Chronicles of an Educated Hillbilly by "Buck" number seven Football Glory, the Redneck High Point Looking back on my high school days at Powell Valley, several things are now crystal clear. However, at the time when you’re growing up in a small town you just don’t realize them. I was a football player, and a damn good one. I was a good player because I loved to knock the shit out of people. The years after the Earl Bentley incident gave me renewed confidence off the field and caused me to soar to new heights on the field. I started working out with vigor. I was living under the false impression I was indestructible. It’s a common teenage misconception, but at the time—you can’t see that. We do crazy shit that defies logic and rational thinking. It was that mindless, fearless attitude that led me to be a murderous head-hunter when playing football. I played dirty and made no apologies for it. My hero and mentor for this attitude was retired Pittsburgh Steelers linebacker Jack Lambert. Lambert was a mean bastard and I loved it. He took no shit from anybody and after the Earl Bentley incident—neither did I. Powell Valley was a small school, but big by the standards of the region. We had about 600 students but until I got to high school our football team had been pretty shitty and mired in mediocrity. That all changed by freshman year when the team won its first ever state championship. The 1982 title set the stage for an era of excellence that landed the school about seven championships over a dozen years, and I’m proud to say I played no small part in that. We made the playoffs in 1983 and lost in the state semi-finals to Parry-McClure. It was one of only four games we lost during my four years in high school. The final score was 7-3, but despite the loss I shined. I logged 12 single handed tackles in the game and put two “notches” on the locker. Believe it or not we actually carved a mark on our locker for every person we caused to have to be carried from the field. We also had a pool for the hardest hit of the game. During my senior year I officially reached “stud” status. We rolled through the season with a single loss to Pound. I hated Pound just because they were a bigger bunch of redneck bastards than we were—if that was possible. At any rate, we rolled through the season beating the shit out of everybody. I was growing meaner by the moment. I had read the game maxims of the former University of Tennessee football coach Robert Neyland and lived by them. One of those unwritten maxims was intimidating your opponent as quickly as you can. Make them so scared in the first half that they don’t want to return to finish the game after half-time. I did my best to accomplish that goal. I’d deliver a punishing legal blow on some hapless runner and once I had him down would bite his arm until I drew blood or in a big pile I’d grab somebody’s balls and squeeze them as hard as possible until I heard a scream. I once saw small gravel sticking to a guys shin and drove it as far into his leg as I could. Anything went and there was no such thing as “unnecessary roughness.” The state title game may have been the shining moment for our team. We hosted Central Lunenburg at our home stadium in Big Stone Gap. The team had a lot of ringers, one of whom went on to play for Notre Dame. The last time this group had made it to a title game they played a nearby school at Appalachia—beating them 70 to 3. History was not to repeat itself. It is two hours of football frozen in time for me. I played the best game of my life. I sacked their hot-shot quarterback six times that day. The last time I delivered a blind sided shot that caused him to vomit on the field. Turned out two sacks earlier I had broken two of his ribs—but this bulletproof freak wouldn’t let them take him out of the game. He left the field on a stretcher and I collected 24 dollars in “big stick” money. We won the game and the state championship. This little town, bereft of heroes, carried us on a pedestal. The team ate free everywhere. We were grand marshals of the Christmas parade. We got rings, jackets, medals, and all sorts of other shit as memorabilia of the occasion. Local big-wigs bought the coach a truck. We thought we were hot shit. As I look back on it now it’s a nice memory, but I realize just how insignificant—and fairly stupid it all was. The amazing fact is that many of my former teammates DON’T see it that way. I ran into one of these white trash poster children a few years ago. He’s now 100 pounds overweight, unemployed, and divorced twice. He joined the Army out of high school—lasted about three months and was discharged. He got laid off from one job and quit three others. He has three kids out of wedlock, never pays child support, and is constantly drunk and still tries to pick-up high school girls. Despite all that, one wall of his rundown mobile home is a shrine dedicated to those glory days of high school football. There are various plaques for All-District, All-Region, and All-State honors along with team pictures, newspaper clippings, and several action shots of the high school career. I’m even in pictured in a couple of those photos. He fondly talks about the “glory days” and revisits them often. I felt sorry for him. It seems a shame that a man’s greatest accomplishment in life came when he was 15 and nobody remembers it. However, for the holler monsters back home, it’s a common legacy. You’ll still find them every Friday night standing in the end zone talking about when they played. Good Grief. |
