When I look back on the athletic experiences of my youth, I’m reminded of a conversation with a former co-worker. Barry was a fan of 1950's B-movies; those much maligned, low-budget, schlocky films like Plan 9 From Outer Space and The Amazing Colossal Man. When I asked him why, he said, “I find it fascinating that someone could set out to create something so good, and have it turn out so bad.”
He could have been describing my athletic career.
I grew up in Stoneham, Massachusetts, a small suburb about ten miles north of Boston. We were a male-dominated household - 4 males, 2 females - and we loved our sports.
Like most boys who grew up in New England during the late 1960's and early 70's, I dreamed of playing for the Boston Bruins. My dad was a season ticket holder and I watched every game on WSBK TV38. We were the Bobby Orr generation.
During those winters, when nighttime temperatures fell consistently below freezing, my dad and older brother, Jimmy, would break out the shovels and carve a neat rectangular impression out of the snow in our backyard. They’d fix sheets of plywood along the edges to prevent hockey pucks from disappearing into drifts on the perimeter. At night, my father would unravel the hose to flood the surface, and the next morning we’d wake up to ice so shiny and smooth you’d swear the Boston Garden Zamboni had done a spin around our cozy little outdoor skating rink.
I first laced on a pair of skates in the winter of ‘69. I was 4 years-old. The older kids in the neighborhood ranged in age from 8 to12. On weekends and after school, they’d come to our house and play hockey until dark. I was too young and too small to join in, so I’d get on the ice between games pushing a chair in front of me as I got used to being two inches taller on 1/4-inch metal blades.
Jimmy was nine years-old and one of the best hockey players in the neighborhood. In fact, he was one of the most talented performers for his age group in the entire town. Stoneham was home to a thriving youth hockey program, and year after year my dad coached Jimmy’s teams to the top of the standings. I remember being held spellbound at the way my older brother maneuvered on a pair of skates; accelerating and slicing, tracking the ice like a motorized slot car, stopping instantly in a spray of frosty crystals. What amazed me most was he did it all while controlling a puck with a hockey stick just like the pros on television. To me, it was more impressive than going to the moon.
The next winter, I decided it was time to trade in the chair for a hockey stick. I wanted to free myself of restraints and move toward the day when I would join the others in their action packed end-to-end games. Unfortunately for me, my flat feet had other plans.
Like many children, I was born with flattened arches in my feet. The problem was, unlike most of those children, my arches did not develop as I got older. The soles of my feet remained flush with the earth. My parents followed doctor’s orders buying expensive Stride Rite shoes with custom heel and arch supports designed to form a strong high arch, but they were ponderous and awkward looking. “At least you’ll never have to join the Army,” my mom would say with a sign-of-the-times protectiveness that I couldn’t quite comprehend.
Without the chair to support me, my knees and ankles sagged inward tilting with the pitch of my fallen arches. It was like removing your training wheels and discovering someone had let the air out of your tires. I had difficulty negotiating turns, and had to work extra hard at drawing and releasing friction to propel myself forward. It was a struggle, but my spirit wasn’t broken.
And so I trudged along winter after winter, leaning out over my skates, swinging my arms to build the momentum my misaligned legs and feet could not muster. I carried a hockey stick, but used it more like the third leg of a tripod than an instrument of puck manipulation. I also wore a helmet with a chin guard, but it wasn’t enough to protect me from my clumsiness.
The winter of ‘73 was a mild one, and the backyard rink was in a sorry state of disrepair. There were three huge pine trees in our yard, and several of the branches extended out over the skating surface. When temperatures rose during the day, clumps of slushy pine needles would drop from the limbs creating knots and pockmarks that froze overnight, resulting in hazardous topography.
One day, while hacking about the ice field as Jimmy and neighbor, Scotty Eagleston, wove circles around me, I lost an edge and found myself lying face-down on the chilly canvas. At first, I had no idea what had happened. I watched bewildered as bright red droplets formed a puddle on the ice in front of me. Then a sharp pain broke the spell and tears began to flow as I realized the blood on the ice was coming from my chin.
