CITY 4-A DIVISION CHAMPIONSHIP : Only a Game, as It Should Be
The game is over, and what a wonderful game it was, but this is even better than the game. Kevin Rhaburn is running at full speed with his arms wide, looking for someone to hug. Dempster Jackson is doing a Hammer-step in his football uniform, looking as though he’s auditioning for MTV. Monterio Witherspoon is belly-down, motionless on the ground. Omar Moreno is looking him over, wondering if Monterio is smiling, crying, resting or praying.
Damon Williams, meanwhile, is shouting how much his teammates mean to him, yelling himself hoarse. Ava Shah is passing out T-shirts embroidered with “Dorsey 1991 City Champions” to dozens of the team’s deserving players, among them her very gifted son, Sharmon (Hollywood) Shah. In the drought-browned grass near midfield, Lashawn Brooks is straddling teammate Jermaine Gibson, pounding on his chest with both fists like a doctor trying to start a patient’s heart.
And the best scene of all is this:
Shaun Sloan of Dorsey, who is all of 5 feet 7 and 150 pounds and wears a flowing black bandanna tied around his forehead, has his arm curled around the shoulder of Chris Smith, who is even smaller. They are hot, wet and tired, two warriors who have been to war, but now that the struggle is over, as they stand here leaning on one another, Shaun wants anybody and everybody to know how he feels. He says: “I love this guy.”
“You, too, man,” Chris tells Shaun.
The best part being:
Chris Smith goes to Banning.
This was how it was when the football game of the season was over, not everybody happy, not everybody best friends, but everybody safe and sound and sportsmanlike and satisfied that, win or lose, they had just been part of a memorable day. Although the final score was Dorsey 33, Banning 30, and some bitterness clearly remained from a grudge match long in the making, in the end there was little to distinguish this from anything other than what it was--a good game played by good kids.
By most appearances, it was simply another Saturday afternoon of high school football, nothing more. Amid the evergreens, palms and manicured topiary along the Canary Pine mall compound of El Camino College, on one of those California-style December days where all a teen-age girl needs do to keep warm is wear extra lace under her Spandex, short-sleeved customers stood in lines, buying jumbo pretzels, buying souvenir programs, buying tickets to the game.
Behind them, though, was a sign:
All Persons Are Subjected to Search for Weapons, Narcotics and Alcohol. Violators Will Be Prosecuted. Have a Nice Day.
That was the official reminder that this was not your typical City 4-A championship game, that this was a game with a troubled history, that trouble or troublemakers today would not be tolerated. The guys from Dorsey and Banning had come to this green and serene setting strictly to play football, and any outsider who came to mess with their football game had definitely come to the wrong place, and would quickly be called for interference.
Dorsey had lost once all season--its opener. Banning had lost once all season--to Dorsey, by not showing up. That was the controversy that stoked this fire, Banning’s utter refusal to go anywhere near Jackie Robinson Stadium after gunfire interrupted one of Dorsey’s games there. From this, many at Dorsey took umbrage, justifiably or otherwise, that the violence that scared off their opponents was their own fault.
They didn’t forget.
“U CAN’T FORFEIT NOW,” read a banner stretched along Dorsey’s side of the stadium horseshoe.
Once the game began, however, what it was was what it was, a game of high school football, not a sociological battleground, wholesome and innocent and fair. The Banning marching band opened not with a call to arms but with George M. Cohan’s “Grand Old Flag,” and the cheerleaders appealed to the crowd not for insults but for rather adorable support: “People in the front! Let me hear you grunt! People in the stands! Let me hear you clap your hands!” That sort of thing.
The game itself was cleanly and expertly played. For Dorsey, it had Hollywood Shah slamming off tackle, Norman Beavers making a big interception and Larry Bobo making the recovery of the fumbled punt that might have saved his school the championship. For Banning, there was Shayzar Hawkins running with real power, Chris Smith weaving beautifully with a kickoff and Gabe Sadi catching the touchdown pass that almost brought Banning back when all seemed lost.
Paul Knox, the victorious coach, taught his guys well, in more ways than one. With the game over now, with the celebration whirling around him, Knox nods his head in appreciation and says: “We told them: ‘If you win the game, act like champions. If you lose the game, act like champions.’ ”
They do. A player organizes a team photo. Five others rush to his side, then 10, then 20. Another dozen come sliding into the grass, propped up on elbows, striking poses. Ten more leap onto the pile. Now some alumni, then some cheerleaders. It’s a Dorsey human pyramid, getting larger by the second, and nobody much cares if that photograph ever gets taken. They’re having too much fun, acting like champions. Which they should. Because that’s what they are.
