fight him, I will call
Rico back. I will let you both suit up in your gym clothes, and duke it 
out with gloves on wearing a mouth piece, with one condition, that 
whoever loses after three rounds, they are the loser and that is where 
it ends. There will be no retaliation by either parties- agreed?” That 
six foot, six inch  basketball center sat there in his chair in front 
of Skipper's 

desk and slowly began to nod his head, and then to gently smile. He had
made up his mind, he was going to slug it out with Rico. He knew he had 
the longer reach, and he believed he was quicker. Rico wouldn't stand a 
chance. Skipper called in a student aide and gave him a pass to find 
Rico and bring him back from class, or lunch if there was any time left 
in the period. James looked confused. The Boss sat at his desk and kept 
his gaze on James finally inquiring of him, “Well, James are you ready 
to get changed?” James hesitatingly uttered, “Coach O'Bryan, you want 
us to fight now?” “Right now, he replied, “hurry it up and get dressed. 
We will meet in the gym in five minutes.” James almost sprinted out the 
door to get dressed , and in doing so almost tripped over Rico on his 
way in the field house. Skipper barked at Rico as he came through the 
door, “Get dressed you line Hog, you are boxing James in five, no, make 
that four minutes!” There was no time for James to rally his group, or 
Rico to rally his. Both got dressed in their respective dressing rooms, 
and met in the gym, eyeing each other like gun slingers at high noon, 
yet keeping their distance as if realizing their time would come. Coach 
O'Bryan marched into the gym with two old leather boxing head 
protectors, and two pairs of gloves. He gave James first choice of both 
items and then gave the other three items to Rico with a wink. Rico 
just smiled. He then grabbed a sand bag that was holding down one of 
the P.E. volleyball standards, took out his pocket knife, popped a hole 
in the sack and used the small trickle of sand to mark a modified 
boxing ring. I watched with amazement and then self pity, as I realized 
someone would have to be in charge of cleaning it and that would 
probable be me. Skipper gave each of the Boys a new football mouth 
piece after he had cut off the hanging part of it, and the gagging part 
that rode past the teeth and into the back of your throat and always 
made some of the Boys gag and wretch. When I was young, I too suffered 
through this cruel time until I could take my new mouth piece home and 
cut off the gag reflex part. Here was Skipper taking care of this for 
both of them. I listened as Skipper told both boys that each round 
would be 90 seconds, and when he blew the whistle both parties had to 
stop or he would enter the ring and finish the fight. Both boys seemed 
to understand, as they nodded their head and flashed peeks out towards 
their adversary. I felt the excitement building. The student aide who 
had gone to get Rico, had let Killer Bob and Holes know something was 
up in the gym. When Holes realized the situation upon seeing the 
combatants, he strode over to the coaches' office grabbed the chains 
and , handing one to Ski, chained the doors to the gym shut in case Mr. 
Smith made one of his unannounced inspections. James and Rico had been 
informed of and adjourned to their respective corners when Skipper blew 
the whistle. I am not sure that James knew how to fight, but Rico did. 
While James came at Rico like a young colt full of life and vigor; Rico 
came out like a pistol slug,: coiled and lethal with elbows tucked and 
face protected. There were three punches thrown: James throwing a round 
house from the shoulder, that missed; Rico throwing a tough jab that 
stood James up straight, and Rico hitting with number 2 punch that took 
James down for the count. Skipper took the count up to ten as James 
laid on the basketball floor lifeless. Skipper then put his hand on 
James throat feeling for a pulse. He must have been satisfied, because 
he smiled up at Rico and told him to get dressed and back to class. 
Holes had disappeared into the dressing rooms and had come back with a 
bucket of water from the shower. He wanted to throw it on James but Ski 
stopped him as it would be hard to get all the sand and water up off 
the floor without ruining part of the wood floor finish. Instead they 
just threw towels into the bucket and put them on James' face. He awake 
quickly as his nerves must have still been on fire from all that 
nervous energy from the beginning of the fight. He looked around  for 
Rico, then slowly realized he was alone, and therefore, he must have 
lost the fight. He shook his head a couple of time to get rid of the 
cob webs, we now would consider it a concussion, and keep his eyes on 
Skipper. Skipper had not left his side after the knock-down, and just 
looked at him with a gentle gaze, quite unlike the ice hard look he had 
fixed on him as they sat near his desk prior to the fight. “I always 
wanted to play for you Skipper.” Tears brimmed James' eyes as he spoke 
these words. “I wanted too , but my parents wanted that basketball 
scholarship. Yeah, I act like we have money, but we have nothing. 
Without that scholarship I couldnät go to college, I would be nothing, 
just another kid trapped in this town. Then I would be an old kid 
trapped, and then just old.” The tears that had brimmed James' eyes now 
cascaded down making rivulets on his face as they ran. “ I am sorry 
Skipper.” He stated quietly as he got up and walked off to get dressed. 
Ski stayed with him while he changed to evaluate him , and after a 
positive report, escorted him back to his class. “What was that all 
about with James?” Holes asked “He use to tell me when he was younger, 
that one day he would play for me. I wish he had.” Skipper stated as he 
turned and walked away, back to his lunch and his office. I knew I had 
to ask Skipper a question before he left. “Coach, did you know Rico 
could box.“ I asked Without turning around Skipper nodded his head, and 
replied: “I taught him in junior high when he use to get picked on for 
being fat. He is one of my Boys, you know?” The light that blinded me 
came from Skipper's departure as he exited out the back gym door with 
the strong mid-day sun beaming through. I thought I had almost made it, 
when a voice came from that blinding light. “Muley, don't forget to 
clean up that mess on the gym floor. I would hate to see the gym floor 
finish ruined.” As I turned, Holes and Ski were hurriedly exiting 
though the formerly chained schools doors that lead back into the side 
central hallway. I turned back towards the door Skipper had exited, and 
with the door drawing to a close, I realized that with its closing, it 
also stopped the blinding light and my idiotic remark that was geared 
up, but not discharged from my mouth. 

**** 

Later I asked Skipper about the boxing match between the two athletes;
why had he let them fight, what did he expect the outcome to be? He was 
sitting at his desk, looking over his magnifying granny glasses, 
thinking about my questions. “There are times boys, really men, need to 
get physical with one another. They need to put their strength on the 
line, and challenge others. We are becoming a society trapped between 
men and women. Most women would rather have a good verbal exchange, and 
that fits their needs of one upmanship.” “But, men, I believe”, he said 
with a smile, “ have a biological need to be physical. Maybe, a need to 
dominate one another using their strength. Just like two bulls in a 
pasture need to go at it sometimes or even two dogs to decide who is 
the better one. I found myself nodding my head in agreement as I 
pictured his words, and remembered, from my past experiences, the dog 
fights I had seen over the years. He continued his train of thought 
into the future, “ There may come a day, our society limits our Boys on 
how to get out their testosterone; penalize them for doing what comes 
naturally, and then, when they cannot get a physical release for their 
anger, they turn inwards and plan not just vengeance but deaths.” This 
last part scared me for the aftertime of our Boys. But, I never thought 
it would happen, not in the rough and tumble atmosphere of the early 
seventies.  I left his office soon after that exchange with a depressed 
feeling, as I attempted to mentally prepare for my date with Anne that 
evening. But, I realized as I pointed my Chevy towards home, I had 
learn a valuable lesson: if there was to be another fight while I 
worked at Rocin, I would make darn sure I brought string or rope to 
outline the boxing ring, and hide the sand bags. 

Chapter Twenty Four 

In Love 

**** 

The school ended with very little fighting after the Vasquez and Stuckey
fight. Word had traveled through the teachers' and students' ranks 
about the fight, but Mr. Smith had not been able to obtain an 
eyewitness. Rico and James had even taken up working out together in 
the weight room after school in preparation of strengthening their own 
particular athletic scholarship for the next scholastic year. We, 
coaches, were off for the summer. I had asked Anne to marry me in 
March, we decided on a summer wedding, and we settled on early August 
as the time frame before school or football started. A two night 
honeymoon stay in Corpus Christi would be the limit of our meager 
travel budget, we had decided. The only problem was, which church? This 
was no problem for Anne. Though her parents may not have liked it, 
after talking with Father Tom, she agreed to convert to Catholicism, 
and my Catholic family could not thank her enough. This charming women, 
who had made the VD information seem frighteningly casual, would become 
my best friend, and wife by August. I was overjoyed. Holes agreed to 
become my best man after some prodding. I had wanted my brother Louie, 
but he had joined the Army Rangers program and would be out on 
maneuvers, and not available till after training. Mid June brought me 
to Anne's house, and, after a quick inspection by Mr. Beckindorf and 
hand shake, down to the business end of the marriage. Anne too 
scrutinized me when she opened the door, making sure I had on the 
proper scent, one that she had bought at the store. Anne and her mother 
asked me to help address the cards for the wedding and the reception. 
My penmanship had a mind of its own, going in and out with fine lopes, 
but lopes that looked very much alike and seemed to merge into the same 
shape no matter the letteräs form. I knew my presence was expected by 
the engagement team: Anne and her Mother, and I joined in the 
obligation of addressing the cards, thinking of it as a working date: a 
time to share with Anne after a long day of idleness and reading. We 
spent days working on those invitation and glorious but tedious moments 
together. Glorious in the delicious way that young couples bask in 
their time together; eyes only for each other, thoughts of the time 
they will spend together, and mostly, from a bachelor's state of mind, 
because there was always superb food in the house. I do not mean junk 
food, or left-overs, but Anne's mother knew how to cook, and was always 
pleased by my appreciation of a fine home-cooked meal.  So, while my 
stomach was full, so were my eyes: my stomach full of fine cuisine, and 
my eyes filled with the loveliness that was Anne. To top things off, 
once my future mother-in-law saw my horrid hand writing skills, she 
would not let me address any more letters, at least not any letters 
going to their friends or family. And since the majority of my family 
had to work in Louisiana,  and the distance they would have to drive to 
Texas was too far, I did not have to many envelopes to address. This 
put me in the unusual situation of having to be there but, with hands 
free to eat. 

**** 

Food may not have been my life, but the joys and sensation of eating
good food with pleasurable companionship holds a special place in my 
heart. This is the time of friendship and family. With this in mind, I 
had planned to have a memorable rehearsal dinner, since I had found out 
three days before the end of July that this was my responsibility as 
the groom. We had talked about it, and I had listened to suggestions 
from my future mother-in-law, but I had not known , even with all my 
agreeing, that the job was all mine to finance. This information came 
painfully to me as I had not greatly improved my finical situation 
since I had moved to Rocin. I counted up my miserly holdings, and 
opened my coin jar from my dresser, but find the situation somewhat 
lacking. I had given up the garage apartment, and the small house I had 
just rented for both of us had taken up too much of my saving. I was in 
trouble. And when in trouble I had learned to turn to Holes. He knew 
how to embarrass me, and tease me, but he also knew how to help a 
friend out. A true gentleman, perhaps not, but a trusted friend- yes. 
Holes suggestion was to hold a beer and barbeque rehearsal dinner, 
provided my in-laws where not planning this for the wedding reception. 
I knew Anne wanted something more then a country wedding reception, and 
therefore I was safe if I took the easy route for the rehearsal dinner. 
Safe from Anne's reception hopes, but not from Holes' special brand of 
humor. The phone number Holes hooked me up with was for one “Tiny Joe” 
Martinez. Holes claimed Tiny made the best barbeque in Southwest Texas. 
He was of German-Mexican ancestry, and all American in ability. I went 
and visited Tiny at his place on Dubina Road, just west of town. Tiny 
Joe's place was a medium sized independent building which served as 
both a meat market and restaurant. The meat market portion was run by 
his cousin Ignacio “Iggy” Martinez, and the business consisted of 
holding portioned frozen beef for those people who did not have the 
space or freezer unit at home, and would pick up the beef as needed. 
Deer venison processing and sausage making was also a part of the meat 
market business in this part of the country and it involved both 
cousins: one to make it, and the other to smoke it. Undoubtedly it was 
The Martinez's' best moneymaking venture besides the smoked meat 
department near the restaurant. The wood smoke smells were incredible 
as I stepped out of the car and looked at the distressed wood building. 
My mouth began to water as I perceived the wood smoke smells- mixed 
between pecan, oak, and a half measure of mesquite- tingling in my nose 
reminding my brain of the flavors and sight of  the smoked meats and 
sausages of years from years past, and the acknowledgement from my 
stomach, as I stepped onto the porch, that I was hungry. For those who 
have never seen an old-fashioned meat market or butcher shop, it was a 
treat to venture in there and view the surroundings. Two large screen 
doors would swing open and allow the customers in and out , while 
keeping the flies at bay. The interior was lighted by both natural 
light from the large front windows and two valleys of regular light 
bulb fixtures overhead. The man behind the counter used either a large 
wicked looking knife, or a fearsome cleaver to cut, chopped or butcher 
a side of beef, lamb, or pork. Should the butcher and the counter clerk 
both be wearing a white coat, patches of blood, and specks of red would 
be wedded to one of them, and, therefore, these sanguine decorations 
would keep you from having to guess which one was the butcher. The 
building itself would be chilled from the coolers and freezers where 
the meat was keep. But the one constant for each butcher shop that I 
was ever in, was the smell and sight of saw dust which was keep on the 
floor to absorb the blood and grease which would cascade around the 
butcher as he swung the cleaver separating the pieces of animal flesh. 
Tiny's was such a place. I looked in the window of the butcher shop, 
but proceed into the small restaurant attached next door where I had 
been told Tiny would be waiting. The meat line was not a help yourself, 
but a tell-them-what-you-want line. All types of smoked meats sat 
waiting in warming pans to be chosen and eaten by ravenous customers. 
On the right side table there were loaves of bread, where you could 
grab however many slices you might need, and eat with your meal of 
smoked meats. The ever present onions and jalapenos were keep next to 
the bread to add spice to your choice of meats.  Although it was late 
morning, and I had eaten breakfast late, I found myself a bit peckish 
and ready to consume a hefty sample of all the meats making an 
appearance behind the counter, that is, until I saw Tiny. Tiny was not 
tiny. He was huge. A bear of a man well over 6'5”, and probable topping 
the scale at well over 350 pounds. A dirty white felt hat rode 
dangerously high on the back of his salt and pepper melon shaped head. 
Although the day still held the coolness of a Texas morning, he was 
already perspiring with the droplet zigzagging across the hairs on his 
for displayed upper chest and soaking his blue denim work shirt 
underneath. He was chewing tobacco as if it were a wad of chewing gum, 
while he sat back in his groaning, gasping wooden chair. He was staring 
at me, and when my eyes focused on him, he smiled a brown tooth smile 
and nodded. Not wanting to make any mistakes on identity, as I did when 
I met Skipper, I questioned him about his name, received confirmation 
and introduced myself. I told him about my wedding, and the need for a 
inexpensive rehearsal dinner, and my thoughts on a beer and barbeque  
for the rehearsal dinner. He listened, smiled, suggested meats and side 
dishes while he spat into an old can on the floor near his table. I was 
almost sold on his presentation until he pulled out an old blue 
bandanna out of his hip pocket of his faded jeans, and slayed a fly in 
front of me with it. Killing the fly was one thing, but what bothered 
me was when he stood and used it to wipe a dirty table next to us, 
polishing the old table with the remains of the fly. I found myself 
imaging little wings and legs being smeared back and forth around the 
table. If he had then proceeded to wipe the sweat off his face or 
chest, the deal would have been called off. The price we had discussed 
was right, but the revulsion that incident invoked and, what may 
awaited my in-laws and guests for the rehearsal dinner, was throwing me 
off this track of choice. I left there feeling dirty, and unsure of my 
choice. I called Holes and spoke with him. He let me know that Tiny had 
a dramatic flare, and not to worry; the food would be wholesome and 
sanitary. I felt better and called Tiny to set-up the date and time for 
the dinner. I then called up Anne and told her of my arrangements. She 
did not seem overly pleased with my choice, but, with a few silent 
reservation on my own part, I brought her around to my way of thinking 
through a forced enthusiasm. 

Chapter Twenty Five 

The Rehearsal Dinner 

**** 

The night of the rehearsal dinner arrived in haste. I was nervous, and
called Tiny to confirm everything was on track for the dinner, even the 
beer. Catholics and Lutherans do not seem to have a problem with 
drinking beer, therefore I was hoping I would have enough of a supply 
on hand to tackle all thirsts. I keep thinking about that darn blue 
bandana, and the flies. I said a prayer to St. Anthony for help, and 
left it in his hands. The wedding rehearsal went off with only one or 
two small hitches. Anne and I giggled throughout the practice ceremony 
,and we almost caught the church on fire when we went to light the 
Unity candle together, which represented our new life  together, and 
Anne lost her grip on the candle. I was lightly holding her hand and 
could not catch the candle as I watched it fall and settle on the 
yellowish hued church carpet. I had the presence of mind to stomp on 
the flame before any real damage had occurred to the carpet. During the 
flight of the candle, I had heard a “Damn”, explode from somewhere 
directly behind me, quickly followed by an apology. Later that night 
Harry told me the priest had let that fly, and the Catholic side of the 
church had been deeply embarrassed, while the Lutheran side exchanged 
knowing looks. A major issue concerning my lack of knowledge of the 
rehearsal dinner was, it had not left me enough time to reserve the 
Catholic church's hall.  Therefore I had to reserve the Baptist 
church's hall for the dinner, and luckily, it was only two blocks down 
on Harperäs Way. After the wedding rehearsal, we all jumped into our 
cars and drove the four block to the First Baptist Church of Rocin-the 
first and only Baptist church in our town. The wedding rehearsal had 
been finished by 6:45pm, and Tiny was to meet us with his crew for the 
rehearsal dinner at 7:00pm. He was late, and I was nervous. Holes 
patted me on the back and informed me that he and Harry would look 
around and see where Tiny might be. When I went back into the hall, I 
saw Skipper looking over at me. He smiled and nodded, as he was want to 
do, and then he shook his head back and forth in a slow exaggerated 
way. That alerted me. Something was wrong. Holes! It had to be Holes. 
He was the one who had suggested Tiny, it was he who had offered to go 
look for him, and now something was up and Skipper knew it! I searched 
the room for Anne and spotted her in a group of people who were engaged 
in happy, animated conversation. I could not help but notice how pretty 
she looked in her light white dress with blue floral prints; buffonted 
hair-do. I was not going to let Holes, or Harry ruin my rehearsal 
dinner. I continued to search the room while visiting with our guest, 
as my eyes made sweeping searches of the party area, with a sense of 
desperation my nervous companion. As my thoughts turned towards 
protection of my domain and party, someone turned on a record player, 
and the music coming out was like a burlesque strip-tease number. All 
eyes were now turned towards me. Though I tend to tan rather easily, 
red is not my primary pigment color, but I was beginning to look a lot 
like the fire hydrant outside on the curb. Right then it would have 
been hard to tell us apart, except for the size, if we were standing 
side by side. I do not believe I could have turned an even deeper shade 
of red when a large cake came out from the kitchen pulled by Harry and 
Holes. I looked around for Anne, but she was nowhere in sight. She was 
probable so embarrassed for us that she had taken off to the Lady's 
Room to hide. I could not blame her. I wanted to run myself but 
instead, as the host, I waited for the impending disaster to present 
itself. Holes and Harry pulled the cake right up next to me, and began 
to sing, “For He's A Jolly Good Fellow”, with everyone joining in, they 
gave me three cheers, and at the end of the third cheer Anne popped out 
of the cardboard, plaster cake laughing and smiling and full of good 
cheer. Holes announced to the crowd, as I would not have time, money 
-or friends- for a bachelor's party, they wanted to present me with a 
girl in the cake, and that they had. It was the most fitting, proper, 
beautiful girl a man could hope for and she was all mine! 

**** 

The beer and beef were excellent, and quickly served by Tiny Joe who had
been in the kitchen all along- thankfully without his blue bandanna- he 
had just kept his truck hidden further down the street. I made my way 
over to the beer keg, and was pumping the keg up when I happened to 
look across the room and see Skipper. I had not been sure Skipper would 
come when I had invited him. He was not in the wedding, and he was not 
a family member, but in the time I had known him he felt like one. I 
wanted and needed his approval in all things. A smile and a slight wink 
from him was all that was needed for me to feel like I had been given 
the “go-ahead “ sign. In life there are few times you feel absolutely 
right about a decision, a smile and a nod from those you trust adds 
wings to your momentum. My mother, grandmother, and grandfather would 
be there the day before the wedding, so it was nice to have someone 
around you could think of as family. Skipper had become the father I 
wish I had had.  And anyways, it was he who had introduced us in his 
office concerning a topic usually indelicate to new couples. He was 
dressed in his tan suit, with a green bow tie accompaniment. He was 
drinking sweetened tea which Tiny had provided with the barbeque. After 
I had finished pouring my beer I went over and sat down with him. “You 
knew about the cake, didn't you?” I asked He smiled and nodded, 
casually eyeing my beer. “Holes and Harry just wanted to do something 
special for you, and Anne was happy to join in.” He answered. We were 
quiet for a minute, and I could feel the joy and happiness that 
permeated throughout the room. Now, I  also felt a bit uncomfortable 
with the beer in my hand in front of Skipper, but he made no comment. I 
took a good look around my surroundings with the dark wood paneling, a 
copy of a picture of Jesus at the Last Supper to my front, an old 
ceiling fan above my head, and the stale smell of old cigarette smoke 
awakened me to the irony of my location. “Can you believe it, I am to 
marry a Lutheran girl, in a Catholic church, and I am having my 
rehearsal dinner here in a Baptist church. Can you believe that?” I 
asked with a laugh. “Muley, it does not matter which church you go to, 
or which one you are married into. All that matters is that you have 
chosen each other in the sight of God.” I liked his answer. But I had a 
question for him. “Which church do you feel you belong to, Skipper?” 

