Introduction to football

Recently, word came, via The Plainview News, informing us that Harold Foster had passed away at the age of 99. I never really knew Harold — he was some ten years older than I, but I knew his younger brothers — Earl, whose backyard adjoined my folk’s house, and Orville, who was my age, and a fellow who, with the start of football, had just become my friend.

I couldn't believe how lucky I was. The year was 1942. The country was at War, but in Plainview, it was Autumn and the start of another football season. For years I had loved the fall, which meant football, and I looked forward to it all summer long. The younger guys, my friends below High School age, always played in the Bandshell park, next to the High School gridiron, across the street from our house, and had watched the Pirates practice each night. After a time, a pickup game of football would get started. We would try to put into practice techniques that we picked up from the high schoolers. We pretended that we were playing for the red and white, in front of cheering fans.

But that was just kid’s stuff, and in the past. Now here I was, at last, a full-fledged member of the Plainview High School football team.

“A full-fledged member of the team.” That was not was not strictly true. I was a 105-pound member of the Freshman Class who had been allowed to come out for the team. They really didn't even have a uniform small enough for me. The pants of my first uniform were so long that the thigh pads banged against my knees. My next uniform was just a little bit better. But that didn't matter. As far as I was concerned, I was as much a part of the team as any of the Lettermen. I just needed a chance to prove it.

I wasn't the only inexperienced person on the field that fall. We also had a new coach. Don Button, who was married to Dutch Saathoff older daughter, Happy, who had come home from the service on a medical discharge, just in time to inherit the football coaching position at the high school. He was really not equipped to coach, either from a knowledge of the game, or experience playing the game, to be the head football coach, but this was wartime, and people filled in the best way they knew how, so he had agreed to take the job. One of his first acts, since he did not have a playbook, was to buy a copy of “50 Basic Plays that Work”, off the magazine stand at Bartlett's Drugstore. One of the other freshman footballers told me that he was sure that it would be a successful season because he had also bought one of these “50 Basic Plays” books at the drugstore, and he thought that they really looked like great plays.

Coach Button was handed a rather non-descript team that first year. One of his jewels on the team, though, was Darrell (Ham) Hamilton. Darrell was an upperclassman, a powerful fullback, and one of the largest men on the team. He was also one of the fastest, a really fine football player. He was also the cause of my not getting along very well with Coach Button.

Before the first game, an away game with Hartington, Coach Button told this team, of whom I was a charter member, that we would have a scrimmage. And at that scrimmage, if one of us freshmen could tackle Darrell, we would be added to the traveling squad for the game. On the play that was designated for our test, Ham broke through the line and alluded one, then another linebacker, and was headed for a sure touchdown. He had only one other defender to beat... Me! It was no secret that I was terrified. He must have outweighed me by 100 pounds, and could easily have gotten by me with a little dipsy-doodle, or a stiff arm. For some reason, he chose to run right over me. When I saw that we were going to collide I closed my eyes and lowered my head and made a dive for his legs. I'm sure that it was the worst tackle that anyone ever made, but somehow it caused him to stumble, and after stumbling forward for another 10 yards, he fell to the ground.

I really don't remember if he scored on the next play or not. What I do remember, is that when the list for traveling squad was posted, I was not on it. When I reminded Coach Button of his promise, he reneged, and said that mine was not a tackle, and that Darrell had just stumbled and fell down. I pointed out that it was my body that caused the stumble, but it was no to no avail, and I missed traveling to that first game with the team.

Even though Coach Button was not my favorite person, I still could not have wished upon him the misfortune that befell his team and us that same week.

We had finished the regular practice and we lined up at one end of the football field for a mass hundred yard dash to the other end, where Coach would talk to us for a few minutes. I sought out Orville Foster, Earl's younger brother, for my special adversary. Orville was 15, a little older than I, but was much the same size, and he and I had been lining up beside each other, or against one another since fall practice had begun. He was a likable kid, and we had hit it off immediately, comparing opinions about teachers, girls, and coaches. We shared a few stories, and all and all we had become friends, our common bond being the football team.

Orville accepting my challenge for the race, saying that he would be waiting for me at the goal post. He said further, that I should try to hurry because he had to get home before dark for chores. We both appreciated the good-natured banter, and went all out when the whistle blew to start the race. I don't remember who won the race. I think it was pretty close, run with the happy exuberance of youth. When we got to the finish line, we were laughing as we plopped to the ground to hear what the Coach had to say. We were still getting our breath when Orville, who was taking off his helmet, suddenly fell over on me. I thought that he was still goofing around, and pushed him away, only to have him collapse at my feet. I tried to turn him over and noticed that he was turning blue. I’m sure that I panicked, and screamed for the Coach to come to help.

Coach Button grasped the situation immediately. He instructed one of the players to run to the school and call the doctor, and proceed to give Orville artificial respiration until, Dr. M.A, Johnson arrived at the scene a few minutes later. Dr. Johnson injected something into Orville's arm, and pounced on his chest a few times, listening for a heartbeat each time. It wasn't long, though, before he got up and shook his head to Coach Button, and told him to send the team to the lockers. We left the field, knowing that Orville was gone.

It's strange, even though it has been more than 75 years, when football season rolls around again, along with the fun of the game, the thrills, the expectations, and the disappointments that make up this time of the year, I think, too, of the fellow I only knew for a few weeks. He never got to play the game of football or the game of life. I'll always associate him with Fall — and football. His brother, Harold was 99 when he passed away, Orville was 15.