Friday Night Lights

by H. G. Bissinger

  All this wasn’t accomplished with kids who weighed 250 pounds and were automatic major-college prospects, but with kids who often weighed 160 or 170 or even less. They had no special athletic prowess. They weren’t especially fast or especially strong. But they were fearless and relentlessly coached and from the time they were able to walk they had only one certain goal in their lives in Odessa, Texas. Whatever it took, they would play for Permian.

  Behind the rows of stools stood the stars of the show, the members of the 1988 Permian Panther high school football team. Dressed in their black game jerseys, they laughed and teased one another like privileged children of royalty.

  Directly in front of them, dressed in white jerseys and forming a little protective phalanx, were the Pepettes, a select group of senior girls who made up the school spirit squad. The Pepettes supported all teams, but it was the football team they supported most. The number on the white jersey each girl wore corresponded to that of the player she had been assigned for the football season. With that assignment came various time-honored responsibilities.

  As part of the tradition, each Pepette brought some type of sweet for her player every week before the game. She didn’t necessarily have to make something from scratch, but there was indirect pressure to because of not-so-private grousing from players who tired quickly of bags of candy and not so discreetly let it be known that they much preferred something fresh-baked. If she had to buy something store-bought, it might as well be beer, and at least one player was able to negotiate such an arrangement with his Pepette during the season. Instead of getting a bag of cookies, he got a six-pack of beer.

  In addition, each Pepette also had to make a large sign for her player that went in his front yard and stayed there the entire season as a notice to the community that he played football for Permian. Previously the making of these yard signs, which looked like miniature Broadway marquees, had become quite competitive. Some of the Pepettes spent as much as $100 of their own money to make an individual sign, decorating it with twinkling lights and other attention-getting devices. It became a rather serious game of can-you-top-this, and finally a dictum was handed down that all the signs must be made the same way, without any neon.

  A Pepette also had responsibility for making smaller posters, which went up in the school halls at the beginning of each week and were transferred to the gym for the mandatory Friday morning pep rally. The making of these signs could be quite laborious as well, and one Pepette during the season broke down in tears because she had had to stay up until the wee hours of the morning trying to keep up with the other Pepettes and make a fancy hall sign that her player never even thanked her for.

  These were the basic Pepette requirements, but some girls went beyond in their show of spirit.

  They might embroider the map of Texas on towels and then spell out MOJO in the borders. Or they might make MOJO pillowcases that the players could take with them during road trips. Or they might place their fresh-baked cookies in tins elaborately decorated in the Permian colors of black and white. In previous years Pepettes had made scrapbooks for their players, including one with the cover made of lacquered wood and modeled on Disney’s Jungle Book. The book had clippings, cut out in ninety-degree angles as square and true as in an architectural rendering, of every story written about the Permian team that year. It also had beautiful illustrations and captions that tried to capture what it meant to be a Pepette.

  “The countryside was filled with loyal and happy subjects serving their chosen panther,” said a caption in a chapter entitled “Joy,” and next to it was a picture of a little girl with flowers in her hand going up to a panther, the Permian mascot, roaring under a tree.

  The Watermelon Feed began with a prayer by one of the pastors at Temple Baptist Church, the biggest church in Odessa. The sign in front of the church in previous years had contained such inspirational messages as HOW DO YOU SPELL DEFENSE? MOJO.

  “We thank you for the joy the athletes bring to our hearts and lives,” the pastor said.

  Following the prayer, a video was shown of highlights from the past season in 1987. Since the team had gone to the semifinals of the state playoffs before losing to the eventual champion, Plano, it had been considered not a great year but at least a pretty good one.

  There were sporadic yells of MOJO! but the crowd in the cafeteria didn’t become animated until the screen showed running back Shawn Crow breaking tackle after tackle in the quarter-final playoff game against Arlington.

  At one point Permian trailed in the game 28-7. But then the team put on a miraculous comeback, rallying around the example of one player who got in his stance, vomited through his helmet because he had just taken a hit in the stomach, and then took his defender down with a crushing block. The performance of Crow was also inspiring. Late in the fourth quarter he scored his fourth touchdown of the game to make it 35-33, and then he scored the two-point conversion to tie it up even though everyone in the stadium knew he was going to get the ball. The game ultimately ended in a 35-35 tie, and Permian advanced to the semifinals of the playoffs based on a tiebreaker rule that provided that the team with more first downs advance to the next round.

  Everyone seemed mesmerized as they watched Crow on a small screen in the front of the cafeteria, the memories of it, the absolute magic of it, suddenly flooding back. The oil economy could go to hell. The country could go to hell. But, thanks to Shawn Crow, never, ever Permian football.

  It would be hard anywhere in sports to find athletic feats more courageous than his. On play after play, each like a dizzying rerun, he had headed down the sidelines, running so low to the ground that it sometimes seemed as if his helmet skidded the turf, retaining remarkable balance, sending would-be tacklers flying and dragging others for four or five yards before finally going down. It was the kind of performance that only occurred in high school, for no adult would have had the willingness to sacrifice his body as Shawn Crow had done that night, for his family and his team and his town. It was also a moment, a time in his life, that seemed impossible to repeat.

