by Tom Harvey
Golden West ran back the opening kickoff and, later, I was flagged for a fifteen-yard facemask penalty. Coach Lambie pulled me out of the game and, grabbing my facemask, flung me from side to side screaming, “Is this how you’re supposed to tackle?”
The game at Mount Whitney was delayed because our bus driver couldn’t shift the bus out of second gear. For the entire thirty-five-mile drive, the bus lurched along, the engine wound out and smoking. Cars stacked up behind us on the two lane road, honking incessantly. A few impatient drivers flipped us off as they sped by. The poor lady bus driver was reduced to tears long before we made it to Visalia. We arrived an hour late and everyone patted the sobbing driver’s shoulder as we unloaded.
Whitney beat the living hell out of us.
The one game we won, 20-8, was at Selma. Selma, California, is the self-proclaimed “Raisin Capital of the World.” The high school’s mascot is a raisin. Coach Quiram turned play calling over to our quarterback, Colin Crow, midway through the second half. Colin handled it like a pro.
On the ride home, I pictured their pep rallies:
“We are …
Selma …
Raisins!”
I felt sorry for those guys–they had to live with the world’s lamest mascot and they just got beat by a really crappy team. [2012 update: While driving through town on my way from Fresno to Porterville recently, I noticed a sign that read, “Welcome to Selma–Home of the Bears!” I’m not sure when they changed their mascot but someone was using their noodle!]
When I got home that night and didn’t mention the game, Mom asked about it. She was used to the usual report– “Oh, we lost.”
As nonchalant as I could muster, I replied, “Oh, we won.”
“You did?” she screamed and gave me a crushing embrace.
At one of our home games, I sat on the bench chatting with the other defensive cornerback, David Facio. Coach Quiram yelled, “Tom, you’re in!”
I jumped up and looked at the field, confused. “But we’re on offense!”
“I know, get out there!”
“Oh my God!”
Coach Lambie said, “Oh my God is right!”
With our starting running back, John Snyder, limping off the field, my heart raced as Coach Quiram gave me the play.
“Dive 34.”
I ran into the huddle.
Silence as ten guys waited for me to speak.
“Dive. Thirty. Four.” It was the simplest play in the playbook.
Quarterback Rick Short barked out the play, “Dive 34 on two, on two!”
We responded in unison, “Break!”
I was on the field as the tailback! Number 21 in the backfield! Call the newspaper! Take a picture!
I looked straight ahead, conjuring up the meanest, toughest look I could muster. The middle linebacker locked eyes with me. My eyes narrowed menacingly.
The play is deciphered as follows: Dive meant a running play up the middle.
In our numbering scheme, the quarterback is number 1, the center is number 2, and the fullback is number 3. A dive play starting with 3 meant the fullback runs the ball. The gaps between the linemen were numbered 1 through 5, from right to left, so the 4 in 34 is the gap between the center and the guard, to the left of the center.
Had Coach called Dive 44, or Dive 43, I would have run the ball because the tailback is number 4 in the numbering scheme. Our big fullback, Frank Tate, ran the ball straight ahead for three yards.
The next play John Snyder resumed tailback responsibilities and I returned to the bench. It was my only offensive play of the year.
Later in the game, I stood across from the wide-receiver as the other team lined up in punt formation.
The punter kicked the ball straight up in the air. Coach Lambie screamed from the sideline, but I had no idea what he was saying. Looking straight up in the bright sky, I was determined to make a play. At the sound of loud breathing–like a horse exhaling–I glanced down and locked eyes with that same middle linebacker. His foot pawed at the ground like a bull ready to charge. Thinking that Lambie was screaming catch the ball–he was actually screaming get away from it–I made the split second decision to stay put. Time to be a hero! Maybe I could run the botched punt back for a score! Time to turn this game around!
The split second the ball touched my outstretched fingers the defender hit me like a Mac truck. I flew off my feet, landed on the back of my head, and crumpled to the ground. In football terms, I muffed the ball–meaning that because I touched it, the other team could regain possession.