Jimmy and Scotty hooked their arms under mine and hoisted me up like a human forklift, transporting me swiftly into the house.
At the emergency room, the shock of seeing all that blood had dissipated and the pain in my jaw had tapered to a steady ache. The doctor closed the wound with five stitches and wondered aloud about how I split my chin open while wearing a chin guard.
“Is this the coat you were wearing?” he asked referring to my blue snorkel coat.
“Yes,” I said.
“You didn’t have the hood up,” he said conclusively.
“No, it wouldn’t fit over my helmet.”
He nodded patiently. “It was your zipper,” he said.
Turns out my zipper had slipped under my chin guard as my head hit the ice driving the zipper into my chin. It was a stirring revelation, but one I didn’t dwell on because the doctor’s last bit of instruction caused me to question his expertise. He told my mother, “Make sure and apply ice to his chin when you get home.”
Of course, it is perfectly logical to use ice to reduce swelling, and being a nurse, my mother would have known this, but at the time, it didn’t make sense to me. Wasn’t the combination of ice and chin what brought me there in the first place? I wondered would he tell me to adopt a puppy if I were being treated for a dog bite.
Over the next few years, hockey fever lost its grip on our house. The unthinkable happened when Bobby Orr left Boston to play for the Chicago Black Hawks, and soon after, my dad gave up his season tickets. My father also grew weary of small town youth hockey politics and retired from coaching. An untimely broken arm forced Jimmy to miss 7th-grade tryouts and his endurance was hindered by persistent asthma. He never played competitively again.
I continued to skate whenever the opportunity presented itself, but never grew proficient. Skate manufacturers continued to improve upon features designed to add support and comfort, but my flat feet were a constant impediment. Eight years after receiving my first stitches, I was skating on a pond in Reading with my younger brother John, when I again lost an edge and found myself prone on the ice blood dripping from my chin. Seven more stitches and another scar to remind me I’d never be drafted by the Army, or The National Hockey League.
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In 1974, I began following other professional sports teams besides the Bruins. I rooted for the Patriots and Dallas Cowboys in football, the Celtics were on the brink of capturing their 12th NBA championship, and I started collecting baseball cards, which led to a thirty-year affliction as a Red Sox fan that was finally rewarded with a World Series title in 2004.
Even when the other teams outperformed them, the Red Sox were always the story in Boston. Not the hyped-up, pink-hat, talk-radio story of the last ten years, but the reflection-of-a-region, live-and-die-daily from-spring-training-to-fall story that took flight during the 1967 Impossible Dream season. Growing up in New England you couldn’t help but be affected by baseball and the Red Sox.
Most of my 4th-grade friends spoke of playing Little League baseball as if it were a predetermined ritualistic rite of passage. I told my parents I wanted to play, too, so Dad drove me to Muolo’s Sporting Goods and bought me my first baseball glove. We took it home, oiled the pocket, placed a ball inside and wrapped it tight with string. A couple days later I unraveled it and slipped it on my left hand. It felt soft and cumbersome, like my hand was swollen and webbed. Jimmy and I played catch in the backyard and I quickly figured out how to position the glove to give myself the best chance at catching the ball. There was a feeling of possibility that I hadn’t experienced wearing a pair of skates.
My team was The Senators. Our coaches were Vinny and Steve, a couple of high-schoolers doing their part to benefit the youth of America. Practices were fun. I could throw the ball over the plate from pitcher’s mound, I could catch most of the balls that were hit to me, and I could hit the balls that were pitched to me.
Batting practice was the best; you did your time in the field just waiting to get your hands on a bat so you can blast a few balls over the outfielder’s heads. During our first practices, I did hit a few balls to the deepest outfielders. I could tell by the sound of bat on ball and the small jolt of electricity running from my wrists to my chest that I had nailed it. I couldn’t imagine a more powerful feeling for a nine year-old, until the day I couldn’t hit.
