Newell Panthers Football

We strode onto the field for the last time. We wore $300 worth of football padding and uniforms. For four years, I had heard the coaches tell the seniors that they should play their last game—even their entire final season—like it was their last. Made sense because for 99% of us, it was our last football game. My team of the Newell-Providence Panthers would take on the Wall Lake Comets.


It was cold, but nothing unusual. After the game started, nothing about the cold was remembered; not since I was standing on the sideline as a freshman had I felt the cold. The field was laid out like a freshly made bed, waiting to host our violent collision. Every blade of grass was 2 inches long—the exact length for sufficient ground cover that would not hinder the movement of cleats across the ground. I had the impression that it was only 50 yards long. I wanted to race from one goal line to the other—everything about me felt that I could perform well. I was impressed that they had done it up so perfectly to host OUR team. We were nothing special.

There were 20 people in my class and we had a tiny football team, but it was perfect for me. Even though I was a 140-pound weakling I could, like most of the team, play both ways—offense AND defense. I was on the kick-off team, the kick-off return team, the punt team, and the punt return team. We’d step onto the field, play an hour of football, come in at half time; and then go back out for another hour.

To be out there in front of everyone was the thrill. I was part of the main attraction. On Friday night, football was king. I wasn’t the kind of player that put my entire mind into the game—I was performing, showing off. This game, I don’t even remember who won; but I do remember THE HIT.

We were in the final quarter. My friend, Rod Bodholdt, was our quarterback. He threw the ball to someone, but a Wall Lake player intercepted. “Well, that sucks.” I quickly turned from an offensive lineman into a defensive linebacker. We needed to stop this kid before he ran the ball into the end zone.

I’d made a few tackles in my career, and probably one or two solo tackles. This wasn’t due to my great skill or unmatched physical prowess—I had been in the right place at the right time.
Coaches often say that you need to visualize the hit and then follow through. Jack Tatum, in his autobiography, They Call Me Assassin, said you should choose a point beyond the ball carrier and drive your body to that point. I’ve had the presence of mind to do that a couple times, but it never worked out. Either I slipped a bit, or someone blocked me or the runner moved in some unexpected way, like runners do. This time, however, everything clicked. I was coming in at a 60 degree angle, not head on so the guy wasn’t looking at me, but close enough to head on that I could get a good smack on him. Things started to slow down, I guess. I got closer to him; he got closer to me. I braced for the hit—this was usually when something when wrong and I didn’t make a clean hit or missed completely. This time, all pistons were firing.

WHAM!! A flash of white in the middle of my head. I guess I was unconscious for a split second, because it sounds pretty cool to say that I was unconscious. Anyway, the next thing I remember, 2 seconds later, I’m laying face down on the ground. Sweet grass is poking up through my facemask. Before I get a chance to think about pain, or the tackle, or cheerleaders, I look up foggily, and there’s the ball. It’s one of those really fresh, tightly wound balls that feel like they are meant to be in your hand. It’s a Game Ball. THE game ball. For OUR game. Duh. I made a move like a seal on the ice trying to catch a penguin; I humped up and surrounded the ball. I had made the tackle, caused a fumble, and recovered the fumble. I was a hero! Unfortunately, I was right in front of the Wall Lake sideline, so not many of our fans understood what happened. I did everything right, but didn’t get the glory. The move wasn’t even seen very well on the video tape of the game. I wonder if anybody even bothered since it was our last game.

As much as a year passed before I realized what I should have done. Yes, a year later, this memory was quite fresh. I should have picked up the ball and ran for the end zone. Exhilaration, Freedom. Hopefully, the other team would have been too worried about telling the ref that I was breaking the rules to try to tackle me. At that time, if not still, it was illegal to advance a fumble. It would have been the only time I had scored—in more ways than one—only the second time I touched the ball. The officials probably would have blown their whistle until they were sick, and they may have given me a delay of game penalty, or an unsportsmanlike conduct penalty. So what? I didn’t care. They could have thrown me out of the game. What did it matter? Our last game of the season, last of my career. I was invincible.