since I had joined late, I started on the fifth-string defense. Within a few days I had worked my way up to second string, playing middle linebacker. The next day the second string had a full scrimmage against the first-string offense. That day I played as if I had been injected with an invincibility potion, proving to myself and to everyone on the field that I had the potential to become a very good player. Every play the offense ran, I was there to stop. On one series I ran to the right, running down a halfbackâs sweep, and grabbed the ball carrier and threw him to the ground. They went left and I ran the ball carrier down again. He came up the middle. I met the fullback, knocking him backward. Then they tried a short pass over the middle and I intercepted it and immediately got the hell knocked out of me.
The coach recognized that I had the speed to play offense, so he gave me a try at halfback. Even though my dream was to play defense, I was glad for this chance to show him what else I could do. But every time my number was called and I ran into the line, there was no hole. I could not break through. Maybe the white boys on the line were intentionally not blocking the opposing defense; I donât know for certain. For whatever reason, the second-string center and guards were not able to break a hole through the first-string defense while I was at halfback that day. Being unable to break through represented my entire life at that moment and into the future. I would spend a lifetime trying to break through the hole, to find the opening to daylight, to freedom, to respectability.
Despite the frustration, I remember traveling home that night on the hour-long bus ride, sitting quietly by myself, feeling a kind of confidence I had never felt before. At last I had found itâthat one thing I could use to ride to the top, one thing I loved that could power me up out of my sense of despair, the dungeon of nothingness.
Humbly, I walked into the kitchen. Mommy was preparing dinner, looking moody. Poppy was sipping a highball, trying to relieve the stress of working in a hostile, racist environment. I finally summoned up my courage and said, âI need twenty-five dollars for insurance so I can continue to play football and play in the game Saturday.â
âWe donât have twenty-five dollars for football insurance,â Mommy responded. Poppy continued sipping, not acknowledging my request, tacitly agreeing with Mommy.
That must have been the most disappointing day of my youth. I felt, I guess I didnât deserve it . I even felt guilty for asking. However much I tried to hide it, I went into a permanent sulk. I took the hurt and anger and put it inside, pushing it down harder with the passage of time, burying it. I never went out for football again, leaving that day on the field as a memory of what could have been. I resolved never again to rely on my parents for anything but the bare necessities of life. Maybe if I had been different, maybe if I had been more outgoing, more gregarious, more confident, I could have overcome my parentsâ own dark shadows. But I wasnât. I was too sensitive, too quiet, and at times too rebellious. My self-esteem was too low to overcome those obstacles. This would prove to be my struggle in life, to overcome my shyness and my lack of confidence.
I continued to play sandlot football, often playing pickup games with future college and NFL players. I also played basketball in the CYO league, where all the high school ballplayers who did not make their high school teams played. And every summer, I played center field for the Parks Department softball league, frequently traveling to hostile white neighborhoods for away games. Even as much as I loved sports, there seemed to be something else calling me. I just didnât know what.
5
Sticking Together
Mom loves the both of them You see itâs in the blood Both kids are good to Mom âBloodâs thicker than
The coach recognized that I had the speed to play offense, so he gave me a try at halfback. Even though my dream was to play defense, I was glad for this chance to show him what else I could do. But every time my number was called and I ran into the line, there was no hole. I could not break through. Maybe the white boys on the line were intentionally not blocking the opposing defense; I donât know for certain. For whatever reason, the second-string center and guards were not able to break a hole through the first-string defense while I was at halfback that day. Being unable to break through represented my entire life at that moment and into the future. I would spend a lifetime trying to break through the hole, to find the opening to daylight, to freedom, to respectability.
Despite the frustration, I remember traveling home that night on the hour-long bus ride, sitting quietly by myself, feeling a kind of confidence I had never felt before. At last I had found itâthat one thing I could use to ride to the top, one thing I loved that could power me up out of my sense of despair, the dungeon of nothingness.
Humbly, I walked into the kitchen. Mommy was preparing dinner, looking moody. Poppy was sipping a highball, trying to relieve the stress of working in a hostile, racist environment. I finally summoned up my courage and said, âI need twenty-five dollars for insurance so I can continue to play football and play in the game Saturday.â
âWe donât have twenty-five dollars for football insurance,â Mommy responded. Poppy continued sipping, not acknowledging my request, tacitly agreeing with Mommy.
That must have been the most disappointing day of my youth. I felt, I guess I didnât deserve it . I even felt guilty for asking. However much I tried to hide it, I went into a permanent sulk. I took the hurt and anger and put it inside, pushing it down harder with the passage of time, burying it. I never went out for football again, leaving that day on the field as a memory of what could have been. I resolved never again to rely on my parents for anything but the bare necessities of life. Maybe if I had been different, maybe if I had been more outgoing, more gregarious, more confident, I could have overcome my parentsâ own dark shadows. But I wasnât. I was too sensitive, too quiet, and at times too rebellious. My self-esteem was too low to overcome those obstacles. This would prove to be my struggle in life, to overcome my shyness and my lack of confidence.
I continued to play sandlot football, often playing pickup games with future college and NFL players. I also played basketball in the CYO league, where all the high school ballplayers who did not make their high school teams played. And every summer, I played center field for the Parks Department softball league, frequently traveling to hostile white neighborhoods for away games. Even as much as I loved sports, there seemed to be something else calling me. I just didnât know what.
5
Sticking Together
Mom loves the both of them You see itâs in the blood Both kids are good to Mom âBloodâs thicker than
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