It was our last practice before starting the season. I stood at the plate wearing a standard, double ear-flapped batting helmet that makes every child’s head look too big for his neck. Steve lobbed pitches toward the plate. I kept swinging, and I kept missing. Swinging and missing. Over and over. With every pitch, the ball and bat got smaller and smaller. My teammates were getting impatient waiting for a chance to bat and the kids in the field were getting bored. I felt responsible for sucking all the energy out of practice. The coaches offered no advice or words of encouragement. I didn’t think I could feel so alone in such a large group.
After a while, I stopped swinging. I stood there frozen waiting for my turn to be over. Finally, the coaches sent another boy in to hit. The season hadn’t even begun, but for me, it might as well have ended right there.
When the season started, I found myself on the bench. During the late innings, in an effort to get everybody in the game, the coaches would stick me in right field, or send me in to pinch-hit. I’d walk to the on-deck area carrying the memories of that humiliating day at practice and a bat I never intended to swing. Every at-bat was an act of complete capitulation. I guess on some level, I figured I could avoid failure by not swinging. By leaving it up to the pitcher to either walk me or strike me out, it would be his success or failure. I would not interfere.
In the final game, with the score well in our favor, I stood on deck awaiting my last chance at embarrassment when Jimmy appeared at the fence behind me.
“Dad wants to see you swing when you get up,” he said before walking back to where he and my father were standing.
The last game of the season; a good season for the team. We were 9-2 and tied for the league title. I made absolutely no positive contribution that I can remember. I didn’t really hurt the team either. My lack of impact was the most consistent thing going, and now dad wanted me to break my unblemished record of withdrawal. I stepped to the plate, my fear of failure at odds with my reluctance to betray my father.
1st pitch: over my head - whoosh - swing and a miss.
2nd pitch: two feet outside - whoosh.
3rd pitch: in the dirt - whoosh.
On the ride home, no one said a word about my performance. Perhaps it was as difficult to watch as it was to go through. The further the car got from the field, the better I felt. The season was over.
I don’t recall scoring any runs, and I don’t remember making any plays in the field. No runs, no hits, no put-outs. I guess if I were to look for a positive in the experience, I can say that, at the very least, in the end, I went down swinging.
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The first thing you noticed about the Fiorillo family when they moved to our neighborhood from East Boston in the mid-70's was that they were tall. Mr and Mrs were both over 6 feet, and their three children, two girls and one boy, were well ahead of the growth curve in their age groups. The second thing you noticed was the basketball net mounted to their garage. Before the Fiorillos arrived, we were strictly a three-sport block, constantly engaged in pick-up games of baseball, football, and street hockey. Michael Fiorillo was a year older and half a foot taller then me. Though far from graceful, he seemed comfortable in his elongated frame as he introduced a new sound to our neighborhood; the leathery downbeat of a bouncing basketball.
Quick with a joke, Michael had an infectious sense of humor and we struck up a friendship. During the warm months, he always had a basketball handy, so I started playing, too. Unable to convert the older kids, we mostly played half-court games of two-on-two and three-on-three depending on who else was around. It quickly became apparent that Michael was playing a different game than I was. Underneath his sense of fun was a fierce competitiveness and will to win.
In eighth grade, I had begun messing around with Jimmy’s barbells in our basement. I was pleased with the way my muscles changed shape causing my skin to tighten and the veins to stick out of my forearms while I worked-out. At the beginning of freshman year, I joined a Nautilus club in Woburn. It was a good way to spend time after school and I was getting strong.
Another thing I noticed was that I could jump higher than just about anyone in my class. At five-foot eight, I could touch the backboard from a standing position.
Much like the Bobby Orr phenomenon years earlier, Larry Bird came to Boston in the fall of 1979 and began building his own legend. Bird was the catalyst in the restoration of Celtic greatness after a short period of ruinous failure. Even with thirteen NBA titles to their credit, the Celtics were never The Team in Boston, but suddenly they were challenging the Red Sox for sports fan’s attention. Everyone was playing hoops, and trying to be like Larry.
That fall, Michael was a sophomore starting on the varsity squad. I knew I was not nearly as talented as my best friend, but I had developed some athleticism in junior high, and decided to try out for the freshman team.
