Fridays in high school were special. It was football night. I played on both offense and defense. I was a defensive halfback and an offensive wide receiver. My junior and senior year in high school resulted in 8-0 records (there was no playoff system at that time). So we just won, yah baby.
Classrooms were just something that got in the way. Most talk in the halls was about the game that night. Football players got favored treatment.
The last class of the day was cut short to have a pep rally in the auditorium. I remember doing some sort of stupid skit to the song “Whats Behind the Green Door”. Of course, our football team was behind the green door.
Players arrived at the school gym several hours before “kick off”. We were under strict orders about what we could eat prior to the game. Protein. Limited diet. Stay hydrated.
We always wanted to be the last team on the field and make a big entrance. Excitement was in the air. Lights made the field seem magical. The ceremonial calisthentics were a necessary evil. There were cheer leaders. There was a pep band.
Important people in my life always attended the games. My special girlfriend was there. My dad (along with Art Mueller and Jack Becker) were there. I think my brothers and sisters were there. I don’t recall my mom attending the games.
And then we won. We had teams that just bull-dozed the competition. We would win by 20-30-40 points. It seemed normal at the time. History says we had some extremely talented teams.
After the game was celebration time. I kept it rather simple. Hey, I had my girlfriend. The A&W drive-in was a gathering place. And then there were the drinking haunts. My Dad along with Art Mueller and Jack Becker headed for the local pub to analyze the game. Because Art wrote the sports column for the Plymouth Review newspaper, I got my share of printed compliments about my playing time.
The coaches also headed for some secluded tavern to celebrate success. They were careful not to be conspicuous.
Saturdays always had a quiet “buzz” about the success of the previous night. My Dad would make sure to mention my mistakes and would kid about the good stuff. I remember dropping a touchdown pass in the end zone (it was poorly thrown of course) and my Dad lamented that he couldn’t run for Mayor any more because of the shame.
Then next Friday we repeated the ritual. Yep, it was high school football in all it’s glory Throw in the home-coming pagentry, celebratory parades and award banquets and it all added up to a memorial time. It seems like yesterday. The same ritual continues today.
By the way, I married my special girlfriend.
Love,
Dad