Breakfast with Butch

This story begins in the far south suburbs of Chicago during the summer—August actually—of 1962, on the hottest, most humid and ridiculously nasty month in the Chicago calendar. Not the ideal time to engage in any outdoor activity, but here I am at high school football tryouts. Not just tryouts but two-a-days: one workout in the morning and another in the afternoon. Between torture sessions we gorged ourselves on A&W Root Beer and burgers—which would later be deposited on the football field sidelines. Like I said, this was nasty. Despite the unbearable heat and demanding drills, I am as excited as a young boy can be. I have a big advantage over most of the freshmen because I have already played Pop Warner football for two years, so I am officially a stud. I play offensive and defensive halfback. I can run, I can fake and I am fast, fast as the wind. I can score; I catch passes, I return punts and kickoffs. You name it … I can do it. It all comes natural to me … just give me the ball. So now here I am. The big time … my destiny. We are freshmen, and the coach is looking for a few “studs” to play up on the JV. Such an honor, such an accomplishment, and it’s all I want. That and to be able to go home and tell my dad … yep, you were right, Dad—hard work pays off. I made JV. We ran drill after drill; no water, no rest. The Spartan approach to football in 1962. It was God-awful hot and God-awful humid. We played in the God-awful dirt—no grass for freshmen. We were maggots; we didn’t even deserve dirt. “Now get in there and hit somebody.” That’s all I heard, “Get in there and hit somebody.” Coach stood off to the side, arms folded, new baseball hat, chrome shades like the warden from Cool Hand Luke. He even had a toothpick stuck in his mouth and a clipboard in his hands. He hadn’t said much; didn‘t have to. His steely presence created an overwhelming aura of importance—at least to a star-struck freshman. He let the upperclassmen put us through the drills and torment us as they saw fit, and then he finally spoke. “Gentlemen,” he growled like a junkyard dog, “You are supposed to be football players, but you play like sissies, like quitters, like losers. I am not looking for sissies, quitters, and losers. I am looking for fighters, hustlers and winners. If there’s even one of you who thinks he can play football here, for me and with them”—he pointed at the upperclassmen—“then show me now!” He tossed the ball to the upperclassmen and said, “Bulls in the ring. Last drill, last chance.” They had us form a circle and then chose two people—a ball carrier and a tackler—to come into the center of the ring. One of the real football players—i.e., the upperclassmen—would play the quarterback. He’d say, “Hut one, hut two, up.” The ball carrier would explode from the three-point stance, take the handoff, and run straight ahead into the collision with the tackler. Mano-a-mano. Best man wins. We went time after time until there were only two of us left, and we were barely left. Many had puked, and they sat off to the side. The rest formed the circle around us, hands on knees, breathing hard and dripping sweat like rain. It was down to me and one other kid. He was about my size but really skinny. He had never played football before but had a natural gift and was the toughest scarecrow on the field. He clearly feared nothing and no one. The coach walked into the middle of the circle and stood between me and Scarecrow … his mouth was a tight line, and he growled so soft and low we had to lean in to hear him. “Three more carries, three more tackles.” Throwing the ball to me, he said, “You carry.” Turning to Scarecrow, he said, “You tackle.” We lined up and went at it. I hit Scarecrow so hard the first time, he fell over backward, cursing and flailing, in the dirt. He spat out blood as he got to his feet, and he moaned.” I trotted back to my position, another day at the office, but my vision was off and so was my balance.