Due to limited practice space at the junior high, our workouts were held at the middle school. After classes, we’d walk, as a team, the mile that separated the two schools. We’d start out as a tight group of twelve, then gradually break apart into smaller packs of three or four. One of the packs liked to get stoned before practice. They’d duck behind a row of hedges long enough for each to get a satisfactory buzz before catching up with the rest of us.
I made the team, but quickly learned that five-on-five, full-court basketball was a lot different than two-on-two or three-on-three. The more players on the court, the more confusing things became for me. Basketball announcers on TV would marvel at how the game seemed to “slow down” for Larry Bird, as if he could see what was to happen before his opponents and teammates. When I was on the court, the only one who slowed down was me. I was always a step behind and grew nervous with the ball in my hands. My athletic ability was not enough to make up for my complete lack of feel for the game. Things appeared out of control. I was lost.
Perhaps if I had gotten stoned before practice things would worked out differently, because two of the boys that took part in that daily ritual earned starting positions while I ended up on the bench. I had to come to terms with the fact that at least five of my teammates were better players than I was, and two of them were doing drugs before practice.
Coach Mike Lahiff was new to Stoneham and constantly lamented the fact that he had landed a basketball job in a “hockey town”. He came from a great basketball family and was a star at Springfield College. I have this image of him standing on the sidelines, whistle dangling from his neck as the overhead lights reflect off his glasses. His mouth is slightly ajar and he shakes his head as we make a mockery of the play he’d just drawn up on his clipboard.
On defense, we gave up baskets in bunches. During intermission of one early season contest, Coach Lahiff decided our inability to stop our opponents from scoring was worthy of a nickname.
“I’m gonna call this the ‘49-defense’,” he said, “because you guys always give up at least 49 points before halftime.” He drew a huge 49 on the chalkboard and circled it for emphasis.
I remember Coach Lahiff telling us not to be afraid to play “aggressive basketball”. I was too embarrassed to tell him that I had no idea what the word aggressive meant. He said it so much that, after awhile, I began thinking he was suggesting we try another sport, as if aggressive basketball was a different game entirely, like touch-football or miniature-golf.
My first real assignment came a few games into the season. We were playing Wakefield, and getting annihilated as usual. Down about thirty points with two minutes to go Coach Lahiff called me to his side.
“When you get in there,” he said, “I want you to foul number 21 immediately.”
Number 21 was a tall wiry kid with curly hair and glasses. Like me, he looked like he was only interested in doing his few minutes and getting back on the team bus. I had never heard of intentionally fouling someone; I thought it was something to be avoided. But I figured coach had his reasons. Number 21 had to be fouled.
We took our positions and I guarded him tightly, shielding him from the inbounds pass, which made no sense since we were the team on offense. It didn’t matter though, the minute the ball was put in play, I hacked him on the arm. No whistle. My next attempt was a karate chop to his shoulder blade. Nothing. I had to hit him in the back because he was running away from me. Coach made it sound so easy, Foul that kid. With under a minute to play, it was now a race against time.
I spent the waning seconds of the game chasing Number 21 around the court. I had no clue where the ball was. I hit him so many times, I actually broke a sweat.
When the final buzzer sounded, number 21 looked relieved. I was dejected. If the fouls I committed had been called, I would have fouled-out in thirty seconds. Instead, I fouled that kid enough times to disqualify our entire team.
During the ceremonial post-game hand shake, Number 21 stepped out of line before our paths could cross. He didn’t look mad; scared, maybe. And who could blame him? I nearly knocked him unconscious by stalking and beating him for the final, meaningless minutes of a game that had long since been decided.
Another fond memory of that season was my one and only field goal attempt. We were at home, down by double digits, time winding down. I was doing my best to make it look like I knew what I was doing, following the ball, but not so eagerly that it would seem I wanted to possess it.
I was positioned by the right baseline when I realized the ball was in my hands. My brain went into spasms. Something was expected of me here. I was facing away from the basket, when I heard a voice from the crowd holler, “SHOOT!”
So I did.
