While the high school football experience is a necessary journey for those of us who suffer from the mano-a-mano challenge and I didn’t urge my sons to play the game (nor discourage), I managed to suffer enough injuries to make one question my intelligence and/or judgment. But, I upheld the “I ain’t a-skeered of nothin’” mantra of our foolhardy gender. 

Typical of small towns and our 210-student high school, every able-bodied boy went out for football. Of course, like all teen boys of that time (and maybe all of eternity) I put my skinny body at risk with the rest. I was (and am) close to six feet tall and then weighed 150 pounds soaking wet and with a rock in each pocket.  I did possess a little speed, the kind associated with miles per hour rather than something you ingest to fool your brain.

One of our early-season games that fall was in Groesbeck against the hated, dreaded Goats (yep, that was the mascot). 

We managed to win the game, but I wasn’t around for the finish. 

Dear Ol’ Teague High ran the popular 1950s Oklahoma Sooner version of the Split-T offense – a running game, featuring quick-hitting up the middle runs and option sweeps. Little or no passing, for as Darrell Royal said: “Three things can happen when you pass and two of ‘em are bad.”

Our Lions had great blocking, making it easy for a quick, skinny boy like me (then, not now) to gain lots of yards. I was told after the game that, early in the third quarter, I had just over 150 yards rushing. 

Two plays altered my appearance enough as to make me unrecognizable, at least at night in the hazy light of a front porch bulb likely less than 75 watts. 

The first “damaging” play was a sweep around end wherein the Goat (that’s right) safety used his good angle to catch me on the sideline just short of the goal. He knocked me out of bounds and was joined by a teammate as they beat the slow referees to me and one was banging the side of my head/face against his knee. That raised a knot on my cheekbone that gave me a weird appearance. 

Shortly thereafter, the quarterback called my number on a quick dive play over tackle where, after about a five- or six-yard gain, a linebacker threw his body across mine high up on my thighs. That blow drove the rounded point of my solid, hard-plastic pad against a muscle in my thigh and a second tackler hit me in the nose and mouth with his fist (face masks were optional then and I didn’t wear one, duh), busting my nose and lips and temporarily rendering me unconscious. The game was over for me at that point, but my teammates kept pouring it on and we won handily. 

Around midnight, when our team bus delivered us sleepily and groggily back to Teague, I limped the four blocks from the high school to our house and knocked on the door. Mother cracked the door and peered at me in the dim light, screamed and slammed the door. 

Apparently, I looked like something out of a horror movie, and I was allowed in only after she recognized my pleading voice through that closed door. 

Naturally, the “injuries” justified Mother’s long held objection to “her boys” playing football. However, the four of us, and Dad prevailed as all played, the rest of the boys with more success than I had. 

However, all of us had the good sense to recognize that not only was the game much rougher and more serious beyond high school but that there were easier ways to earn a college degree. 

Willis Webb is a retired community newspaper editor-publisher of more than 50 years experience. 

wwebb@att.net