They Lift Those Poles, Tote That Chain

The four men dressed in jeans and golf shirts huddle anxiously on the sideline. Their hearts are pumping, their mouths dry. Game time is drawing near.

Up in the stands, the chant begins.

“We want the chain gang! We want the chain gang . . !”

On cue, the men jog onto the field, carrying the equipment--chains, poles, down boxes--that made them famous.

The crowd leaps to its feet.

“Chain gang! Chain gang! Chain gang . . !”

At midfield the men stop to confer with the referee. It’s no use. The crowd is in a frenzy. Nothing can be heard above the chant.

“CHAIN GANG! CHAIN GANG! CHAIN GANG! CHAIN GANG . . !”

They look at the ref and shrug. He shrugs back.

“Take a bow or something--then get to the sideline where you belong!” the ref screams. “I don’t care if you are the most famous chain crew in the world, we got a game to play!”

The above fantasy is brought to you courtesy of the ever-imaginative Los Alamitos High School football chain gang--a group of men who, while serious, upwardly mobile professionals by day, are silly, sarcastic and altogether sophomoric individuals by night--game night, that is.

Meet Cary Brody, Don Gardner, David Lemmerman, Craig Newnes and Howard Siegal, members of what must be the county’s zaniest chain crew.

How are they different?

Well, how many chain gangs do you know who meet for pregame meals? Who drive to games in a Rolls-Royce? Who are careful never to step on a yard line because “it would be bad luck for Los Al.”

How many do you know who play “chicken” with oncoming tackles? Who keep stats on the number of times a chain worker runs for cover? Who seem actually disappointed that they won’t get to wear those horrible day-glo sideline vests this year because someone misplaced them?

Yes, these men actually get their jollies from sideline follies. And get this--they say their No. 1 goal is to make it to the NFL. OK, maybe that statement was made in jest. With these jokers, you never know.

About five years ago, Brody, a track coach and physical education teacher at the school, was working the chains but not getting much support or consistency out of his crew. He went looking for the biggest sports nuts he could find, figuring they’re the type always wishing to be on the field.

“You know how when you first see the person you fall in love with, how you just know that person’s the one?” Brody says. “That’s how it was with these guys.”

--Gardner, 62, is a former head football coach at Downey High. So far, he’s the only one of the bunch to have a chain gang-related injury--a pulled hamstring suffered during a game two weeks ago. Now the others say they plan to “tape up” before games.

--Siegal, a 38-year-old insurance salesman, is the self-appointed crew captain. He describes his chain gang ambitions thusly: “We hope to get discovered. We want to climb the ladder of success. We’re looking toward the Hall of Chain.”

--Lemmerman, a 38-year-old owner of a jewelry store chain, is the athlete of the group, having been the varsity quarterback at Lakewood High, where he, Siegal and Newnes became best friends. (Besides, he’s the guy with the Rolls-Royce, and this is a group that likes to arrive at the games in style).

--Newnes, also 38, is a sales manager. His claim to fame is that he’s the one who runs away from the sideline first to escape a possible tackle from the oncoming players. “Hey, the first sign of trouble and I’m bailing--I’m up in the stands or in the snack line,” he says. “I’ve got a family, you know.”

Some schools use only three people to work the chains. At Los Al, they use four but have a roster of about eight. They call it their first and second strings. Any way you mix them, they’re quick with a quip.

On what it takes to be a good chain gang member:

“We’re naturals,” Siegal says with mock haughtiness. “We’re born with this ability.”

On the difficulties of their line of work:

“A lot of times, we’ll be just standing there, frozen, watching the game,” Newnes says. “The ref will say, ‘Hey you guys! C’mon!’ That’s the frustrating part. You want to cheer, but (because they’re always standing on the visitor sideline) you’ve got to just stare at each other or whisper, ‘All right! ‘ “

On the highlights:

“The most glorious moment is when it’s fourth and inches and they go for it,” Siegal says. “You go out there, and you’re right there! All eyes are on you. You’re like, part of the game.”

On the dangers of the job:

“Everyone takes a pop once in a while,” Lemmerman says. “You can’t avoid it.”

“It used to be this machismo-pride thing, seeing who could hang in there longest during a sweep,” Newnes says. “Like I said, I don’t do that anymore.”

Besides the pregame meal and arrival in the Rolls, their repertoire includes the pregame cheer--”One. Two. Three. Kill!”--a large bag of sunflower seeds for munching and a traditional jog out to midfield and back before the game.

“We wave to the crowd as we run out there,” Newnes says. “They probably don’t have the slightest idea who we are. But we narrate the whole thing, you know, like, ‘And there goes the Los Alamitos chain gang, taking the field . . .”

One goal the group has is to get on TV as much as possible. All Griffin home games are televised by local cable stations, so when the cameras are turned their way, they’re usually hamming it up.

Especially when they’re called on the field for a measurement.

Newnes says after running onto the field and handing their down markers to the refs, he and Siegal will turn toward the cameramen, and in mock-music video fashion, slowly brush their hair back with imaginary pocket combs.

Can Monday Night Football be far behind?