All past instruction eluded me. Without bothering to set my feet or square my shoulders, I jumped up, spun around, and gunned the ball in the direction of the basket. It struck the rubber padding along the side of the backboard sending it directly out of bounds. Turnover.
The season was a fiasco. We lost all twelve games. While Michael was on the verge of becoming one of the state’s most prolific scorers, I compiled one turnover in about seventeen minutes of playing time. He was still playing a different game than I was. I decided to take a year off from sports.
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During the summer between my sophomore and junior years, I decided that I would try out for football. This would be my last chance at making my mark in team athletics at Stoneham High.
Stoneham was not known for a strong football program. I made the varsity team. Everyone who tried out made the varsity team. We were coming off an 0-8-1 season. We duplicated that record for a two-year, 18-game winless streak. I did absolutely nothing to influence the eight losses, or the one tie. I was completely clueless. I had no idea how to play football.
While I was a non-factor on the varsity team, I did make a few negative contributions to the junior varsity squad. In one game, I got on the score sheet by committing a fifteen-yard face-mask penalty during a kick return. But the moment I remember most came on the last play of the last game of the season.
We were playing Melrose and they were up four touchdowns and an assortment of one and two point conversions. Our coach was a short, intense, soft-spoken man named Dick Burnham. At halftime, he marched us down to the far end-zone, which stood in the shadows of an enormous sheer rock wall. We gathered round as Coach Burnham delivered a profanity-laced tirade that ricocheted off the rocks and projected far beyond the vast school grounds. When he was finished, we turned around to see the entire crowd, all twenty five of them, leaning over the railing of the bleachers, mouths hanging in astonishment. Coach Burnham was also Mr Burnham, the eighth grade math teacher.
I can’t say for certain that Coach Burnham’s verbal flare-up was the reason, but we proceeded to destroy Melrose in the second half. We scored three touchdowns and converted for two points after each of them. Then we had the ball and a chance to win.
During jayvee games, the official time was kept by the referees on the field. On top of that, it was daylight savings time and we were running out of daylight. One of the officials informed Coach Burnham that we had time for one more play.
We were at the Melrose thirty yard line in need of a touchdown. I came in with the play and relayed it to our quarterback, Tom Aufrey. On the way to the line of scrimmage, he grabbed me by my jersey.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” He asked.
“No,” I said.
He told me to run as fast as I could to the end zone and look for the ball. I did, and when I looked up, I saw nothing. Then I could make out a shape spiraling toward me. It appeared just above the far horizon, backlit by the fading autumn sky. It was getting bigger, fast. Too late. The ball was right in front of me, and before I could get my hands up, it bounced off my helmet and shoulder pads.
As for the season, we won three games and lost four. Not really a successful season, but there was hope going into senior year that we would be the class to end the two-year winless streak. And for the first time, I would be back for a second season in the same sport.
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Senior year in football started with high expectations. David Woods was our captain, and a close friend. He asked me to help him conduct captain’s practices - voluntary workouts held in the summer before official workouts began.
I ran the drills involving skilled position players, while David lead the linemen and linebackers. As the most inexperienced player on the field, I was uncomfortable shouting orders at teammates who had been playing football since the age of ten. I hadn’t earned it, and asked to be relieved after the first day.
We also held voluntary weight training sessions at the high school gym. I was one of the strongest kids on the team, bench pressing over 250 lbs, and squatting over 300 lbs. If strength alone determined success on the gridiron, I would have been named a starter right there.
At the end of the first week of official two-a-day practices, we traveled to Newburyport for our first scrimmage. Newburyport was a lower division team, and we usually handled them without a problem. This year would be no different. I was in the first rotation of offensive players and caught a long touchdown pass on our second series. I also intercepted a pass toward the end of the game. It would prove to be the highpoint of my football career.
On the bus ride back to Stoneham, 1st-year Coach Tom Kasprzak addressed the team.
“That’s the weakest competition you’ll face all year,” he said. “Beating them is nothing to be proud of.”
I was seated toward the front of the bus. After sitting down, Coach Kasprzak turned to face me.
“Nice catch, Jeff,” he said.
