down his back. “You are so right, boy. How about I get us all something to eat?”
“Sounds good,” Dale said.
As Laura made her way to the kitchen the phone rang. Dale walked to the table and picked it up. It was probably Paul again wanting to talk about the case.
“Hello.”
An older man spoke. “Is this Dale Grayson?”
“Yes, it is. Can I help you?”
“Yes, you can. You can stop seeing Jason Crownfield.”
“Excuse me?” Dale had broken into a cold sweat.
“Jason Crownfield is married to my daughter and you need to stop dating him. It would devastate her and the boy if they knew. Now stop seeing him.”
“Wh… What?” Dale stammered. “Married? The boy? What boy?”
“Jesse, his son. Now, if you have any decency, you will break it off. Please, I am begging you.” And with that, the voice was gone.
Dale collapsed into the chair. This can’t be. There must be a mistake. There is no way.
C OMING OF A GE
1983 – M URFREESBORO , T ENNESSEE –
B LUE R AIDER T RAINING C AMP
“Line up, gentlemen; we are going again. Let me see what you are made of! Who wants it, who wants it the most?”
Johnny fell in line for his eighth straight wind sprint. He was easy to spot, a boy among men. At eighteen he stood just five feet eight inches from the turf and weighed in at 140 pounds, on a good day. But he loved football. It had always been his dream to play in college, and someone had forgotten to tell him the meaning of the word “can’t.”
So he stepped to the mark. The whistle blew and he ran the forty yards with every ounce of speed he could muster, which unfortunately was not fast enough. Eighth sprint, eighth time he finished last even though the other guys were only going at 80 percent. That did not matter to Johnny. The only speed he really knew was 100 percent, and that is what he gave every single time.
He had to beg the coach to even let him on the field. It was on his fifth, “Coach, please just let me try,” that the coach had agreed. But even then it was not without protest.
“Look, son, they’ll kill you out there. Won’t even be anything left to send home to your momma. I think you need to redirect your energies. Linemen live to hit little ole receivers like you. Most of ’em receivers run like rabbits, that’s how they survive against the linemen. But, son, I’ve seen you run, and my grandma could take you. No offense now, but I don’t want ’em breakin’ you in two.”
“I know, Coach; I’m the slowest and the smallest guy around, but I got heart. I love this game. I love the workouts and the grit and the guys. Give me a shot. I’ll sign any waiver you want. Just let me try.”
So Coach, against his better judgment, had relented. And, much to his amazement, young Johnny had survived the full summer camp of two-a-days. Johnny had heard him talking it over with his assistant coach, “Pity is the kid has pretty decent hands and he is as advertised - all about heart and hard work. If I could put Johnny’s work ethic into a real athlete I would have an all-American that no one could touch.”
Johnny just pushed Coach’s comments out of his mind and kept on plugging away. There was no need to hold back now. He either made the team or he didn’t. All he could do was all he could do.
“Okay boys, that will do. Grab you a drink and hit the showers. We’ll let you know if you made it. Players posted on the board will be on the team – those names not listed, well we thank you for the try-out and we wish you the best in school.”
Johnny took off his helmet and took in a gulp of Gatorade. Sweat stung his eyes as he squinted through the blur. He could not think of a place on him that was not sore. But it was all worth it; every stinking, hurting minute of it – simply because he was following his heart.
Unexpectedly he felt a heavy blow on his shoulder pads. He swung around to see Buck and Big Ben staring down at him. Both defensive linemen were
“Sounds good,” Dale said.
As Laura made her way to the kitchen the phone rang. Dale walked to the table and picked it up. It was probably Paul again wanting to talk about the case.
“Hello.”
An older man spoke. “Is this Dale Grayson?”
“Yes, it is. Can I help you?”
“Yes, you can. You can stop seeing Jason Crownfield.”
“Excuse me?” Dale had broken into a cold sweat.
“Jason Crownfield is married to my daughter and you need to stop dating him. It would devastate her and the boy if they knew. Now stop seeing him.”
“Wh… What?” Dale stammered. “Married? The boy? What boy?”
“Jesse, his son. Now, if you have any decency, you will break it off. Please, I am begging you.” And with that, the voice was gone.
Dale collapsed into the chair. This can’t be. There must be a mistake. There is no way.
C OMING OF A GE
1983 – M URFREESBORO , T ENNESSEE –
B LUE R AIDER T RAINING C AMP
“Line up, gentlemen; we are going again. Let me see what you are made of! Who wants it, who wants it the most?”
Johnny fell in line for his eighth straight wind sprint. He was easy to spot, a boy among men. At eighteen he stood just five feet eight inches from the turf and weighed in at 140 pounds, on a good day. But he loved football. It had always been his dream to play in college, and someone had forgotten to tell him the meaning of the word “can’t.”
So he stepped to the mark. The whistle blew and he ran the forty yards with every ounce of speed he could muster, which unfortunately was not fast enough. Eighth sprint, eighth time he finished last even though the other guys were only going at 80 percent. That did not matter to Johnny. The only speed he really knew was 100 percent, and that is what he gave every single time.
He had to beg the coach to even let him on the field. It was on his fifth, “Coach, please just let me try,” that the coach had agreed. But even then it was not without protest.
“Look, son, they’ll kill you out there. Won’t even be anything left to send home to your momma. I think you need to redirect your energies. Linemen live to hit little ole receivers like you. Most of ’em receivers run like rabbits, that’s how they survive against the linemen. But, son, I’ve seen you run, and my grandma could take you. No offense now, but I don’t want ’em breakin’ you in two.”
“I know, Coach; I’m the slowest and the smallest guy around, but I got heart. I love this game. I love the workouts and the grit and the guys. Give me a shot. I’ll sign any waiver you want. Just let me try.”
So Coach, against his better judgment, had relented. And, much to his amazement, young Johnny had survived the full summer camp of two-a-days. Johnny had heard him talking it over with his assistant coach, “Pity is the kid has pretty decent hands and he is as advertised - all about heart and hard work. If I could put Johnny’s work ethic into a real athlete I would have an all-American that no one could touch.”
Johnny just pushed Coach’s comments out of his mind and kept on plugging away. There was no need to hold back now. He either made the team or he didn’t. All he could do was all he could do.
“Okay boys, that will do. Grab you a drink and hit the showers. We’ll let you know if you made it. Players posted on the board will be on the team – those names not listed, well we thank you for the try-out and we wish you the best in school.”
Johnny took off his helmet and took in a gulp of Gatorade. Sweat stung his eyes as he squinted through the blur. He could not think of a place on him that was not sore. But it was all worth it; every stinking, hurting minute of it – simply because he was following his heart.
Unexpectedly he felt a heavy blow on his shoulder pads. He swung around to see Buck and Big Ben staring down at him. Both defensive linemen were
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