A very short, but true story...
maribeth3777
Posts: 19
First and Ten, Do It Again!
Written By: Mari Beth Duncan
At the age of seven, I attended my first high school football game. My father was my date, and my big brothers, Shawn and Billy, were the stars of the game. Football was an integral part of our family’s time together. My father played as a teenager, and coached both of my brothers in little league. My sister, Natalie, and I were on the sidelines in our skirts, with pom-poms in hand, cheerleading. Dad and Mom divorced when I was very young, and she was not around for most of our childhood. Dad stayed single after the divorce and worked diligently to provide a stable and comfortable life for his children. He worked third shift at a cigarette factory and had little time to spend with us individually, although he showed us his love by the blisters on his feet and the sweat on his brow after a long night at work. Football practice twice a week and games on Saturday mornings were the only time we were able to have fun together. That was family time well spent toward a common goal of winning. Fun was our secondary purpose; therefore, we always managed to win, regardless of the score on the board. My brothers’ first high school football game proved we were not in little league anymore. Both brothers managed to make the varsity team at Southern High School. It was 1984 and Southern had one of the best teams in its district. This was the first time I actually had time to watch and appreciate the game. Before, I was busy cheering and never completely understood the rules. I did not comprehend the grueling work it took for each player to earn every inch for the team to win the game.
It was October, and the night air was brisk, cooling my breath so that I could see it as I exhaled. The game was about to begin and I felt the butterflies in my stomach. I could only imagine how nervous my brothers were as they took the field. The hard, cold, metal bench felt like a block of ice under my button fly Levi’s and I was certain they would stick to it if I stood up. My ears were freezing and I felt the burning and tingling sensation taking over my lobes from the bitter wind. I nestled down in my oversized jacket, so the shoulders of it covered my ears. The jacket was Billy’s school jacket. It was navy blue, with a white football shaped patch that read, ‘Varsity#61’ in blue stitched letters. On the back in white block letters, was our last name ‘Duncan.’ As I snuggled close to my Dad to keep warm, a girl on the bench behind me, grabbed my sleeve, turning me in my seat and screamed, ‘Oh my God, are you Billy and Shawn’s sister?’ The player’s girlfriends usually wore the jackets while the players were on the field. It was obvious I was not a girlfriend with my small and underdeveloped body. I just smiled at her and shyly said, ‘Yeah,’ and turned back around. She acted as if she was a groupie of a rock star, telling her two friends that sat next to her, ‘That is Shawn and Billy’s sister!’ I felt embarrassed that she made such a scene and disappeared again, this time, further into my father’s arm.
From the stands, the track around the field was crowded with teenagers. Some of the guys wore feathered mullets and others sported the big hair band haircuts popular in the 80’s. Most of the girls wore high teased, boofed hairstyles hardened with Aqua Net hairspray. I remember the anticipation in the air on that chilly, Friday night. The cheerleaders were my guide to know when to clap. Dad explained to me exactly what the cheer and phrase, ‘First and Ten’ meant and then I understood why I cheered for our team to ‘Do it Again.’ It was as if an alarm sounded in my head and I came to life. All of the cheering I did for the past two years finally began to make sense. I was stunned that I could almost hear my heart pounding over the sound of the crunching pads as the players tackled one other and their bodies crashed to the ground. The stomping of the fans in the bleachers vibrated my white, high top Nikes. As the marching band played, the crowd bellowed, ‘Charge’ and I was mesmerized.
Half time came and still, neither team scored. Dad gave me fifty-cents and sent me to the concession stand to buy a cup of hot chocolate. He thought that would take the chill off. It took at least fifteen minutes to get through the line. Hurrying through the crowd back to my seat, I spilled the scalding liquid on my hand. I grabbed the Styrofoam cup with my right hand and licked my left thumb quickly to stop the burn. Dad was still firmly holding our seats so we were sure not to lose them. I sat there quietly drinking my hot chocolate. Dad was talking with the other coach of my brothers little league football team, Mr. Bickle. His son also made the varsity team that year. I was not sure what they were talking about, and did not want to ask. Dad taught us not to interrupt adults when they were talking, unless ‘Someone was bleeding.’ Yet, I listened intently to get clues about what they thought about the game. I felt like Nancy Drew piecing together a mystery in one of my favorite, nail biting stories.
