Chesterton 21, Hobart 17

Even The Losers: Chapter 2

Sept. 23, 1988

We were connected. By grit. Dirt. Dust. Steel lockers and helmets. There are thousands of clichés about inspiration and perspiration. Thousands of clichés about electricity among teammates.

They all applied.

Some of us were hopping up and down like spastic Romper Room preschoolers, others grunting caveman paragraphs. It wasn’t cheering. It was the sound of struggle.

Every one of us were out on the field, I truly believe that. We felt all the grime, every hit, every tackle. There was something … almost spiritual … going on. And I’m not a God-is-rootin’-for-us kinda guy.

A few minutes earlier, we’d been losing 17-0 to defending state champion Hobart.

And that was how the first quarter had ended.

That score led our first-year coach, Tom Peterson, to glance to the sky and ponder aloud: “What’s 17 times four?” His eyes had caught mine as he started a short trek down the sideline.

Sixty-somethin’, I thought, my poor math skills intact. Whatever it would end up being wasn’t going to be good. We were down 17-0, and Hobart had no reason to show us any mercy. We were the slightly more affluent, more populated school, and they weren’t going to lose any tears if they slaughtered us on their home field.

They were going for a record. They were going to win 72 games in a row on their home field, and a celebration was planned. Purple and gold helium balloons were at the ready. I’m sure there was a large cake somewhere in their school.

We were playing the favored Hobart Brickies, and they were favored with good reason. Our school system might have more slightly more money and a few more kids, but the city of Hobart had passion for football. And their head coach knew how to get every new class fired up to knock the hell out of opposing teams. The Brickies of the 1970s and 1980s consistently won sectional and regional titles.

They had more state championships than I had chest hair, including the previous year, 1987.

And we were playing them at the Brickie Bowl … a home field with more hardened clay than soft turf. More sweat than dew. More chips of bricks than blades of grass.

The Brickies hadn’t lost a game on their field in about a decade. They had won 71 straight and we weren’t a threat. We were Chesterton. Our sectional and regional titles were in cross country and gymnastics. Our state championships were in speech and debate.

We weren’t a threat. We were Chesterton.

But the scoreboard, which ended the first quarter with Hobart drilling us 17-0, had changed.

Instead of reading:

Home: 17

Visitors: 0

It read:

Home: 17

Visitors: 21

Kurt Ruoff wrote about the half – and “The Play” that swung the momentum – in the Chesterton Tribune:

The Trojans turned the ball over three times in the first quarter, and all three miscues resulted in Hobart scores. With just under one minute left in the first quarter, Chesterton had dug itself a 17-0 hole.

Then came ‘The Play,’ a busted play that almost resulted in a sack that turned into a momentum swinging 89-yard touchdown.

With play just underway in the second quarter and Chesterton pinned at its own 11-yard line, quarterback Tracey Callaway dropped back to pass, scrambled out of the pocket to his right, spun out of a sack and fired a long pass downfield to Tom Moodie. Moodie made the catch at the 50 behind Hobart’s Jason Gillianan and then outraced the Hobart cornerback to the endzone.

We were ahead through a combination of freak plays and a bizarre spiritual connection. It wasn’t religious; that would be pompous to say. God did not involve himself heavily in the contest, although I’m sure it was one He watched with interest if God watches any high school football. But it was some type of metaphysical energy between all of us.

I was jumping like an idiot, trying to see what was going on in the game. “Let’s go!” we’d shout sporadically. We were ahead. By God, this was amazing.

At the time, I was a sophomore. I had no natural talent for football, but I loved watching it. I had little speed, but I did know how to tackle. I knew junior varsity play routes and defensive calls, but didn’t have that instinctive mind that could adjust midplay. I had bricks for hands. My routes were crisp; my catches were crap.

