Both Sides of the Line Read online

  “Okay, boys, bring it in.”

  Finally!

  “Some of you boys better wake up and get with the program, or you’ll find yourself sitting on the bench the entire season. As a team, you’re slow and out of shape. You have fifteen minutes to get ready for breakfast. Be on time.”

  It wasn’t even eight in the morning, yet I was spent. How was I going to survive the remainder of the first day, never mind the entire week?

  I was always shocked to see how much food players ate at breakfast. I was so nervous about the morning “full-pad” session that I ate very little. (It was not unusual to see players throwing up at the edge of the field during the morning session.) From nine-thirty to eleven-thirty, everyone was in full pads. Another round of extended agility drills, sled work, and an array of hitting drills would be the norm during the morning session. No football player would willingly give up his warm bottle of salted water during a break at football camp. You could have offered me thousands of dollars for it and I would have laughed in your face. Nothing was more cherished than having that liquid enter your body while the temperature outside was close to a hundred degrees, and the humidity made you feel like you were breathing air from an eighteen wheeler’s exhaust pipe.

  After the morning session, everyone headed slowly toward the cabins, holding their heavy, hot helmets by the face mask. It was the first time all morning that I’d had my helmet off, and the hot air circling my steaming head felt wonderful. Damp football equipment that hadn’t completely dried out from yesterday’s sessions stank of sweat, but somehow the rank scent welcomed us into the cabin. The antiseptic smell of Bengay and the vinegary smell of athletic tape provided an odd sense of comfort. For most of us, football camp was a world we didn’t want to be in, but something inside us kept us from quitting. Maybe the challenge of pushing ourselves to levels we’d never before experienced was enough to keep us there. The combination of athletic ability, mental toughness, and pride played a role in balancing the apprehension, anxiety, and fear we all had to deal with.

  From the moment I woke up, I was dreading the two-hour morning and afternoon sessions. Up in those mountains, it was unbearably hot and humid. Our clothes were soaked with sweat before we even got onto the field. Wearing my uniform felt like wearing a winter North Face ski coat on a midsummer’s day in Texas. My head baked in my helmet.

  “Martini, who told you that you could take off your helmet? Take a lap!”

  The coaches screamed at us for every mental mistake: for jumping off-side, for missing blocks, for missing tackles, for blowing assignments, and for not showing courage.

  “What’s wrong with you?” yelled Dempsey. “Everyone, take another lap!”

  “You have one responsibility this week!” Currier bellowed. “Learn your plays!”

  “What type of tackle was that?” Dempsey demanded. “Put your helmet between the numbers. Knock someone on their ass! Kelly! Look at you! You had no problem getting a tan at the beach, but you weren’t willing to get in shape? Run the play again! What type of stance is that? Get your ass up! Don’t put so much weight on your hand! Head up!”

  After two days of nonstop badgering, Dempsey had the team gather ’round and take a knee. “OK, guys,” he said. “Tomorrow is the big day. Tomorrow we’ll separate the men from the boys. We’ll find out who really wants to play football and who the dummy heroes are!”

  The “dummy heroes” were kids who could play well in practice because they were comfortable playing against kids they knew, but who were afraid to compete against kids they didn’t know during a real game. Every team has these kids. I should know. I certainly fit the definition my sophomore year.

  “Tomorrow is pit-drill day,” Dempsey continued. “For you new kids, a pit-drill is when we lay down two dummy bags parallel to each other and five yards apart. Two linemen will jump in against each other, one defense and one offense. A running back tries to find daylight and attempts to make his way through. Gentlemen, this will be live hitting, full-contact. I expect to see one hundred percent effort out of each and every one of you! So, get a good night’s sleep and get ready for tomorrow.”

  We’d survived Day Two!