My cup was empty and only dark brown residue lined the bottom by the time the second half started. Warmed up from the hot chocolate, I could not wait to see which team would be the first to score. Standing on the tip of my frozen toes, I watched eagerly as our team caught the kick and ran instantly toward the rushing players from the opposing team at other end of the field. Within an instant, I heard the referee’s whistle and saw the yellow flag fly through the air. Everyone jumped to his feet and all I could see was the blue and red flannel jackets of the men in the stands in front of me. Immediately, I stepped on my seat to see what was going on. I was not sure why my father was yelling so hard that the vein on his forehead was bulging, but I knew it was not good for our team. The perception of my Dad and everyone sitting around us was that the referee made ‘Another bad call.’
Each team traded possession of the ball back and forth several times. Yet, the score remained zero to zero. I started wondering what would happen if no one scored and the time clock reached zero, as well. The blistering cold took its toll on me once again and I snuggly nestled back under my Dad’s arm. Southern had the ball and I heard Dad say to Mr. Bickle, ‘Three more yards to go.’
I appeared from under my father’s arm like a baby kangaroo peaking out of its mother’s pouch. I noticed both brothers’ numbers 32 and 61 were in position on the field. The quarterback handed off to Shawn and Billy helped clear the path down the middle. I watched with astonishment as Shawn leaped over the pile of falling players, like Superman in flight. I crossed my fingers hidden in my long sleeves and hoped he cleared the goal line. The referee raised his arms signaling a touchdown and I knew what that meant. The fans in the stands yelled and clapped with enthusiasm. The thrill overwhelmed me and I jumped to my feet screaming until my throat was sore from the frosty air. I wanted to shout from the top of the bleacher stands, ‘Those are my brothers out there!’
I rarely remember my father smiling during my childhood. He was usually all business and hard to read. The most prominent emotion seemed to be one of seriousness. Stress had beaten a path of deeply, pronounced lines between his eyebrows and worry had tightened his lips thinly against his teeth, as if his face had a cast of bronze sculpted over it. It seemed as though he believed that if he made any sudden changes in his expression, the bronze would fall revealing its purpose. He could not allow the powerful façade built of strength that he spent years perfecting to crumble and bury his children in its rubble. Behind the ironclad demeanor was, most certainly, agonizing uncertainty of our future and he could not show us of its depths. Looking back, I imagine, the responsibility of raising four children on his own weighed heavily on my father’s shoulders. I can count only a handful of times that I witnessed joy on his face while growing up. This was one of those times and I was happy I did not miss him grinning with delight.
The game was over and our team scored the only touchdown with seconds left on the board. Confetti filled the air and it looked like snow falling from the sky. It reminded me of the Dick Clark special shown on TV that New Year’s Eve from New York’s Times Square during the famous ball drop. Dad and I rushed down the bleachers and to the fence where Shawn was greeted by the fists of teammates on his pads, and yells of appreciation from the coaches. Billy and Shawn were holding each other’s face masks and banging their helmets together and I thought one of them would certainly fall from the impact. I stood there holding my Dad’s pointer finger. I looked up at my father, and then through the chain link fence. I gazed in amazement at my brothers as they bounced together, almost synchronized. Each made his way closer to my father and me standing at the fence. Dad looked at his sons with gratification in his eyes and dignity in his stance. He said, his voice almost trembling, ‘Good job, boys.’ I did not understand what that moment meant to my father at seven years old. However, today, as a mother, I know the feeling of triumph for my own children. When my children accomplish what they have worked eagerly and passionately toward, it is as if I have earned that accomplishment myself. I believe that my father felt admiration and honor for his sons’ accomplishments in that moment.
Special Teams took the field and I did not watch to see whether they scored the extra point. I walked with my Dad to the edge of the field where the players had already begun making their way toward the locker room as the clock ran out of time. The team was pumped from the win and it was as if tomorrow’s pain was furthest from their minds.
Dad and I climbed the hill to the locker room with the rest of the crowd, but next to the players. The wind carried the smell of the sweaty jerseys through the night air like falling leaves from a tree. When I close my eyes, I can still recall the smell they made in the frigid air and have never smelled anything quite like it since. We did not wait for the boys to finish with their showers, and I knew they would not be home until later that night. They had a reason to celebrate. Dad reminded them of their curfew before we got into our black ’79 Monte Carlo strategically parked next to the locker room. I was exhausted from the excitement and climbed into the couch like back seat. I curled my weary body into a fetal position and drifted off to sleep.