He looked at me for a moment, and I waited. “I think I told you, I visit
most churches around here from time to time, but I do not go every 
Sunday and I may skip a month or two. I am comfortable with my faith 
Muley, many aren't, but I am. I know there is something or someone 
greater then me“, he rejoined. “I don't think God treats you any 
different because you changed the name on the label. “You know Skipper, 
I always thought you were Catholic, what with that Notre Dame cap, and 
you being Irish and all.” I asked this question with a laugh knowing I 
was getting personal. “Muley, I was raised an Irish Catholic from the 
mid-west, who else should I root for? I seem to remember a quote: äIf 
God is for us, who can be against us'. I expect the Fighting Irish to 
win- theyäve got God on their side.” He said with a laugh. He was 
silent for a short period, looked over at me. “You know Muley”, he 
started, “ I do not believe in praying to God before a game for 
victory, I believe in praying for protection for our Boys.” Holes 
joined us about the end of Skipper's sentence and coalesced into our 
conversation. “There is a prayer”, he blurted out, pickled with the 
smell of free beer as he sat down, “ that has always fascinated me over 
the years. Tell me what you think.” I had not idea were he was going, 
but waited, looking forward to a bit of Holes' insight on the subjects 
of God and games. “It comes from a famous Texas Ranger in the early 
eighteen hundreds. His name was Captain Jack Coffee Hayes, and he was a 
heck of a man. Here goes..I think.. 

äOh Lord, we are about join in battle with vastly superior numbers of
the enemy, and Heavenly Father, we would like for you to be on our side 
and help us; but if you can't do it, for Christ sake don't go over to 
the enemy, but just lie low, and keep dark, and you'll see one of the 
damndest fights you ever saw in all your born days. Amen.' 

“How about that for a prayer, calling upon God with one hand of the
prayer, and then ask him to remain neutral if he could not?” Holes 
barked as he laughed. About this time Anne came looking for me, she 
walked over and joined us at the table. In a most pleasing and 
protective manner I found myself placing my arm around her waist. 
Skipper looked at us, stood up, and raised his tea glass as if to make 
a toast. Holes and I followed suit reaching for our glasses as we did. 
I placed my arm back around Anne and waited. “To my assistant coach and 
his beautiful fiancée, may your children be many and your troubles be 
few. Best wishes to you both, and thank you for the wonderful dinner. I 
must say the dessert was the most appetizing about the whole evening.” 
This was said with a wink, as he smiled broadly at Anne. He started to 
leave and then he stopped, turned around and walk slowly back towards 
me, and with a bemused look in his eyes stated: “By the way Muley, did 
you think to ask the minister about the use alcohol on the Baptist 
church's premises? “ 

And with that statement and a chuckle he was gone. The party ended soon
after that, with myself, Anne and her family quickly picking up the 
cups of left over beer, loading the keg hurriedly onto Holes' truck, 
and mopping down the floor with Pine-sol in hopes of getting rid of the 
odor. I had forgotten the Baptist where not drinkers and no one had 
thought to mention it to me. As we were cleaning I had an odd sensation 
of being watched, and every time I looked up I found Anne's dad's eyes 
were boring into me with his malevolent looks of disgust. Another 
choice plume to add to my hat of misfortunes when visiting Anne and her 
family. Finally,  Anne and I made our way back to the car holding hands 
and laughing embarrassedly about serving beer in the Baptist church 
hall. As we walked and laughed I noticed Harry out in the parking lot, 
but he was not alone. I did not recognize this woman, but Harry was not 
one to stay long with one woman. I hoped one day he could be as happy 
as I know I would be with Anne. 

Chapter Twenty Six 

Wedding Preparations 

**** 

I had heard a bit about John and Jackie Kennedy's wedding, but Rocin was
not Camelot, and I was not JFK. Anne wanted me to wear a powered blue 
polyester tux to match the powered blue dress she had found in San 
Antonio. I really did not care what I wore as long as I could have Anne 
as my wife. But over the years as my grand children have taken out our 
photos of the wedding, all I see is a beautiful woman in a powered blue 
dress and a clown in light blue polyester and ruffles. With my brother 
Louie still finishing up Ranger school, Holes was my next choice for 
the job as the Best Man. Looking back, I guess I thought of Holes as a 
crazy uncle, or demented older brother, whatever he was, he endeared 
himself to me with acts of kindness, and acts of mental torture. I did 
not feel I could have asked Skipper to be the best man. And, Harry was 
busy chasing the young women between San Antonio and Houston; a 
secondary reason may have been my own insecurity that his body and 
blond locks may make Anne reconsider her decision to marry me. There 
was no way I would have asked Killer Bob. If he had found something to 
like about me, he did not let it get in the way of acting like he hated 
me. I had followed up my best man question by asking Holes to keep the 
practical jokes out of the wedding as I would be nervous enough without 
having to worry about him, Harry, or his own sons. I should not have 
been worried. “Muley”, he began with a flash of a smile, “ you and Anne 
have earned a break from me, especially after the cake episode.” He 
laughed. “ I promise to leave you two alone, that is, until the wedding 
is over. I thought about that for a minute. “Alright Holes, but I want 
you too say that again, and this time with yours hands were I can see 
them.” He laughed, held his hands out, and said it again. It was that 
easy. Harry was happy for both Anne and I, but he was keeping his eyes 
focused on improving the symmetry of both of his biceps muscles while 
wearing his new Bausch and Lomb aviator sunglasses. He still enjoyed 
the view of himself in Ski's sun glasses, which is perhaps part of the 
reason symmetry added a new dimension to his work-out program. Harry 
was now adding mirrors to our weight room for our Boys to look at their 
new parts as they were developing, but those same young men would have 
been hard pressed to get Harry out of the mirror when he was in their 
working out with them after school. Ski on the other hand kept a cool 
and aloof attitude, which at times seemed frosty. I placed his 
invitation on his desk when he was not there, so that I would not have 
to deal with his sneer and my own partially scared reflection in his 
glasses. I hand delivered the rest of the invitations to the other 
coaches, and felt a tad self-conscious before I handed it to Skipper. 
The Coach wore his usual school khaki pants and white t-shirt. He took 
the card with a smile, ripped it open, and read it. He nodded, smiled, 
allowing more teeth to show, and said he would be there. I was very 
grateful that he came to both the rehearsal dinner and the wedding. His 
approval was important to me. Perhaps, the disappearance of my Dad gave 
me a greater need for a older male's approval. 

My Dad had left the family when I was ten, and Louie had been eight. It
had not been easy on Mom, but my Dad's  parents had helped. They were 
determines to be apart of our lives, even if Dad was not going to be. 
My Dad's father, Papi, never missed a hunting season without Louie or 
me. Also, he never missed one of our football games. He did not talk 
much, but everything he touched was done well. He had been a carpenter 
for many years, working with his brother and their helpers to build 
custom homes for oil executives. After he retired from carpentering, he 
farmed a small plot of land near his house, and sold the produce he had 
grown from a couple of  galvanized coolers he left under his car port 
next to an old cigar box. He used the cigar box to hold the change 
customers left or made from the produce he had raised when he was not 
there.  He had grown older since I had left home to go to college, and 
had a hard time going hunting anymore by himself. My Abuelita, on the 
other hand was still a fireball. She was Irish and French, and all 
emotive as those two Gaelic people can be. One minute she could be 
happy and singing in French, and the next minute she could favor the 
wolf's anger right before she sprang with a switch in one hand and a 
belt in the other. The weather might change quickly in Texas, but it 
had nothing on my Abuela. But, no matter her sensitivity, she was 
always there for us, whether swinging a wooden spoon in anger, or 
swinging a spatula full of frosting, ruining our dinner - or so Mom 
said.  She like to cook, and cooked more Cajun and Creole food then 
Mexican food, for that was the food she had been raised on. Grandfather 
Sanchez claimed he would be glad to come to my wedding as it had been a 
long time since he had had good Mexican food. My Abuelita wanted to 
know if the Anne had any insane, or retarded people in her family. Back 
then the fear was it would pass down from generation to generation. I 
had not thought to ask Anne, but I also realized I was not going too. 
It did not matter to me. Nothing mattered but marrying my Anne. My 
Mother was a wonderful women, who could say more with a look then any 
women I have ever met. When I told her over the phone I was planning to 
marry, she did not ask many questions. She waited till she saw Anne and 
I together and just observed. I saw her intensely watching the two of 
us together when she came down to visit. I was not sure what she was 
looking for, but she must have seen it, because she never questioned my 
choice, or asked me about any second thoughts. She had a quality about 
her, that was unique and rare. In my romantized mind she was a noble 
women among commoners, with qualities that expressed this very idea. 
Why my father had left , I have never known, but he had left and things 
could have been rough for her except for my Dad's parents. Her own 
parents had died many years ago in a car crash near New Orleans. Louie 
and I were very young ,and we had seen her cry when she had heard the 
news, but she never complained to us, her family, about the death of 
her parents being fair or unfair. Her belief in God was absolute. 
Perhaps, it is because my Mother did not complain, or comment about my 
Father, was why I never felt like I could hate him. His own parents, my 
grandparents, were good people, and worked hard to be apart of our 
lives. Rumor had it, my old man, had skipped to Mexico and done well in 
the oil business. Rumors usually have a way of being wrong. I did not 
peruse it. If he wanted to find me, he knew where his parents lived. I 
would not hate him, I had been well raised. Over the years, thinking on 
this, maybe this is why Skipper meant so much to me. 

Maybe his acceptance gave my the fidelity and sentiment I needed to feel
worthy, and needed. The difference between a love for a man and the 
love for a women is this: I lusted for Anne's love, but I needed 
Skipper's love to feel worthy of being loved and protecting those 
around me. 

**** 

The day of the wedding found me in a powder blue tuxedo with white
patient leather shoes that caused blisters when I walked, therefore I 
sat down as much as possible, or so the photos from our wedding show. 
Anne had wanted to have four bridesmaids and her maid of honor, 
therefore I had to have four groomsmen and a best man. Holes stepped in 
as the best man, and Harry stepped in as one of the groomsmen, but I 
still had to ask two friends from college, and one friend from high 
school. I had asked Skipper and , at the last minute, asked Killer Bob, 
but both bowed out. Skipper claimed it would be an honor, but it was 
not a time for old men, but for the young ones to stand up there at the 
altar. Killer Bob, whose invitation I had left on his desk, just looked 
at me through those darn mirrored glasses, and stated that he might be 
going out of town on that weekend but appreciated the offer. I could 
not tell form his mirror masked eyes whether he was telling the truth 
or not, but, I have to admit it,  I was a bit glad he had turned me 
down. Duty had lead me to ask, but I felt relieved with his negative 
reply. The whole day was dream-like and whimsical  as I look back in 
retrospect. Except for the magic of seeing Anne for the first time in 
her wedding dress, and being told by the priest to hush, and quiet 
laughing, I only remember the disconcerting false notes that  came from 
the area behind the soloist and organ. This was the area that Holes and 
his family used during  the regular Mass. From somewhere behind the 
soloist a pair of quivering falsettos rose up and matched, somewhat, 
the pitch of the soloist on one of the songs we had planned for the 
wedding. I do not remember which one, but I hesitated to look at Father 
Tom who was already on, what looked like, his last attempt at marrying 
Anne and me this day. I do not know what was the problem with Father 
Tom, but he had run out of patience with the two of us. Each time I 
started to look out of the corner of my eyes towards the soloist, 
Father Tom would move in that direction, and with a stern look and a 
quick, savage head shake attempt to bring back my eyes to front and 
center of the alter. I never actually saw Holes' successful attempt of 
quieting this adolescent attack on our sense of hearing. First, he 
bowed towards the alter and descended the steps, marching with 
precision movements, in the direction of the soloist and his own 
family, who were seated directly behind the music area there in the 
church. The sound of the falsetto mocking the soloist was not too bad, 
but it was awkward as the soloist wanted that position of attention all 
to herself, plus her competition was not up to par. The soloist's voice 
soared up to amazing heights, and hit every note with perfection, but 
there was a nasal reflection of her song following each advancement on 
the scale. I did not know how long this song would last, but I hoped it 
would end soon and Father Tom could relax his vigilance. All of the 
sudden, at one crucial moment, there rang out a slight scream from 
behind the soloist  along with a loud bang as if something had hit the 
pew, this neatly ended the echoing falsetto, soon followed by the end 
of the soloist's song. When Father Tom's eyes had fled the scene of 
Anne and my sacrament of marriage at his alter to check on the 
disturbance behind the organ, my eyes searched out 

Holes, ready to laser him with my reprimanding eyes, because I knew it
had to be him behind this ruckus. Holes came walking back from behind 
the soloist as if he was one of the bridesmaids, in a slow measured 
step, with a huge smile on his face. As he drew closer to me, he gave 
me the thumbs-up sign like he had a flower bouquet, and a fierce 
triumphant look. I was unsure what this meant until later, at the time, 
I was waiting for something large and awful to happen, as if the sky 
might fall with a sign from Holes to the cosmos and I waited with 
darting eyes and a flinching attitude. The humor had left the wedding 
for the time being, but nothing else happened. We were married and the 
world was a brighter, more beautiful place then it had appeared that 
morning, and I had one of God's most special creatures- Anne. Holes 
kept his word and nothing happened that during the wedding. Even the 
reception was went off without a hitch. I was so happy, so happy until 
we were leaving the wedding reception and someone threw rice right into 
my eye. Some slight matter must have entered with it, and I could not 
get it cleared. My eye hurt and I could not open it to see. I was ready 
to blame Holes. Anne saw my discomfort and tried to get me to come back 
and rinse the matter out, but I took a stronger hold on her hand, and 
with a most determined state of mind, pushed my way to the car using my 
one good eye to scan the area for more assaults on my personage as I 
approached the vehicle. We made it! I pushed Anne into the car, bunched 
her dress and train up, and threw it into the car, shutting the door 
and sprinting to the driver's side to complete the post-marriage ritual 
of leaving. While running to my side of the car, I had almost tripped 
over the cans which were tied by ribbons onto the back of the bumper. 
No big thing I thought. But when the car was placed into gear and 
started to move forward there was a horrible sound coming from, what 
sounded like, undercarriage of the car. The sound was of something 
heavy being dragged and rolled over and over until I thought about 
stopping the car. I was in no mood to stop, using my one good eye to 
stay on the road and keeping away from the people surrounding our car. 
As I continued to search the area while creeping forward, my eye made 
contact with Holes. He was standing there with a sign, that read: 
“Congrats! The wedding is over. Take the rocks out at the next stop. 
Love, Holes.” As we continued to move away from the church with a 
grinding and rolling sound , I realized Holes must have put rocks in 
the hub caps. He had kept his promise, and I was almost blinded by the 
love I felt for Anne.. 

Chapter Twenty Seven 

Marriage 

**** 

Corpus Christi had lent itself to be great fun for the two nights we had
decided to stay there. My dating period jinks should have ended when I 
got married, but, unfortunately, it stayed until the honeymoon was 
over. The first day there, I turned to throw a suitcase into the hotel 
room, and my back went out. That afternoon, as I shuffled to the beach, 
leaning on Anne's strong shoulder and weathering her gentle, caring 
attention, I cut my foot on a piece of glass wading in knee deep water. 
As I prepared to leave the water to take care of my one and a half inch 
long wound, I was, not once but twice, stung by a jellyfish. I limped 
and shuffled my way off the beach and back to the hotel room, in a 
Qusimoto sort of way, using my one good eye- uninjured by the rice-, 
hoping I could get into my room without going through the lobby and 
leaving a blood trail in my wake. As usually, luck was not on my side, 
and a bellhop followed me from the back entrance off the beach, through 
the main lobby- to the disgust of the other guest- to the door of my 
room using a bottle of club soda to blot out the crimson foot prints I 
was leaving on the carpet. But, our time was so pleasant there, I did 
not even mind changing the tire on my way back home. Thank goodness 
Anne was there, and strong enough to lift the tire for me, as my back 
and foot had not quite healed yet. After we had returned home to our 
small rented house, I decided to enjoy my new head of household title 
after my marriage to Anne, by growing a mustache, and taking up the art 
of projectile spitting by dipping a form of ground up tobacco called 
“snuff”, or Copenhagen. I had chewed loose leaf tobacco before but this 
snuff was different. Ground snuff was not new to me as my grandmother 
had used powered snuff around her plants to kill the grub-worms. When 
she was not looking, I would sneak into the shed, and liberate some of 
that powered stuff in a brown glass bottle, put it in my mouth in front 
of my teeth, and sucked on the brown powder, trying to make spit like 
the young men I had seen down the street from our house. I am not sure 
what really happened the first time I tried it in my youth, as the 
world began to spin and tilt, and I fell to the ground striking my head 
, and momentarily, blacking out. When I came to and rejoined the world, 
I decided I would forgo the pleasures of tobacco, for awhile as I did 
not enjoy the effects it had on me or my head. But, I was a man now 
with a wife, and I would enjoy all the pleasures of this good fortune. 
Anne did not enjoy my new found pleasures. At first, she did not seem 
to mind the bulging lower lip, the repetitive clearing of one's throat 
and the spitting, but after awhile, she grew resolute, and tried to do 
everything short of divorcing me to get me to stop spitting and shave. 
I , on the other hand, became obstinate and tried to enforce me ideas 
of free spirit. Because we were new to the marriage, I did not realize 
just what a hold she did have on me, and when I did, I allowed myself 
to learn the art of compromise. I quite dipping that night, but I told 
her I wanted to try this mustache thing out a little longer, as I 
thought it made Burt Reynolds handsome, and some people believed I 
looked a lot like him in certain lights. Well, I was dark headed 
anyways. I had spent part of  that summer with the school district's 
maintenance department,  mowing the grass fields and painting the 
insides of the school's buildings. In a way, it was nice sitting on a 
tractor or pushing a hand mower up and down the fields, 

quietly in tune with your own thoughts, while adjusting to the smelly
output from the mower's exhaust. Each morning after I had showered and 
dressed, Anne would have made me breakfast, and would be finishing 
putting my lunch together. She was a hard working girl, who never 
seemed to mind taking care of me. My weight became a bit of a problem 
in those early years, as far as my pants were concerned, but never as 
much as each one of our pregnancies. Whereas Anne would gain thirty to 
forty pounds with each pregnancy and then loose it, I would gain 
twenty-five pounds with each pregnancy and never loose it. With 
twenty-five pounds put of my frame with each pregnancy, clothes have a 
way feeling a tad uncomfortable. Perhaps manufacturing male pregnancy 
clothes should have been the route I could have taken to fame and 
fortune, but, alas ,I loved football. 

