Homecoming

“Hillmen on three! One, two, three! HILLMEN!”

In unison, the Hillsdale Hillmen snapped on their shiny gold helmets and began to follow Head Coach Ben Reynolds out the locker room door. On this night, though, on this Homecoming night, Coach Reynolds decided to try something he hadn’t done in years. Instead of exiting through the south door directly towards the field, Ben Reynolds led his squad towards the north end of the locker room. He opened a huge door, leading to a cement ramp walkway.

Reynolds trudged up the ramp with his squad in tow behind him. It wasn’t a particularly long ramp, some fifty feet or so. The players’ cleats scraped along the concrete as they shuffled up the walkway. A large iron door opened, and the team found itself on an old delivery platform for the maintenance department, right next to a residential area. To get to the game field from this point, the Hillsdale Hillmen would have to walk around the school building and then about four or five blocks through the streets.

When Reynolds first came to Hillsdale fifteen years ago, this was the only way his teams took the field. The rush his players would get as they walked together, hand-to-hand, down the middle of Center Street towards the stadium was exhilarating. People lined the sidewalks much like a parade, cheering the Hillmen by name, waving pom pons, and clapping their hands in rhythm.

This practice produced great results for the first few years….just as long as they won. After the game, the players also had to walk back to the locker room. If they had been successful, which they were for twelve straight games, they were almost looked upon as triumphant gladiators. Little kids would tag alongside them, carrying their helmets or shoulder pads down the street. Parents, especially dads, would stroll along, tousling their son’s hair.

After that thrilling opening win over Valley Forge, the Hillmen had struggled, winning only two of its last four games. Another loss would possibly jeopardize their chances for making the playoffs, and Reynolds was going to leave no stone unturned in what could be his final year at the helm.

“Men, tonight we are going to march to the field….as a team. I want the captains to lead us four across and the rest of you are to fall in behind them in pairs. Let’s go. Get moving!” he ordered.

The Hillmen almost comically bumped and stumbled into one another, but soon order was restored, and the lines were formed. Jeff Fairchild turned around. “Follow me,” he said, and he and the other captains shuffled off the concrete while the others fell in behind.

Reynolds stood behind them admiringly. He looked for his other coaches, but they were nowhere to be seen. He was alone with his team. He lagged behind the players about 25 yards, just to watch the reaction of the crowd.

Amazingly, for the first block or so, nobody seemed to notice. All Reynolds could hear was the scraping of the cleats on the asphalt. The squad looked almost like a battle unit on maneuvers, every step synchronized and choreographed. Their helmets reflected the setting sun in the western sky; yet not one word could be heard.

A blinking light greeted him above the gate as Reynolds turned the corner. The sign flashed “Reynolds Field,” first in green and then in gold. Just at the edge of the gate, his wife Julie stood, almost at attention, adorned in her typical green and gold outfit, hair in tails with a huge grin on her face. “Go for it, Ben!” she yelled as her husband raced into the stadium which had been named after him.

The players were already in stretching units, performing their pre-game routine, something Reynolds had taught them year after year. He stood proudly amongst his troops, like a general inspecting his charges before going off to battle. Coach Reynolds knew this clever ploy was going to give his squad tonight the results they so sorely wanted.

He noticed his assistants on the sideline, all standing in a line stoically and expressionless. Each of them held a clipboard, but it didn’t appear any of them were eager to move.

“Hey! Get out here, you guys! We got a game to play!” He wanted his coaches to get emotionally involved. Nobody moved, though.

Coach Reynolds started to head towards the sideline when he noticed the officials walking in his direction. The referee wore an exceedingly sinister smile as he approached the Hillsdale mentor. As they drew nearer, Reynolds recognized the face, and he knew the reason for the toothy grin.

“Good evening, Coach Reynolds. I’m your referee, Monty Phillips. I belong to the State Athletic Association, and you have no business on this field. Remember? You’ve been suspended for this season, you cheater! You will have to forfeit this game, and you are to be in my office next……”

“Nooooooooooooooooo!” The cry echoed through his head.

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