He sounded sincere, so I smiled and thanked him, but coming on the heels of his opponent-bashing speech, it felt more like patronage than praise.
Our final scrimmage was at home against a very talented, very athletic Lynn Classical team. They wore dark uniforms with gold helmets and emerged from their bus with an inner-city chip sitting way up on their shoulder pads.
I was at a crossroads. No longer at the top of the depth chart on offense or defense, I had been on a steady decline since my performance at Newburyport. Just like on the basketball court, I had no feel for the nuances of football. Speed and strength are tremendous assets as long as you know how to play the game. Contact is a given, but I never understood the value of contact away from the ball and figured the easiest way to fend off a block was to avoid the blocker. I didn’t grasp that to absorb a block was to free up a teammate to make a play. So I attempted to run around blockers, and, in essence, run myself out of the play. My methods were unproductive. I had to try and get by on raw ability and make my mark here or start my senior season on the bench.
Toward the middle of the second half, I got my chance.
Classical had the ball deep in our territory. I was playing cornerback and found myself isolated on the far side of the field against one of their best athletes. He was tall and lanky and wore number 2 on his mud-stained uniform. Their quarterback must have been salivating when he saw his best receiver lined up against a uniform as clean as mine. Upon receiving the ball from center, he took one step back and fired it down the line of scrimmage to Number 2. I took one step forward. Number 2 offered me his front leg. I lunged low and came up with two arms of air as he spun deftly toward the sideline and galloped into the end zone.
When the season began, I was part of the “look” team. We were to real football players what stunt doubles, or understudies were to real actors. At practice, we were given the task of “looking” like the team we would be playing so the starters could see what they would be up against in the real games. There were hundreds of things I might have done with my time that fall, but I chose to get dressed up like a football player, and pretend I was a kid from another town.
Midway through the season, we were 0-5, and I was positioned in my customary role of not starting on a bad team. To make matters worse, toward the end of each game, Coach Kasprzak would clear the bench and send in the seniors who hadn’t played yet. Thus, announcing to the crowd, Here are the guys who weren’t good enough to contribute to this loss. I had this ludicrous notion that entering the game at that point was somehow beneath me and I was beginning to view the whole football thing as a mistake.
The Monday after our fifth loss, Coach Kasprzak decided to shake up the roster. He figured the team would be better served if some of the more talented players switched positions so that the best eleven athletes were on the field at all times. I was not among the promoted players, and didn’t deserve to be, but that didn’t stop me from protesting by skipping the next day’s practice.
I could’ve quit, but I had too many friends on the team and could not face them as a quitter. What I was hoping for was a suicide-by-cop scenario; I was daring Coach Kasprzak to throw me off the team. That way I could end my embarrassment of a season and save face among my peers as a rebellious anti-hero. Coach Kasprzak, however, wasn’t about to pull the trigger for me, and allow me to escape into martyrdom.
Instead of simply punishing me for disobedience, Coach inadvertently punished the entire team by letting me prove myself on special teams.
Even before my inclusion, the 1982 Stoneham Spartan special team units may have been the worst in high school football history. My addition to the squad pretty much solidified that distinction. We gave up five kick returns for touchdowns, three of which came after my arrival. Our opponents enjoyed the most favorable starting field position imaginable, thanks to a multitude of blown assignments and missed tackles. I remember the coaches saying, stay in your lanes in coverage, so I stayed in my lane regardless of where the play was run.
Our kick returner’s name was Gary Schepis. He was the only player on special teams that also saw action on offense and defense and was the victim of some of the most vicious gang tackles ever inflicted upon a football player at any level. He should have received an award for valor for standing back there, eyes to the sky, waiting for the ball to come down, so he could be crushed by a host of unimpeded tacklers. During our last few games, instead of calling for a left or right return in the huddle, he’d plead with us, “Come on guys, block somebody.”
My father owned an 8mm movie camera and decided to record highlights of our final two games. I remember thinking: My dad, what a patient man; like one of those wildlife photographers who braves the elements wasting miles of film in hopes of capturing that rarest of shots - in this case, his son making a play on the football field.