I am not sure how I made it to bed that night, but, the next day, I remember waking up to the sound of Hank Williams, Jr. blaring from the speakers in the living room. He whaled in his country twang, ‘I am very proud of my Daddy’s name. Although his kind of music and mine ain’t exactly the same.’ As I rose to my feet, the chorus broke ‘It’s a Family Tradition.’ All of the family trips listening to this song and within a second, I understood what Hank meant. Football was one of our family’s traditions. Just like Dad waking us up every Saturday morning to the serenading sounds of Hank, Willie or Waylon to begin our chores was another one of our traditions. Football is what we did together. Whether we coached it, cheered for it, or played it. Football was ours and we were great at it. I felt family pride for the first time.
For so long, I became accustomed to the pitiful stares and muffled whispers of the passing neighbors that were familiar with our story. They acted as if we were deaf and blind as they glared with cynicism and muttered to each other, ‘There are the Duncan kids. Their mom’s a drug addict and abandon them. Their Dad is a single parent. I feel so sorry for them.’ Finally, this was the end of the shame I felt for my mother leaving and the end of the disgrace I felt for being a ‘Duncan.’ It was the beginning of the overwhelming sense of pride I hold for my family’s namesake and that which continues to keep my head held high and my shoulders back, despite my many pitfalls and absolute shortcomings.
Our family was, in many ways, like a football team, especially during this time of our lives, when all we had was each other. Each of us fought and earned every inch we gained in our unlucky and dismal lives toward a common goal of survival of spirit. We bravely faced the piercing glares of others that knew our story each day we walked to school or drove to work. We tackled the prejudice head-on of those that said ‘A single man is not a fit parent,’ or those that insisted that ‘Those children need their mother.’ Each time the ignorance or cruelty of naysayers knocked us in the dirt; we stood up, dusted our selves off and got in position to play again. When we were hurt, we played with more intensity, just to spite them. They would not win in making us feel humiliated about our egotistical mother deserting us or embarrassed about our single father raising us. Our opponents would not succeed in killing our spirits. When we were knocked down, we helped each other back up. We cheered each other on during our best plays and we encouraged each other during our worst. I accepted that we were the underdogs in this game of life. However, during the game that night, we inched our way over the goal line for a touchdown and scored against our critics. I learned pride and respect for our family name, our values, our beliefs and our traditions that I had never known before that night. Most importantly, I felt victorious in our struggle as a family and felt hope that we would win together, as a team. The honor I felt was the credit of my big brothers, Shawn and Billy. With that winning play, they handed each of us our self-respect back and reminded us of what it meant to be a ‘Duncan.’
Written By: Mari Beth Duncan
At the age of seven, I attended my first high school football game. My father was my date, and my big brothers, Shawn and Billy, were the stars of the game. Football was an integral part of our family’s time together. My father played as a teenager, and coached both of my brothers in little league. My sister, Natalie, and I were on the sidelines in our skirts, with pom-poms in hand, cheerleading. Dad and Mom divorced when I was very young, and she was not around for most of our childhood. Dad stayed single after the divorce and worked diligently to provide a stable and comfortable life for his children. He worked third shift at a cigarette factory and had little time to spend with us individually, although he showed us his love by the blisters on his feet and the sweat on his brow after a long night at work. Football practice twice a week and games on Saturday mornings were the only time we were able to have fun together. That was family time well spent toward a common goal of winning. Fun was our secondary purpose; therefore, we always managed to win, regardless of the score on the board. My brothers’ first high school football game proved we were not in little league anymore. Both brothers managed to make the varsity team at Southern High School. It was 1984 and Southern had one of the best teams in its district. This was the first time I actually had time to watch and appreciate the game. Before, I was busy cheering and never completely understood the rules. I did not comprehend the grueling work it took for each player to earn every inch for the team to win the game.
It was October, and the night air was brisk, cooling my breath so that I could see it as I exhaled. The game was about to begin and I felt the butterflies in my stomach. I could only imagine how nervous my brothers were as they took the field. The hard, cold, metal bench felt like a block of ice under my button fly Levi’s and I was certain they would stick to it if I stood up. My ears were freezing and I felt the burning and tingling sensation taking over my lobes from the bitter wind. I nestled down in my oversized jacket, so the shoulders of it covered my ears. The jacket was Billy’s school jacket. It was navy blue, with a white football shaped patch that read, ‘Varsity#61’ in blue stitched letters. On the back in white block letters, was our last name ‘Duncan.’ As I snuggled close to my Dad to keep warm, a girl on the bench behind me, grabbed my sleeve, turning me in my seat and screamed, ‘Oh my God, are you Billy and Shawn’s sister?’ The player’s girlfriends usually wore the jackets while the players were on the field. It was obvious I was not a girlfriend with my small and underdeveloped body. I just smiled at her and shyly said, ‘Yeah,’ and turned back around. She acted as if she was a groupie of a rock star, telling her two friends that sat next to her, ‘That is Shawn and Billy’s sister!’ I felt embarrassed that she made such a scene and disappeared again, this time, further into my father’s arm.
