By John Scanlan
WHACK!
Just like that, our new head football coach hit me in the facemask with his clipboard.
It was during August two-a-days in the summer of 1974. In an attempt to motivate the scout team defense to perform better against his number one offense, he had delivered the clipboard’s downward blow to the crown of my helmet.
The thing of it is . . . I thought nothing of it. I was more surprised than anything else. I just thought that was part of playing high school football. That was it.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t complain to my teammates. I didn’t tell Mom and Dad. In fact, I didn’t tell anybody.
I didn’t even object to his assault upon me. Coming from a family where discipline reigned supreme, I guess that’s what happens when you grow up in the era of Woody Hayes and Vince Lombardi.
Now it’s 2016, and I never thought I’d become one of those old farts, constantly proclaiming “Well, when I was your age . . .” But recently I got to thinking “What if that was to happen today?” The kid would start crying, storm off the field, quit the team, and text his parents. In a matter of hours, that head coach would be fired with a possible law suit to follow.
Hmmmm . . . maybe I am one of those old farts.
* * * sigh * * *
Secondly, this was the same head coach who just weeks before had instituted the policy of “running for your pads”. Before two-a-days, the new head coach ran a week of conditioning drills; after which, we had to run one mile under a certain time in order to get our pads. Granted, the linemen had slower times than the backs and ends, but the requirement was still there. If you didn’t make your time, then you didn’t get your pads and you didn’t play football. That was it.
Upon looking back, I didn’t object to that policy. A young, pubescent male needs to learn the valuable lesson in life of working to achieve one’s goals.
To this day, I remember we had an offensive tackle that was—shall I say—portly. He was dead last among the linemen, struggling to run those four simple laps around the track. The head coach lorded over the finishing line at the fifty, stopwatch in hand and yelling the count down. Meanwhile, the entire rest of the team had lined both sides of the track to cheer him on to the finish.
“GO, SETH, GO!”
“C’MON, SETH!”
“YOU CAN DO IT, SETH!”
That offensive tackle barely made it with seconds to spare, and then collapsed on the track—gasping for oxygen. But he had learned that lesson.
And so had I.
A short two years later, the head coach who replaced the disciplinarian abandoned the “run for your pads” policy. He espoused “You don’t run a mile in a football game so why should you run a mile to get your pads?”
Hmmmm . . . perhaps he was the Vanguard of the softening to come.
* * * sigh * * *
Thirdly, today concussion prevention is such a big deal.
But I can remember this one drill that the same disciplinarian used to run. He had a simple plank of wood about ten feet long that he placed in the grass. Then he divided the team in half on opposite ends of the plank. At the whistle, the idea was to explode out of your three-point stance, charge down the plank and hit your opponent head-on. There was no division of size, weight, position, or talent. That was it.
Looking back, that head coach was very lucky that nobody got hurt.
Or did he teach such proper technique, and that was the reason nobody got hurt?
I remember I was standing in line, next to go. My new defensive backs coach stepped up to me, grabbed my shoulder pads, and stated “Mr. Scanlan, I want you to ‘deliver a blow’!” Then he stepped away.
I looked down the plank and saw Rick, a classmate defensive tackle.
Gulp!
I got down into my three point stance.
Tweeeeeet!
“AAAUUUGGGHHH!”
Crack!
Rick and I arose from the plank—neither of us any worse for the wear.
Again, I recently got to thinking “What if that drill was to be conducted today?” Plain-n-simple: I don’t even think that such a drill would be allowed. Parents would be in an uproar.
For this one, I come down on the side of proper technique, but I have to admit that such a drill was stupid and dangerous.
Hmmmm . . . agreeing with two out of three ain’t bad.
* * * sigh * * *