  “If that won’t get you excited, I can’t believe you can get excited,” said booster club president Doug Hendrick.

  When the highlight film showed Crow scoring the two-point conversion, the crowd rose to its feet and gave the former hero a standing ovation. He was in the audience and gave no reaction, as if he was slightly embarrassed and wished he were someplace else.

  He was supposed to have been at Texas Christian University in Fort Worth, the only Division I school that had actively recruited him after a senior season in which he gained 2,288 yards and made first team All-State. But during the high school all-star football game in July at the Astrodome between players from the north regions of Texas and ones from the south, he had felt an intense pain in his back.

  No one thought it was serious, particularly since he had a reputation for whimpering, and one coach at Permian who knew Crow well said that the best way to “shut him up” was just to give him the ball. “I can’t run, man,” he told Tim O’Connell, the Permian trainer who was nicknamed “Trapper” and was the trainer (for the north) during the all-star game. Crow’s voice, high-pitched and laced with pain, made him sound almost scared.

  “Why don’t you just try,” said Trapper, who examined him and could find no discernible injury.

  Crow continued to play in the game, biting down on his mouthpiece as hard as he could on each play to fight through the pain. After the game it turned out that Crow had not been whimpering. He was diagnosed with a herniated disc, and the TCU coaches told him not to come to school until January, after he had had a chance to rehabilitate. There was no point in coming to school just to go to class.

  Injuries were nothing new to Crow. In seventh grade he had broken his leg in practice. In eighth grade he had torn ligaments in his thumb. In ninth grade his arm, already injured from an incident involving an all-terrain vehicle, had been shattered when he tried to throw a block. Off the field he was an ende
aring, friendly kid, quiet and shy and respectful. On the field, his toughness was almost incomprehensible; his head, as one teammate put it, seemed to be “made of steel.” But it was hard not to wonder if his body could endure the physical punishment of the game.

  The standing ovation that he received at the Watermelon Feed wasn’t particularly surprising. Just as he was used to football injuries, he was also used to lavish attention, as was every former Permian player who had once been ordained a star. So many people had come up to him when he was a senior that he couldn’t keep track of their names, and it seemed weird how much they knew about him when he knew absolutely nothing about them. During the playoffs, when he had suffered a bruise on his thigh that looked as if it might keep him out of the game the following week, a hundred people called the trainer’s office to ask about his condition. It got to the point that Trapper, half-joking, half-serious, posted updates on Crow outside the trainer’s office.

  To treat the injury he had spent almost three straight days in the trainer’s office and didn’t have to go to class. The excuses from class surprised Crow, who would ultimately have to take the SAT college entrance exam four times to get over the 700-point combined score that the NCAA required of a would-be college player to qualify for an athletic scholarship without any eligibility restrictions. On the other hand, the courses he was taking were not very difficult; so that academics would create as little interference as possible during the football season, he had taken English and government during summer school.

  “The teachers understood what they were doing. They respect football,” Crow said. “My photography teacher loved Permian football. He said it was okay [to miss classes]. The other two didn’t want me in class because they knew I would be dripping water from the ice [being applied to his thigh].” The following week in a playoff game against Denton, Crow had gained 119 yards and scored a touchdown as Permian won 16-3 and advanced to the quarterfinals.

  After the season he had spoken to a group of elementary school kids over at Dowling. He read them an Amelia Bedelia children’s book. A short time later he received letters from little boys asking for his autograph and from little girls asking him for dates.

  “I’m sorry I kept staring at you. I just couldn’t help myself you are so fine!” said Kaci.

  “Even though you have trouble reading, I think you read good. I hope that some day you will become a professional football player,” said Shauna.

  “I really enjoyed your reading. It was really interesting when you told everybody how many touchdowns you made,” said James.

  The next burst of applause at the Watermelon Feed came when it was time to introduce the members of the Permian football team individually.

  When their names were called they walked down a narrow aisle separating the cafeteria in half. Ivory Christian acted like a bride at the wedding, each step slow and measured, luxuriating in the applause and the hundreds of eyes beckoning to him. He could have spent hours moving down that thirty-foot aisle, for this was the part of the game he truly did love, the attention, the adulation, as far removed as possible from the grit and relentless routine of the practice field.

  Not everyone was so eager. Mike Winchell walked with his head cocked toward the floor, those furtive, brooding eyes burning holes somewhere, wishing he could be anyplace but here, in the midst of all this outlandish noise and attention. More than anything in life, he hated crowds, and his dream was to live by himself near the red-rocked canyons of the wild Devil’s River.

  And then there was Boobie.

  As Gaines told the crowd that Boobie would be the one to fill the shoes of Shawn Crow this year, Boobie himself felt a certain nervousness and excitement. Boobie was never one to praise others, particularly other running backs, but Crow had earned the ultimate compliment from him. “Tell the truth, he’s the first white boy I’ve ever seen run like that,” Boobie said in his singsong cadence that sounded like the ruminations of a rap song. “Pretty bad white boy. White that can run like that? Not like Crow. He can run.”