From the stands, the track around the field was crowded with teenagers. Some of the guys wore feathered mullets and others sported the big hair band haircuts popular in the 80’s. Most of the girls wore high teased, boofed hairstyles hardened with Aqua Net hairspray. I remember the anticipation in the air on that chilly, Friday night. The cheerleaders were my guide to know when to clap. Dad explained to me exactly what the cheer and phrase, ‘First and Ten’ meant and then I understood why I cheered for our team to ‘Do it Again.’ It was as if an alarm sounded in my head and I came to life. All of the cheering I did for the past two years finally began to make sense. I was stunned that I could almost hear my heart pounding over the sound of the crunching pads as the players tackled one other and their bodies crashed to the ground. The stomping of the fans in the bleachers vibrated my white, high top Nikes. As the marching band played, the crowd bellowed, ‘Charge’ and I was mesmerized.
Half time came and still, neither team scored. Dad gave me fifty-cents and sent me to the concession stand to buy a cup of hot chocolate. He thought that would take the chill off. It took at least fifteen minutes to get through the line. Hurrying through the crowd back to my seat, I spilled the scalding liquid on my hand. I grabbed the Styrofoam cup with my right hand and licked my left thumb quickly to stop the burn. Dad was still firmly holding our seats so we were sure not to lose them. I sat there quietly drinking my hot chocolate. Dad was talking with the other coach of my brothers little league football team, Mr. Bickle. His son also made the varsity team that year. I was not sure what they were talking about, and did not want to ask. Dad taught us not to interrupt adults when they were talking, unless ‘Someone was bleeding.’ Yet, I listened intently to get clues about what they thought about the game. I felt like Nancy Drew piecing together a mystery in one of my favorite, nail biting stories.
My cup was empty and only dark brown residue lined the bottom by the time the second half started. Warmed up from the hot chocolate, I could not wait to see which team would be the first to score. Standing on the tip of my frozen toes, I watched eagerly as our team caught the kick and ran instantly toward the rushing players from the opposing team at other end of the field. Within an instant, I heard the referee’s whistle and saw the yellow flag fly through the air. Everyone jumped to his feet and all I could see was the blue and red flannel jackets of the men in the stands in front of me. Immediately, I stepped on my seat to see what was going on. I was not sure why my father was yelling so hard that the vein on his forehead was bulging, but I knew it was not good for our team. The perception of my Dad and everyone sitting around us was that the referee made ‘Another bad call.’
Each team traded possession of the ball back and forth several times. Yet, the score remained zero to zero. I started wondering what would happen if no one scored and the time clock reached zero, as well. The blistering cold took its toll on me once again and I snuggly nestled back under my Dad’s arm. Southern had the ball and I heard Dad say to Mr. Bickle, ‘Three more yards to go.’
I appeared from under my father’s arm like a baby kangaroo peaking out of its mother’s pouch. I noticed both brothers’ numbers 32 and 61 were in position on the field. The quarterback handed off to Shawn and Billy helped clear the path down the middle. I watched with astonishment as Shawn leaped over the pile of falling players, like Superman in flight. I crossed my fingers hidden in my long sleeves and hoped he cleared the goal line. The referee raised his arms signaling a touchdown and I knew what that meant. The fans in the stands yelled and clapped with enthusiasm. The thrill overwhelmed me and I jumped to my feet screaming until my throat was sore from the frosty air. I wanted to shout from the top of the bleacher stands, ‘Those are my brothers out there!’
I rarely remember my father smiling during my childhood. He was usually all business and hard to read. The most prominent emotion seemed to be one of seriousness. Stress had beaten a path of deeply, pronounced lines between his eyebrows and worry had tightened his lips thinly against his teeth, as if his face had a cast of bronze sculpted over it. It seemed as though he believed that if he made any sudden changes in his expression, the bronze would fall revealing its purpose. He could not allow the powerful façade built of strength that he spent years perfecting to crumble and bury his children in its rubble. Behind the ironclad demeanor was, most certainly, agonizing uncertainty of our future and he could not show us of its depths. Looking back, I imagine, the responsibility of raising four children on his own weighed heavily on my father’s shoulders. I can count only a handful of times that I witnessed joy on his face while growing up. This was one of those times and I was happy I did not miss him grinning with delight.