But I never missed a workout or a practice. I always volunteered to be on the squad the varsity would routinely beat the shit out of – and because of that, I think I garnered some rewards from the coaches. Most of the junior varsity was supposed to come to the games and watch from the sidelines; but a handful would come along and be able to dress in uniform. If it was a complete blowout, there was a chance we’d play toward the end, but even that chance was slim.

And, I felt, my chance was even less since I was wearing No. 61. We were given whatever numbers were available – we were just there in dress only. I was technically a defensive back and wide receiver. Maybe outside linebacker in a situation of desperation. But No. 61 wasn’t eligible for those jobs. It is the number of a downlineman. My 5-feet-6-inch, 130-pound frame wasn’t quite meant to get in the pits with varsity lineman.

Because of that, I was pretty far away from mentally ready to go on the field. Oh, sure, I had a spiritual connection with the squad, but I was just as likely to solve a quantum equation (or 17 times four quickly) than I was going to know the calls saying to change from zone to man-on-man coverage.

On the field, one of our defensive backs was lying down on his back.

“We need a corner! We need a corner!”

I popped my head up to see what was going on. We better get a corner out there, I thought. Hobart is gaining some momentum on this drive.

Peterson looked down the sideline. None of us were on the bench, we were all crowding the chalk to get a better view.

“We need a corner!” an assistant coach shouted. Peterson’s eyes caught mine.

“Lawson!” he yelled. “Lawson!” he repeated.

“Holy shit, dude. You’re in,” a friend of mine told me.

Holy shit, indeed.

Suck it up, I thought. I can do this. Millions of guys just like me have had to go into varsity games before they were ready. But I can do this. Just don’t fuck up. Oh, god damn what are the coverages? Jesus H. Christ I don’t know. Cover 1. I know Cover 1. Maybe we’re just going to stay in Cover 1. No way. I’m fucked. They are going to pass all over my ass. They’re going to score a touchdown because I don’t know the coverages and all this game will be on my head. Damn it, suck it up. You can do this. Fuck it, go out there and tackle.

I was already snapping up my chin strap when Peterson looked back at me. Maybe it was the fact that I looked as apprehensive as a virgin in a whore house, but something changed. I like to think that he looked at the jersey and – seeing No. 61 – thought I wasn’t eligible to play that position with that number.

But let’s be honest, that’s probably not true.

“Raffin!” he shouted. “Raffin! I need you at corner, right now!”

Michael Raffin was a junior and friend of mine. He went to St. Pat’s with me. His parents had 12 kids. He was a smart kid. Good grades. Nice guy. And I bet Mike knew the coverages.

“Where’s my helmet?” Mike yelped. “Where’s my helmet?”

Peterson cringed, looking back at me. I started to step forward. It looked like I’d be out there for one play at least because we needed a corner.

Mike ran up from the bench where his helmet had been sitting after he drank some water.

“Raffin, get in there!” Peterson barked as Raffin ran by.

“Go get ‘em, Mike!” I yelled.

Mike got in the huddle just long enough to hear the coverage and went to the far corner. We held off the drive and went into the locker room still ahead 21-17.

 

***

Halftime speeches are semi-sacred. You don’t share the good ones unless you’re giving a halftime speech of your own.

That being said, halftime speeches tend to grow a bit musty. Most of them are passionate, but obvious, like a convict pleading for leniency in a courtroom sentencing.

That night, our assistant coach Dennis Evans – who mainly coached the offensive and defensive lines – gave the halftime speech.

Evans, in my experience, tended to be soft spoken. His son, Denny, was a senior and had been nice enough to me. Denny was a lineman and worked his ass off and while I was about half his size, he seemed to acknowledge that I didn’t just want to play football to get my picture in the yearbook.

His father looked a bit like pro-wrestler Hulk Hogan. A bit more hair, and glasses. But he’d always reminded me of the Hulkster, who in 1988 was a pretty popular guy among some teenage guys.

And this night, he riled us like the Hulkster riled pro wrestling fans watching Wrestlemania. Except this wasn’t scripted.