  After trudging back to my cabin, battered, soaked, and too exhausted to talk, I peeled off my uniform. The air making contact with my wet skin was cool. I could feel my body temperature begin to decrease immediately as the sweat evaporated. My pants and jersey had doubled in weight due to the amount of water they absorbed during the day. I stood under a cold shower for twenty minutes trying to revitalize my body parts. I looked down at my swollen hands, bruised elbows, and cut forearms, wondering, What have I got myself into? Who would be willing to volunteer for this?

  I was almost too tired to have dinner, but no one had to explain to me how important it was to eat during mealtime. Food was critical if I wanted to survive the next day. We were fed three times a day and that was it. There was no food allowed in the cabins. There was no snack bar, no vending machines, no midnight snacks. So, when it was time to eat, you ate. We were losing five to eight pounds each day in the severe heat, and no one could afford to lose that kind of weight without eating and still expect to be able to perform at the level the coaches demanded.

  Not only was the dining hall a place for replenishment of the body, it also provided a psychological boost to all the players. After the morning session, the stress and anxiety felt the night before and during the early morning were lifted. At lunch, the dining hall was loud with storytelling, teasing, and laughter.

  The afternoon session was a repeat of the morning session, but with a stronger emphasis on offensive plays and defensive formations. The evenings consisted of the cerebral part of football―team meetings. The football playbook was loaded with football terminology, plays we had to memorize, and strict protocols and routines everyone had to learn. There was an order to the huddle, formations to learn, the team’s cadence to rehearse and respond to, blocking schemes to master, and defenses to run. Coaches diagrammed plays on the board, and we were expected to take notes and quickly memorize our responsibilities.

  “Now pay attention! Fullback Blast has the fullback hitting the number two hole. If we’re running this play against a four-four defense, we have to double-team the tackle! Kelly, are you getting this?” I had no idea what the hell our coach had just said, but I was writing like a banshee. I looked around. Everyone had their heads down and were taking notes, so I assumed everyone else knew what the coach was talking about. By the end of the first day, I had eight pages of notes and couldn’t believe that, during my week-long visit to hell, I also had homework!

  After team meetings, the day was finally ours; we could relax and hang out before hitting the sack. Our cabins consisted of ten bunk beds and slept twenty. Older players got dibs on who slept on the top or lower bunks. I slept on the top bunk, which worked for me. The air smelled cleaner the higher up you were, or at least I thought so. Each cabin had one bathroom with a single toilet. I have no memory of how the twenty of us managed to share that bathroom, especially before sessions, when nerves were running high and players were eager to relieve themselves.

  Then again it wasn’t that unfamiliar. Sharing a bathroom at football camp wasn’t much different from our home in Hyde Park. We had eight people―four males and four females―sharing one bathroom. How we managed to meet everyone’s personal needs and get out the door on time each morning was simply a miracle.

  The roofs of the camp cabins were made of tin, and so they would bake during the day, the heat soaking directly in. Each cabin housed a mixture of underclassmen and older kids. The night before pit-drills, most of us had trouble falling asleep. The pit-drill weighed heavily on our minds.

  Late into the night, the rain began to fall, drops pelting the metal roof. It was a beautiful sound, almost hypnotic. And, for some reason, it got me thinking of my brother Tom and made me homesick.

  Tom h
ad joined the Coast Guard once he graduated from Don Bosco. He wasn’t planning on pursuing football in college and felt the military had the most to offer him. We wrote to each other while he was at boot camp, and there was one letter in particular that helped me get through my own first few days of football camp.

  Hopping out of bed, I rummaged through my duffel bag and pulled out the letter (rumpled from night after night of rereading):

  August 12, 1973

  Hi Kev,

  I just wanted to give a few words of encouragement before you head off to football camp. Try to remember a few important things to becoming a football player:

  First, always hustle when on the field. Never let the coaches see you walking. Run everywhere they tell you to go! Second, Hit, Hit, Hit! Coaches love a hitter. No matter what size the player is in front of you, hit as hard as you can! Third, remember, on the field there is no such thing as freshmen and there is no such thing as seniors; you’re all equal on the football field.

