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.
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