  But Boobie wasn’t worried about stepping into the role. He knew he could do it, get that ball, tuck it under his arm, and do with a football what Michael Jordan did with a basketball, make heads turn with a certain cut so pure, so instinctive, only God could have given it to him. “He can fly and dunk all special ways. I can run and fake all special ways,” said Boobie.

  He had hardly been a slouch his junior year, scoring fifteen touchdowns in addition to gaining over a thousand yards rushing. But Boobie had very much played under the shadow of Crow and spent much of his junior year blocking for him. But no more.

  He acknowledged the loud applause of the crowd like a prom queen or an Academy Award winner having the first of what would undoubtedly be a lifetime of moments such as these. Exuberant chants of “Boobie!” echoed through the room, and the world belonged to him. It also belonged to his uncle L. V., who sat on one of the little cafeteria stools toward the back wearing a cap that had Boobie’s number, 35, proudly affixed to the side.

  When he thought about the two of them, what they had gone through to get here, it was hard not to feel that some miracle had taken place. “We come a long way” was how L. V. said it with that soft laugh of his. “I guarantee you. We come a long way.” But now, at last, came the payoff.

  And on this night of the Watermelon Feed, his nephew walked down the aisle with the flushed, irrepressible confidence of someone absolutely sure of his destiny, the smile wonderful and wide, the gait easy and sweet. Call it cockiness, call it a horrendous case of the big head, but there was no one else like him.

  “Why are the scores of Permian games so lopsided?” Boobie himself had posed the question one day. “Because they only have one Boobie.”

  He was right. They only had one Boobie.

  And in two days, when Permian went up north to Amarillo for a pre-season scrimmage against the Palo Duro Dons, people would get their first real taste of what he was going to do this season when he, and he alone, was the shining star of the Permian Panthers.

  (3)

  BOOBIE

  I

  The pre-season scrimmage in the late August twilight had barely started when Boobie peeled off a run that gave glimpses of why the college recruiters were after him, why Texas A & M and Nebraska and Houston and all the others routinely crammed his mailbox with heady testimonials to his magnificence.

  You have been recommended to us as an outstanding prospective major college student-athlete.

  You had an outstanding junior year at Permian and I am sure your senior year will be even better. You are in a situation that many young athletes dream about.

  The entire Houston Cougar football staff has been in the process of putting together the top list of high school senior football players in Texas. . . . Booby, we feel that you are one of these few select players.

  James—we are in New York preparing for the kickoff classic and enjoying the sights. Good luck in your first game. Looking forward to watching you play later this season.

  They weren’t interested in him just because he was big and looked imposing in a football uniform. There were a thousand kids in Texas who fit that description. It was something else, more than just strength or speed, a kind of invincible fire that burned within him, an unquenchable feeling that no one on that field, no one, was as good as he was. “Miles had the attitude,” said former teammate Art Wagner with admiration. “He thought he was the best.”

  He had played his junior year with a kind of seething emotion that sometimes dissolved into quick frustration and discouragement. He easily got rattled, particularly when things weren’t going well, and there were times on the field when he seemed as frazzled as a child. But there were other times when that emotion made him spellbinding and untouchable.

  It had been there during the Abilene High game when he gained 232 yards on eight carries and scored touchdowns of 62 yards, 80 yards, and 67 yards. His father, who lived in Houston, had been in the stands that nig
ht. They had been separated for some time, and it was the first time James senior had ever seen his son play football at Permian. He was almost unprepared for what it felt like to watch his own flesh and blood out there on that field. “Oh, man,” he remembered. “The first I seen him carry that ball, he busted that line for eighty yards. Do you know how you feel when you see your son doin’ good, doin’ somethin’ special? It kind of put a lump in your throat. Man, that boy ran that ball that night!”

  The fire had been there during the Arlington game in the playoffs, after he had come off the field with tears in his eyes because one of the opposing players had called him a nigger. Gaines tried to comfort him and told him the other team only wanted to get him worked up so he would get himself kicked out of the game. And then he saw a change come over Boobie as if something had snapped, the hurt and humiliation giving way to a raging anger. He only carried the ball twelve times that day for forty-eight yards, but it was his savage blocking that made the recruiters up in the stands take notice, the way he went after the Arlington defenders with uncontrolled vengeance, the way he flattened a linebacker and rendered him semi-unconscious. It proved to them that Boobie had more than just the requisite size and speed to play big-time college ball. He had the rawness, the abandon, the unbridled meanness.

  “He’s strong as snot,” Mike Winchell said of him.

  “He’s the best football player I’ve ever seen,” said Jerrod McDougal.

  Boobie himself was well aware that all eyes were poised on him this season, and while he luxuriated in it, he seemed almost carefree about it. Holding court in the trainer’s room shortly after the practices had begun in the August heat, he bantered with the nine-year-old son of one of the coaches as if they were best pals in grade school together, calling him “waterbug head,” asking him if he had a girlfriend, grabbing his head and giving him a noogie, telling him that when it came to “the shoe,” Adidas would never hold a nickel next to the almighty Nike. He lay on one of the brown trainer’s tables, but it was impossible for him to keep still. With his head hanging over the table, he ran his fingers along one of the crevices in the wall and started to do a rap tune.