  Kev, anyone can survive the physical junk they throw at you, but it’s the mental stress that wears away at players. Don’t take the coaches’ comments personally if they chew you out. Two minutes after they’re through with you, they’ll be chewing someone else out. If you make a mistake, make sure you gave 100%! Coaches are more likely to ease up on you if they see you hustling while screwing up.

  Boot camp is tough, but all those years of football certainly helped me deal with what they throw at us here every day. Boot camp, like football camp, is 80% mental and 20% physical!

  Best of luck, (you’ll do fine!)

  Tom

  P.S. Write me when you get home!

  Tom was absolutely right. Each new year, football camp would get easier to handle mentally, but the first two were hell. I never forgot Tom’s advice and it always grounded me whenever I suffered anxiety or exhaustion.

  After I put the letter away, I felt better but still tossed and turned, thinking about the next day. As I struggled to fall asleep, I realized someone was talking. What I was hearing didn’t make much sense, though. It was a mixture of words and gibberish.

  Jerry Cargill, a senior lineman, was sleeping across from me. Jerry was a nice kid, quiet and kind, especially to the younger classmen. As I peered into the darkness, I could make out his silhouette. Jerry was getting out of bed. He grabbed his helmet, secured it to his head backwards, got into a three-point stance, and began reciting plays. When he started speaking directly to the coaches, it became clear that Jerry was not at all awake or aware of what he was saying or doing.

  “Triple Right Option! Linemen on or inside. I can do it, Coach! Halfback Counter Left. Pull and trap the tackle!” Some of the players laughed, others just stared in disbelief. After a few minutes, Jerry took off his helmet and laid back down on his bunk, as if the whole episode had never happened. He had no idea what he had done in his sleep until we told him the next morning. Jerry chuckled and asked if he recited the correct blocking assignment for the plays he called out in his sleep. We told him we weren’t sure because we were laughing too hard watching him get into his stance with his helmet on backwards.

  The pressure we all felt at football camp manifested itself in different ways. Each of us had to learn how to handle the pressure our own way, but no one would dare admit that he was anxious or felt any fear. Football is a warrior’s sport that demands courage and fortitude—and, for us kids, that often meant suffering in silence.

  As a young teenager, I looked at the older players and thought none of them felt any of the emotion I felt. For most of us, though, Why did I sign up for this madness? was a common thought. The reality was, we were feeling the same things, and struggling with the same insecurities, but football demands that you either have mental toughness to handle these insecurities or develop it in a hurry. For most, mental toughness is a learned behavior of self-discipline, the ability to make yourself do something instinctively that you wouldn’t otherwise do but for pure survival’s sake.

  Mental discipline is a tapping into that survival adrenaline. Running full speed into someone you don’t know and exploding through their chest, head first, is a good example of mental toughness as a learned behavior. It is the relearning of the primal instinct. Most kids initially don’t want to hit with reckless abandon but, over time, this mentality develops and becomes more natural and, for some, even enjoyable.

  Of course, not everyone plays with true mental toughness. When a game is close and time is running out, players find what they consider to be mental toughness because emotions are riding high and the final whistle is close to blowing. But true mental toughness can be seen in the performance of athletes when the score is 38-0 with seven minutes left on the clock. Players on the losing end will begin to let up physically and emotionally. This happens at every level. Players acquiesce to this and begin to ask themselves, Why bother? We’re going to lose anyway. They figure they might as well begin to shut it down and preserve their energy to make sure they’re not injured during those last seven minutes.

  Only the very rare athlete will play always with a pure spirit. The Japanese Samurai warriors call this Bushido, which means heart of a warrior. Coaches preach, “Never say die, and play as if the score is 0-0 the entire game. Leave it all on the field. Never quit, no matter what.” Players like the Chicago Bears’ Dick Butkus, the greatest linebacker who ever played the game; Larry Wilson, defensive back for the St. Louis Cardinals in the late ’60s; and the Cleveland Brown’s Jim Brown, the greatest running back in the history of football—they all had it.

