Life Its Ownself by Dan Jenkins Page A
Authors: Dan Jenkins
Tags: Fiction, General, Performing Arts, Texas, History & Criticism, Television, Football Stories, Television Broadcasting
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the bounce of a fumble—and most of them spend their careers getting fired for not winning.
A coach creates his own mistakes at times, and he'll frequently do it by assigning his black athletes to the "hot- dog" positions that he insists are best suited to the mind and body of the black athlete, positions in which the blacks themselves are the most "comfortable." These are the positions that require speed, skill, and strength, ideally all three, but don't necessarily require brainwork.
Coaches remind themselves and each other that a quarterback has to call plays or audibilize, a center has to pick up the blitz, a linebacker has to "read" before he reacts, and a tight end has to like the dirty work of blocking more than he likes to catch passes—and you want a coach to trust a black guy to do those things?
A coach in the 1980s had yet to be fooled by any of history's exceptions to his rules. Coaches had yielded to the changes in society but somewhat on their own terms. Coaches still hadn't seen a great black center—that must prove something.
But with the emergence of the black athlete had come another problem. Kids today, white or black, wanted to be told "why" before they jumped in the slop in the name of duty, honor, the old school colors—and that "why" was just too God-damn-much fucking trouble for most coaches to explain to a kid who was getting a free four-year education and all the pussy he could handle.
You jumped in the slop because a coach like T. J. Lambert said so or you got your ass benched or fired.
And now it was to a group of TCU athletes that T.J. wanted to fire—lazy, prideless losers—that I was expected to say something inspirational before they went out to challenge the Rice Owls.
I began by saying how fortunate they were to be playing football for a character-builder like Coach Lambert and his dedicated staff, men like Mike Homer, Red Jeffers, Ronnie Bob Collins.
Fear of losing an audience may have accounted for what I said next.
"Men, I saw something out on the field a while ago that reminded me of another Rice game," I said. "I saw one of your cheerleaders. Cute little girl named Sandi."
"Awwright," said Sonny Plummer, there on the floor in front of me. He and Webster Davis exchanged a high-five and pointed at their crotches.
I acknowledged them soberly and continued.
"My junior year we had a cheerleader who looked enough like Sandi to be her older sister—and it was. Her name was Tracy. I guess you could say Tracy was the most popular girl on the campus. Pretty little blond devil...vivacious, outgoing. Well... the Saturday of our game against Rice, right here on this field, she started walking over to the stadium from her room in the Tri-Delt dorm and a terrible thing happened. That great little girl...Sandi's older sister...she got run over and killed by a crazy, drunken Rice student in a sports car. Our team... we didn't find out about it till after the game—a game we lost."
I paused a minute, as if the thought of Tracy's death had made me nauseous all over again; then I went on.
"Maybe you guys know what I'm gonna say next. Sandi's going to be out there yelling her heart out for you this afternoon. She'll be yelling for you to beat the Rice Owls the same way her sister would have cheered us on if she'd lived. So how 'bout it, gang? Let's even the score. Let's win this one for Sandi and her sister!"
T. J.'s voice boomed out. "Get them low-life fuckin' murderers!"
The Horned Frogs tore out of the locker room like maniacs, whooping, cursing, banging on locker doors, aching for the blood of the Rice Owls.
T.J. shook my hand.
"You did real good, son."
"Thanks, Coach."
"Was that a true story?"
"Part of it. We did have a cheerleader who looked a lot like Sandi."
"What'd she do?"
"The main thing she did was give Shake Tiller the clap."
The score was 12-3 at halftime in favor of Rice.
No touchdowns were scored. Rice recovered four fumbles inside TCU's 20-yard line and
A coach creates his own mistakes at times, and he'll frequently do it by assigning his black athletes to the "hot- dog" positions that he insists are best suited to the mind and body of the black athlete, positions in which the blacks themselves are the most "comfortable." These are the positions that require speed, skill, and strength, ideally all three, but don't necessarily require brainwork.
Coaches remind themselves and each other that a quarterback has to call plays or audibilize, a center has to pick up the blitz, a linebacker has to "read" before he reacts, and a tight end has to like the dirty work of blocking more than he likes to catch passes—and you want a coach to trust a black guy to do those things?
A coach in the 1980s had yet to be fooled by any of history's exceptions to his rules. Coaches had yielded to the changes in society but somewhat on their own terms. Coaches still hadn't seen a great black center—that must prove something.
But with the emergence of the black athlete had come another problem. Kids today, white or black, wanted to be told "why" before they jumped in the slop in the name of duty, honor, the old school colors—and that "why" was just too God-damn-much fucking trouble for most coaches to explain to a kid who was getting a free four-year education and all the pussy he could handle.
You jumped in the slop because a coach like T. J. Lambert said so or you got your ass benched or fired.
And now it was to a group of TCU athletes that T.J. wanted to fire—lazy, prideless losers—that I was expected to say something inspirational before they went out to challenge the Rice Owls.
I began by saying how fortunate they were to be playing football for a character-builder like Coach Lambert and his dedicated staff, men like Mike Homer, Red Jeffers, Ronnie Bob Collins.
Fear of losing an audience may have accounted for what I said next.
"Men, I saw something out on the field a while ago that reminded me of another Rice game," I said. "I saw one of your cheerleaders. Cute little girl named Sandi."
"Awwright," said Sonny Plummer, there on the floor in front of me. He and Webster Davis exchanged a high-five and pointed at their crotches.
I acknowledged them soberly and continued.
"My junior year we had a cheerleader who looked enough like Sandi to be her older sister—and it was. Her name was Tracy. I guess you could say Tracy was the most popular girl on the campus. Pretty little blond devil...vivacious, outgoing. Well... the Saturday of our game against Rice, right here on this field, she started walking over to the stadium from her room in the Tri-Delt dorm and a terrible thing happened. That great little girl...Sandi's older sister...she got run over and killed by a crazy, drunken Rice student in a sports car. Our team... we didn't find out about it till after the game—a game we lost."
I paused a minute, as if the thought of Tracy's death had made me nauseous all over again; then I went on.
"Maybe you guys know what I'm gonna say next. Sandi's going to be out there yelling her heart out for you this afternoon. She'll be yelling for you to beat the Rice Owls the same way her sister would have cheered us on if she'd lived. So how 'bout it, gang? Let's even the score. Let's win this one for Sandi and her sister!"
T. J.'s voice boomed out. "Get them low-life fuckin' murderers!"
The Horned Frogs tore out of the locker room like maniacs, whooping, cursing, banging on locker doors, aching for the blood of the Rice Owls.
T.J. shook my hand.
"You did real good, son."
"Thanks, Coach."
"Was that a true story?"
"Part of it. We did have a cheerleader who looked a lot like Sandi."
"What'd she do?"
"The main thing she did was give Shake Tiller the clap."
The score was 12-3 at halftime in favor of Rice.
No touchdowns were scored. Rice recovered four fumbles inside TCU's 20-yard line and
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