**** 

The daily drive to work that summer was quick, and I did not have to
have anyone there to tell me what to do, or how to get started. The 
first part of the week was mowing the fields, the second part of the 
week was painting. The mowing part started by lubing and fueling up the 
tractor or mower I was to use that day. On the drive into the school 
area, I could see where the grass was high and start my mowing there. 
There was nothing romantic or exciting about going around in 
rectangular circles. My mind would sweep through football plays, 
classroom lectures, and cowboy scenes with me in the lead roles. This 
continued to be my boring existence until the day I ran over the cat. 
Holes can think what he wants, but that cat attacked the mower. I was 
driving the old riding mower on an area they called the “sidelines”, it 
was the area between the two main practice fields which was rather 
large and cool with some very nice sized oak trees planted by the high 
school's first principal and football coach many years ago. The trees 
keep the area cool, and were far enough away that no one ran into the 
trees when they were tackled out of bounds. The cat in question stayed 
near one the trees in the middle of the “sidelines”, and would come out 
and , it looked to me, attack the mower as I want by. At first, in my 
solitude, the attack frightened me. Later, as I got use to it, I looked 
forward to these moments as a relief from the boredom, and would try 
and guess when the cat would come out. The cat attack was quite an 
event for me, and I hastened each week towards the “sidelines” and the 
attack by the killer cat. Week after week, the white and black spotted 
cat would spring out of her nesting spot and run at the small tractor, 
as if to ward off the mechanical bull infringing on her area. She would 
spring out, then bat at the machine with her paws, as if she was trying 
to box it with a one two punch. I did not waiver from my mowing path 
after the first attack. I always thought if I did move wrongly, I might 
accidentally run over her: let her decide the path to take. I am not 
sure what made her attack the machine, as I never saw any kittens she 
might be protecting, therefore, I think it was a game to her. The game 
ended in a loss for her side. Something went horribly wrong the last 
time she attacked the mower. This was to be my last mowing before my 
football duties took over. I do not feel I can take credit for what 
happened as I did not vary my speed or direction, but it happened 
non-the-less. Spots, as I named her, attacked the mower as usual as I 
came down the path towards her tree. The only difference was she moved 
in much closer then in past attacks and placed a paw under the mower 
carriage, and to my horror, got pulled or sucked into the mower 
carriage where the blades are located. One second she was there and the 
next second she was gone. There were unmistakable noises that came from 
the mower: surprised screams from the cat, a thunk- thunk noise inside 
the mower carriage following the blade's rotation, and the sound of 
rushing wind followed by Spot's ejection, or what was left of Spot, out 
of the side of the grass discharge. I had been caught by surprise, and 
did not stop the mower until the discharge of the cat form the mower 
carriage. This was a shock to me, and I could not believe what had 
happened. Was it my fault, the cat's fault, could I blame the mower?  I 
did not know what to think. I decided to drive the riding mower to the 
out buildings where the field equipment was held and get a shovel to 
bury the cat. As I drove the mower towards the building, I began to 
wonder about life and how quickly it could be taken away. Who would 
know that cat was gone but me? Who would care? I buried the Spots by 
her tree, and always thought of her whenever I mowed the “sidelines”. I 
also thought about my dreams; was I following them, and did I really 
know what they were? Life was too short not to be following my dreams. 
I needed to plan now. 

**** 

I had also had the pleasure of seeing Aussie Knowles work out in the
evenings during the summer.  He had thrived down here in Texas. As 
August drew to a close, he looked primed and ready. With about ten to 
twelve extra pounds of muscle filling up on his body, he looked ready 
to play on the offense side of the football. Free weights were coming 
into vogue in the high school football programs around the country, but 
many parents were afraid that the use of heavy weights would stunt 
their child's growth, but I didn't think so. How many times had I met 
farm boys who lifted heavy weights daily in their work routine, and 
still were giants? This always amused me, but when it comes to someone 
else's child, the parent of that child knows best. Aussie, though was 
not afraid to use the weights. He and Harry seemed to hit it off, and 
Harry was a good teacher, especially when he could point to his own 
body as a reference point. And speaking of Harry, the rumor was, could 
not show his face in Austin County after a certain unnamed rehearsal 
dinner as there was a certain husband who had made a date for Harry 
with the point of his shotgun. Harry acted like it was nothing, but for 
awhile, loud noises made him jumpy, and, at times, he could be found 
hiding under his desk. This lead Holes to incorporate many teaching 
devises into his Civil War summer school activities that made 
thunderous and earsplitting sounds. The grenade simulator was the worst 
as it detonated in the coachesä office , and lead to Harry chasing 
Holes out of the field house and down the crushed shell road. Poor 
Holes had taken off his shoes moments before the explosion and, after 
the explosion, Holes found himself running for his life with Harry in 
hot pursuit, out the door and into the crushed shell parking lot. It 
was there his bare feet had taken a beating with jagged cuts and tears, 
and with this accidental beating, Harry decided Holes had paid his dues 
for setting off the grenade. And though I enjoyed the antics of Harry 
and Holes, it was Aussie I found most interesting, as he had this air 
of non-chalance about him. He was not overtly intense, and did not lead 
with loud shouts and curses. But when he was around, the other boys 
listened, and did what he asked. His leadership was not forced, but 
seemed a part of him 

and natural. In the cool of the evening, as the linemen danced their
summer runs,  I watched him throw to his receivers from the fence near 
the  football field, and saw his Dad look on with pride from the 
opposing bleachers. At that time, I could only imaging what he was 
feeling. 

Chapter Twenty Eight 

Getting Ready 

**** 

Skipper was Skipper, as the summer drew to a close, watching everything
,and seeming to know everything. He did act a little more tired then 
usual, but he used his fatigue to take the time to get his Boys to run 
errands for him, and then he could talk to them and make them feel 
special. I just chalked it up as one of his ploys. He once told me he 
used the Knute Rockne approach to individuals. He made it a point to 
tell players that, “ they are the piston that runs the engine”, and 
without them the engine, team, could not function. It worked. I saw it 
work, and later, used it myself. Others may say they use this approach, 
but Skipper meant every word he said, at least I think he did, when he 
said it to our Boys and to me. He also took to keeping  a bottle of 
Pepto-Bismol around for stomach aches. Holes thought it was an ulcer, 
but Harry thought he just needed to exercise more often. Ski would not 
comment.  He would just stare at us with those mirror sun-glasses, 
seemingly daring us to continue. He was loyal to Skipper, and, I think, 
felt it a betrayal to discuss him in front of each other. Holes had no 
problem, and paid no attention to Ski's dramatics. Harry was different. 
He would just stare back at the glasses without expression, and then 
start to flex his muscles in their reflection. At other times he would 
pick his teeth, or clean his eye snot in the reflection, upsetting Ski, 
and grossing out all who were present. There were even times Killer Bob 
was human, and would laugh with us at this coarse humor, but those 
times were rare. Another thing that struck me as peculiar was the 
numerous times Skipper changed pants during the day as we were thrust 
together each day for long stretches at a time with the beginning of 
school and football practice. He was a man of comfortable habits and 
enjoyed his school khaki trousers, but sometime during the day, after I 
had seen him in the mornings, he would have changed. I only noticed 
this because of the times he changed to blue jeans. Blue jeans were not 
allowed as facility apparel even in summer for our administrators, and 
Skipper , by wearing them was either in need of a change of pants, or 
flaunting the administration. Knowing Skipper, he was in need of a 
change. This probable did not occur to Mr. Smith the Vice-Principal. I 
remember the afternoon he caught Skipper in jeans. He stormed into the 
field house right before the start of football practice, acting like he 
was the overseer, and we were the slaves who could not please him. His 
stomach preceded him, but his little legs caught the rest up fast. He 
was angry at the condition and smell of the field house, but what 
caught his eye was Skipper in jeans. He leapt on this issue with 
relish, and demanded to see the Boss alone in his office. The look in 
Skipper's eyes were as hard as flint as he passed me on the way to his 
office. Skipper went in first, followed by Smith. I do not know what 
words were passed at the beginning of the conversation, but I know what 
was said moments later when Skipper opened his mouth and roared back. 
“I am not doing this to prove a point”, he roared, “ I am wearing jeans 
because I needed a change of pants, but I could not leave my post here 
at school, and these were all I had in my truck in the way of a change 
of clothes.  So, if you want to write me up, start writing. I am sick 
of your attitude, and sick of your presence here in my office. Now, I 
have work to do, whether you think it is important or not. My Boys and 
my coaches are waiting for me, I have nothing more to say to you. 
Whatever I have to say to justify these pants I will say to the 
Principal. So, get the Sam Hill out of my office and out of my 
business!” Smith started to sputter and bluster, but he left Skipper's 
office in an angry hurry to inform his boss of Skipper's indiscretion, 
and to lick his wounded pride. Holes kinda looked at me in a quizzical 
way, but then he shrugged his shoulders and followed Harry out to 
practice. The rest of us followed, in a confused dazed, trying to 
figure out what had happened. Even Ski looked a bit preoccupied under 
those reflective lenses. Skipper came out later in shorts to start 
practice, but said very little to the other coaches. That was not the 
only strange behavior I saw from the Coach, I also remembered him 
coming out of the bathroom, with a spray of water across his pants. 
This happened more then once, and each time he asked us to get the 
school's plumber out to fix that “darn jet” of water that had attacked 
him when he turned on the water faucet. I even went in the bathroom 
once after he had made this excuse to check on the water flow that came 
from the tap. It was medium pressure without much push to it. I guess 
Skipper was just zipping his pants too soon after he went to the 
bathroom, and things were getting a little messy. He had come up with a 
pretty good excuse, but it would not work forever. I was not looking 
forward to getting older. 

Officially the summer ended with our annual meeting in the field house
and Skipper's concern or comments in the middle of August, but we had 
been working on and off all summer with meeting and equipment issues. 
After the first official meeting we met everyday at nine o'clock and 
worked on personal, practice plans , and housekeeping. We built the 
lockers, and added shelf space in the equipment room. We painted goal 
posts, the mascot sign, and the even the large “R” in the middle of the 
stadium. I don't think the old stadium could hold more then 1000 
people, so the “R” was not too toilsome, and it was a tradition, 
therefore the coaches did not mind. Killer Bob continued to stay away 
from me so the time I spent in physical labors were either done with 
Holes, or Harry- I considered myself in good company. Throughout our 
labors I would see Skipper walking back and forth between the school 
and the field house. I guess most of that times was spent talking to 
the administrators about the schedules: both football and the Boys. I 
was worried that he had gotten into trouble over the blue jean 
incident, but he never mentioned it. But, he did not seem to have the 
spring in his step he had had when I first met him last year. I thought 
I noticed a limp, and, perhaps, a wince in his expression when ever he 
had to step up onto the an elevated area. Again, I should have seen the 
beginning of a problem when he would come out of the bathroom, angry 
and red from exertions, of what I do not know- I would find out later. 

**** 

The boys showed up for two-a days on August the 20th. We were ready. The
balls were all aired up, the uniforms were issued-we had done  that 
days before, and the coaches were rested. Skipper told us to keep up 
the positive energy and attitude, but stay on top of them. He reminded 
us, we are not drill instructors, but his Boys needed to be reminded 
from time to time who was in charge. They needed to feel good about 
being here, but they needed to obey orders without questioning them. 
Holes asked him, “ like good little marines?”, Skipper just smiled. 

The Boss took a few minutes before practice and after practice each day
to re-focus the boys, and let them understand the mission for this 
year. It was easy to see he loved them, and it was just as easy to 
watch their faces and understand they felt the same way about him. I 
never could read much on  one of our Boysä face, named Billy, but when 
he watched Skipper, he watched with his eyes and ears, which was a good 
indicator of  understanding and respect. Although, if Ski caught them 
looking down, they would pencil roll after practice. To roll meant to 
lay down on one's stomach, with your hands out in front of your head, 
and your feet behind you. Then, starting at the goal line, begin to 
roll continuously without stopping until one gets to the opposite goal 
line, and then starting over again towards the other goal post where 
they started. The usual distance for a first offense was 500 hundred 
yards.  This was also a tradition, but one none of the boys wanted to 
volunteer again after once having attempt it, especially if one had to 
roll through their own vomit. Skipper would walk up and down during the 
breaks speaking with the Boys and encouraging then to do better. The 
action caused the rest of us coaches to follow his example. It worked 
for me for over twenty-five years; I watched many head coaches use it. 
Some people believe that the football players have changed over the 
years, and that is not true. They have not changed, our society has 
though. We give them too much, and empower them to be different. All 
this while parents are telling their kids that their coach is an idiot. 
Sounds like an argument I heard of fathers being put down on T.V. and 
in the movies. Neither the coaches or the fathers are idiots, but both 
have lost a lot of ground since I started coaching. I guess moms and 
dads read more, or look up things on the internet and feel they are now 
a professional based on what they have just read, and not what they 
have learned through the sweat and hard work of the real professional 
who has been in that position for years. Coach O'Brien was a true 
professional, and his calling was a vocation, and not just a job. And, 
even though I am not in the medical profession or a doctor, I knew 
there was something wrong with Skipper without the aid of a medical 
degree, or the internet. The pain seemed to have grown into his lower 
back, and into upper legs, as he was always holding his back and 
messaging it through the shirt he was wearing in the field house. He 
would not rub his back around his Boys, it would seem unmanly. He tried 
to hide it from everyone, but all of the coaches saw it, and pretended 
to look the other way whenever it manifested itself. He was a prideful 
man, and I think we all recognized ourselves in him during this time. 
He even took to keeping extra pants- khaki's this time- in his office 
in case he needed them after an accident. He needed to see a doctor, 
but I did not have the courage to confront him-yet. The coaches were 
not the only one who noticed there was something wrong with Skipper. 
Homer “Hal” Halichek of Rocin's Fan Stand Hamburgers, gave me an 
inquiring look from underneath his greasy hair do and white stained 
T-shirt as I walked in for a quick bite to eat for lunch one afternoon. 
He leaned his U.S. Navy tattooed arms on the counter, looked around at 
the almost deserted lunch room, and stated in conspiratorially: “What 
is going on with Skipper?” I shrugged, “ What do you mean?” I quire. 
“Something's bothering him. He doesn't come around here as much, and 
when he does, he's quiet and, I don't know, maybe thoughtful, or 
something.” 

“Hal it is going to be a big season for us”, I answered, “ he is proable
worried about everyone doing their best.” I smiled. “He's O.K. “Good, 
Muley. I can't wait to avenge that rock throwing assault you guys took 
from those rednecks last year in _________. And, this season,” he 
declared, “ we are all following the bus home! Mark my words, Muley!” 
Hal left me to flip his  frying burgers, and give my own personal 
reflections a time to cultivate Hal's deduction about the Coach. No, it 
did not take a doctor to see something was wrong with Skipper. 

**** 

One of the benefits of summer life for a coach is going to one or two of
these new ideas called coaching schools. This is where you or your 
group of coaches report to a college campus near you, or as near to you 
as can be found, and spend the day or weekend listening to winning 
coaches form around the state tell their tales of success. I have 
attend to quite a few in my days, first as a spectator, and later, 
proudly, as a speaker. Harry begin telling a story one afternoon that 
concerned he and Holes and a coaching school held at Texas A and M 
College in College Station, Texas. This use to be a sleepy little cow 
town that catered to expectant farmers, ranchers and engineers at a 
Boys Only ROTC college. These Farmers, proudly calling themselves 
“Aggies”, drew on such traditions as The Twelfth Man. The Twelfth Man 
legend keeps the faithful standing at every game in case someone from 
the crowd is needed to play and finish the game. By the early seventies 
the school board had figured out that they needed women to attend the 
school if they were going to keep functioning and survive. The Waggies- 
Women Aggies- were born. For me a “Boys Only” institution was a 
necessity. Each of the two genders needs a little something to call 
their own, making them feel special and full of pride. When you take 
that away, both groups feel injured: one group believes something has 
been stripped away, and the other has nothing else to rail against. I 
feel the same with football. I know girls can physically do it, and 
some are more then a little aggressive, but because of the way we men 
are built- mentally and physically-, we love to test our strength 
against someone else's strength. We love to collide, hit, and smash one 
another to see who is stronger, and worthy to be called the winner. 
Their have been some games we did not win when I was growing up, but 
when that opposition left the field, they knew they had been in a ball 
game: bloody and battered. I was proud of my part in this combative 
endeavor ,and I left the field feeling compensated for the loss we had 
suffered. But Harry and Holes endeavor left them feeling dirty and 
sordid, or ,at the very least, unclean. It seemed after a long day of 
listening and note taking at the A and M coaching school, the two 
decided they needed to unwind and have a bite to eat at a local 
restaurant before they returned home. The story continued, that while 
eating pizza at the local restaurant, Holes and Harry started drinking 
pitchers of beer and swapping war stories. Before they knew it, they 
both had to admit they were feeling pretty good, and decided they had 
had enough, paid their bill and staggered out to the car. Holes took an 
inordinate amount of time looking for the key hole in the door, while 
Harry keep checking out his imagine in the passenger car window. By the 
time they got in the car, and tried to put it in Drive, only to figure 
out they had not started it, they knew they were in trouble. They 
decided they needed a game plan. During the course of their planning on 
how to get home, Holes automatically and unknowingly  turned the key in 
the ignition, fired up the car, and began to back out of the parking 
lot in what only could be called “slow motion” without looking 
backwards and talking to Harry. After finding the ditch near the road 
with ease, Holes made an attempt to get on the road by crossing the 
ditch. This lead to some rough driving and slinging of mud and gravel 
onto cars located in the parking lot. Harry noticed a lot of faces at 
the windows of the restaurant, right before his head hit the dashboard 
and snapped back and hit the head rest on their way down the road and 
out of town. After a few miles of driving down these country roads at 
thirty-five miles per hour, and the loss of sunlight, Holes could not 
remember if this was the right road or not. He therefore pulled off the 
road and talked it over with Harry. They both decided they needed a 
place to sleep this alcohol off  and turned the car around and headed 
back the way they came. As they tooled around enjoying the cool air 
that came in through the car's windows and the sweet smell of the 
honeysuckle vines on the lonesome fence rows, Harry had an idea: Why 
not pull over and let him pick some of the honeysuckle vines and put 
them in the car to make it smell good?. This seemed like a good idea at 
the time, as Harry had tried to make an oral deposit from his pizza and 
beer enriched stomach out the window, only to be hindered by the half 
opening the window provided. Since they were not in a hurry, and the 
car was only going about thirty, Holes agreed and pulled over. By the 
light of the car's lights helped on by the summer sunäs resent to go 
down , Harry grabbed handfuls of the vines and staggered back with his 
bountiful treasures, which he  threw onto the bench seat between the 
two of them. As the car continued on its path back to town, Harry had 
another idea brilliant idea. This time he wanted to make wreaths for 
all the coaches at the office, much like the Greeks would have done 
with the laurel wreaths when winning the races at the Olympics. Holes 
liked the idea, as he thought about the coming football season, and 
encouraged Harry, promising to wear his as soon as it was made. By the 
time they had made it to town, both of the men had a crown made of 
twisted vines with pretty blossoms dispersed between them on top of 
their heads and garlands around their necks. Each one was commenting on 
how good the other looked when they came across a small motel on the 
outskirts of College Station, with more neon in the architecture then 
boards, and turned in after reading the signs “Vacancy” and “Hourly 
Rates Available”. Holes and Harry made quite a sight as they entered 
the motel giggling like school girls, helping each other stay upright 
by holding elbows and, at one point hands. One can only guess what the 
night clerk was thinking, who could only stare in open mouth wonder at 
the sight before him. Harry sat down a little ways away from the desk 
on a plastic covered couch and stared happily at the picture of the 
nude women on the wall behind the counter. Holes approached the desk 
clerk with forced equilibrium, and asked gently, but with forced 
sobriety, for a room. The clerk, taking in the appearance of the two 
large men with floral wreaths attached to their heads and necks in a 
rakish manner, and the affection they seemed to have had for each other 
while entering the building, knowingly asked: “ One bed, or two?” Holes 
was stunned. He blushed a dark red, and looked to Harry with 
indignation at such a suggestion. Harry, in his happy trance, felt 
Holes look at him, and not hearing the question, sheepishly smiled and 
gently shrugged his shoulders, and then, with great gaiety, nodded his 
head, Yes. Holes turned a almost maroon shade in his embarrassment, 
which was the appropriate color at Texas A & M, marched back to Harry, 
grabbed him by his arm and propelled both of them stumbling through the 
door, and out to the car. They spent the night, devoid of floral 
wreaths, in their car on the side of the road as close to their own 
doors as possible, sleeping off the effects of the numerous pitchers of 
beer, and the embarrassment of being suspected of being a couple. 