It started with all of us trying to catch our breath. Faces were glazed with sweat. Eyes were narrowed. Cheekbones were tightened, but we were thinking we needed just a moment of rest.

Coach Evans disagreed.

Memory fades, but I recall a few clear moments. He was pounding against lockers and against a chalkboard as he implored us not to let down. All of us had to stay in this game if we wanted even a chance to win it.

Because few beat Hobart.

And nobody defeats Hobart at the Brickie Bowl. So how could Chesterton?

But none of that was a factor this night.

“You know ... there was a kid who played walked onto a college football team. He was a small guy. He should have never made a squad. But you know what he had? Heart. Tons and tons of heart,” Evans began his parable.

“It was the last game of the season. It was the last quarter. It was the last minute. He was on the depth chart as a middle linebacker. All the other middle linebackers ended up injured because of the other team’s star running back – a Heisman candidate,” he said.

We were ramping up. The average heart rate in the room had to be about 230 bpm.

It was the soundtrack of our lives in that locker room. It was the opportunity to live a dream few actually have in reality. Be a part of a region-shaking upset. Pop culture clichés were nothing compared to our moment.

Do You Believe In Miracles? Yes! Yes!

Have No Fear, Underdog Is Here.
Rocky! Rocky!
Eye of the Tiger. Burning Heart.
The Little Engine That Fuckin’ Could.

“His team was leading by four points – and that running back was hungry to win. That running back’s team was at the five yard line and threatening” Evans said. “But this little linebacker didn’t care. He got into that game, and he sunk his feet at the one-yard line. He was too small to be on the team. He was too small to be in this game. But this little linebacker didn’t care. He said: ‘Right here! Run right at me!’” Evans shouted.

“And you know what? They did. That team opened a hole for the running back through the line. And the only thing stopping him from winning the game was this one small guy who shouldn’t have made the team. This Heisman-candidate should have just plowed right through him like a rag doll!”

“But that little linebacker had heart! He had heart! And he saw the play coming to him like he wanted, and he used all his knowledge of how to tackle – and he used all his heart – and he wrapped up that running back, and drove his legs, and tackled him at the three-yard line! And the game was over!”

Guys were pounding fists against lockers and slapping palms against the concrete walls. Guys were crying thinking about this little linebacker. We all knew we were him tonight. We had the lead. We just had to use our heart to protect it.

And we weren’t even supposed to be a factor in this game.

“He shouldn’t have even made the squad – and that didn’t matter. All that mattered was he had more heart than the best player on the field! Now let’s go!” Evans shouted.

God, damn, I thought. We might just win this.

I looked around at my teammates. Keith Davison, Callaway, Callahan. Todd Van Buren who had driven me over to Dairy Queen after a few practices. Todd Koedyker. Juniors and seniors who suffered through Chesterton’s rough tradition of not being very good.

The second half was – like the first – electric. We wanted to score, but Hobart gave us a big Fuck You to that notion.

They wanted to score even more so. They drove and drove – and we’d stall them. That little linebacker was with us on every defensive play. And all of their players were that running back. We had less size. Less speed. Less talent.

And not to take anything away from Hobart. They were a great team with a great tradition. Our team made some mistakes, but the Brickies weren’t able to capitalize on them. When our cornerback fell down, their receiver dropped the pass. It was that kind of night for them.

But this night, we had all the heart in the world – and all the heart from some other space. This night, this half, we might have been able to hold off the ‘85 Chicago Bears.

As the clock ticked down through the final quarters, I imagine a lot of hairlines of perfectly healthy teenage boys began receding. And the hairlines of the coaches, parents and fans also were scaled back. It was a defensive struggle. For those who don’t love football, it would have probably been one of the more boring halves to watch.

But it was the most intense I’ve ever seen.

We ended up with the ball on the last possession. Just one Hobart kid lost it, throwing his helmet on the sidelines. The rest of their squad tried to press us to fumble, but the snaps between our center, Mike Callahan and Tracey were clean.

