Spence was a chiseled fullback. Two inches taller and he would have been Division I.
Stew was a sinewy cornerback. He was an all-conference long jumper, an above average Division III athlete.
I was an un-athletic center. A senior who had broke his leg as a junior. Now I could barely move to my left. I was always a step slow even for an offensive lineman. The leg made things worse.
It was Friday. Practice consisted of getting your uniform for Saturday’s game, screwing around, walking through tomorrow’s plans, screwing around, running when your special team was called, and screwing around some more. We then got in a circle, yelled “Win!” in unison, and went back to the locker room.
I had my cleats off. I stood up to take my shorts and jock off. My locker was next to Stew’s. He was 49. I was 50.
“You motherfucker!” Stew crashed into me, Spence on top of him shouting at the top of his lungs. My surgically repaired leg buckled. I barely scooted away in time.
Some other guys stepped into to break it up. I had no idea what the whole thing was about. It was not important.
Spence solidified his reputation as a truly crazy motherfucker. Stew remained a nice guy who had trouble knowing when to stop trying to be funny, a guy who won more accolades than Spence, but never earned the respect or fear from teammates that Spence did.
All I could think about was what if? What if my surgically repaired leg had snapped? What if I had been hurt? What if one of them had been seriously hurt?
I guess none of those things mattered after we won Saturday.
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I am thinking that you should finish your dissertation and get a job at a small private college. You could teach some classes and convince someone to let you be the O-line coach in the fall. Bridgewater's coach won't be around forever. There's always Hampden-Sydney too...
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