Chapter Twenty Nine 

The Second Season 

**** 

The season started with a win against San Seba High School. San Seba had
a good program structured around the Power I, but more importantly, it 
had a set of twin running backs who liked to run. Most modern day 
football offenses use a variation of the Wing T offense, with the 
quarterback taking the ball from under center and all the running backs 
lined up in the back field. The Power I was no exception. The reason it 
is called the Power I is because all four backs are lined up behind the 
center, including the QB, with your most dominant back the last one. In 
football terms, he dots the “i “. This was a good start, and a good 
omen- if one believed in them. Skipper had been worried about the start 
of the football season against this school, as we had only seen them 
once before, and the film we had received on them was not of very good 
quality. We had lined up in wishbone and punished them, but had not 
really hurt them with our dive option that is until we unleashed 
Aussie's arm. The Dive Option in the Wishbone offense is a multiply 
option attack, lead by a QB who can read the defense. The QB , after 
opening up, attempts to hand off to the dive back, but begins his 
reading of the defense at this time. If there is no opening, he pulls 
the ball out of the dive back's stomach and proceeds down the offensive 
line preparing to read the unblocked defensive player, usually located 
near the end of the defensive line. If the defensive player takes him, 
he will pitch it to the other running back who is keeping a pitch 
alignment with the QB. As the QB reads the numbers on the defender's 
jersey and prepares to get hit, he will pitch the ball. Should the 
defender take the back on the pitch path, the QB will keep the ball and 
turn up field. Our offense was providing loose change numbers, much as 
could be found in a bum' pants pockets after a Saturday night. Two to 
three pennies every offensive play was not going to cut it against San 
Seba, that is until Aussie, who could run well, but throw even better, 
aired us out with a couple of passes to our strong side end, Dale 
“Clydesdale” Schrick. With San Seba concentrating on the backfield 
action and assigning offensive positions to there defenders, Dale 
became wide open any time he released down field. Once released, and 
with Aussie throwing the perfect spiral, the Clydesdale became a 
lumbering tower of power. Out in the open field, Dale looked like a 
lightening rod, he was so much taller then the San Seba defensive 
secondary. Aussie's passes looked like the lightening, the rod was 
trying to capture, and once combined and energized, the horse galloped 
along with frightening strength. When the defense turned it's eyes and 
ability upon Schrick, our offense stretched our far side end, making 
him a wide receiver, and completed the series with a sprint-out pass to 
our wide-receiver and our first touchdown. Aussie had cleaved them open 
with those three passes and the score. He ended the game with three 
scores off his good right arm. The team ended the game with four touch 
downs total. I was so proud of Aussie, I was almost forgetting his 
formerly long hair, and who had made the passing adjustments and called 
those well chosen plays. Skipper was not. He sought me out on the last 
play, and enthusiastically hugged me. Looking back, this meant more to 
me then the victory. His faith in me had been rewarded with this win. I 
felt a , not so humble, sense of  jubilation. 

**** 

The victories did not stop. We went through the Confederate strong holds
of  Lee, Jackson, and Hood highs schools without too much trouble. Lee 
High School was undersized that year. According to Skipper, four years 
before that, they had dominated the offensive side of the football and 
made a run at the state play-offs. They had been the district champions 
four out the last seven years. This year, they would fight hard just to 
stay in every game. They did, but the score reflected our dominating 
backs. Edward “Zippy” Zipalac, and Jay “Juking” Jones were a loaded 
pair of dice, who, in this game, could roll no number lower then five 
whenever they received the ball. The next week our opponent was Jackson 
High School, whose game strategy was to hold onto the ball offensively 
as much as possible. They were a strong force to be reckoned with as 
they run the ball well from the T offensive formation, using 
misdirection and counters. The counters hurt us the most at the 
beginning of the game. The prettiest counter has the backs starting one 
way, selling the direction of the play, while the play side of line 
moves in the opposite way preparing the new direction the young 
Olympiad running the ball, as he cuts back to follow them. The hardest 
things were to keep your linebackers from being over aggressive, and 
leaving their assigned areas too fast. Mincemeat Menitz, in the first 
quarter was almost beside himself, and needed Ski to calm him down and 
redirect his energy. This was done. We won by two touchdowns plus the 
two extra points, with off-tackle holes being opened by the Dale and 
Hog Curtis on the right side of the football. The forth week into the 
season, John B. Hood High School took center stage as our nemesis. From 
the film, we had exchanged at five o'clock on Saturday morning after 
the Jackson game, we knew they were a throwing team, and a good one at 
that. Ski and Harry worked hard with our defensive secondary that week, 
forcing them to learn how to properly cover a two receiver, or twin 
set, and using our Monster position- free safety- as the question mark, 
we set-up stunting defensive sets. Even our linebackers took a 
free-wheeling part in this train wreck. That is what made the 
difference. Zippy Zipalac was not only one of the running backs, he 
also was our Monster, and fearless in the face of adversary. On the 
last play of the game, Zippy, hit the offensive back field so quick 
from the outside, he took the hand-off from the QB as he was sprinting 
out for a play action fake. We won by a touch down earned by Zippy on 
that play. Things were going our way. We looked unbeatable. 

**** 

Where there were a strong concentration of loyal Germans during the
Civil War, their Union named high schools of Sherman and Grant proved 
no much for our juggernaut. But Cleveland High was next. That year 
Cleveland High School was riding a tidal wave, much like our own, of 
success off of its two dominating backs in the back field, and one of 
the most dominating running QB's I had ever seen in high school 
football. On the black and white grainy film we had secured of 
Cleveland, Otis Jenkins, the QB, had plunged up the middle of the line, 
and taken on the strong side “Sam” linebacker one on one. The 
linebacker himself was no ball room dancer, and the collision they made 
at the line of scrimmage was intense. But the sheer power of Otis was 
incredible, with the linebacker crumbling at Otis's feet. But, while he 
may have crumbled, he did not give up, and wrapped his arms around one 
of those piston for legs of Jenkins. I watched Jenkins pummel the 
linebacker's head repeatedly with his knees as he drove up field for 
ten more yards. I keep replaying his celluloid image over and over the 
night before the game, wandering what we would do to stop this monster. 
 The defensive side of the ball was not my responsibility, and there 
was no actual thought of talking to Killer Bob, just the pretend 
imagery of doing so in my head. Cleveland had a dominating team with 
its Veer type offense , and the two splendid backs who forked on either 
end- besides the awe inspiring Otis Jenkins. Cleveland's coach had 
prepared for everything but Aussie's arm. He had heard about it, but 
only keep their team in a pass coverage with two defensive backs, using 
his corners hard on the ends. It keep our front offensive line busy, 
and did not allow us as many double teams, but we could put three 
receivers down field if we switched from the bone to twin backs 
formation. The Wishbone offense gave us two quick backs in the 
backfield on the left and right side, while in front of them and in the 
middle behind the quarterback we had a strong blocking back, or dive 
back, who liked to run with the ball when we took it up the middle. 
This usually worked well when we were successful on the option play.  
The option play itself was designed to force the defensive end to make 
a decision on who to tackle when we ran to his side. If he took the 
Quarterback, the QB was to pitch it too the running back. If the 
defensive end took the running back, the QB was to keep it and turn it 
up field. This worked best with teams that were not ready for their 
defensive ends to make decisions. After they shut down our run game, we 
opened up the passing game, and they spent the rest of the game 
applying run game band-aids to passing punctures. There was no 
tourniquet to shut us down. Once we let blood, Aussie acted as the 
butcher, cutting and slicing with a professional swagger. We beat 
Cleveland by one point, with Otis and Aussie battling each other on 
both sides of the football. Otis played the quick-side linebacker when 
he was not on offense. Aussie played the Strong Safety. Both came to 
play. The gun-slinging did not start until near the end of the half, as 
both QB's tried to throw deep to gain a desperation touchdown to be in 
the momentum seat prior to the end of the half. Otis drew first on a 
play action pass to the right, while his back side receivers drove down 
filed on a direct route for the goal line. He threw the ball up, with 
strength, but not skill, with 38 seconds left on the clock. Aussie, as 
the strong safety, was playing the secondary in quarters, and as the 
ball went up, read the arch and strength of the ball, broke on it, then 
cradled it into side chest at the Cleveland ten yard line. He hit the 
fifteenth yard line with 27 seconds left on the clock, and was stopped 
at the seventeenth yard line by devastating blow from Otis Jenkins. 
Aussie, shook off the hit, set-up the offensive huddle, called the play 
sent in, and set up the formation. We took our fullback out and put in 
a wide receiver for him to the offensive right. Dale had also set at 
the offensive right, and on the snap of the football, our two best 
receivers took off in a direct line towards the prize. They never made 
it, Jenkins, on a blitz, hit a hole between the guard and tackle, and 
took his aggression out on Aussie with a blind-sided, roll'em up, 
lay'em out tackle. I thought we had lost our Aussie. He had had two 
hard tackles back to back, but he neither laid there, nor acted liked 
it hurt. He got up, shook it off, and joined the Rocin Bulls headed to 
the field house for without a word or whimper. It was this quiet 
leadership and example that made him well liked by all on the team. 
After half time, Aussie showed the quiet determination and pugnacity he 
became known for around Rocin. His first play from scrimmage was not 
the dive I had expected, but a return to the option Cleveland had 
stopped so many times that game. It was a speed option with the 
fullback hitting the defensive end and the QB taking the ball to 
daylight. Only Aussie did not run to daylight, he sought Otis, who was 
coming down hill from the linebacker position trying to take a shot at 
Aussie. He never made it. Aussie found him. There was an explosion near 
the line of scrimmage, one made manifest by a formerly long haired 
individual making actions talk louder then words. Aussie lowered his 
shoulder and rammed through with his head striking the upright Jenkins 
before he could get into a tackling position. Jenkins flew through the 
air on contact only to find he had not broke contact with Aussie, who 
was not seeking positive yardage but annihilation. Once Otis had landed 
in a spry of dust on that hot Texas field, Aussie landed on top, 
driving his body into Jenkins in hopes to take his breathe away. I 
could not see Knowles' face, but the linemen closest to him pronounced 
it as scary. The tide had turned. Otis was helped off the field, and 
remained there for a couple of series, only to return a more cautious 
human being. Aussie was pulled out of the bottom of the dog-piled by 
Dale and Hog, a pile that had ensued after the tackle, with a 
purposeful smile on his face. The Aussie air show began, and a parade 
of touchdowns ensued. The Royal Australian Air Force would have been 
proud of this display of air power.  Cleveland and Otis Jenkins lost 
their only game to us that season, thirteen to twenty. We were one game 
away from winning the district undefeated, and making the first game of 
the state playoffs. The dream catcher Skipper had created was working. 

**** 

The offensive line had played outstanding football the whole season.
Skipper and Holes' offensive line, now that Rico Vasquez was gone,  was 
anchored by the Hog Curtis. He had developed muscles on his large 
personage, and all those miles he had put in during the summer were 
paying off. I do not think other coaches from around the district would 
have believed this once over weight lineman was now dominating their 
athletes on the defensive line, but he was. Skipper, was so proud of 
him, he spent hours it seemed in his office after the games just 
shaking his head in wonder. We all were in shock, as our line gave 
Aussie the much needed time to throw the ball ,or read the defense. 
Skipper gave much of the credit to Holes, and you could see it both 
embarrassed him, and flattered him at the same time. He would blush, 
stammer and try to change the subject with a joke, but the rest of us 
could see how it was with him. Therefore we kept it up, until he could 
stand no more and found an excuse to leave. I took a rather perverse 
pleasure in this action because of all the practical jokes that Holes 
had played on me the past year. The town of Rocin took notice of this 
team, who could not seem to lose, as we marched through the football 
schedule. They decided to have a pep-rally at the old metal and wood 
stadium the game of the first play-offs, they were that confident. It 
sounded kind of strange when the principal told us about this event. We 
were one game away from making the play-offs, and preparing for our 
game against Marshall, not really expecting anything out of the 
ordinary. I was afraid it might break our concentration, and perhaps, 
our streak of wins. I wanted to ask Skipper, but he seemed a little 
distanced from events. I did not know why, because in the past Skipper 
heard all the noise and gossip before us, now he appeared preoccupied 
and hardly interested in the town or school's daily events. It was 
quite like an animal who is injured, and gives no attention to anything 
but the pain it feels. It was a bit worrying. Holes seemed the obvious 
choice to ask what was going on, but he was dealing with his own 
problems. Our working hours were long, and his wife was tired. The boys 
were becoming hard to handle. Holes' oldest was hanging out with a 
rough crowd, who were known to smoke and drink a little when they could 
find it. His interest in football had waned, and Holes had been called 
to the junior high to talk about his truancy. Holes was getting home as 
fast as he could to help out with his wife, and I do not believe he was 
noticing as much as usual the things going on with Skipper. Ski was not 
my favorite person to talk to about anything, much less talk about 
Skipper. He might have noticed things ,  but he would not share them 
with others. It went against his outward show of loyalty. There was 
always Harry, but due to our success, he had met a pretty divorced 
women from the nearby town of Cloverville, who would waited after our 
games for him. He had seen her after a game waiting on her son and had  
invited her to wait in the bus, as the wind had picked up outside and a 
chill had added to its strength and determination. While she and Harry 
waited on the boys, they found an instant affection for one another. 
She rode the bus home to Rocin, he drove her back that night, and came 
in late for the Saturday morning meeting and film exchange that next 
morning. To ask Handsome Harry a question while he was in love or 
lifting weights was like asking a pretty young women looking in a 
mirror what time she had: it was down right stupid, she would not be 
able to tear her eyes away from her own perfection. I would just have 
to keep my silence, or ask Skipper myself. I choose the least path of 
resistance, and waited. 

Chapter Thirty 

The Decision 

**** 

The game against Yancey was one sided - our side. They had had a hard
year losing most of their games in the first quarter, and trying 
desperately to keep the score down, not even considering the chance of 
possibly winning. Their offensive coordinator was a young coach like 
myself at the time, and would grow from this humbling experience to win 
two state championships. He was not a quitter, but back then the 
thought of leaving would not leave his mind until his first winning 
season as the offensive coordinator at Yancey; that is what he told me 
later. The pressure is always on for you to succeed, both from your own 
Boys, and the fans in the stands. No finer coaches exist then the ones 
behind you in the stands who do not have your stress nor their pride on 
the line. I knew that feeling well. So did Skipper. He played his 
second teams as much as possible, and would not let Aussie air out any 
passes. He would not embarrass the head coach or the offensive 
coordinator. I wanted to let Aussie loose and work on some plays in a 
game time situation that we had only run in practice. I was 
disappointed, but I made a mental note of the kindness that was 
Skipper. Doug Wohl was one of our defensive lineman who had too much 
muscle and not enough brains. At least we thought so at the time. Doug 
would later on prove us wrong with his investments in Computers in the 
early eighty's. But at this time he was barely getting through with his 
core classes in high school. And, he was enjoying the attention of a 
sweet young thing named Miss. Gloria Nugent. Gloria worked at the Dairy 
Queen down the road from the high school, and every day after practice 
Doug made the stop there to get a cold drink or ice cream on his way 
home. She had quit school at the young age of sixteen, and had a 
reputation for being easy. I don't think she was easy, just lonely, and 
in search of a way out of this life, and perhaps, this town and the 
rumors that followed her around. Doug on the other hand, wanted a 
pretty girl by his side, and felt the urge to defend and protect. All 
this added up to keeping Doug from passing, and showing up for 
practice. I do not believe Doug thought he was that good he could skip 
practice, but he was in love. The team knew Doug's problem was love, 
and that time spent with her was magical and, made him lose his senses 
and track of time. Time spent with the team was fun, but dirty, sweaty, 
and achingly, without Gloria. Skipper put him on probation. According 
to Skipper's rules if a player was not at practice the day before the 
game, he did not play. Well, to be honest, if he was not at practice 
and he did not have a good enough reason, such as sickness, death in 
the family then he did not play. Wohl, did not have a good enough 
reason , and all the boys knew it. Skipper had no choice. He benched 
Doug for the game against Toro. This was to be the first game into the 
play-offs. The El Toro Bulls were a redundant team of our own, both in 
name and talent. Having watched them on film that week, I knew they had 
more then their fair share of athletes. Four backs, three possible  
quarterbacks, and a stable of linemen who knew how to get the job done. 


**** 

It is always surprising how people react to bad new in small towns. Word
gets around so fast, you can start a rumor on one end of town, and by 
the time you get to the other end, someone is calling you over to let 
you in on it. People felt that Skipper was too hard on Doug- the 
Lover-boy, and that he should be allowed to play. As usual, Skipper 
said little on the subject unless directly confronted, and then he 
would smile, shake his head, and state Doug knew the rules, and knew 
what would happen if he broke them. He let them know, it did not matter 
who the players were or where they played on the field, they would all 
be held accountable. And, if that was not enough, he also sat Aussie 
out for failing a math test. Aussie was a genius at math, but his last 
two test had been almost failing. Skipper had warned him, as a courtesy 
to the math teacher, that if he failed another test, he would have to 
sit out a game. When Aussie failed the next test, Skipper felt he had 
to keep his word; he did. On the day of the suspension, Skipper called 
me into his office, and let me know what was going on. He wanted me to 
know before it became public at the town pep-rally that evening. He 
would handle the principal, and the parents, but I would have to handle 
preparing a new quarterback the day before a major game. I did not 
think it was fair of Skipper, and my manner towards him gave me away. 
Skipper looked at me for a long moment. “ Muley , I do not have a 
choice. I told him what I would do, and he failed me, he let me down. 
He let the team down. The whole team and the teachers were aware of our 
talk. He knew what needed to be done. He is not a stupid child, he is 
our leader, the one all our boys look up too, and the younger ones in 
the stands worship. “ This I know“, he added, “every boy who walks 
through this door has to believe I will keep my word. And, every boy 
who plays for me better keep his. Knowles did not. He has let us down, 
and we will have to pay the price. “ I looked at him, and heard him 
talk ,but all I could think of was the certain fact we were going to 
lose this game against Toro High tomorrow. Does he not understand we 
needed Aussie to win? Does he think this is the moral high ground? Is 
his pride greater then the team's destiny? I could not find the words 
that would help me make sense of this inside my head. But, Skipper was 
not through. “ Coach, Aussie will not play tomorrow,” he intoned,” and 
all of our Boys: the ones now, and the ones in the future, will 
understand that when you give your word, and your are told to do 
something, you do it. Emile, “ he said solemnly, surprisingly 
pronouncing my first name properly, “ I hope you can understand my 
decision. It was my decision to make, and I have made it. In the long 
run, the only thing our Boys will have  will not be their athletic 
ability, but their word and their brains. If we can teach them to keep 
it and use it, we are doing the work that really matters, not winning 
the most games. And, the team will know, if I will take this position 
with the greatest of them, then I will take this position with the 
least of them also.” I told Skipper, I would not make this same 
decision if I was the one in charge. I also told him he was making a 
big mistake. He just nodded the way he normally did when he was 
listening. His physical appearance had changed since I had first met 
him a year and a half ago. He was older looking; more haggard with a 
grayness about his coloring I had not noticed before. His shoulders now 
sagged, where they once had been squared and prideful. He repeated 
himself again, never breaking eye contact with me to demonstrate his 
determination to his position. I repeated myself again trying to make 
an argument about Aussie's situation, but with no takers  I left. I 
felt horrible. At that moment, more horrible for me and Aussie then the 
decision Skipper had had to make. I went to find Aussie and give him 
the bad news. By the time I reached Aussie he had already heard the 
news. I was angry, hurt and upset. I said some things I might not have 
about the Coaches' decision otherwise. Aussie just looked at me and 
gave one of his signature smiled. “ He did the right thing you know.” I 
was a little surprised at these words. “What are you talking about?” I 
said in disbelief. “ I left him no choice. “ Aussie responded. “If he 
did nothing the others would not have believed him, or trusted him. 
Maybe I was testing him or something. But, after today, I will not test 
him again and neither will Doug.” When Aussie said he understood, the 
decision made sense. I guess Aussie's understanding of it eased my own 
guilty feelings about having to tell him by following Skipper's 
directives. 

