Guest Column:
I was sitting in the stands, watching the St. Stephen’s girls play basketball with my friend Ronnie Oldman. We talked as we watched the Lady Eagles, about water, cattle prices, old stories from our past and eventually athletics
I knew Ronnie and I were about the same age so I asked him when and where he graduated. “Chiefs, 1975,” he said in that broad grin his friends and family know so well, ‘How about you?”
“Cougars, 75’,” I said, then asked, “Did you play football?”
“Yes, number seven,” Ronnie replied.
The past roared from deep in my memory to the moment. Ronnie was the Chiefs quarterback in 1973, playing on a team with white helmets, white jerseys, with red numbers, a huge fist logo with the words, “Red Power” curving above the fist.
My grin must have given me away, “What number were you?” he asked with a bit of hesitation.
“I was 72,” I said.
Ronnie put on a fake look of anger, “Why you SOB,” he said. “You must have hit me a dozen times that day.”
It was my best and worst day of football all rolled up into one, that “rolled” phrase will take on a special meaning a little later.
We were playing the Chiefs at the old field in Morton in what was called a JV game. We only had a couple of seniors that year, so they didn’t suit up, but the rest of us did. We won 18-6, but ironically, we lost 6-0 to them three weeks later at Mill Creek in a supposedly varsity game since the seniors played in that one.
It was my first time at defensive end and I was having a great afternoon. The Chiefs had a huge guy across from me on the inside and a tight end that ran away from the line on every snap. The big guy was about 6-4 and 300 pounds, and not very quick.
I’m sure Ronnie didn’t appreciate running for his life all afternoon. At right defensive end, he had his back to me on every pass play and I took the opportunity to sack him four times, and hit him on many other plays as he released the ball.
As any lineman knows, it’s much easier to play across from a huge, slow guy than it is when you line up with some muscle bound 5-8 165 pound lineman. I was having a great time.
On one running play I stunted inside on one of those shorter, stronger guys and he had me locked up as the running back broke through behind him. The back had long braids coming from under his helmet and as I was driven back, I grabbed one, pulling him backward to the ground.
The war was on. He found a way to try to block me on every play and started running with his head down, low to the ground with his braids inside his shoulder pads.
We may have said a few things to each other, all polite exchanges I’m sure.
Early in the fourth quarter, our nose guard stood him up, but he spun out of the tackle, and right into me.
He was standing almost straight up when I broke down to tackle him. My plan was to pile drive him onto his back, but it didn’t work that way.
With the back in the air, the big offensive tackle was knocked down, or just fell and rolled into me, ripping my ACL and MCL in a split second on my right knee. It didn’t hurt at first but when I stood up, I kept falling down, my knee buckled at odd angles. My football season was over that year.
I played my senior year, getting taped every afternoon before practices and games but avoided surgery. One night in 1978 I was running laps around Washington Park in Laramie, a few blocks south of my dorm room. It was a great place to run on those windy, cold nights at UW. A lap was 1.2 miles, and I was halfway through my second one when a pickup approached with his high beams on. It blinded me for a second, but that was enough. I didn’t see the softball sized rock on the edge of the road and stepped directly on it. My knee went in the same direction it had five years before in that football game.
Over Christmas break, Dr. John Whipp repaired it, leaving in impressive scar. He did a magnificent job, his work held it together until last Thursday when arthritis and advancing age made it too painful to leave alone.
Dr. Mark McKenna of Premier Bone and Joint in Laramie, carved out the old damaged knee, pulled out the pin that Dr. Whipp put in back in December 1978, and replaced my old joint with a bright shiny, titanium alloy, space age polymer artificial one.
He did the same thing two years ago with my left knee, a victim of freshman basketball practice in the fall of 1971. The improvement was remarkable after a few weeks of physical therapy.
Not surprisingly, all those thoughts came to mind as I put on one of those attractive, open in the back hospital gowns with the tan gripper socks, and the ever fashionable blue stretch head gear. Stylish to say the least.
I write this a few hours after the procedure, which went exceedingly well.
For those who say lifetime sports are more important than team sports, I can say football is a lifetime sport. I’ve felt it every day for almost half-a-century. I was no all star and can only imagine the carnage it left on those kids from long ago when a running back would routinely carry the ball 30 times in a game, and all of us were forced to tackle with our facemask in the numbers, wrecking havoc on the best defensive players on every team with damage to their necks.
In retrospect, tennis, golf, cross country, and track are much sane sports in terms of injuries incurred, but football remains the American game.
Hopefully, the knees come back as they once were, when I was 14, but you and I both know better. I’m just thankful for skilled surgeons who take the time to become artists at their craft. Along with football coaches that teach safer techniques. We now have better shoes, helmets, equipment and braces that have reduced injuries with each passing generation.
One play on a perfect autumn afternoon will remain with me forever.