Well, fellows, here we are in the middle of July, moaning and groaning about the 100+ degree heat, and realizing that all over West Texas high school coaches and trainers are cleaning out locker rooms, patching up equipment and stocking up on spare cleats, tape, and other supplies getting ready for pre-season football practices.
Ain't it great to be past that stage of life when August football workouts are a prescribed rite of passage for smart alecky male teenagers ... each one bragging how he had been counting the days until first full contact (and knowing deep inside he was dreading the first day of practice like a tooth extraction.) I recall those days and say to myself, "What was I thinking?"
In this thread we have paid due and proper homage to those who excelled in the sport we call Football ... they were the fastest, the strongest, the most elusive, the most focused, and the most determined on our teams or in our districts, and deserve our everlasting respect. But I think some credit if due to the thousands of us who plodded along in the game doing our best to set the stage for the superstars to display their talents.
For the most part, we were the unknowns who showed up at every practice; suffered through wind sprints; agonized in the heat; nursed the blisters, bruises and scrapes; toiled through the blocking and tackling drills (usually as the dummy for the first teamers); and sometime were able to share in some glory if we happened to win; but more frequently were pointed out as one of the reasons if we lost. And at the end of the season our only reward that made it all worthwhile I suppose was to brag that "I was a member of that team."
I played four years of Class A West Texas football. I wasn't any good at about 130 pounds but with only about 16 guys on the squad everyone got enough playing time ... and frequently more than enough if your injury was not as bad as five other guys. (Yeah, it was not unusual for a reserve guard to find himself playing Half Back or Center.)
That was Texas Class A Football in the late 40s. Few schools had locker rooms for visitors or in some cases even showers, playing fields were more likely to have dirt and gravel than a grassy turf, face-masks and athletic cups had not yet been invented, leather helmets were still fairly common (we got plastic my junior year), and high top shoes had one inch hard rubber cleats that were more like roller skates on hard West Texas dirt. The fellows from Rotan, Hamlin, Merkel, Roscoe, Snyder, Trent, and Munday were in the same boat so no one had a particular advantage. We did enjoy the high life occasionally when scheduled as non-district fodder for Colorado City, Haskell, Seminole and other AA schools.
One thing unique about football in the late 40s for smaller schools was the quality of coaches and their coaching techniques. I have discussed this with folks of the same period and this was standard at the time. Starting in 1947 many WWII veterans were joining the coaching ranks mostly in smaller schools. Our luck of the draw was an ex-Marine vet of Iwo Jima and a few other invasions. (I sometime thought as us kids stood around squinting into the late afternoon sun he had flashbacks to an earlier time and enemy.) We were his first coaching challenge after playing a couple of years at Abilene Christian and he had aspirations of greatness. We could endure his brutal practices ... except for the crazy notion that was common at the time of "no water during practice" and "take plenty of salt pills." During August, four-hour workouts we got no water ... and the more we drooped, the more he yelled. He had us convinced the reason we were dropping out was that we were "out of shape" and the prescription for that was more wind sprints. And the salt pills ... we were encouraged to take a handfull of those before going out for practice. Just trying for anything that would help me get through workouts, I bet I ate a hundred of those things.
That "no water" rule was common practice among coaches of the period ... including the illustrous Bear Bryant who nearly killed some of my classmates at Junction in 1954 by heat stroke.
I have always wondered about that goofy rule, whether it was something prescribed during training in WWII to build endurance in soldiers and marines in preparation for battle. Surely medics were aware of the dangers of dehydration at that time. Whatever, I survived the period and I assume all of my contemporaries did ... but those were sure tough times in West Texas.
But we got water during games ... something I was never able to comprehend ... and that was great. And you fellows would get a kick out of the way water was delivered on the field (standard practice at the time) ... the Waterboy had two wire racks that each held six glass half-pint milk bottles. The bottles were clean for the first timeout or so but soon thereafter they were half full of dirt and grass and covered with blood, snot and sweat. It was nasty, but it was wet, and we survived that too. (Doggone, I envied those guys who played in Class AA and AAA ... I am sure they had plenty of cool clean water.) That may be the reason I never made it to the NFL.