Remembering a Rite of Passage for the Boys of Summer

This stage of the summer holds special boyhood memories for millions of men. Women, please don’t feel left out. To the contrary, fall down on your knees and give thanks that you cannot relate.

For many of us, it marked the first time ein our lives that we left the safety of home to face danger. It was as though one day we were merry and cherubic Pan-like creatures, and the next day we were bearded hostages doing what we could to survive.

Men instantly recognize that I’m talking about high school football practice.

I don’t know if women have a reference point for what it’s like to be 14, to be kinda groovin’ on the summer, and then be turned over to a high school football coach and his staff for twice-daily drills under a blazing August sun. Suddenly, no mommy, no daddy, no water. In their place you get . . . endless calisthenics, laps around the field, lungs gasping for air, football gear that doesn’t fit, your buddies retching. Not to mention humiliating put-downs from the coach, such as “Pick up your jock,” after you goof up a play.

And you women wonder how we got so screwed up.

I did my time in a small Nebraska town, where August takes no prisoners. We had just moved there for my freshman year in 1963, and I knew I’d have to go out for football, because everybody went out for football. To be the new kid--not to mention the superintendent’s kid--and not go out for football would have marked me a social leper.

In those days and in towns that small, the varsity and reserves practiced together. The whole idea was to get the varsity ready for the season and, to that end, we freshmen played key roles. In ancient times, we would have been known as “human sacrifices.” High school football coaches dressed it up to “junior varsity.”

It might not have been so bad for us if we could have grown into our equipment. As a scrawny freshmen, I remember my helmet having the approximate weight of a bowling ball, making it hard to hold my head upright while wearing it. I was supposed to be a quarterback, but my shoulder pads were so bulky and weighty that I couldn’t lift my arm enough to really throw a pass.

None of which really mattered because the freshmen were only one step up the evolutionary scale from the feed bags used as blocking and tackling dummies.

One drill that I and our family doctor remember with particular clarity was high-low tackling. I still remember us freshmen boys standing on that practice field, mouths agape in disbelief, as the coach explained what was about to happen.

In that exercise, a lowly scrub approached an imaginary line of scrimmage, at which point the coach tossed him the football. There was a demilitarized zone of maybe three or four yards, beyond which loomed two varsity players. The idea was for them to tackle the scrub, with one hitting him below the waist and the other above.

This may surprise you, but almost every time the two 175-pound seniors were able to tackle the 135-pound freshman. Sometimes, they even did it without laying us up for the rest of the day or making us yelp in pain on impact. On the rare occasion when we eluded them, the coach’s attention was never directed at our athleticism, but on the ineptitude of the varsity. As such, the only consolation we could get was hearing the coach say, “Pick up your jock” to the discredited varsity members.

Our other freshman favorite was when the varsity practiced punt coverage. Because I was puny, I often got to catch the punt. That meant depending on my other 10 almost-as-puny teammates to ward off the onrushing varsity members as they thundered down the field intent on impressing the coaches. That was best done by vicious tackling, something I always kept in mind as the punt wafted and floated and drifted and hung in the air as the Huns approached.

The pattern was fairly predictable. You’d catch the punt, look up just in time to see your “wall of protection” strewn about the field in front of you like dead soldiers at Vicksburg, and maybe have time for one quick thought before the first tackler hit you and then the second and third put you out of your misery.

The last thing you’d hear was the coach’s whistle and him saying to someone, “Good pop! Let’s try it again.”

Well, needless to say, somehow we all survived it. And while I wouldn’t wish it on a dog, a strange thing happens out there while you’re being battered on the old practice field.

You learn about risking your neck to protect a pal. You learn you can get knocked down and get back up again. You earn respect, and you give it to others. And, the main thing, of course, is you collect some stories that you never get tired of telling.

Maybe the pressure to go out for sports isn’t as great nowadays. I hope not, but to those boys practicing football who wish they weren’t, I sympathize.

All I can offer is a prediction that, many years from now, you’ll be glad you did it. The physical pain and suffering will be worth it.

Now all you’ve got to do is survive it.

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by writing to him at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7821.