**** 

I had had no time to go home and change, but I had worn my school
clothes earlier that day, and they were still at the field house 
waiting for me to get dressed for the town pep-rally.  I walked into 
the coaches' office, and saw Skipper looking pained and unwell in a 
chair nears Holes' desk. He was holding his stomach, and looking down 
at a stain in his khaki trousers near his crotch. I waited a moment 
before going in. I did not want to disturb him. He looked a little 
surprised to see me. Perhaps, surprised and a little relieved. “ Muley, 
I'm hurting, and Iäve had an accident.” “Alright Skipper, what can I 
do?” I asked. “ Just help me up and into my car. I'm going over to see 
Doc Woods at his office. I just spoke with him on the phone and he's 
waiting for me there.” “Skipper, I'm going to take you.” I demanded. 
“And,”, I added, “we have plenty of time to get back before the 
pep-rally.” Skipper thought it over, and after a time agreed. He did 
not moan, but breathed rather coarsely through his mouth. You could 
tell when he was in a great deal of pain by the way he caught his 
breathe, and clenched his teeth when times seemed rougher then others. 
We only had a short distance to go to Doc Woods' office, and we made 
good time using my car instead of Skipperäs truck. I helped Skipper 
move past the door and into the waiting room. Woods met us and helped 
us get Skipper back to a back room. A few of the town's people were 
waiting their turn to see Doc Woods, and were surprised to see Skipper 
and I move ahead of them in the waiting order. Once they recognized 
Skipper, there was a gentle mummer of noise in the room, one of concern 
and surprise. Doc Woods himself, looked concerned and began to ask 
Skipper some questions about pain, and then about the light 
discoloration on the front of his pants which I had noticed earlier. I 
was leaving the room when I heard Skipper say it came from his need to 
go to the bathroom, the pain he had been experiencing, and the trouble 
he had controlling it. I waited for Skipper in the patients' waiting 
room, reading some month old hunting magazine and wishing there was 
something I could do for him. Most of the people had left by then, and 
I was alone with my thoughts. We had arrived at the doctor's office at 
5:00 that afternoon, and it was 6:00 by the time Skipper came out. He 
sat down, looking relieve and less pained. I later learned he had been 
given a shot of morphine for the pain he was suffering. I felt a sense 
of relief. Doc Woods came out and sat down by Skipper and me. He was 
not looking very cheerful, but I figured it was the late hour we had 
spent in his office. “ Coach Sanchez,” he started, “ Someone on 
Skipperäs staff needs to be aware of the problem he is having. I 
realize “, he continued looking at Skipper in a concerned manner, “ 
that he wants no one to know of his condition, but there is a time and 
place to bite the bullet, and this does not have to be one of those.” 
At this point, I was a little confused. What was clear was there was 
something more wrong then a little stomach ache. Doc continued, “ I 
have found a rather substantial growth on Skipper's prostate. I am not 
sure whether this growth is malignant or not. He needs to go into the 
Houston Medical Center and have it checked out. I am afraid this is 
very serious, and may require a surgery to remove the prostate and the 
growth.” I was not sure what he was talking about, as my degree was in 
history and social studies and not health, as was the majority of 
coaches in this part of the world. I looked over at Skipper, and I saw 
him nodding his head in affirmation of Doc's words. He seemed to have 
heard these words before. I was scared for Skipper. I had not known Doc 
Woods too long, but had seen him at every home game championing the 
cause for victory. He had always seemed a happy and cheerful sort, and 
now I was seeing his serious side. Skipper was quiet, and pensive. I 
could not tell what was going through his head, and I was afraid to 
ask. The pep-rally was to be held in less then an hour. I was not sure 
what Skipper wanted to do. I was not sure whether I was suppose to ask. 
I left that in his hands. Whatever he wanted to tell me was enough. 
Skipper thanked Doc Woods, and I walked with him to the car. I opened 
the door for him, closed it and went over to my side trying to figure 
out what I should do. Should I take him home; to the pep-rally; or just 
let him decide? He made the decision for me. He asked me to take him 
home, and then he wanted me to go to the pep-rally and represent him 
and the team, making apologies for his absence. I deferred, but he was 
adamant. I left him at the door waving goodbye to me, with his long arm 
gentle waving in a weak and feeble state. I had never seen Skipper look 
so old and weak, and I felt terrible as I drove off down the dusty road 
back to the stadium and the town's excitement over Skipper's dream 
catcher. 

Chapter Thirty One 

The Pep Rally 

**** 

Even today as I sit in this new stadium here in Rocin, I feel the old
pain and sorrow washing over me. I did not know it then, but Skipper 
was dying. I went to the pep-rally that night, and made the excuses for 
the Boss. I told them he could not be here tonight because of sickness, 
but he wanted to thank them and let them know how much we, the team, 
appreciated their pride, love and attention. The other coaches just 
looked at me, especially Ski. We had not had time to talk prior to the 
event starting. I had just had enough time to change into my school 
clothes, before walking out with the last notes of the National Anthem 
being played by the Rocin band. The boys and the coaches were lined up 
on a platform, facing the crowd, and the large “R” we had repainted 
this past summer. I joined the other coaches on the wooden platform, 
taking the last seat to the right near the steps. There was one other 
seat open, next to Mr. Smith, and I realized it had been left open for 
Skipper.  I have never enjoyed pep-rallies, but this one seemed to be 
what every pep-rally should be: loud, fun, and community building. But 
thoughts of Skipper sick at home did not allow me to enjoy the moment 
as it should have been enjoyed. As I started back to the field house, 
trying to inform the other coaches what was going on, Aussie's folks 
stopped me. The decision to suspend Aussie had not been my decision to 
make, and I had not felt good about it anyways, but I would abide by 
Skipper decision of Aussie's suspension of the game. Instead of yelling 
at me, they thanked me for setting Aussie straight. They were a 
handsome couple, and dressed more like affluent people from Houston 
then the farmers and ranchers from Rocin. They also wanted me to thank 
Skipper for coming over to their house this morning, and talking with 
them about the situation. They told me it was good to know that Coach 
O'Bryan was a man of principles, and that he would follow them no 
matter the cost, even the play-offs. I was shocked at this turn of 
events. Where I had expected anger, they gave understanding. This was 
new to me. But I could tell Aussie's folks were special. They must have 
been, with this type of reception for the coaches who had suspended 
their golden haired son. Skipper had made the right decision. We spoke 
a little longer, I thanked them and left headed toward the field house. 
Back at the field house the other coaches were waiting for me to 
explain Skipper's absence. I told them what had happened , and what Doc 
Woods had said. All the coaches looked surprised at the news of 
Skipper' sickness. I also told them I expected Skipper to go to Houston 
tomorrow morning. Holes offered to take off from school and drive him, 
but Ski would not hear of it. It was his duty to take care of Skipper, 
and , in the lights of the field house, and without those mirror 
glasses, his eyes expressed his desperate need to take care of Skipper. 
For all of the coaches it had been a long day, and we wore the effects 
of the day in the dirt, grime, and sweat that had accumulated on our 
clothes and bodies. We sat around and spoke of little else but how 
tough Skipper was, and how nothing could keep him down. Speaking as if, 
by our own words, we could wish Skipper well and cure him of what ailed 
him. I went home and shared what I knew with Anne. She was, as usual, 
genuinely sympathetic. How lucky I was in finding her on the river that 
day of the race was made even more apparent by the meal the beautiful 
woman had prepared for me this night. Perhaps it was not luck but 
Providence, Divine Providence: the day at the river, Skipper' 
intervention, the wedding, even this meal. I do not know if it was her 
nursing back ground or the way she had been brought up, but I always 
ate well balanced and delicious meals. Her mother would have been 
proud. Tonight was no exception. I was particularly pleased as we ate 
our ham, grits, and greens on the new-to us- kitchen table I had found 
at 

a garage sale in Agua Dulce the past weekend after the game with
Marshall. It was a bright red farm-house Formica table top with chrome 
legs, and I felt like a prince in his castle when I was not troubled by 
thoughts of Skipper. 

**** 

I could not sleep at first, as I worried over this game with , the twin
losses of Doug and Aussie, and Skipper's sickness. Sleep must have 
found me, as the alarm yelled at me five- “get up“- o'clock. I felt as 
if I had just gone to sleep. I got up quickly, as is my habit, and went 
into the bathroom to shower and shave. I had not quite finished shaving 
when the phone quickened my heart rate with a loud obnoxious ring in 
the kitchen. I ran to get it so Anne would not waken, but she joined my 
in the kitchen as I picked up the phone. It was Skipper. He was feeling 
a little better, but was wondering if I wouldn't mind picking him up on 
my way to school that morning. He did not want to talk about going to 
Houston this morning, or about his problem. I picked him up at six am, 
noting his color and disposition. He looked a bit white, but mentally 
ready to play. We talked a little about the game today, and what 
adjustments we might need to make without Aussie out there on the 
field. Little Sean Hennessey was Aussie's back-up. What he lacked in 
size he made up in attitude. He was the John Paul Jones type of player 
that would never give up. His leadership style was more vocal then 
Aussie's but he knew how to lead. I asked Skipper how he was feeling 
and what I could do to help him. He smiled at me and asked me to stop 
at the connivance store near the school so he could pick up his pouch 
of Red Man chewing tobacco and his normal large cup of coffee. I nodded 
in agreement and we drove in silence the rest of the way to the store. 
The wind had picked up last night, and made for a cold morning. Skipper 
had on a military parka, or field jacket, and sat hunched next to me in 
the passenger seat. The weather stripping around the door of the car 
was partially gone, and the heater had to work extra hard to keep up 
with our frozen fingers and toes. After leaving the store, and reaching 
the high school, we meet that morning with all the coaches and 
discussed our pre-game duties. The assignments were routine by now, but 
Skipper went over them any ways. He sat in Holes' chair behind the desk 
as he gave us our marching orders. For the past two seasons I had been 
put in charge of game jerseys: hand out, wash and pick up, and dreaded 
this duty. I would rather of had Holes' duty of checking on the 
footballs and the kicking gear, but he was adamant about not giving 
away a good thing without something in return- I had nothing to offer. 
Skipper continued with our pre-game ritual by checking with each coach 
about the condition of his players, personal, and the adjustments 
necessary when there was to be a change in personal. For me, Aussie was 
this adjustment. Hennessy would get the job done, he could hand off, 
but his delivery when throwing the ball from a discharging hand to  
receiving hands left the fans in suspense, holding their collective 
breathe until a wobbly ball was cradled into the hands of the intended 
receiver; which was fifty percent of the time, the other fifty percent 
of the time we hoped the unintended receiver gained only five yards or 
less. The rest of the day was a blur with the handling of classes, 
uniforms, and game preparations. I had decided to give a test that 
Friday to keep myself from teaching distractions but it seemed that 
many of the students had not studied enough, and a few of the girls 
began to cry as they realized how it would effect their final grade. I 
tried hard to be a callous teaching professional and not care, but the 
truth is, that it is just a myth, all teachers care and the degree in 
which they care can be seen in the curve they give, or how they are 
willing to re-teach the material and then re-test. I cared enough to 
let them retake it on Monday after they had had a chance to see it, and 
study for it over the weekend, but I would not tell them that till the 
end of the school day and only to my last period class. They had a 
wonderful ability of spreading the news and good cheer to all the 
students without any help from me. Skipper stayed down at the field 
house, and though I checked on him twice, I saw very little of him 
throughout the day. The day had worn long on me, as I waited for our 
chance to play against the El Toro Bulls in the first game of the 
play-offs. What with the test taking, the crying, and worry about our 
quarterbacking problems I did not know how to respond: Should I be up 
and happy about making the play-offs, or worried and bitter about 
Skipper's decision that that could make us lose our first shot at the 
play-offs?  Skipper's health kept me ambiguous in this process. Since I 
could find any answer, I would just keep shifting gears feeling both, 
and hoping the best response would win out. I could not show any of 
this to the team, therefore I kept  a happy, positive attitude around 
them. After all, good leaders are suppose to be good actors, at least, 
that is what Gen. Patton said. 

**** 

We lost the toss, but the game started off with an on-side kick by Ski's
kick-off team, which we recovered. Ski always played his hand close to 
his vest, and I was not sure what he had seen on film that lead him to 
make this chose on the kick-off, but we recovered it and the offense 
took to the field with a roar of approval from the side-lines. Skipper 
turned and smiled his thanks at Ski, which made Ski's face beam as if a 
headlight had reached a dark corner of a country road. It was an 
amazing sight, one I had not seen very often since I had come to Rocin 
High. As usual, Skipper threw a wrench into the nerve racking few 
moments of the game, as I sent in my first offensive play from 
scrimmage. He sent in Nacho Rios. Nacho Rios is a friend of Hale's and 
when they run, it is at almost the same pace- with one difference: 
Nacho comes in last!  Sure, I realized his mom made tamales for the 
coaches and the team on game days, and sure I know she came and talked 
with Skipper in his office last Tuesday, but why was he on the field? I 
could not for the life of me understand this decision, to send in a 
back-up offensive guard in what would be a hotly contested first game 
of the play-offs. I looked out in disbelief as Nacho took the field in 
his slow lumbering way, with a rolling gait, much as a ship would use 
out on the ocean. I hurriedly walked toward Skipper to confront him, 
and to prepare myself for the next offensive down call. He saw me 
coming, turned towards me, and stoically awaited my arrival. “Skipper,” 
I ranted, “what is going on here?” “ Emile“, he pronounced looking old 
and gray in the stadium lights, “I just made a decision on the starting 
offensive guard. I apologize for not telling you sooner, but, with all 
that has been going on, I just remembered that the boy's grandparents 
are in the stands tonight, and I owe that kid. He comes to every 
practice, he stays after to work-out, and he never asks for anything: 
no special favors, or demands. And, by God, he will play today and get 
the job done, I have faith in him. I looked at Skipper in disbelief, 
shaking my head back and forth- No. “Coach Sanchez, “ he exploded, “he 
has to believe that all the work he has done the past four years has 
been for something. I spoke with his mother this week...Coach, I will 
not let him, his mother, or his grandparents down. He needs to know I 
trust him.... He's one of my Boys.” The last two statements he roared 
with great strength. The voice inside my head screamed, “ We've lost 
Aussie, Doug, and now our starting offensive guard, are we trying to 
lose?” But, before I could speak I realized Skipper had not called me “ 
Coach Sanchez” but a handful 

of times since I had come to the school last year. And, he had only used
my true first name but once before. His use of both of them now, got my 
attention, and my understanding as to who was in charge and what had 
been decided. I had been brought up short in my surprise and anger. I 
heard the crowd before I realized we had just run our first play from 
scrimmage. I had run a lead play up the middle of the offensive line, 
right behind my new guard. And, I had played football long enough to 
realize we had done something well for the crowd to cheer like that. I 
looked back over at Skipper in his game clothes, with his Khaki dress 
pants, button up white shirt with tie, and his fedora hat. His grin was 
poised, but prize winning as he noticed me looking at him. “Muley, he 
exclaimed in jubilation, in a more humorous voice” we just gained six 
yards running behind Nacho, lets try this next time to get at least 
four more for a first down- Call the next play Coach, we can't win 
without you. Letäs get this done, Muley!” Surprised as I was, I knew 
Skipper had made up his mind, and I had an offense to run. 

Chapter Thirty Two The Pain **** 

Behind Hennessy's hand-offs and Nacho's blocking, we played El Toro to a
draw until the forth quarter. With the remaining four minutes  left to 
play in the forth quarter Toro went ahead  by three points with a field 
goal at our twenty-five yard line. I found myself looking for excuses 
for the loss of this game even before it was over. I was upset with 
Skipper's decisions. At the time I wanted to blame him, but I still had 
a game to call, and I needed to believe we could win. In practice, I 
had watched Mike “The Vise” Vacek, the other line backer besides 
Meintz, playing around in practice throwing the football, and doing it 
well. We had been running the dive and option all night, and I knew the 
defense would come hard at either side of the line if we went at it 
strong with what would look like a sweep or pitch. I decided to risk 
it. After we recovered the ball on about our twenty-seventh yard line, 
I called for our last timeout with Ski looking at me apprehensively. 
The line took a knee on the field, while the backs ran over to us to 
discuss the next three plays. Skipper walked over along with the rest 
of the coaches to hear my offensive plan. I knew he could over ride me 
if he felt it was necessary, but he never had. I told them to ran the 
pitch to the left side on the first play, and then I wanted to run the 
pitch to the right side, but I wanted Vacek, in as the runing back, to  
run a little deeper, and chunk that ball as far as he could to our 
right side wide receiver and tight end  headed down field on a T.D. 
route. “ Does everyone understand? “ I enquired hastily. All the sweaty 
and dirty heads nodded their understanding, and looking back into their 
trusting eyes, I knew we could do it. Hennessy, with a face full of 
dirt, and a no-quit attitude was shaking his head purposefully. Their 
faith had energized me. As they prepared to run out onto the field, 
Skipper spoke: “ Tell Nacho to pull and seal the end around the tackle. 
Tell him, he has any wrong colored jersey, and Hennessy,” Skipper 
added, “ tell him Skipper knows he can do it.” Hennessy looked at 
Skipper, smiled and said: “ Aye, Aye Skipper!” around his rubber mouth 
piece. Then, he turned around and headed back to the battle field with 
his bruised lieutenants, the running backs, following in his wake It 
felt right. I knew we could do it. The first pitch from scrimmage took 
us out to the left hash with a gain of four yards. Not enough to stop 
the clock for a first down, but good enough to worry the opposition. We 
lined up for our second play on the left hash. I  found myself holding 
my breathe, and looking around me, I was not alone. I breathed out 
slowly, took a deep breathe, and, with the snap of the ball, we were 
off. Sean took the snap, stepped back, pivoted, and opened up for the 
pitch. Vacek was already running deep to the right, while Mientz, in 
the fullback position,  sealed the defensive end with a type of sting 
block. By the time the ball was pitched, and caught by Vacek, he looked 
like a crumb being invaded by ants at a picnic, with the corner and 
linebacker on the way. Within my head, time slowed down and I had the 
ability to watch the play develop. I watched in disbelief as the 
defensive corner froze for a moment, and then came like a bolt of 
lightening at Vacek. The feeling that all would be alright ended right 
there with my stomach in knots. I felt my feet turn towards the 
defender, and my body become ridged as if I, myself, could take the 
field and block him. It was at about this point that I saw the our 
Nacho. I do not know where he came from, I do not know where he was the 
second before, all I know was he was there and he was the only thing 
between Vacek and the corner. If Vacek had not stepped up and behind 
Nacho, I do not believe Nacho would have made 

contact, but contact he did. It was as if the corner had hit a slow
moving freight train, one that was heavily loaded yet built for power. 
Upon contact, the only thing that corner hit was the ground. When my 
eyes left the scene of the derailed defender, Vacek had already 
launched his pass. It was a thing of beauty in my slow motion world. We 
had two receivers down field to the play side, and only one defender, 
who was just fast enough to catch the Clydesdale at tight end, but not 
our wide receiver. “Juking “ Jones had step out of position from the 
backfield, and taken the wide receiver spot, with his sure-fired hands. 
The bomb of a pass was caught, on their eight yard line and delivered 
to the touch line along with six points. My slow motion vision ended on 
the reception of the pass, and my hearing returned along with pats on 
the back from Holes and Harry. By the time we had lined up and kicked 
the extra point, we had fourteen seconds left to play. I looked over at 
Skipper, expecting to see his smiling face beaming at me. This 
expectation was short lived. When I looked for him, I found him sitting 
on the bench, scrunched over, holding his side. I left the game in 
Ski's defensive hands and went over to Skipper. When he saw me, he 
motioned me over and asked me to help him to the field house. As we 
walked off the sidelines toward the field house, people began calling 
out to Skipper and congratulating him. He continued to hold onto me, 
but held himself a little straighter, forced himself to smile and wave 
through the pain. By the time we got to the office, the game was over 
and the boys were filing into the locker room with joyous enthusiasm. I 
was at once so proud of them, and yet worried about Skipper: rather a 
bitter-sweet moment. Even though all the boys were excited, there was 
one face that radiated more then any of the others.  Nacho Rios walked 
by the other boys receiving pats and good natured punches, and made his 
way to Skipper's office. Skipper had gone in there to rest up. Nacho 
stopped and knocked on the door. Skipper gingerly opened the door, 
looked at Nacho, smiled and opened his arms. They hugged as only men 
can hug, with strength and brotherly emotion. Both of them had tears in 
there eyes, and I can still hear Skipper say, “ I am so Proud of You, I 
knew You could do it!” In that moment I knew why Skipper had done it. I 
would not forget this lesson. I now knew why all these Boys - no, Men- 
reached out to him; they sought his affirmation that they were good 
men, and that he was still  proud of them. Each time he greeted them, 
with a smile, a wave and a kind word they felt vindicated; he had not 
forgotten them, and still loved them. I knew how they felt, I felt the 
same way. 

**** 

Skipper's pain had increased after all the boys had gone. He was not
getting any relief, and needed to the urinate, but could not. Luckily 
Doc. Watson had been at the game, and had stayed to help Skipper gain 
some relief and medical help for the pain. Doc also informed him he 
needed to get to Houston as soon as possible: tonight would not be soon 
enough. Skipper sent the other coaches home. He told Ski, he needed to 
talk with me, and therefore he wanted me to drive him to Houston. Ski 
took this news sullenly like a small spoiled child who had been told 
no, but Skipper took pains to let him know how proud he was of the 
defense and the on-sides kick we had recovered to start the game. With 
a hand on Ski's shoulder and another shaking his hand, the eye contact 
and touch was enough to help Ski through this disappointing moment.  
Killer Bob was also given the task of running the Saturday morning film 
and stretches here at the field house. Skipper left Holes in charge of 
cleaning up and picking up after the game while Harry was to work on 
the film exchange with whoever won the game between out next play-off 
opponent. 

I was both surprised and pleased to be given the assignment of driving
Skipper to Houston. Doc Woods had recommended Houston over San Antonio, 
what with the emerging medical center, therefore we decided to go 
there. I decided to take my car so that Skipper did not need to step up 
into his truck and increase his pain. I left Doc Woods with Skipper as 
I ran off to gas up, and  I let Anne know where I was going, I did not 
want her to worry. 