I looked to the scoreboard.

It read:

Home: 17

Visitors: 21

“Holy shit! We won! We won!” I screamed. We were hugging one another; we were going insane. Take 50 teenage boys and inject a lifetime supply of energy, and that’s about half of our chaos.

We had a chaotic mid-field huddle with our coaches. It became a moment of the surreal as the opposing coach walked into the middle of it. Hobart’s head coach Don Howell was an Indiana football legend, with good cause. But I’m sure our coach saw that as an ultimate sign of respect.

Ruoff recounted Howell’s thoughts.

“I told the Chesterton coaches and players that they deserved to win. They came over here and played like hell and that’s what it takes.”

He was also thankful for what his own team had done through the years.

“It was probably just our time to lose out there ... The good Lord gave us 71 and I’m not going to get upset because he didn’t give us 72,” Howell told Ruoff for the newspaper.

Our fans flowed from their stands.

I was looking for my father. I doubted he’d come down, because it wasn’t really appropriate for anyone aside from teams to be on the field. But this night, rules were broken. It wasn’t done as a sign of disrespect to Hobart, but pure celebration of the win.

A man grabbed my shoulder pads. I instantly recognized him.

Nino Kochan.

Nino was the father of senior cornerback Marc Kochan. He was also the father of Melissa Kochan, who’d become Melissa Lawson 18-months earlier when she married my older brother in a marriage that – initially – the Kochans didn’t completely support. Marc and I had no troubles, but I still felt a bit uncomfortable around Marc.

And Nino was – up to this point – an intimidating man to me.

Oh, shit. I thought for a millisecond. He’s got me by my shoulder pads.

“We won!” he screamed at me, looking as joyous as all of the other players. Everyone was high on the victory. If Jews and Arabs were all fans of Chesterton, this night would have brought peace to the Middle East.

“We won!” I screamed back at him. We were jumping up and down, his fingers in my shoulder pads. “Have you seen Marc?” he asked. “He’s over there!” I pointed to Marc – who was celebrating in an exhausted group of guys who’d actually played the game.

Nino went off to hug his son.

The celebrations continued. As we walked off the field, a lot of us kept looking back. We’d won – and that scoreboard would always show that score to us. Many of us grabbed chips of brick from the field’s steps.

I still have mine.

As we were boarding the bus, I saw my father. He had a big smile on his face, and I went up to him.

“Hey, hey,” he said. “You guys did it,” giving me a hug as he looked into my eyes.

“It’s amazing,” I responded. The win was amazing. The high was even more so.

And it was great to share with my dad.

The team would chant and scream and celebrate all that night. And only a few of us were busted for some celebration indiscretions.

***

The Next Morning.

I rode my out-of-style bike up to the Saturday morning practice. It was film day, and then the junior varsity would do a walk-through to get ready for the Monday game.

It was a warm, sunny morning. After the near-perfect night of football memories, it was just about a perfect morning.

Jay Nygra – who was a classmate of mine – rode up on a much cooler dirt bike 20 seconds after. We were putting on our locks when I looked at him. He hadn’t been to the game, but surely he knew.

“Hear about last night?” I asked.

“What?” he asked, looking down at his combination lock and the chain looping through his bike frame.

“We won,” I said cautiously – thinking he’d surely heard and didn’t want to state the obvious.

"Nuh-uh,” he said.

“Seriously,” I said.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jay countered.

“I’m serious.”

A few minutes later, someone would confirm it to Jay. I understand why he didn’t believe me. I wouldn’t have believed me either, had I not been there myself.

Was it newsworthy? USAToday thought so. So did Sports Illustrated and all the major Indiana newspapers. It made national news. An undersized, undertalented team had defeated a powerhouse at home – where they hadn’t lost in 71 games. Among high school football, it was likely the biggest story of the week, if not month. For Chesterton football, I think it was the biggest story of our history.