More High School Memories

I was one of the first in my graduating class to letter in football. J.D. Thomas and I were the first starters, both beginning our junior year. This picture is at the end of the season my senior year. My number was one I made me proud, because it was my dad's number.

Coach Bill Schmidt was the coach when I began to start my junior year. It was my first year back after major knee surgery. And it was his first year out of college. My family tried to talk out of playing, but I insisted.

Before the season began I was excited to impress our new coach. One night after getting in from the ranch, I jogged to the football field, about a half mile away. It had been very hot during the day, and when it cooled that night, I wanted to work out in order to be at my best when practice started the next week. The last thing my dad said when I left the house was, "Remember what they say, you scratch your backside, but don't make it bleed. In other words, don't overdo it son!" I jogged up the small incline to the high school and football field.

I ran 10 sprints of about 400 meters, running as fast as I could. I jogged a mile, and then I did 10 sprints of 100 meters. It felt good.

When I returned home, everything seemed fine, and then I woke up in the morning with severe headache. It remained for a full week. And I missed the first days of two-a-day practices. My parents took me to Dr. Worely, my knee surgeon in Logan. He told my parents, that given what I had done, I had probably burst a small vessel in my brain. We contacted the new coach, but it was not the impression I had wanted to give.

I started practice days later when the headaches subsided. The first night of practice found me starting at the bottom. On each set I hit as hard as I could. Finally I had the chance to go against the varsity tackle and guard. They undercut me, hurting my leg for a moment.

Coach Wendel Smith, the assistant had watched how older players had hurt me while Lane Hemming was coach, and he screamed at them. I got to my feet and continued, but being able to play took a while.

The class of 1970 was an interesting class. When I played junior varsity with them, none of them wanted to play at the game at Bear River. Coach Wendel Smith put me into the game early. We all took a beating, and he never forgot two things--the fact that I played with an injured knee and with a swollen nose that took a hit every play. It was weeks before my nose felt normal. I may have broken it, but unlike my dad who had had to have it set, mine stayed in place.

My junior year's season was well into the second game, and it was a disappointment. I had not had a chance to play a single play. When we played Soda Springs, the offensive guards played very poorly. I knew I would get my chance, but it didn't happen.

Dad was at the game. Bishop King took a group of scouts to a lake near Soda, where they camped overnight. At the end of the game, I was visibly upset, but not nearly as angry as my father. He knew how hard I practiced, and he didn't want me risking another injury. He asked the coaches if I could return with him, since he was with some scouts who were camping near there. He told them he needed my help.

I do not remember the camping trip, but I do remember my dad coaxing me to quit. He did it only briefly, because he always let me make up my mind about something like this. The next week was much more of the same. I played in scrimmages that led me to believe I would have a chance to play, but when they announced the lineup, I was not on the list.

The game began. It was not long before Coach Schmidt called my name. He sent me in with a play. I was fast, so they were excited to see what I could do as a pulling guard. The play began, and I pulled the wrong way, running into the right offensive guard and knocking down the quarterback. Coach Schmidt pulled me out. I felt horrible. My coach had me stand at his side, and he put his arm around my shoulders.

"Just calm down," he said. He waited two plays and sent me in again. I became a starter that game. My number my junior year was 68. In the picture above, someone stole my jersey. It always made me angry, but we were able to get new uniforms the next year.

The picture here is our senior year in Snake River. By the end of the first few plays, every defensive lineman on the opposing team had blood dripping from their noses. The game was a joke. Hometown referees took charge. They called at least two touchdowns back, and they stalled us with penalties. And in spite of everything, we were still winning. Snake River was driving toward the end of the game. There was no scoreboard to see a clock. Our gutless high school principal had the gun that was to sound the end of the game, and another local official held the clock. The official let Snake River drive for a score after time was out, according to the principal holding the pistol. It was our only tie in my years of playing football. And it was the worst example of how adults can affect the game. There was no doubt of who should have won. We beat them to a pulp.

In another game against American Falls, there was a former Malad athlete who student taught in Malad and bragged about how his American Falls team would beat us the next year. Within the first set of plays, I intimidated the defensive man who played against me. The last act was knocking him to the ground. I pointed my finger at him and laughed. It only took a fraction of effort to do what I wanted the rest of the game.

I will always remember one play. Ann and I were dating at the time. It was the closing seconds of the game, and J.D. Thomas our quarterback called a wedge play, a drive up the middle. It split so that the entire center of the field was open. He and I ran for the end zone. I ran with him, because some defensive players were behind us. J.D. scored. The game ended. Pep club girls flooded the field. I remember my Annie grabbing me and giving me a hug.

I had a friend from Soda Springs, my roommate at Boy's State. His name was Kent Smith, and while we did activities the American Legion sponsored activity, we often teased about who would win the game that year at Malad. Before the game we wrote letters back and forth.

When the game began, it was difficult. The players were very good, and their lineman were strong. My friend was a defensive end. I playd right guard that year, and my teammate next to me was having a difficult time keeping Kent out of the backfield. It was early in the game, and he had already been in on some major defensive plays.

My teammate and I did a cross block: I hit Kent, and my teammate, the offensive tackle took my man. Kent fell to the ground, and the play was over in an instant after a sizeable gain our running back was able to get. My teammate Roger circled around jumped on top of Kent while he was on the ground and began hitting him. Kent threw him to the ground, and just before he took a swing, the referee caught him, pulled him away and tossed him out of the game.

I tried to talk to Kent after the game, but he waved me away and refused to talk to me. I felt horrible, although we did win the game. I never heard from him again.

Years later while going through chemo at Dr. Mulvey's office in Idaho Falls, Angie was a blood technician who came from Soda Springs. When I told her the story, she said that her father had taught there at that time. She brought a yearbook the next week.

I showed her Kent, because I could not remember his name. A week later, she told me that I would have to wait a few days before she would tell me the whole story. It was a difficult time for me during my fight against cancer.

When I returned, I found out that Kent had been killed in an accident weeks after that game. He was driving a wheat truck, and a freight train struck the truck while he was crossing the tracks. Whenever think I have it tough, I think about my old friend. He never knew what it was like to go to college, to marry his soulmate, to have children and grandchildren.

This is my senior football picture. You will notice the helmet didn't let anyone smack my nose like I had happen in Bear River in 1968. Having a face mask that was a net like this was fantastic.