Chapter Thirty Three 

Good Man Down 

**** 

The pain which had taken hold of Skipper's back, thighs and abdomen was,
at first, keeping him from getting comfortable on the way to Houston. 
The hour was late, and I knew we were headed for the emergency room, 
but the distance between feelings-the satisfying win, and Skipper's 
pains-were driving me a little crazy. I could not feel happy, but I 
could not feel depressed either. I just sat and drove in a floating 
neutral state. Before we left, Doc Woods had given Skipper some pills 
for pain. After taking them, Skipper, rode in a semi-conscious state. 
He moved to get comfortable, but he did not seem to be in as much pain. 
This made the driving bearable, without him feeling the pain, the 
urgency seemed less pressing. My mind wondered, back through the first 
meeting with Skipper and the coaches. I was so proud of what we had 
done; tonight and every Friday night. I could not wait to have my own 
team, and be the head coach. I felt I had proven myself on the football 
field, but now I needed to prove myself molding my own team. I had had 
the luxury of the team already existing with a leader intact who knew 
them and loved them. I wanted my turn. Because it was dark I could not 
enjoy the scenery on the way to Houston, therefore, I had to roll down 
the window and keep the cool air on my face to stay awake. I was 
reliving the game in my mind when I was startled to hear a voice 
addressing me. “Muley”, He said, “ Could you roll up the darn window a 
bit, I'm cold!” I agreed quickly. He was in no mood to discuss my 
sleepiness. After a bit, he stated, “ I was with the First Marine 
Division in Korea. Now, that was cold.” I just sat there and listened, 
he was in a mood to talk. “ I was at the Chosin Reservoir- one of the 
“Frozen Chosin”- I did not think then, I would make it home alive. I 
did not think any of us would make it home. It was damn cold!” “All 
gave some, some gave all.”....that was one of those saying from Korea, 
you know?” “ I gave some......” After a moment he continued. “The dead 
bodies were loaded like cord wood onto trucks, and there were a lot of 
bodies- a lot of men I knew. When we weren't fighting we were pushing 
trucks and jeeps up hills and valleys.” He paused. “ I looked up from 
pushing one of those trucks, and my eyes met the eyes of the man next 
too me. It took me a minute, but I realized it was General Puller- he 
was a colonel then. I could not believe it, General “Chesty” Puller was 
right beside me doing the grunt work with me. In the semi-darkness, I 
could just make out his eyes as he moved beside me, not scared, but 
pensive as if the scene around him might change at any time. He had to 
be ready to take care of us, at any time. He wasn't worried about his 
own health- if that was the case, he could have stayed in his own jeep 
and out of the snow- no, his worry was for all of his boys he had 
brought to the Chosin Reservoir. Skipper looked like a tired old man as 
he talked. The pills made him relax and let his mind unwind from the 
coiled up pain that had been hissing for some time in his abdomen. A 
light from a store near the highway flashed by as Skipper continued. “ 
I believed that man loved us, and he would suffer the same fate as us. 
He was honest and brave and I would follow him anywhere.” There was 
another short pause as if Skipper was thinking. I felt the hypnotic 
power of the dark freeway, as my eyes watched the white lines pass by, 
blurring into one continuous white ribbon, even with the Coach's voice 
providing breaks from this 

numbing trance. I pulled my tired mind back to Skipper's words when he
broke the quiet again. “That's the type of man I wanted to be. I wanted 
to lead bravely, and honorable sharing whatever fate my men would have. 
I believe the General loved us.” Skipper's voice had begin to crack, 
and emotion choked his words. “Muley, I love those boys...my Boys. I am 
worried I may not be there for them when they need me. You got to love 
them for me , Muley. You may be young, but you have that leadership 
quality that inspires, all you need to know is... they don't care how 
many games you win, just how much you love them and care for them. When 
all is said and done, the only thing that matters in the hearts of 
those boys is knowing that we loved them, we respected them, and we 
were honest with them.” “But“, we have a chance to go all the way in 
the state playoffs this year. We have the chance to give them the best 
of both worlds: our love and a state victory. I owe them this chance. I 
owe the whole town this chance. They have waited patiently on me the 
past twenty years.” “And Muley“, he rasped through emotion, “Muley, you 
are going to help me bring this title home to Rocin whether I am on 
that sideline or not!” I was wide awake now. I wanted to say to him,” 
Skipper, you will be fine!”, but I knew from his statement, he must 
have known more then I did about the state of his health. There was a 
stillness within the car, that was not from the late night or the 
quality of the ride. Skipper, looking towards my face, reached out his 
left hand and placed it on my shoulder. He spoke these last words with 
watery blue eyes. “I need you Muley...the Boys need you. I know you can 
do it.” A confession of trust had just been handed to me, as it had 
been handed down to each of his players whenever the going got tough; 
as it had been handed down to him in the Chosen Reservoir. He believed 
in me; he trusted me. I was silent. I just nodded my head. There was 
nothing to say. Skipper had summed up what he needed, and I understood. 
He did not need any false utterances of “things will be alright”, and 
such. I was numb from the game, Skipper's problem, the late night and 
the drive, but I felt the emotion start to take hold of me, and so must 
have Skipper. “Muley“, he muttered, “if I don't stop blabbering now, I 
will probable start crying.” And with that he turned over, covered 
himself with a blanket we had kept at the field house for emergencies, 
or Henry's naps, and seemed to go to sleep. 

The rest of the ride I drove in silence with me thoughts. The numbness
was gone, and I rode with fears and thoughts of the future: the boys, 
the town, and Skipper's. We made it to Houston by 1:00am, and into the 
emergency room at Methodist Hospital. Skipper was starting to feel some 
pain as the pills he had taken were wearing off, so they gave him some 
new pain medication, and off he went to sleep again. But, before he 
went into a deep sleep, he told me to go home, and if I was too tired, 
to sleep in that chair in the corner, and go home in the morning. I 
choose to go home. I made sure Skipper was alright, and knowing that we 
had films in the morning and Ski would need my help to lead it, I 
wanted to be there early enough to help. I drove home with the window 
rolled down all the way, and the cold air giving me an ear ache which 
helped irritate me into wakefulness. The AM radio keep me up with 
static country music which I sang with when I knew the song. I followed 
all the road directions, but once again I was not sure how I made it 
home. The car made the turns and the stops without pauses or comments. 

**** 

My house was down the street from the high school and stadium, and as I
drove down the street I noticed the lights on at the stadium and some 
movement in the bleachers. I just wanted to go home, but I could not, 
my duty was not through yet. I turned around, and cursing the other 
coaches for neglecting their duties, drove back toward the stadium and 
parked. After unlocking the outside entrance into the stadium, I 
entered and made my way up the stands to the scouting booth where the 
lights were located. I had not gone very far when I noticed a figure up 
high in the stands. The figure in question was a man, surrounded by 
little brown bottles placed neatly on the bench in front of him. I was 
not sure, but the mirror glasses were a clue to the man's identity. I 
walked towards him slowly, I do not know what I anticipated, but I was 
unsure of my welcome since I was inheriting the leadership position 
from Skipper. When he looked towards me, I did not think of his name as 
Ski, but as Killer Bob. He stared at me pug-ugly. I was glad I could 
not see his eyes, as I am sure my death was being appraised in them. I 
sat down, staring at him, and waited. The numbness was partially gone, 
replaced by a caution. “Why the hell are you here,” he started, “ and 
what is going on with Skipper?” I answered his question about Skipper 
first: what little I had to tell. Killer Bob kept staring at me through 
those mirror glasses. I just left him in silence, waiting for his 
response. I was  too tired to try anyways. He took another swig from a 
bottle that had been by his feet in the bleachers. “ I hate you Muley, 
you are a son-of-a-bitch. You come in here pretty as you please, and 
took over my job. I am sick to death of your offensive genius, and 
boy-scout attitude.” “Before you came“, he ranted, “when Skipper 
retired I was next in line to take over the team. But, you come in here 
and took over as if you've earned it. I hate you.” The heat from Killer 
Bob was building as I sat there, isolated from those I loved in an 
empty stadium. But Ski was not through. “ You came here, made friends, 
got married, and have even taken Skipper away from me.” He spouted off 
at me. And, with that he threw the bottle at me. It was an off balance 
throw, and more of a gesture then a pitch, but I was feeling like it 
was time to go. I started to get up, but Ski stopped me with his words. 
“I am sorry, Muley”, he took off his glasses and continued, “I am so 
gawd-damned sorry!” And he began to cry. I was uncomfortable with his 
drunken tears, but made no effort to leave. “ Muley, did you know 
Skipper was my high school coach?”, he asked,” I joined the Army after 
high school and went to Vietnam. I thought it was going to be an 
adventure, we would win every battle and no one would get hurt. I saw 
people: men, women, and even children killed, maimed, and burned. I was 
a medic, and I couldn't handle it. I began to drink myself to sleep, 
and even then the night mares followed me into my sleep. Faces of 
friends mixed with villagers burned, and killed called to me to for  
help.” Ski was finally human- the sunglasses were off-a scared little 
boy, who was running from his dreams. “ I could not help them,” he 
acknowledged with tears streaming down, “ I couldn't even help myself. 
I drank and smoked whatever I could to help me forget. Ski calmed down, 
and so did his words as he continued. “When I got my discharge, I did 
not know what to do, where to go. I was lost in my mind and soul. There 
was a blister there that hurt whenever I tried to move one way or 
another. Too much effort made the blister open and blinded me with 
pain. The only way to find peace was through dope.” I could not believe 
this was Killer Bob. Killer Bob, who I had only see drink orange juice, 
and milk. I was more then a little surprised. “Yeah, I was a doper,” he 
declared, “ and I was sinking fast. That is until this man came back 
into my life, put me up in his house, watched over me through 
withdrawals, and helped pay for the rest of my college. That man was 
Skipper, and I have a debt I can never repay. I love him. With that Ski 
quickly stood up, and almost fell. He caught his balance just as 
quickly, and looked at me. “ I am sorry Muley, you're the Boss now, 
...that is until Skipper gets back. I will work for you because of 
Skipper; I don't agree with all his decision, but I owe him and I will 
do whatever he needs me to do.” I nodded my head in agreement. Fair 
enough, I thought. “Now“, he announced, “ let's get some sleep, we have 
some game to win.” At that crack of time, Killer Bob looked almost 
human, and my fear of him started to abate. He was just another human 
being who had needed someone to care enough to believe in him. Skipper 
did, and I did too. “I don't hate you Muley,” he started seriously, “ 
so...if you would be kind enough to help me down from the bleachers, 
and into the coaches' office so I could sleep some of this off , and be 
ready for our meeting tomorrow, I would appreciate it.” We both smiled. 
Ski had made a stab at healing our relationship. Whether it was only 
because of Skipper or not, we now shared common ground, and that is 
enough to start a friendship. I helped him down and into the coaches 
office. I turned the lights off and I headed home to my soft warm bed 
and Anne. Two hours or more of sleep would be a welcome reprieve from 
this long and emotion filled night I had just had. 

**** 

I gave the boys off on Thursday, and we just practiced during the
athletic period, before the playoff game with Carter High. They were a 
strong team with a great passing game for that period of high school 
football. The four of us coaches got into Holes station wagon, and rode 
into Houston to check on Skipper. He was in a double room divided by a 
curtain, but so far, he had not had to share the room with anyone. When 
we got there he was sitting up in bed reading the daily sporting news. 
His face was newly clean shaven, and his granny glasses rode 
precariously on the tip of his nose. Though he had taken the time to 
groom, his color was almost a gray-white, and he looked a little 
shrunken. I was not sure what test had been done on him since his 
arrival last Saturday morning. Doc Woods stopped by on Monday afternoon 
to talk with all of us coaches after practice. He had been in touch 
with Skipper's doctors in Houston, and they had confirmed his belief 
that it was cancer. Skipper was in trouble. Skipper smiled when he saw 
us, and teased us about slacking off when we had to play Carter 
tomorrow. Holes joined in the teasing, and blasted Skipper for staying 
in a immaculately clean hotel with room service when we were all out 
there working outdoors in the cool weather. It was nice to see everyone 
laughing. Holes and Harry went out to get some more reading materials 
for Skipper, and Ski and I stayed. The Boss was giving us some pointers 
about the game and his offensive line, when a doctor came in. We all 
could see Skipper was getting tired, and losing interest in the 
conversation a little before that, and the doctor suggested we let him 
rest. Skipper did not put up much of a fight, so we went outside with 
the doctor. He was a young man, a bit older then Harry, and we started 
talking football. He was Skipper's doctor. He and Skipper must have 
spent some time talking because he was aware that Rocin was in the 
playoffs and how much it meant to the town of Rocin. After the small 
talk about football, he turned serious. He asked if any of us were 
family. I looked at Ski, and he at me. Finally, Ski shook his head yes, 
and his family waited expectantly. This doctor did not question us 
again about our genealogy. He nodded. He must have had some experience 
at this sort of thing, because he did not flinch as he proceeded to 
give us the news on Skipperäs health. He looked right at us and made 
this statement: “ Coach O'Bryan has an advanced state of prostate 
cancer. I do not know how long he has to live. He is aware of this, and 
is making plans accordingly. You two as family members may want to help 
him. I am sorry for your family.” He left us, and we just stood 
together alone in our own thoughts. I wanted to cry. After all these 
years, when his hopes for victory would come true he was going to die. 
I felt as if a fist had hit me square in the chest. But, I know I was 
not alone, tears had come to Ski's eyes as he tried to erase them 
existence by forcible wiping them away. Harry and Holes joined us, and 
saw right away there was a problem. We told them what we had heard. 
Harry just looked down and away, Holes reached over and smacked the 
wall. I knew how they both felt. 

Before we left the hospital, that afternoon, I went back into the room
to say goodbye to Skipper. He was awake, and just lying there in the 
semi-darkness. “Well Muley, I guess you heard?” I just nodded. Words 
would not come. “ I am making all the arrangements , so you folks do 
not need to worry about that.” Again I nodded, and looked at him 
through blurry eyes. There was a silence between us for some time as we 
both contemplated life and death. I am sure we were thinking much the 
same thoughts as Skipper finally turned his face towards me, and fixing 
me with a penetrating stare asked: “ Do you believe there is a God?” It 
was a funny type of question coming from a man who I knew to be a man 
of God, but I knew the correct answer. He was looking for reassurance, 
and if that was all he needed, I could darn well give it too him. But, 
before I could speak, he spoke again:” Do you think He really cares 
whether I am a Catholic or a Protestant?” I spoke softly fearing my 
voice would give away my emotions, “ Skipper, I said, I truly believe 
there is a God and a heaven, and based on the way you have loved  and 
nurtured His creations here on earth, I am of the belief you will have 
made the “A” team when you finally get up there.” He smiled at me, and 
gave a soft, throaty kind of chuckle. “Skipper”, I started, “ is there 
anyone I can send over to see you?” I was really asking about ministers 
or last rites, and Skipper knew it. A generous smile broke across his 
face. “You know Muley, I use to be Catholic, I won't be Baptist, 
therefore I may be Lutheran by default.” There was a pause while I 
figured out this was a joke. Skipper started again. “ Ask them all to 
come, this way I have covered all my bases. One of them has to have a 
good word to put in about me.” Again silence took over. “You know, if I 
lean forward enough, I can look out the window and see that blue sky. 
Because of that, I know there is a God and He is good. I lived through 
Korea, when others didn't. I found a job and came to understand my 
mission in a town that I proudly call home. 

“That mission wasn't winning the state play-offs,” he informed me, “ it
was watching my Boys grow up to be good men. And, they are, you are.” 
Skipper leaned back in his hospitable bed to make himself more 
comfortable, after having sat up painfully to look at the sky out the 
window. “I have spent some time reading a good book here in Houston, 
and it may sound sorta funny, but, I guess, it is my time to decrease, 
and your time increase. That's part of our job Muley. We have to teach 
the next generation what it is to be men, and then, they must grow 
older and wiser and teach the next. You knew what I mean?” I did. I 
also seemed to recall that the semi-quote on increasing was from the 
words of John the Baptist words about Jesus- but I also knew I was no 
Jesus. We were out of time, and I knew all of us coaches had to leave 
soon, the others were waiting. I did not know how to end this intimate 
meeting between us. Skipper did. “Muley, his voice becoming emotionally 
hoarse,” Get the team there. Take my Boys all the way.” With a pain in 
my throat the size of Harry's bicep, I responded,” Aye, Aye, Skipper.” 
Skipper's eyes brimmed with tears, and a smile spread across his face 
as we both remembered our first meeting and my words about this type of 
affirmation. There was nothing more to be said. We just nodded at each 
other. I wanted to hug him, tell him how much I had learned from him, 
and come to love him, but I was frozen with a deep uncertain feeling. 
Would he reject me? I started to leave, almost made it through the 
door, and made a decision. I turned back, walked over too the bed and 
took his hand. I whispered, “ I love you Skipper.” He grabbed my hand 
and pulled me into an embrace, “ I love you too, Muley”, he choked 
through a hoarse whisper. As he released me, he reassured me he was 
still in charge by the bravado power in his voice. “ Now, get the hell 
out of here, you have a game to prepare for tomorrow.” That was the 
last time I saw Skipper. I could barely make myself look into the 
coffin and see him laying there in his gray suit and red bow tie, with 
the sun-faded Notre Dame cap resting by his head at the funeral home. 
There is something final about using the word “dead”. He has “passed”, 
“departed“, “left us”, these word seem to suggest a temporary 
separation; his death did not feel real, or final. Something of us 
lives on in others once we have pasted through this life. If we are 
lucky, the death of those we respect and love places a higher burden on 
those of us who remain; the burden is light, yet severe in its 
requirements: “I have come to serve, not to be served.” It was now my 
turn. 

Chapter Thirty Four 

Faith 

**** 

The coaches had returned form the hospital late on Thursday night. We
had talked openly of our sorrow when we first left the hospital, but 
had journeyed west in selfish anguish on that way back from Houston. We 
all left Holes' station wagon at the field house and dispersed to find 
our own waiting vehicles in the crushed parking lot. The light from the 
field house, surrounded by the encroaching darkness, was a sad reminder 
of how we all felt; empty and hollow, with just enough energy left to 
get home. As I made my way to my car, Holes drove up on his way out of 
the parking lot, and made a tentative suggestion. “Muley, how about we 
meet early in the morning, about 6:30, here at the field house, to say 
a decaed of the rosary for Skipper?” I liked the idea, both for 
Skipper's soul, and for any action, on my part,  I thought could help 
Skipper. “That's a great idea, Holes.” I looked at him and smiled. “ 
You're not so bad when you put your mind to it.” I was in the process 
of beginning a laugh, when he said. “ I love him too, Muley.” That 
stopped my laughter before it had left my mouth. And, he drove off in a 
gentle, slow acceleration of a man in deep mourning. When I got home, 
Anne told me that Ma Koreneke had called and I was to call her no 
matter what time I got home. I called. I told her the news and how 
Skipper had looked when we saw him that night. She sounded sorrowful 
for Skipper, but not willing to give up yet. I told her of my meeting 
with Holes at the field house to say the rosary. She told me she would 
try and make it. I made the six thirty meeting with Holes, surprised to 
find Ski there also. He nodded at me as I came in and sat down opposite 
him. Holes had been using the bathroom, and came out shaking his hands 
to throw off the water that had beaded up from his hand washing. I saw 
Ski take out his rosary, and followed suit, taking mine out, which was 
contained in a small leather bag. The rosary was the only thing of my 
father's that I owned. It had been in our family a long time, my Abuela 
had told me, and I looked upon it with a sense of family pride. Holes 
lead us in the prayers, while Ski lead us to our knees. As my fingers 
traversed the worn brown beads, I perceived a sense of tranquility and 
comfort, both for Skipper and, selfishly, for myself. I was doing 
something for him. Harry appeared early that morning in the coachesä 
office, but since he was not Catholic, no one had thought to invite him 
to our prayer session. He saw us praying, and without interrupting us, 
went back out the door shutting it quietly while we continued our Hail, 
Maryäs. He reappeared a couple of minutes later with four towels, 
folding each one in half, and half again. Then he put one towel in 
front of each of us praying on our knees. He also putt one on the floor 
between Ski and Holes, and joined us on our knees. It was then that I 
realized the towels were for all of us to kneel on to keep our knees 
from aching. Harry did not try to say or mumble the prayers, he kneeled 
there quietly, with his eyes closed praying with us in spirit. This man 
was made up of more then just show; there was more to Harry then met 
the eye. I had closed my eyes at one point to devout myself to God's 
will for Skipper, and not my own, 

when I heard the door open. I was not too surprised to see Ma Koreneke
come in, I was surprised to see the office fill up our Boys: Hennessy, 
Nacho, Vacek, Aussie, Whale and Clydesdale. The thing that got to me 
the most were the non-Catholics who joined us such as:  Johnny Steptoe, 
Mentz, Hog Curtis, and even Doug Wohl  who had been suspended for two 
games earlier in the season. Ma had told them about it this morning, 
and they had come to join us on their knees to pray. I am glad Holes 
was leading prayers because by this time, I was too moved to speak. Who 
would have ever thought, the country would remove teachers and players 
from praying together, and for each other. 

