Had a scab on my nose that never healed. Would crust up over a weekend and get torn first hit on Monday. Still have the scar. Never liked playing football. No one bit. Kind of odd since this was my sixth year. Learned early not to listen to what I thougt. A rite of passage. You going to be a man? Play football, period. It was not a sport, it was life or death.
Each practice was a battle, every year a campaign. And it was all war. In August, Coach Smith pegged in 15 or 20 minute periods. Mac the trainer had the three hour schedule. He'd blow a whistle and we'd run to another drill. Sometimes he'd show me what we had. It was best to not look. Dread could set in early on a blistering day. Best not to think. But that feeling felt worse than anything. It was like you were in a hostile desert and would never ever make it home. It was like being depressed and lonely and knowing you couldn't do one thing about it. The more you thought the more it hurt. That was Purgetory.
A time or two, Mac would just walk by me in warm-ups and just say, "Shotgun Alley" or "Pianola". They were drills. Shotgun was where you lined up and had to take on a blocker then tackle the back that was coming full steam behind him. Like being in the trenches. Pianola was hitting that damn blocking sled. Had seven pads. Hit one, roll, hit another. Start again. The stickers and rocks were thick as mosquitoes. Blood did not count for anything.
The words you never, ever wanted to here were "Bull in the Ring". Every drill had an etiquette and flavor. Every drill had it's purpose. Punishment, get tough, "just because", or worse than anything, to run somebody off. There were rules, simple ones. No smoking or drinking and no disrespect to an adult. That was never much of a problem, but the smoking and drinking were hazards that had appeal. Get caught and you were a starter, you ran till you puked. For days. If you were not a starter: Bull in the Ring.
Bull in the Ring was simple. One person in the center and the rest of the team in a large circle. Coach Smith made the circle larger or smaller. He was the emperor. It depended on what we were doing. Endurance, it was small, but run somebody off and it was a big, gaping circle. Lots of distance between the 'bull" and everybody else. Course, most of the time if you kept your senses about you, you could hear when someone came. Turn to face them, use a forearm like a club, but heads like a ram. But, we ran after 170 minutes of sweat and blood and no water. Drinking water was a sign of weakness. So in the 175th minute, standing in the middle of the ring, thinking was slow, so were reflexes. People could get hurt. And did.
I don't know how Oxley ever lasted till we were juniors. He was frail, weak and hated it all. But, he was an Air Force brat and his dad said play or don't come home. He played. I think Coach Smith may have just had some blood lust that day. Who knows. Put Oxley in the middle. Now you stay in the middle as long as you stay upright. From the ring, you win by knocking the Bull to the ground. But, you become a star if you break a helmet or knock someone out ...cold. You become a god a if you send someone to the hospital. Serious.
Anyway, Coach Smith, all 5' 3" of him, was squawking like a turkey. He was in the center of the ring running around like a little kid on Christmas morning. Always had a wad of tobacco, and by the end of practice that t-shirt was splattered with chew and dark, rank spittle. When he grabbed your face mask and hollered, he spit juice all over your face. He laughed like the Wicked Witch of the North. Maybe more cackling than laugh. But, he'd get worked up and hopping like a crow. He'd start screaming names. When you got called you charged.
I was right across from Kirby when he started his move. Kirby Horton was 220lbs. Looked bigger. All he wanted to do was run over you. Hurt you and do it again. He did not dislike Oxley. To Kirby, it was all business. He got called, he charged the Bull. By the time this all happened, Oxley was dead tired. He had stood his ground, but barely. His nose was bleeding. And, course, that blood revved up Coach Smith to a fever: "Kirby, Kirby...kill him..kill him...". Oxley had his back turned till the very last second. That was too late. He turned just enough to have Kirby hit him just under the face mask. I saw it all. Slow motion, like a Sam Penckinpaugh movie. Oxley flew at least 4 feet in the air. His Riddell never fit well and it flew off as. His neck flipped back. He was out in the air. When he hit, there was this awful billowing sound, "whoosh.." It was his lungs. I saw Coach as it happened. He look like the Rapture had started. Eyes were wide and he had this huge grin. All teeth and tobacco. Oxley hit and coach jumped up and down screaming, "Yes sir, yes sir, yes sir. That it, that's what we do, that's how we live".
Wasn't till Coach Pugh came out to look at Oxley that he calmed down a litte. But, he caught his breath. "Line up for windsprints, you little peckerwoods." Never knew what a peckerwood was.
We ran wind sprints till we cried. Some puked. Some did both. Me. The ambulance came to get Oxley. A cracked rib and punctured lung were his ticket to the stands on Friday night. He had a badge of courage. Maybe he tells his grandkid about the day he nearly died. But, for the rest of us. We straggled to the lockers, drank gallons of cold water from the showers, went home. Supper, to bed, restless dreams. It started again 10 hours later.