  Jim Brown once talked about being blown away by Larry Wilson. The game was in the bag, Cleveland was up by three touchdowns, and they were just letting the clock run out. Cleveland ran a sweep and handed off the ball to Brown when, out of nowhere, WHAM! Brown found himself flat on his ass and a little shaken up. The next play was a screen pass. WHAM! Brown got knocked on his ass.

  Brown finally looked over at the Cardinals huddle and said, “Who the hell is cleaning my clock?” It was Larry Wilson, weighing in at a mere one hundred and seventy-five pounds and playing with two broken hands! That guy played with true mental toughness. Wilson was a purist, and coaches spend their entire careers trying to inspire players to play with that same level of commitment. The Bosco coaches were no exception.

  “The rewards of learning this attribute are lifelong, boys,” said Dempsey. “The ability to not quit a job, relationships, your family, responsibilities, or uncomfortable or undesirable commitments, will help shape your adult self. Simply never quitting when you’ve made a commitment is a trait that separates the winners and losers in life.”

  We all wanted to be winners back then.

  Another major attribute that motivates a player’s toughness is pride. It cannot be measured by size or age, and it can often trump fear, stress, and anxiety all put together. During a hitting drill, scrimmage, or game, a good player can put aside all of the apprehensions that may be interfering with his play. When the pride button is pushed, amazing things can happen. Taking on someone bigger and stronger who, logically, should be able to dominate you suddenly becomes a fair challenge. Dempsey was living proof of this.

  His entire football career, Dempsey was told he was too small. But Dempsey lived what he preached, and he never let taunts and challenges hold him back.

  My teammate, Vince O’Brien, at a hundred and fifty pounds, was too light to be a lineman, but he’d come after you play after play, day after day. He had tremendous pride, and his emotional commitment to the game was absolute. I would often joke that if Vince O’Brien weighed one hundred and ninety pounds, I’d never come onto the football field to face him. When Vince went on to college football some years later, I guess his coaches saw this same potential in him, because they started him as an offensive wingback! All I can say is, he must have been miserable to tackle.

  In the midst of all the struggle and pressure, we Bosco play
ers always made a few important discoveries during our camp days. For one thing, size has no connection to ability or toughness. Players often got pigeonholed based on their size. It was a sobering sight watching a big, strong kid get knocked down because he lacked the quickness, technique, or desire to excel. For another thing, the kids with the loudest mouths are not necessarily the toughest kids on the team. The kid to watch out for is often the quiet one. He does what he’s told, but carries himself with an air of confidence. These kids often turn into hitting machines on the field.

  At camp that summer, Wednesday was another scorcher; you could have fried an egg on the sidewalk. By late morning, we were almost looking forward to the pit-drill just so we could get it over with and get off the field. All players respond differently to the anticipation of the pit-drill: with fear, nervousness, and heightened anxiety, or with aggression. Some players will even jump up and down and start jabbering in an attempt to regulate their emotions. Lots of: “This is it, boys!” or “Let’s get it on, boys! Yeah!”

  Most, however, are quiet. The anticipation of a fistfight is almost always worse than the actual event. Pit-drills are similar. A hidden aspect is ego. No one wants to under-perform or, worse, get their butt kicked in front of their teammates. During other aspects of practice, it’s possible to find moments to lighten up and not give one hundred percent, but there’s no place to hide during the pit-drill. It’s simple—you either win or you lose. Coaches love the pit-drill. Currier would sit back with an intense look on his face, armed with his clipboard, while Dempsey would all but foam at the mouth. With his eyes wide open, he’d bellow at us the entire time. If someone delivered a good hit, he’d leap off his feet, “Great hit, Dominguez! Now that’s the way to hit!” “Kelly, you keep standing up! Dip and explode—apply the techniques you’ve been taught!”