**** 

Dwight D. Eisenhower High School, located west of San Antonio, had a lot
in common with its name sake: they were well coached and their coach 
was called the General. They were next on our radar screen after the 
victory over Carter High School. We had won the play-off game against 
Carter that past Friday, and we were now officially in the run for the 
state title. Carter High had lost a player two weeks before we played 
in a traffic accident that had killed him and his girlfriend in a head 
on collision. The surviving players had thoughts of winning the state 
play-offs for the two students from their school. We were playing for 
Skipper; both worthy causes but someone had to lose. Their team tried 
too hard, and we took advantage of their mistakes: fumbles, bobbles, 
and miss-ques. The game was a lopsided victory fro us with tears on 
both sides being openly shed by fans and players alike. After our win 
against Carter, I ran errands that Saturday morning after the team 
meeting and films. Everywhere I went people were asking about Skipper. 
I had never heard so many nice things said about a person. Karl 
Schmidt, the butcher, told me how Skipper had helped his son through a 
tough time. Joey Jones, one of the mail room clerks, spoke about the 
loss of his father and what Skipper meant to him. This was just the 
beginning of the amount praise we received on Skipperäs behalf. I just 
smiled, nodded,  and listened. I began to wonder what people would 
think of me later in life; how would I be remembered? 

News  of Skipper's death reached the town of Rocin after our victory
against “the General“ and Ike High School. The whole town went into 
mourning that Monday afternoon. Men and women took to wearing black arm 
bands as they carried on with their daily lives. Even the team had a 
black arm band sewn onto their jerseys to show other teams their deep 
feeling of loss for their beloved coach. Holes and Harry clinched and 
cried when they heard the news from Doc Woods prior to the town's own 
informant. I watched Ski, knowing how deep his feelings were for 
Skipper, but his tears were not for public consumption. He would drown 
his tears in his own good time. The coaches gathered the team together 
to let then know of Coach O'Bryan's death. With youthful enthusiasm, 
and a lack of many of the Boys to have experienced the intimacy of 
close grief, their sorrow was much more animated then I would have 
expected. Many sought out others to show them how to react, others, 
with the reactionary and violent minds of youthful football players, 
had a tendency for the need of a physical relief. Holes stepped up to 
the center of the team, after the initial hurt had broken upon them. He 
had in his hand a piece of well-worn typing paper, that seemed to draw 
his attention. Much of the noise seemed to abate as he cleared his 
throat, and waited for the rest of the grieving commotion to cease. “ I 
found this on Skipper's desk the other day as I was looking for a 
scouting report on the defensive line for the Longhorns. I found this 
piece of paper laying on top of the report, as if it was part 

of the report he had wanted to share with you if we got this far in the
play-offs. I would like to read it. It is from a poem or saying written 
by General Douglas MacAurther, who was in charge of the Pacific Theater 
during World War II. It is called, äBuild Me A Sonä- I think.....?” 

“Build me a son, O Lord, who will be strong enough to know when he is
weak, and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid; one who will 
be proud and unbending in honest defeat, and humble and gentle in 
victory. 

Build me a son whose wishes will not take the place of deeds; a son who
will know Thee-and that to know himself is the foundation stone of 
knowledge. 

Lead him, I pray, not in the path of ease and comfort, but under the
stress and spur of difficulties and challenge. Here let him learn to 
stand up in the storm; here let him learn compassion for those who are 
in jail. 

Build me a son whose heart will be clear, whose goal will be high, a son
who will, master himself before he seeks to master other men, one who 
will reach into the future, yet never forget the past. 

And after all these things are his, add, I pray, enough of a sense of
humor, so that he may always be serious, yet never take himself too 
seriously. Give him humility, so that he may always remember the 
simplicity of true greatness, the open mind of true wisdom and the 
meekness of true strength. 

Then I, his father, will dare to whisper, äI have not lived in vainä.” 

How Holes read this without breaking down, I do not know? His acting
abilities came in handy that day, as he paused and enunciated each word 
with the proper amount of delicacy. Holes had just summed up our job in 
that MacArthur's prayer. He had just summed up what Skipper had tried 
to do. Each one of those Boys was our son, to be molded and shaped by 
us, until they could go off on their own, and, one day, take our place 
as the molder and shaper of others. 

**** 

Skipper and his coffin were placed onto a platform at the Rocin High
School football field the day before his burial. The ceremonies, for 
that is what they were, began with the Irish Society of Rocin's lone 
piper taking the field in a placid silence. I have heard Highland 
bagpipers before, but on this occasion it reached an emotional depth I 
have never encountered. The sound of “ Amazing Grace” held the stadium 
as if everyone there was hypnotized awaiting a sound to make them wake 
up . No sound interrupted the harsh , yet haunting melodies of the lone 
piper. The hair on my neck stood up, and I felt a tingle run up my 
spine and flood my head with emotion. Anne's presence and her hand 
helped me hold onto my composure. She was my rock, and I was lucky- no 
blessed- to have her, especially at this moment in time. It seemed at 
the time like each Christian denomination's leader had an opportunity 
to speak at Skipper funeral. Most of the speakers were seated on the 
raised wooden platform that held up Skipper's magnificent walnut 
casket. Each one spoke on the substance of life after death, and how 

Skipper was in Heaven or Purgatory, shining like the sun, and feeling no
earthly pain. I , still selfishly, felt earthly pain at my loss of 
Skipper. I was not alone. The one speaker who reached out and struck me 
with his words in my reprieve, was Reverend Hope of the First Baptist 
Church of Rocin. He may have lost the river race, but he was out 
distancing the other speakers as my mind begin to register his words. 
“You young men”, speaking to the players, and perhaps others “ do not 
go forth from this funeral of your beloved and treasured coach, with 
the pain so intense in your heart that you fell the need to make it 
emanate into something more tangible. Do not harm or mark yourself to 
show your grievous pain, but let Your Life be a testament for what he 
has done for You. “ That struck home with me. As I stood to sing the 
ending song, I kept repeating those words of Rev. Hope over and over in 
my head...'Your Life be a testament for what he has done for You!', as 
I watched the dormant casket with expectant eyes. No matter where I am, 
or what I am doing, the song, Taps, is a reminder of those who have 
gone before us. I took Anne's hand after the sad song, and watched 
Holes approach Skipper's casket and place an American flag over it on 
the now emptied platform. It was if they were all alone. This was not 
the first chance each of the coaches got to spend a few moments alone 
with Skipper after his death. There was a tradition of sitting up with 
the dead in this country many years ago. The day Skipper's body had 
returned to Rocin in the ambulance, all four of us coaches got together 
and bought his casket at the Hennessy Funeral Home. We had not looked 
into how much money Skipper had in his back account, this casket was a 
parting gift from all of us in tribute to him and what he had done for 
us. We also agreed to take turns keeping Skipper company through the 
night. Ski volunteered for the first shift starting at four oäclock pm, 
then Harry, Holes and myself took our turn every fourth hour. I prayed 
throughout my time on duty for Skipperäs soul, and got to see the 
sunrise with Skipper one more time. The night of the stadium funeral as 
I was entering, I had seen Mrs. Koreneke, with tears in her eyes and 
the ever present cigarette in her hand, headed towards her seat. She 
saw me watching her, and waved a soft slow motion hand towards me in 
recognition. Later, as I was leaving she came over and gave me a big 
hug, and a brushed kiss me on my face. She held onto my shoulders, 
looked me right in my teary eyes and stated: “Muley, Skipper loved you 
so much. He told Lester , my husband, how proud he was of you. How much 
you had grown, and how happy he was for you and Anne. “ “And Muley”, 
she intoned, “ he knows you can win that game against Marshall, and so 
do I.” With a quick second hug she and Lester were gone. I was left 
with the husky smell of cigarettes, her rich perfume, and an order to 
beat Marshall High School from the grave. I have attended other 
funerals, I have heard many speeches shared,  but that moment with the 
bagpiper has stayed with me all these years: watching the casket, 
hoping for change, yet not expecting one.  I cannot forget, and nor do 
I wish too. 

Chapter Thirty Five 

The Play-Offs 

**** 

Marshall High School was located in Roughstock, Texas. A town associated
with horses, cows, and oil. The only true difference between the two 
schools in the state's football playoffs, was Skipper's spirit. A black 
stripe had been painted around the middle of  all the school buses 
which took part on our journey  north to play in Austin. Even the 
supporters' cars had  black ribbons, or black electrical tape affixed 
to their antennas. It was a somber , serious spirit that drove north 
with us. Watching the cars and trucks in my rearview mirror tucked in 
behind the buses in a long line, curving and moving to adjust to the 
road, made me feel superior as I drove the lead bus pointing the way. 
Each coach drove a bus, and there was no time to share emotions or game 
strategy as we drove- no cell phones.  Ski and I drove the football 
team while Holes drove the band. As usual, Handsome Harry took the 
drill team and cheerleaders, but not so much to look at the young 
women, but to enjoy the companionship of the mothers chaperoning their 
daughters on the way to the game and back. Things were slowly returning 
to normal. Harry's passion for the opposite sex had not been abated, or 
satiated with Skipper's death, or even the single mother from 
Cloverville. It was good to know some things had not changed. I was 
nervous about Marshall. They were a worthy opponent, with a grisly, 
tough talking World War II Army veteran called “Hap” Horseman in 
charge. Their offense line was a breed apart that thrived on contact- 
punishing physical contact. The only contact their quarterback had had 
all season with their opponents, was when he tripped in a hole on a cow 
pasture of a football field that they were playing on and landed on top 
of  the other team's mascot. At least, that's what I had been told. We 
had not been able to get much film on Marshall from the other schools 
around the state, but I had talked with enough coaches who lead me to 
understand how tough they really were. Based on my information, the two 
defenses would be evenly matched, the difference would be in our 
offense verses theirs.  We seemed healthy enough with Zippy Zipalac, 
and Juking Jones at the running back positions, Godzilla Godfrey at 
fullback, and Aussie quarterbacking the game. Lupe Lopez was snapping 
at center, and the left side tackle, Krietz, was his only replacement. 
Hale had injured his knee in practice, and Nacho Rios was the new body 
taking his place at the left side guard. The left side end was our 
signal provider, and we rotated between two brothers known as Hurt and 
Injured. The right side was our true “run-to side”, anchored by Hog 
Curtis at guard, and James “and the giant peach” Jarvis at tackle. 
Jarvis was an easy-going guy, that was until he got mad. He had been 
one of Holes projects, one of the few that had really worked out well. 
Clydesdale was the tight end, and with all three working together, 
there were not many teams we could not move. If a problem existed for 
our team, it was offensive personal. The loss of any one of these 
players would be a key one for us that night. As these thoughts went 
through my mind, I realized I was entering the City of Austin. Grabbing 
the map and the directions I had written down, I began to look for the 
streets and exits I would need to get to the stadium. I found the 
stadium with only one wrong turn. What a sight it was to see this 
parade of buses, cars, and trucks turning into a parking lot, making a 
U turn and heading out the same exit in the opposite direction. A 
police officer saw the problem as it developed, and jumped out of his 
car and into traffic to keep us all moving together. As we entered into 
traffic he waved, and I thought I heard him say, “ Go gett'em Rocin!”.  
It was good to know others from around the state were for us. The 
stadium was large by seventies standards holding about 35,000 people. 
Driving up to the stadium out of the daily rush of big city traffic was 
much like entering into a church from the busy sidewalk, to the hushed, 
and silent tombs of a city church. Even the sacred feeling one could 
get in a church was felt that day as we realized we were finally here 
for the big game- and Skipper. All the buses piled in one behind the 
other to let the team, and the other support groups off. After giving 
the Boys on my bus their marching orders, I exited the bus about the 
same time as Holes and Ski. Holes pantomimed as if asking me for some 
directions, then he started shrugging his shoulders while opening up 
his hands in a questioning manner, as if asking, what was I thinking? I 
just shrugged  my shoulders back at him. I had expected a sarcastic 
comment from Ski, but he just looked at me and gave me a small smile 
while his eyes remained hidden by those mirrored glasses ensconced on 
his face. Since the night I had found him in the stands, till the death 
of Skipper, our relationship had been declared neutral; neither hot nor 
cold. He asked me questions when necessary, but made no other comment 
either positive or negative. He let me do my thing, and I appreciated 
that. Harry on the other hand was standing outside his bus with his 
chaperoning groupies. Like a Samson of sorts, but unlike Samson, it was 
not Handsome Harry's his long hair, but his body. I just could not ever 
see Harry fat, or lonely. 

**** 

We trailed the Boys into the spacious dressing room at the large stadium
in Austin. Inside the dressing rooms we found immaculate and spacious 
individual lockers, toilets, and even showers. There was even an area 
located a ways from the lockers so that a person could sit and think by 
himself- definitely something the Boys would not find at home in Rocin. 
Each wall surrounding the locker room itself,  had a large chalk board 
centered into the wall, and plenty of chalk so that before the game, 
and during half-time, individual coaches could go through and work with 
his group of players. But, this was not all, around the room were four 
ice cold water fountains. With these types of connivances, I knew I 
could get use to this type of coaching accommodations. The players had 
had lunch on the road, hand made by the mothers and sisters of the town 
of Rocin. Tamales were being traded for sandwiches. chips for popcorn, 
but no one traded their brownies. Now the players were cleaning up, and 
preparing for the pre-game warm up. The pre-game warm up followed the 
same procedures as usual. The Boys went out without their shoulder pads 
and helmets, only their jerseys, and did same slow individual or group 
stretches. Each group went out together and followed the warm up of 
their offensive position coach. Holes took the line men with the help 
of a student teacher who had kindly offered his help after Skipper's 
death. I am sure he hoped to get a job in Rocin after his graduation, 
but being related to Vice-Principal Smith was bound to help him obtain 
a position anyways. No matter, his help was greatly appreciated. This 
type of warm up was a relaxing way to get the players use to the 
stadium and get their pre-game jitters out and into a physical realm. 
The early fans from Rocin who had followed the bus up to Austin, sat in 
their seats watching the work out and their favorite players.  Linemen 
were busy staying locked in their combative embrace and dance within 
the five yard line. The quarterbacks and receivers with most of the 
backs, were working their magic ten or more yards downfield going in 
the opposite direction of the linemen. A cadence, a snap, a roll out, a 
sprint, and the dramatic dash and grasp that constitutes a reception 
that enthralls fans and announcers alike. It was during this time of 
throwing and receiving, that Ski and I came into contact, he with his 
receivers and me with the backs. We were watching the Boys go through 
their rounds at this time of warm up, when Ski cleared his throat and 
made his announcement. “ Muley, the defense is mine.” I felt like we 
had had this conversation many times before in the past eleven days 
since Skipper's burial. Perhaps, I had been so worried about this 
moment in time, I had dreamed the other times, or fantasized about them 
in my head. Either way, it was a reality now. I knew what Killer Bob 
wanted, and I was glad to give it to him. It was one less 
responsibility I needed today. Before I answered, I looked into the 
stands, as the wind blew through my mesh baseball cap. In the stands, 
and near the sidelines I saw Anne. She was dolled up for this game with 
the bee-hive hairdo and the new dress. I enjoyed this vision a few more 
moments before I spoke. “Ski”, I answered, “ the defense is yours. I 
will not challenge you or override you on any defense decision you 
make. Even defensive penalties calls well be yours to make.” I paused a 
moment and gathered strength looking at Anne in the bleachers. “ All I 
ask, is that you give me the same courtesy on the offensive side of the 
football.” I waited for Ski's response. I did not have to wait long. 
“Fair enough”, he replied, “but we have to win this game for Skipper.” 
I nodded my agreement, even as I continued thinking on his statement. I 
thought about questioning him whether he meant Skipper or the town of 
Rocin. But to Killer Bob, they were one and the same. I just nodded my 
head and watched Aussie, and the Clydesdale, our tight end, connect on 
a pass across the middle. Dale the Clydesdale was a large- quick on 
movement, but slow on speed individual- who seemed to catch colds more 
then he could the ball. Today I watched him and hoped we could use him 
as a weapon against Roughstock. Any load he could take off our ball 
carriers would be greatly appreciated. By this time, Holes had brought 
the centers down to the quarterbacks and receivers for some ball 
exchanges from scrimmage. After about ten crisp snaps, we were done. 
Our time was up on the field, and we had the Boys jog back to our 
dressing room. Holes and I jogged back together. He brought out his Red 
Man chewing tobacco, and offered me a chew. This seemed to be a habit 
between Holes and I. Him offering me the communal pouch before the 
game, and me accepting. He never asked me to return the favor, or 
teased me about it. It was just a fact. An act of kindness, or 
community, that I have always appreciated. He had been less humorous 
and more serious as of late. He had more responsibility now that 
Skipper was gone. But, every now and then a fleck of humor It was also 
a time when nobody seemed to mind men chewing and spitting on the 
sidelines. I took a pinch between my fingers and thumb, placed it in my 
back cheek, and let that tingle roll out my throat and down my neck. I 
rolled the foil pouch down, and handed it back to him with the same 
solemnity as it had been handed to me. Ours eyes met as he took the 
pouch. “For Skipper and our Boys, right Muley?” “Right “, I stated. At 
least with Holes' attitude you got Skipper and the Boys. Ski's love of 
Skipper seemed to have colored his vision. The Boys did not seem to fit 
Skiäs alliances; Ski only owed Skipper and he would pay him back by 
victory against Marshall. Looking back I think it was me whose vision 
was colored by my resentment of Killer Bob. He was a good coach, and 
the way he treated his Boys, I knew he had studied Skipper well. 

**** 

By the time the coaches got into the dressing room, the backs and
receivers were putting on 

their gear while the linemen, who were dressed out already, waited on
the benches for the coaches to speak before going out and competing in 
the state play-offs against Roughstock. I knew I should be the last to 
talk; I felt my stomach give a nervous heave. I had just put in that 
large wad of chewing tobacco with Holes outside, and now I needed to 
spit. I could not just leave while Ski talked with the Boys to unload 
this mouth full of brown spittle, and nor could I leave to find a ready 
spittoon. The players were watching, and I did not want them to think I 
did not appreciate what Ski was saying. There were enough problems 
going into the game. I would not drive another wedge between myself and 
Ski, by leaving during his speech. I began to swallow, a little at a 
time. Just enough to stop the panic from setting in and drowning in  my 
own juices. I am not sure what Holes and Ski had said to the Boys as I 
sat there drowning, all I knew was, I had to get this spittle up and 
out. It took me a moment to realize Harry's turn had come and gone, 
with him saying as little as possible. All eyes were focused on me. It 
was at that moment I knew what I was going to do. I had seen as I 
jogged in, our trainers had mistakenly taken one of  Marshall's towels 
with their Longhorn logo. Someone had put it one the ground near the 
lockers so the players could tread on it before going out and playing. 
I turned towards that towel, and let out the harriest, nastiest, most 
variegated sting of tobacco juice anyone had ever seen before. The cord 
of tobacco juice surged forward with all the players and coaches eyes 
fixed upon its arching course, and with better luck then aim, landed 
smack in the middle of the Longhorn logo on the towel. Everyone's eyes 
were affixed to the towel and the brown stain that was spreading to 
cover all parts of the Longhorn. Now that my drowning worries were 
over, I opened my mouth not only to talk but breathe, and let the words 
take their own  journey out of my mouth. “ We are here today,” I 
thundered moistly, “ because of the vision of the man we all knew 
affectionately as Skipper. We are here today because he set this course 
for you and the town of Rocin. We are almost at the end of this 
journey. Tonight we are stepping out to play in the state playoffs 
against a school that has been here many times before. “ I paused. I 
was going to have to spit again, but I needed to wait fro the right 
moment. I hoped it would not sound like a drowning man as I spoke 
again. “ This is our first trip here, and I hope not our last. But, 
Skipper would not care if we lost today. All he would have asked is 
that we participate in this old world, and do our best- äto be proud 
and unbending in defeat, and humble and gentle in victory.' I had 
starting walking towards the now brown Longhorn towel on the floor. 
Most eyes were either on me or that towel. “But doing your best”, I 
continued, “ we will beat “, I spat directly on top of the Longhorn 
this time,” Marshall, and any other team that dares gets in our way!” I 
was now starting to feel the adrenaline flow through me. All eyes were 
focused on me. I now commanded the floor. “I want to win this game for 
Skipper”, eyes began to water, including my own “ I want his game for 
Rocin, but most of all, I want it for you and all the players who ever 
played for Skipper. And if we do not win this game, let us leave our 
blood, sweat, and tears on that field, knowing we gave our best, and 
leaving with our heads held high, ready to do battle with any and all 
comers who should challenge us no matter where we go from here.” The 
energy rushed through me, and with it was flecks of spittle. I was on 
fire. If I had been a minister that day, I would have converted 
thousands. Instead I had thirty-five hard charging teenage football 
players standing up and spitting on the Roughstock Longhorn towel as I 
shouted, “ Now, let's 

go beat Marshall!” I was ready to take the field myself, except as I
turned around I saw David Sheppard entering the room in his military 
uniform. He entered tall and proud. I was so surprised, I said nothing 
until he asked me if he could say a few words and lead the team in 
prayer. I looked around at Holes and then Ski, each one shaking their 
head yes in turn. I also nodded, and David nodded back in a way of 
saying thanks. “ I was not able to make it back to Rocin to say goodbye 
to Skipper.” He began this statement while looking at all the players, 
but ended looking down. With his next statement his eyes were back up 
again. “Today you take out on that field all that Skipper ever taught 
us.. his Boys. You represent all of us. The folks at the city café, the 
garage, the nursing home, and the stores. The people at the churches, 
the schools and even those of us in the army.” His next statement came 
with glistening eyes and clinched jaws. “ Now, let us go out and win 
this one for Skipper!” Again, the team was ready! All of us, even the 
coached, primed and ready to go, but we were stopped short by David's 
words. “Let us bow our head and pray.” I had just bowed my head when I 
realized Pastor Chuck was suppose to give the pre-game prayer for the 
team. We had tossed a coin between Father Tom, Pastor Chuck and Brother 
Hope, before we left Rocin. The Lutheran's had won, and Pastor Chuck 
had been with us since we had unloaded the bus. From the bowed head 
position, I opened one eye and looked in his direction. He was watching 
me, and he smiled and gently nodded his acceptance of David's usurping 
of his role as prayer leader that night. After the prayer, I felt we 
had done all we could to get this team here and ready to play football, 
now it was in God's hands. When I say Gods' hands, I do not believe God 
favors one team over another. I do not believe you ask God to grant you 
victory over an opponent in a athletic endeavor between too teams. No, 
you need only to ask God to watch over the two teams and keep them from 
injury. Let the rest of the mattered be settled on the field of 
strength and strategy. God has enough on his plate without deciding a 
football game in Texas. Even Holes quote of Captain Jack Hayes at the 
wedding reception made note of that. 