The good news was that a teammate pounced on the ball.
The bad news came when I sat up and looked at my right hand: my middle finger was angled ninety degrees, completely dislocated at the middle joint. I wobbled off the field, holding my hand out in front of me, trying not to puke or pass out.
Coach Lambie didn’t even acknowledge the injury and screamed, “I told you to get away from it!” Coach Quiram grabbed my hand and popped the joint back into place–oh, that hurt. He locked eyes with me and calmly said, “You’re OK. That was a good effort. Go sit down and catch your breath.”
I sat down on the bench and tried to make sense of what had just happened. I felt lightheaded. Hell, I probably had a concussion. My finger throbbed with waves of hot pain.
Coach Quiram, always the quiet leader, walked over and taped my middle finger to my ring finger and said, “When we’re on D, I need you back out there.” I smiled weakly as my swollen middle finger grew darker shades of black and blue with every passing second.
Even though Ryan Bernasconi started the season as our third string quarterback, he saw a lot of action due to Rick Short’s suspension for possession of chewing tobacco and Colin Crow’s broken arm. We used to joke that every pass of Ryan’s was a dying quail–it sort of arched in the air then dropped out of the sky. But, God bless Ryan. He tried his hardest, and he led us to the finish.
We finished the year with a shutout loss (0-13) to our cross town rival, Porterville High. The only consolation was that we were Braves and they were Kittens. (Both schools have three-tier mascots as follows: Brave, Chief, Marauder for Monache; Kitten, Cat, Panther for Porterville.) Lord, it would have been tough to be called a kitten but at least the Porterville High players lost that designation after their freshman year. The Raisins in Selma weren’t so lucky.
Sidebar #2:
The Traveling Evangelist and the Evils of Rock Music
David brought home a flyer beaming, “We are going to this!”
A traveling evangelist was setting up a tent outside of town to preach about the spreading evil of rock music. The flyer promised that the insidious evil known as backmasking would be revealed.
Wikipedia.org defines backmasking as:
Backmasking (also known as backward masking) is a recording technique in which a sound or message is recorded backward onto a track that is meant to be played forward. Backmasking is a deliberate process, whereas a message found through phonetic reversal may be unintentional.
Wikipedia.org further says:
Backmasking has been a controversial topic in the United States since the 1980s, when allegations from Christian groups of its use for Satanic purposes were made against prominent rock musicians, leading to record burning protests and proposed anti-backmasking legislation by state and federal governments. Whether backmasked messages exist is in debate, as is whether backmasking can be used subliminally to affect listeners.
Straight out of Neil Diamond’s song, Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show, this guy did not disappoint when it came to the image in my mind of a traveling evangelist. The guy setup a white tent in a dirt field on the outskirts of town and word spread quickly–the place was packed with a hundred or more teenagers. David and I settled into our folding chairs and waited for the proverbial fireworks.
A heavy set dude in his late thirties with dirty blonde hair and wire rimmed round glasses took the stage breathing fire and brimstone.
> Rock music was manipulative!
Rock music was dangerous!
Rock music was evil!
For an hour, the guy paced back and forth working himself into a frenzy. Oh, he had a lot of ammo: The Rolling Stones’ album Goat Head Soup was a mockery of the lamb of Christ. Black Sabbath’s Heaven and Hell album, depicting angels smoking cigarettes, was blasphemy.
He unleashed on Led Zeppelin’s classic, Stairway To Heaven, and all the devil-inspired references to change a person’s path away from heaven.
We learned about Aleister Crowley, founder of The First Church of Satan (if such an institution exists)–Ozzy Osbourne’s inspiration in Mr. Crowley. He held up Ozzy’s Speak of the Devil album and simply shook his head in disgust (Ozzy hurling a big glob of raspberry jam–classic if you ask me).
He ranted against AC/DC, Black Oak Arkansas, and Judas Priest. Even the most innocent of artists weren’t safe.
