Varsity Vignettes
ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON PLAYBOY.COM · MUCKRACK
Varsity Vignettes
by Travis Cannell · 1,400 words
Someone asked me if I was Catholic and reminded me of my High School football coach and his locker room speeches. One wasn’t even a speech, but a mantra refrained over and over until the coach could point and we’d all echo—”Don’t be good, be great!” You were supposed to look in the mirror, in the morning—every morning—and say that: “Don’t be good, be great.” The triumph over being marginal. Another one that stuck was once he gave a sort of ramble about how Football was the last sport that hadn’t been “invaded” or “taken over” by women. And that’s held even up to today, which might sound surprising but with all the concussions, broken fingers and smashing involved maybe there’s just better judgment being exercised by taking a big pass on the entire sport.
From my memory, the locker room alone was enough to turn rational thinking people away—a refuge for the adolescent male animal. The dark space had a tremendous smell of shit and sweat baked deep into the walls which was simply impossible to change. Women rarely set foot inside and girls almost never, and when they did you knew they’d been tricked or dared when you heard shrieks and cries of disgust. I can’t remember if there was ever an attempt to clean the few thousand square feet of space, there could have been, but the results were certainly a dismal failure. In one prized locker there was a famous practice t-shirt that had been sweat through and frozen for so many seasons that you could take out the white cloth and hold it like a sword or even try and balance the brittle remnant like a broken broomstick on your hand. I can’t remember if we made freshmen wear that shirt but I hope that we did, for their sake. We could have made a trophy from that shirt that would stand up perfectly by itself without any supports in a glass case.
The showers consisted of four nozzles sprouting off a support pole on a bare concrete slab and we stared at each other’s bodies until realizations were made that everyone was a human male. I made the additional realization with the quarterback that we had several things in common. First, we were both uncircumcised. Second was the bright red pubic hair—hard to hide. Lastly—and this we found out later—we had girlfriends who would sleep with us. So that was three things and we’d hold up three fingers to each other and laugh. One finger, two fingers, three fingers—he, he, he!
On our home field there was not an opposing team locker room next to the field. We didn’t care about the other team. They could use their bus, or if they really needed a locker room, they could walk about four hundred yards over to the basketball gym. The seats on that side were dismal too, a typical set of aluminum benches. Usually all the seats were filled and then the students and parents had to stand.
The home team side—our side—sloped up sharply from the field, a nice hill with rows and rows of wooden bleachers built right into the side of the hill. On the top was the concession stand and announcer. Next to that was our beloved locker room complete with a rocky path leading down from the door to the field. The fifty or so feet of elevation provided a tremendous amount of raw kinetic energy when the entire team burst from the locker room and charged down the mountain, another psychological advantage that had the dual bonus of creating a spectacle for the fans.
The pre-game rituals involved praying (we were good Catholics) as well as the taking of substances, which were legal at the time. Two over the counter drugs were popular, ephedra and ibuprofen. Early in our last glorious season someone had stolen a crate of ephedra from a GMC store at the mall and given the dozen bottles of brown pills to the football team which was the single greatest charitable act, from the school’s best thief, and helped more than any other donation that a student (or parent) could have done for that season.
Ephedra came on within about ten to twenty minutes. First came a flush and then increased heartbeat with mild dry mouth developing as the pills picked up speed. And the energy came on strong, not just in any muscle in particular but throughout the entire body. We’d start slapping shoulder pads, shouting at each other for no reason, “LET’S KICK THEIR ASS!” As we donned helmets we’d start butting heads, wild shrieks would erupt as team members started to jump up and down. The coaches never did pickup on the dry mouths or the bottles of brown pills. Our full back would chase the pills down with a fistful of ibuprofen just to be completely immune to anything.
Then the coach would lead us in a pre-game prayer and we’d try hard to be silent while the “Our Father” came out in staccato beats. By the time they opened the locker room doors—the same locker room that was at the top of the hill—we were reduced to shrieking animals and would then stampede down onto the field, a thunderous storm of cleats thumping on the ground as the cheers erupted from the bleachers. By then the pills were really hitting and sometimes when we tried to do jumping jacks in coordination we failed, with everyone going at their own breakneck pace, losing the count and shouting “LET’S GO” at random intervals. The coin toss always took too long and we all pitied the players who didn’t get in on that first play because they would have no outlet for their energy and nobody to smash into.
On the Football field of battle there are two sides to the offensive line. The right side, which is obviously superior, given that most people are right handed and in general there is a preference for things on the right side, and then you have the left side of the line, obviously inferior. For example, nobody was surprised when, on a critical field goal during a playoff game, the left side of the line collapsed and the kick was blocked, leading to a crushing defeat and an end to the season. We watched the video footage of the kick over and over and goaded the left side for their missed block. Obviously that’s not something that happens on the right side of the line which I was on, along with the guard who was fast off the line, stocky and low to the ground. And I had the three things with the quarterback, too, so on third and long or fourth and short when we absolutely had to have a play work, I knew the quarter back would call a play to the right side of the line (RSOTL is what we’d say). Then sometimes I’d hold up the three fingers to get him to smirk so he’d relax during the play and still throw the ball, even if the left side of the line missed a block and a defender would crush him right after the ball left his fingers.
After the game was another prayer—we were the good Catholics—but we played against smaller schools that were not Christian or Catholic or even Moromon, but just public, so they only prayed to the flag. So the end of a game was a sacred ritual and after the last whistle we’d be either elated or defeated and the coach would have to yell and he’d sprint off to the darkest corner of the field shouting—”Come in for prayer! For PRAYER!” Then we’d circle around him with the steam and sweat pouring off our bodies and take a knee as we bowed our heads to him, our priest, and then amongst the smiles or cries we’d start the chant—”Our Father, who art in heaven…”
So, I’m not sure if I’m really a Catholic because I never go to Church or confess sins to a priest, but I remember those prayers in the cathedral of Friday night lights.
This piece was originally published on Playboy.com. The original publication is no longer available online. Republished here by the author.