Chapter Thirty Six 

The Game 

**** 

We entered the football field like Roman Gladiators preparing for the
slaughter. People, stood as we took the field, and cheer as we ran 
through some group warm-ups in full pads. By the end of the stretches, 
the coin had already been tossed, and we had won. We had chosen to 
receive. And receive we did, and the game was on. Both teams battled up 
and down the green grid, using up three downs and kicking on the forth. 
Each teams' special teams was getting a work out. Harry was in charge 
of special teams, and took this part of his job very serious. There was 
no time for Harry to look up in the stands to check out the pretty 
ladies, nor did we expect him too. His not on-the-field special teams 
personnel stood by him throughout the game waiting to be sent in, 
therefore he did not need to yell each time for a head count of who was 
missing. Holes was up in the press box watching for defensive 
opportunities and offensive tendencies. So far that night, Marshall had 
played heads up football. This scoreless battle was waged until the end 
of the third quarter, when Marshall's little scat back took the pitch 
from the right, and juked and jived his way thirty plus yards into the 
end zone. I would have enjoyed the run, if I had been in the stands, 
but coaching against this candy legged back did not make one happy 
coach. Killer Bob throw his clip board at the bench in disgust and 
turned the afternoon blue with many choice words intending to motivate 
players and gain their attention. It did gain their attention and many 
others in the stands. After they had scored the touch down, and kicked 
the extra point, Harry tried to motivate the kick-off return team, and 
remind them of their duties. He finished by pointing at the black 
ribbon sewed on their right jersey sleeve, and the black tape that laid 
across their helmets that represented Skipper. They got the message as 
they tore off to take the field. What we had not prepared for was the 
on-sides kick they booted to us. They used a signal man up front by the 
kicker, who stood by the ball and would drop his hands as a signal that 
the kick-off team should take off now, just prior to the contact 
between kicker and  teed up football. Guadalupe “Lupe” Lopez was on the 
front line next to the Clydesdale when the ball hammered the ground 
between them and bounced into the waiting arms of the third slowest 
person on the team-Lupe. The first person to hit Lupe bounced off, the 
second was blocked by the Clydesdale and driven into the ground, but 
the third hit the ball, which sprang free and into the arms of the 
forth man downfield for Marshall. Mincemeat took him down, no they had 
enviable field position for their first possession. The Marshall fans 
went wild, and so did their fake Longhorn mascot with puffs of smoke 
shooting out of his nostrils. Harry almost lost his polished veneer, as 
a vein throbbed to life on his forehead, but he made it. The veneer was 
already back in place when he realized he had not prepared them for 
this possibility during practice the week before. He spoke to them 
calmly, almost gently, accepting of the blame and telling them how to 
handle it the next time they were on the field. He too had learned a 
lot from Skipper. The Longhorns were not able score but brought 
themselves into field goal range, and made the goal from thirty yards 
out. This ended the third quarter.  Killer Bob had calmed down 
somewhat, and during the quarter change tried to correct the problems 
on defense where the Longhorns had hurt us the most. There was no 
on-sides kick this time, probable because Harry had taken care of the 
problem, and put a few hands people, like Hennessy and Mentz, up front 
in case we needed to handle the ball. Hen Hennessey was placed into the 
second tier of the kick-off return team, to help recover any short 
kicks and strengthen the front line for on-sides kicks. He was there 
because he was as near fearless as anyone I had ever met. If on that 
night, during that play, he had a short-man's complex, than I wish we 
could have bottled it and given a cupful to each player. The ball was 
kicked off by the Longhorn kicker, who had pouched it higher then 
normal, as to get more players downfield and onto the kick returner 
then would normally be there for a regular kickoff. His ball traveled 
high, and upon landing bounced backwards back towards the second tier 
of the return team and into Hennessey's area. A middle wedege had been 
called by Harry, but on the take off of the ball, and the position it 
had assumed, the middle wedge became a line, or really two lines. The 
good thing about these two layered lines were, all the Rocin players 
picked up the onslaught the Longhorn herd as they stampeded down field. 
Second and third tier picked up the head hunters, the front tier picked 
off the slower, beefier heads. Hen took one look at that ball, and knew 
it was his. His grab the ball and ran, ran right in there amongst the 
stampeding storm. We, on the sidelines, thought he was a goner. I was 
already pulling Injury over towards me to call the first offensive 
play, when out of the scuffle shot a familiar bantam figure- Hen! He 
broke free of the front line hordes, and dashed towards the goal line, 
with almost a swagger in his fearless abandon. If there was anyone 
going to stop him, it was Marshall's kicker, who was the kick-off 
team's safety; the last line of defense. I found myself moving with the 
team in the direction of our goal line, as if we could join in the game 
from our sidelines and block the safety. Hens nick name changed that 
day, as he never once tried to fake this player out with amazing grace 
and balance. He went at him. I look back and think, perhaps, the 
Rooster, knew what he was doing, because the safety never had time to 
break down and get a good aim at him. Rooster, formerly Hen, lowered 
his upper torso at the waist, and, using his neck and helmet as a whip, 
stuck the safety right in the face, knocking him backwards and onto his 
kester, rolling head over heels. The kicker was not without a 
competitive streak himself, and therefore stretched out a hand, while 
on the ground and caught Hennessey around the ankle. The hold did not 
last long , but slowed him down long enough to allow other members of 
the Longhorn team to gain ground in their own territory. He was 
nineteen yards to the Marshall's touch line, with the objective will in 
mind, when the kicker's grab made him stagger and over compensate 
turning his body around, but still allowing him to move backwards in 
the direction of the goal. Hennessy's swagger was gone, replaced by a 
firm desperation, as he watched the oncoming defenders and his own team 
mates gain ground on him as he continued to move backwards towards the 
goal line. The All-State linebacker from Marshall hit him a thunderous 
blow at the four yard line, that was, thankfully dampened by a hard 
breathing Doug Wohl, who had run stride for stride with Marshall's best 
giving him a shoulder block at almost the same instance. With Doug's 
block, I personally would have married Gloria to Doug, that very 
minute, as the Rooster flew into the end zone, landing one yard over 
the goal line in an unceremonious heap. The Rooster had landed, and the 
situation was well in hand. There was some helmet and back slapping 
between the players, and a standing ovation for the Rooster when he 
coolly jogged off the field. The score now read: ten to six, Marshall's 
favor. We now had an opportunity to score again on the point after 
attempt. I decided to go for two. We should have stayed with one. 
Marshall plugged up the middle, as we thought they would, but then they 
threw in a scissor type stunt on the front line between tackle and 
defensive end, which blew the blocking assignments off an off-tackle 
play. The linebacker joined in and made a meal out of Zippy who never 
crossed the line of scrimmage. The score remained the same. 

**** 

With Rooster's score, we were then four points behind Marshall, and the
forth quarter was upon us. We kicked off to Marshall, who then went 
three downs and out , punting the ball deep into our territory. We 
returned the favor on the next series giving them the ball on about 
their twenty-forth yard line. Their next push, brought them to about 
our thirty yard line, and with help from Aussie, we intercepted a pass, 
and took it to about mid-field. Holes had left the press box and had 
joined us on the sidelines after the interception. He made an effort to 
let me know the two point try was a good decision. The problem was: we 
could not win or tie with just a field goal, we had to score a touch 
down -again. Even as he talked with me, he was roaring encouragement 
and correcting the problems of his linemen as they were snapping on 
their helmets, headed out for our next offensive series. That man knew 
how to encourage his players- and other coaches. Throughout the season, 
Aussie and I had used a simple method of moving plays in and out. We 
exchanged our left ends every play. Aussie had settled down and started 
to read the defense a little more. He seemed to take charge, and from 
my observations, had given needed encouragement to others on the field. 
We hit Clydesdale on second down, across the middle for about ten 
yards, and he dragged about four of them with him for five more yards, 
giving us a rarity that night- a first down. With a fake dive from the 
bone, and a little miss-direction in the back field, we took off on our 
second first down of this series. I was overjoyed. We were moving the 
ball. The next two downs were a fizzle, and a punt was considered by 
Ski and I, but I decide to go for it instead. We play action-ed in the 
back field, sending our fullback, Godzilla, up the middle for the fake 
dive, then out into an empty man coverage, and a well-thrown pass by 
Aussie. Aussie and Godzilla had become so good at the fake hand-off, 
that I was not always sure who had the ball, and I had been the one who 
had called the play. They were that good together. This series was our 
best so far, and with another first down, we were gaining ground fast. 
There is nothing comparable to a momentum changer, and the sweeping 
enthusiasm that comes with success. We were experiencing success and I 
was being carried by the feeling of joy both from the crowd's energy 
and that energy which was gathering like a storm on the field. I could 
feel the emotion, and it felt powerfully rich. I felt that way even as 
the new offensive play headed out to the field in the hands of Hurt and 
into the hands of our Aussie football captain. This play called for a 
double team between the tackle and guard with a kick out block by our 
fullback in order to take advantage of their secondary which had back 
off to prepare for Aussie's pass. I watched the snap with the sure 
acceptance we would push on and persevere. The snap exploded from the 
center hips and hit Aussie on target but that was the last exchange 
that would be on target. Aussie took the snap reserved out to freeze 
the backside backer, spun around and headed to his right. The full 
back, Godzilla, headed directly towards the defensive end, while Jonesy 
counter stepped and headed right himself. The double team between Dale 
and The Peach caved down the defensive tackle, and gave Godzilla an 
open sight on the defensive end. He sent the end flying, while Jonsey 
and Aussie made the lamented exchange. Jonsey's hands where in the 
wrong position as he focused his attention on his up-field vision. The 
ball made contact and then slipped through his fingers before he even 
reached the scrimmage line. While a moment ago I had felt invincible, I 
now felt desperate and unbelieving. Ski's defense would have to finish 
the job we had started. Killer Bob would not make eye contact with me 
as he passed me on the sidelines talking to the defensive captain, and 
I felt his blame swirling around me in unspoken waves. We had to get 
that ball back, again the feeling of desperation was overwhelming as I 
struggled mentally for the magic formula that could help us win. As any 
good coach knows there is no magic formula for winning, unless you call 
good players, good coaches, sound strategy, and a willingness to give 
of your time, sweat, and family moments a magic formula. I do not. It 
is hard and, at times, thankless work that is the formula. I learned it 
again that night. The stalwart defense limited Marshall's offense to a 
total of six yards after making two first downs during that series. Ski 
was turning red and shouting changes in the defense right up until the 
snap of the football. We took over the ball on our own sixteen yard 
line with 36 seconds left in the forth quarter, after their punt. Time 
was running out on us. I used our last time out to jog down to Ski and 
asked a question. “ Coach, if I get us down to their ten yard line, can 
you hold them down there for me? He looked at me, as if I had two 
heads. “What the hell are you talking about Muley? “He blurted. “Ski, I 
do not have enough time to score, I need the defense's help. Can you do 
it?” I waited for Ski's response. He took his time, and slowly, nodding 
his head said: “What do you need me to do, and for how long?” Holes had 
joined us and listened intently as I told them what I was planning. The 
look on Holes' face was one of incredibility. “No way Muley, we can't 
just punt the ball on first down! The refs will turn the ball over.” 
“Right, I said, “ we punt it, allow them to pick it up and plow them 
into the turf, striping the ball and scoring. If we do not get it back, 
Ski has got to stop them deep in their own territory and get it back 
for us.” “You are crazy Muley....a damn ..stupid ..quick kick!.” Holes 
responded in disbelief, and turned away in disgust. Ski thought it over 
and agreed with Muley. “ Lets do it, but Muley, I am gonna hold you 
responsible either way.” The decision was all mine, and I was scared, 
yet determined. The fact was, I was a new coach then, and could afford 
to take chances, that later in life, I would not make. Youth has it 
adventures. 

**** 

I called over the team and told them of our plan. We would line up in a
tight formation with our backs and defensive specialist  in the line-up 
instead of our big boys to protect Aussie from Marshall's defense, and 
also to provide us with the speed to get us down the field and, 
hopefully, into their end zone. The idea was to let them touch the 
ball, and then strip them of it. The element of surprise was on our 
side. The team looked energized again, and ready to go. Holes just 
stood there staring at me while shaking his head. I knew this had 
better work or I was going to lose my friend. Rocin took the field, and 
huddled up, and then fall out to line up in the tight formation. Aussie 
never made it under center, he just flicked his hands like a punter, 
and punted the ball to about the sixteenth yard line and then it 
bounced forward, and then began a backwards roll towards their goal 
line. 

Marshall's defense, looked shocked as it tried to figure out where the
ball was. Everyone except the two secondary member who had a chance to 
watch the ball take off and land behind their position on the field. 
The closest defender took off towards the ball as Godzilla, Vacek, and 
even Aussie along with Jonesy headed down field making a beeline 
towards the ball. The Vise was the first one to the ball, and paused 
just long enough to let the defender place a hand on the ball, and then 
clobbered him. The ball sprung loose, and was laying about so that 
anyone with gumption could pick it up. That was Aussie. Aussie picked 
the ball up and started to run, only to find his path blocked by a 
Marshall defender who had finally made it down field. Instead of juking 
him, Aussie ran straight at him and just before they made contact, he 
rugby tossed it to Godzilla following like a wingback to his outside. 
Godzilla, caught it, but was caught from behind by Marshall's All-State 
Linebacker who had made it back down field to help out his team. 
Godzilla had the presence of mind to toss it behind him to the 
Clydesdale who had finally appeared on the scene, and was slightly 
taken aback by that grid iron bounty that landed in his hands. With a 
host of the Longhorn's screaming defenders placed upon his person, Dale 
rumbled seven yards across the goal line. This was not what I had 
expected. I turned to look at Holes who was caught up in the moment, 
yelling and screaming with the best of them. Ski was looking perplexed 
at the official, and, I realized with trepidation, it was because there 
was a yellow flag on the field. The little boy in me wanted to reach 
out and hide the flag before anyone saw it, but the man in me wanted 
this win fair and square, and I stood still and awaited my sentence 
like the condemned man I felt. We all waited for the umpire's call. The 
official called the coaches to the middle of the field, while the fans 
waited to hear the results. Ski and I both went out and met with the 
umpire and Marshall head coach. He looked disgusted at both of us, but 
waited for the explanation of the call. Since this had not happened 
before, or not in a long time, there was some confusion as to the call. 
The decision had been made to call the ball dead at the ten yard line 
with Marshall High School in procession and adding fifteen seconds to 
the official clock. There was still a chance! All we needed was to 
strip them of the ball and score. I had not given up, I was not going 
to give up, I was going to win this for Skipper. Before we left the 
center of the field the Hap looked hard at us, without any humor. “ 
That was a stupid trick you two pulled, but I knew Skipper, and I know 
you want to win it for him. But, the tomfoolery stops now. If you want 
to win this game, you had better do it right- the way Skipper would 
have done it!” With that he turned around and stormed off to his 
sidelines. Ski walked back in silence, and just as we got to our 
sidelines, he turned to me, and said: “Skipper would have done the same 
thing if he thought he could get away with it. You did alright Muley.” 
Kind words at a rough time, but I appreciated them more then he could 
have known. Killer Bob, yelled out, “Defense”, and his Boys came a 
running. The Hap had decided to put some distance between himself and 
his teams goal line, and ran a lead right up the middle. It was a good 
, safe call, but Ski had put the Whale at Nose, and when the center and 
guard could not move him, Vacek and Mentz liberated the ball with a 
couple of cheap jabs to the carry arm of the running back as they stood 
him up at the line of scrimmage, and we took position at the nine yard 
line. Ski's defense, with Whale's help, had brought us back to the edge 
of victory. It was now my turn. We loaded up and powered into the best 
defense we had come across all year. We gained zero yards, and time was 
running out. On third down and less then four seconds to the gun, I 
decided to go off tackle and let Dale, Jarvis the tackle and Godzilla 
do their damage in hopes we could push it in. The play was run in by a 
receiver nicked named Injury as his twin brother Hurt came off the 
field. As he approached the huddle he began pointing to the black tape 
which Holes and all the coaches had taped down the middle of all the 
helmets. When he ran out pointing to his helmet, the rest of the 
players on the sidelines began pointing at theirs. The Boys on the 
field finally understood, and they too began pointing at the tape on 
their helmets. Our fans in the stands recognized the action as a way to 
motivate the Boys on the field, and the reason they wanted this win so 
badly- for Skipper. With the play announced in the huddle by Aussie, 
and the renewed energy of the Boys, the play took off from the line of 
scrimmage with the grunting, heaving, pushing, pulling tug-a-war called 
football. The play developed off-tackle just as I had seen it in my 
mind's eye, and was executed nearly to perfection. I did not realize I 
was holding my breathe, with a small voice in my head speaking the word 
“Skipper” over and over, until Jonesy broke through the line of 
scrimmage and dashed the remaining yards for our second touchdown of 
the game. When Jonesy reach the touch line, the voice in me finally 
yelled “breathe!” and I did followed by a huge yell of victory and 
elation, not only for the Boys but also for Skipper. The score now 
read: Marshall 10- Rocin 12, as we made the point after attempt with 
Aussie kicking off a cup full of sand. We had forgotten the point after 
tee, and Hap was not of a mind to lend one to us. We had won! Skipper 
had won! The town of Rocin had finally won! He had given his Boys and 
the town of Rocin the victory he felt they so richly deserved. We had 
won for all of them, all the Boys that had ever played for the Coach, 
that was what he had wanted. For me, I was happy for our Boys, but I 
had wanted it for Skipper. 

**** 

I felt the wind stir my slight hair again, and my thoughts turned again
Harry and the large canister of hair spray he had used in the field 
house. We had changed over the years. Handsome Harry, left teaching all 
together, and married a wealthy widow, who set him up as a salesman for 
a sports drink out in Florida. He is now living in Lake Tahoe off his 
good fortune. He was not able to make Ski's funeral due to a death in 
his own family. Holes followed me after leaving Rocin, and retired a 
few years before I did. I have not lost track of him though, as his 
sons grew up, cleaned up , they too coached for me, keeping me informed 
of how he was driving their mother mad at home with his humor and 
practical jokes. His last coaching assignment had been coaching his 
granddaughter's softball team, until some mother complained of him 
chewing tobacco all the time around the girls. After a meeting with the 
parents, they gave him an ultimatum; he countered with one of his own: 
if he can't chew tobacco, then he would not coach. Funny thing is no 
matter where I go in this town of Rocin, all I hear are the praises of 
Coach Ski, and what a wonderful guy he was and how much he did for 
their Boys- his Boys... just like Skipper. I guess the Boys are not the 
only sort of heroes out there on Friday nights. You can see them every 
Friday or Saturday night in their game shirts, cap and slacks, grabbing 
their Boys, correcting them, encouraging them, and even hugging them. 
You can go to any high school and watch them in their hallways or 
classes, teaching, counseling, and even helping their Boys. I have 
coached against many of them, and watched them grow old and gray. But 
the good ones are never forgotten by those who played for them; their 
legacy lives on in their player or students. We must lead our lives as 
a testament for what others have done for us. No, Skipper is never far 
away from my mind, none of those men are. 


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