“Your kids are listening to Olivia Newton-John sing about getting physical! She wants us to let our bodies do the talking!” He berated Pink Floyd (“Pink Floyd? What are they, a bunch of homosexuals?”).
The crowd listened with mild interest and hushed amusement. Bashing the likes of Black Sabbath and AC/DC was expected. We were there for the good stuff–the promise of subversive messages played backwards on a record player. We were there for backmasking.
He took one more shot at the teenage sex advocate, Olivia Newton-John, took a deep breath, and fired up the record player.
Everyone leaned forward in their seats.
“If you don’t think the obvious messages are bad enough,” he breathed, “take a listen to this!”
The familiar bass riff of Queen’s Another One Bites The Dust played through the loud speakers–a hundred teenage heads nodded in time to the music. At the point where Freddie Mercury begins repeating the title, the preacher forced the record backwards against the needle.
The place let out a collective gasp.
“Do you hear it?” the preacher screamed. “DO YOU HEAR IT?”
In quirky distortion, Freddie’s high-pitched voice warbled, “Start to smoke mary-wanna.” David and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.
The preacher pulled the needle off and his assistant slapped down another record.
“How about the ‘great’ Beatles White Album?” he screamed, emphasizing the word great sarcastically. “Anyone familiar with the song, Revolution 9?”
The record played and the words “number nine” repeated over and over and over. “Listen to this,” he whispered.
Spinning the record backwards, every “number nine” morphed into “turn me on dead man”–again and again and again.
The crowd gasped.
I never knew how “turn me on dead man” was satanic, but it was interesting.
For the coup de grace, he said, “Remember that sweet ballad, Stairway To Heaven? The power of Satan is strong with this one! Let’s play this one backwards.”
The distorted words of “Here’s to my sweet Satan, there’s power in Satan, he will give you 666” played through the speakers. Whoa. OK, that was wild.
Amid the controversy, Led Zeppelin’s record company, Swan Song Records, issued a statement regarding backmasking: “Our turntables only play in one direction–forwards.” And Led Zeppelin lead singer Robert Plant denied the accusations, saying: “To me it’s very sad, because Stairway To Heaven was written with every best intention, and as far as reversing tapes and putting messages on the end, that’s not my idea of making music.”9
The preacher passed the hat and I put a dollar in. David scoffed.
As we shuffled out with the murmuring crowd, the preacher yelled, “Come back Friday night with your tapes and records! Help me put Satan back in his place! Rock music is evil! Come back on Friday for the big bonfire!”
“So,” I asked warily, “we gonna burn Highway To Hell?” If any of our records were evil, it was that one.
“Are you crazy? That album cost me ten bucks!” he snorted. “Hell no!”
We passed on the bonfire finale. Satanic or not, it would have been too painful to see all that good music go up in flames.
The year cruised along and I found one class, Physical Science, to be a real test of my intellect. Mr. Forrest looked the part of a scientist: a small guy in his late fifties with short gray hair, half-moon spectacles, and two fingers on his right hand partially missing. Blown off in a lab experiment gone wrong. To this day, that’s still the theory.
The class was college prep–open to freshman only and in its first year of existence. He may as well have called it Advanced Physics for Pre-Med Students, as far as I was concerned. For starters, we had to memorize the Table of Elements–not just know how to use it–we had to memorize it. With this knowledge, we tried to solve chemical equations so long that the formulas stretched across the top of the page and down the side.
On one hot afternoon, Mr. Forrest described the atmospheric structure of each of the planets–I will say that, of all the topics, astronomy wasn’t totally reliant on complicated equations–so I was mildly interested. Pam (of boob-stroking lore), sitting in front of me, raised her hand and asked innocently, “Mr. Forrest, how far across is Uranus?”
Mr. Forrest put his chalk covered half fingers to his lips and pondered the question.
Painful seconds passed in silence.
I burst out laughing.
