Bruce Cameron

Football Hero

W. Bruce Cameron

Editor’s Note: The following column was originally published in 2007.

I saw some high-school boys at football practice yesterday, and it reminded me of when I was an all-state high-school football player, which happened early in my imagination. (I probably could have been all-state and won a full-ride scholarship to a Division I school, except that the coach, clearly jealous of my athletic abilities, didn’t send me in for any plays because I technically was not an actual member of the team, since I hadn’t specifically tried out.)

I did play in junior high school, on a team so hideously inept that opposing coaches were said to groan aloud when they saw whom they were scheduled to go up against. Enfranchised as the “Giants,” our team was composed of a twitchy group of boys not yet ready to make a firm go at adolescence, “giant” in no modern sense of the word.

So hapless were the Giants that in 12 games we did not win the coin toss a single time, unable to turn in a respectable performance even at a contest of pure chance. This meant every afternoon started the same, with our squad dribbling a faltering kick downfield with so little force one might suppose the kicker was missing an ankle. As the ball rolled into the arms of a runner, we would woefully spread ourselves apart on the field, leaving a clear alley toward the goal line like a wedding party lined up to throw rice.

Once we gained possession of the football, we generally handed it back to the opposing side as quickly as possible, like a neighbor returning mail that had been misdirected. By halftime, the scorekeeper’s arms were tired from changing the numbers on the board, and the winning players would be yawning and scratching themselves.

I played wide receiver because I was skinny. Before every snap, I would confidently stare out at the opposite goal, though in truth I had never actually been near the place. Usually, the only sound would be a couple of my teammates crying.

I would give the player opposite a hard, mean look, as if I were going to slam into him on my way downfield, but he’d usually just wink back because we had an understanding.

Then, with a clash of helmets and the thud of the Giants falling to the ground, the ball was snapped! The starting quarterback for the Giants was a wispy lad whose sole aim in life was to prevent any damage to his expensive orthodontia and who released the football whenever it appeared one of the defenders was close to making a tackle — which was every play, since the Giants’ offensive line was no more of an impediment to the pass rush than a light summer breeze. I’d trot out my pattern, yelling, “I’m open!” so the girls within earshot would know I was a hero, and watch as the football went in some completely random direction.

And one day, at random, the ball dropped into my arms. I could not have been more shocked if I’d caught a dead goose falling from the sky. Embarrassed, I started running for the goal line. No one stood in my way — the opposing players had stopped covering the pass because it was more fun to rush the quarterback and recover fumbles.

Hey! This could work! I glanced at our team’s bench to see what they thought of this unexpected development. They all looked sick with dread. And then I poured it on, running at the speed of, say, a 4-year-old girl. Behind me the opposing players were gaining on me like an avalanche, and it occurred to me I might actually die soon.

With just a few yards to go, I was hit. It was like being slammed from behind by my father’s Oldsmobile. The impact drove me forward, and though I had certainly been willing to fail, the momentum carried me over the line for the only touchdown of my football career. I grinned at where my girlfriend would be sitting if I’d had one, while my teammates celebrated like we had just won the Super Bowl.

So my high-school coach’s decision not to play me? His loss.

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