The game was over and our team scored the only touchdown with seconds left on the board. Confetti filled the air and it looked like snow falling from the sky. It reminded me of the Dick Clark special shown on TV that New Year’s Eve from New York’s Times Square during the famous ball drop. Dad and I rushed down the bleachers and to the fence where Shawn was greeted by the fists of teammates on his pads, and yells of appreciation from the coaches. Billy and Shawn were holding each other’s face masks and banging their helmets together and I thought one of them would certainly fall from the impact. I stood there holding my Dad’s pointer finger. I looked up at my father, and then through the chain link fence. I gazed in amazement at my brothers as they bounced together, almost synchronized. Each made his way closer to my father and me standing at the fence. Dad looked at his sons with gratification in his eyes and dignity in his stance. He said, his voice almost trembling, ‘Good job, boys.’ I did not understand what that moment meant to my father at seven years old. However, today, as a mother, I know the feeling of triumph for my own children. When my children accomplish what they have worked eagerly and passionately toward, it is as if I have earned that accomplishment myself. I believe that my father felt admiration and honor for his sons’ accomplishments in that moment.
Special Teams took the field and I did not watch to see whether they scored the extra point. I walked with my Dad to the edge of the field where the players had already begun making their way toward the locker room as the clock ran out of time. The team was pumped from the win and it was as if tomorrow’s pain was furthest from their minds.
Dad and I climbed the hill to the locker room with the rest of the crowd, but next to the players. The wind carried the smell of the sweaty jerseys through the night air like falling leaves from a tree. When I close my eyes, I can still recall the smell they made in the frigid air and have never smelled anything quite like it since. We did not wait for the boys to finish with their showers, and I knew they would not be home until later that night. They had a reason to celebrate. Dad reminded them of their curfew before we got into our black ’79 Monte Carlo strategically parked next to the locker room. I was exhausted from the excitement and climbed into the couch like back seat. I curled my weary body into a fetal position and drifted off to sleep.
I am not sure how I made it to bed that night, but, the next day, I remember waking up to the sound of Hank Williams, Jr. blaring from the speakers in the living room. He whaled in his country twang, ‘I am very proud of my Daddy’s name. Although his kind of music and mine ain’t exactly the same.’ As I rose to my feet, the chorus broke ‘It’s a Family Tradition.’ All of the family trips listening to this song and within a second, I understood what Hank meant. Football was one of our family’s traditions. Just like Dad waking us up every Saturday morning to the serenading sounds of Hank, Willie or Waylon to begin our chores was another one of our traditions. Football is what we did together. Whether we coached it, cheered for it, or played it. Football was ours and we were great at it. I felt family pride for the first time.
For so long, I became accustomed to the pitiful stares and muffled whispers of the passing neighbors that were familiar with our story. They acted as if we were deaf and blind as they glared with cynicism and muttered to each other, ‘There are the Duncan kids. Their mom’s a drug addict and abandon them. Their Dad is a single parent. I feel so sorry for them.’ Finally, this was the end of the shame I felt for my mother leaving and the end of the disgrace I felt for being a ‘Duncan.’ It was the beginning of the overwhelming sense of pride I hold for my family’s namesake and that which continues to keep my head held high and my shoulders back, despite my many pitfalls and absolute shortcomings.
Our family was, in many ways, like a football team, especially during this time of our lives, when all we had was each other. Each of us fought and earned every inch we gained in our unlucky and dismal lives toward a common goal of survival of spirit. We bravely faced the piercing glares of others that knew our story each day we walked to school or drove to work. We tackled the prejudice head-on of those that said ‘A single man is not a fit parent,’ or those that insisted that ‘Those children need their mother.’ Each time the ignorance or cruelty of naysayers knocked us in the dirt; we stood up, dusted our selves off and got in position to play again. When we were hurt, we played with more intensity, just to spite them. They would not win in making us feel humiliated about our egotistical mother deserting us or embarrassed about our single father raising us. Our opponents would not succeed in killing our spirits. When we were knocked down, we helped each other back up. We cheered each other on during our best plays and we encouraged each other during our worst. I accepted that we were the underdogs in this game of life. However, during the game that night, we inched our way over the goal line for a touchdown and scored against our critics. I learned pride and respect for our family name, our values, our beliefs and our traditions that I had never known before that night. Most importantly, I felt victorious in our struggle as a family and felt hope that we would win together, as a team. The honor I felt was the credit of my big brothers, Shawn and Billy. With that winning play, they handed each of us our self-respect back and reminded us of what it meant to be a ‘Duncan.’
0