At that moment, Pam raised both of her arms to stretch and I grabbed them and pinned her backwards on my desk. Looking down at her upside down face, I blurted, “Good one!” This caused a chain-reaction of riotous laughter–just the outlet needed for everyone stifling their laughter at Pam’s question–and Mr. Forrest, oblivious to the joke, glared at me with fire in his eyes. He snapped, “Tom! I am permanently moving you away from Pam!” He pointed his stub at an empty desk across the room. I collected my books and barely made it to my new locale, tears streaming down my face.
Now every guy has a story about either kicking someone’s ass–or having said ass kicked–and I had not one, but two, encounters my freshman year.
The first incident started after our football team’s winless streak hit four–frustration was high. Our starting wide receiver, a tall, lanky guy named Rob approached me one day and said, “Me and Jaime think you suck! You should quit the team!” Jamie was a starting linebacker–both he and Rob had cops for dads.
While his point was valid, I responded, “I don’t really care what you and Jaime think.”
His eyes grew as big as his evil smile. “I’m going to tell Jaime you said that.” He turned and skipped away in glee.
Later that day, Jaime approached with Rob at his heels. Jaime’s fists were clenched.
“Rob told me what you said,” he growled.
“I didn’t say anything,” I calmly replied. “Rob did all the talking.” I tried to act nonchalant but my heart raced.
Jaime continued, “I think yer nothing but a pussy!” He pronounced it pus-see.
I was no match for this stocky kid. He would have beat the living hell out of me.
“You can think what you want, Jaime.”
“If I knew I wouldn’t get kicked off the team, I’d kick your ass right here and now!”
I said nothing and intentionally kept my arms at my sides–defenseless–hoping he wouldn’t sucker punch me.
Rob’s smile faded.
Jaime spit on the ground, turned, and walked away seething.
Jaime and I later became friends and at our twenty year reunion, he disavowed all recollection of the incident. I guess it wasn’t that memorable to him.
The other incident occurred in PE class–and this time it was more than just words and spittle.
Rain forced our volleyball class into the gym. Multiple courts were setup and a stray ball bounced at my feet. I picked up the ball and flung it back–and hit a kid named George in the face. He grabbed his nose and doubled over in pain. Shocked at what had happened, I walked straight
at him with my arms outstretched, palms up.
“Oh, man, I am so sor …”
It happened fast.
Out of the corner of my left eye, his fist swung around.
SMACK!
But he didn’t punch me.
He slapped me.
I stood there, stunned.
The games instantaneously stopped. Mr. Kavadas, our PE teacher, was nowhere to be seen.
The next few seconds played out in super slow motion.
My fists instinctively clenched.
A series of rapid fire thoughts went through my mind.
Would I be blamed for starting a fight?
Does it matter who started it?
Can I kick this tall kid’s ass?
I took a half-step forward to deliver the retaliation. It was almost like a reflex.
At that instant, George’s fat friend took a half step forward.
My next thought.
This guy’s going to jump in. I’m going to have to fight both of them.
Long seconds passed as I looked between both of them.
I unclenched my fists and relaxed my shoulders.
“What are you doing?” I pleaded. “I was just apologizing to you!”
“You meant to do that!” George snapped in his heavy Spanish accent. He and his buddy were cholos.
“No, I didn’t!”
My face stung.
George’s buddy–I never knew his name but the guy outweighed me by at least fifty pounds–said, “You just gonna take that, Holmes? Let’s see what you got.”
Mr. Kavadas broke through the circle of spectators and said, “What’s going on here?” All eyes turned to me. I could have ratted George for his sucker slap but knew it would only make things worse.
“Nothing,” I said finally.
When everyone reluctantly returned to their game, George’s fat friend whispered, “We’ll be seeing you in the parking lot, Holmes.”
I remained paranoid about getting jumped for a month or so, but the bad blood eventually dissipated and nothing ever became of that errant volleyball throw. In fact, I never spoke to George again.