For his efforts, my father ended up with two reels of footage, including two, tightly-shot, 7-second clips of me running down field in my lane, far away from the point of attack. But if it weren’t for his film supply running out, at the end of our final game, he would have gotten what he was looking for.
Going into the Thanksgiving game against traditional rival Reading, I could honestly say that I hadn’t influenced any of the previous eight games. We were 0-8, and I hadn’t made the stat sheet once. Not one catch. Not one carry. Not one tackle. Not even a turnover or a penalty. It had to be some sort of record. How could a senior football player stay hidden for eight games?
In the final minutes, during one of Reading’s many punt returns, I made my only tackle as a varsity football player. The kid carrying the ball ran straight into my lane and I was there to make the play. My satisfaction over having finally contributed to the team was short lived because while running off the field I heard over the public address system: “Spartan tackle made by number 20...Jeff....Blount.”
The hesitation made it sound somewhat like a question, as if the man were announcing the name of a candidate not on the ballot. And the fact that he added an ‘n’ to my last name seemed a fitting end to my football career; the only play I made would be forever attributed to some kid who didn’t exist.
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The last high school sport I tried was spring track. I figured, what the heck, I was a senior, and I could jump higher than anyone in the class. Why not give the high jump a shot? Unlike in team sports, there would be no ball to pass or swing at, and no one to block or tackle. My objective would be clear; jump over the bar.
On the first day of practice, I cleared five and a half feet. My form was horrendous, but the coach, Mr Fillback, told me not to worry. “There’ll be plenty of time to work on your routine,” he said.
On the second day, Coach Fillback demonstrated proper jumping and landing techniques to me and few other would-be high-jumpers. After several minutes of close instruction, he moved away to observe as we took turns attempting various heights. My first few jumps were smooth; good angle of approach, strong take-off, soft flop onto the mat. Then something went wrong.
I sailed over the bar the same as my previous jumps, but instead of going into a tuck after clearing my legs, I kept my head back and my back arched. I basically went straight up, and came straight down. The crown of my head landed on the metal base of the support beam, the full weight of my body came down on top of it.
The next thing I remembered was standing in a state of semi-consciousness with Coach Fillback’s hands on my shoulders. He was searching my eyes, a look of alarm on his face.
“What a tough kid,” he said, “Are you okay?”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I could feel the beginnings of a ferocious headache. He lead me to the trainer’s room where I laid down on a table to wait for an ambulance. The Gerry Cheevers poster on the wall appeared to shift position when I blinked and there was a faint ringing in my ears.
When the EMTs arrived, they directed questions at me, but it was hard to focus, so they stabilized my neck, strapped me to a stretcher, and took me to the hospital.
All x-rays and neurological tests were negative. I had suffered a concussion and was advised to stay awake, which was hard because all I wanted to do was sleep. After a few hours, my head cleared, and the next day, I was able to return to school.
A couple days later, I returned to practice, made one jump, and walked out. I had to prove that I wasn’t quitting out of fear. I’d had it with practices, expectations and falling on my head. The next time I saw Coach Fillback was in the hallway at school.
“What are your plans?” he asked.
I looked at him and frowned. I felt bad that he had to track me down. I was hoping that I wouldn’t be held accountable for dropping out. “I’m not coming back,” I said.
It was then Coach Fillback who frowned as we passed each other by on our way to class.
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“I’m not coming back.” A closing line worthy of b-movie immortality signaled the end of my participation in organized sports.
I don’t blame anyone for my ineptitude. My parents? I appreciate them for taking a passive approach, neither pushing nor discouraging me in my sporting pursuits. My coaches? Both Coach Lahiff and Coach Kasprzak moved on to other schools and won multiple championships in their respective sports, and not long after I graduated, Coach Fillback helped turn the Stoneham track program into one of the state’s finest. No, there’s no one to blame. I spent hundreds of hours being horrible in athletics. In the words of Bill Belichick, It is what it is.
My athletic career: Something I thought would be so good, that turned out so bad. It’s kind of fascinating.
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