The setting returns to me like a boomerang thrown 13 years ago. It’s a mid-day recess during my sixth-grade year at Wolf Branch Middle School in Swansea, Ill. You remember sixth grade, when it was cool to spew the vile
The setting returns to me like a boomerang thrown 13 years ago.
It’s a mid-day recess during my sixth-grade year at Wolf Branch Middle School in Swansea, Ill. You remember sixth grade, when it was cool to spew the vile language of a drunken seaman because the words were new and fresh. Well I was hearing them all; some were directed at me, some were directed at the situation: there was only one football and there could be just one quarterback.
It wasn’t long before one of the playground monitors had to separate 12-year-old boys from fighting over who got to take the snap, read the defense and attempt to throw the elusive tight spiral. We were all Joe Montana.
Every male in my middle-school circle swirled the pipe dream ’round his head. We all thought we had what it took to be a quarterback. Back then that meant hitting your friend on a wide-open crossing pattern because his defender was more interested in looking at girls than blanketing the play. Every completed pass grew our egos. We never got sacked because eluding the chubby slow kids elected to play linemen was about like juking an inanimate object.
Back then there was enough glamour under center to go around.
Truth is, 100 of those slow lineman from my youth had more potential to make it than one of us QBs.
There were 15 guys who attended the first day of tryouts for the freshman football team at my high school. Fifteen 14 year olds thought they had what it took to direct an offensive unit and lead a team. I was one of them.
Then the coaches got the pads out and people started getting hit — and hurt. I didn’t play Pop Warner; I’d never been hit full on, had the ire of 11 boys channeled into my chest. On the first day of the second week of tryouts, the offensive line — my battalion of strength — fizzled like cola foam. A linebacker swung around the left end, my blind side, and tattooed the small of my back. I watched the rest of practice from the prone position on the sideline, then decided to focus my athletic exploits on basketball.
But one individual made it, was successful, then commanded the junior varsity team his sophomore year. He spent his junior and senior seasons captaining the varsity squad. I don’t remember his name, but he is a golden figure in my mind. They all are, aren’t they? Every high school quarterback — chiseled jawline, sure-fire swagger.
So few of them are adopted by colleges and universities. It’s simply a matter of the pyramid process. On the high-school level, many can at least survive. But only the fittest of them proceed to the collegiate plane, where, if at a major institution, the quarterback may go from known in his city — or cornfield town — to judged by a country. There was no football team at the college I attended, but the University of Florida and Florida State weren’t far away. I covered the programs for the newspaper in St. Augustine, Fla.
Unless you’ve been up close and personal with a QB from a school like either of those, it’s hard to appreciate that to which they are both entitled and subjected.
Instant fame and bitter judgment, respectively.
When the quarterback enters the media room all attention turns, and it’s easy to forget the boy is just 18 years old, or 20 or whatever. If he has had a bad game, he endures the media’s scrutiny, saying, for the most part, the right things, but occasionally tripping over his words.
To look at these quarterbacks after a loss, I often imagined they wished for grade school all over again, when the linemen weren’t so big and didn’t hit so hard. And the only criticism they received was from some 12-year-old receiver with two left feet who swore he was open on the fade route to the corner of the end zone.
If these quarterbacks are able to stand the spotlight, and then excel within its parameters — while also showing a penchant for playbook memorization, mobility, decision making and linebacker absorbing — they may find they are drafted into the NFL. Or at least given a chance to try out at a pro camp.
If he hearkens back to his high school days and manages the courage and “sticktuitiveness” to make the roster, then he, by standards, is deemed one of the top 100 quarterbacks in the world.
Now everything changes. The playbook puts Gone with the Wind to shame, the defenses comprise some of the best athletes in the world — all looking to chew him up and spit him out — and family members emerge from the woodwork with open palms.
The thrill of competition that drove all of us boys to grip a ball by the laces and work tirelessly on tossing that first spiral now pays the bills for our mock QB. He has reached the pinnacle of his profession.
If he excels even at that level, truly stands out as an elite among the elite, he ends up on Kaua’i in early February for the Quarterback Challenge. It’s a made-for-television event, a promotional tool for the league, but only the best can join.
For a moment, those multi-millionaires will stand out on the field at Vidinha Stadium, forgetting the linemen and the playbooks and the major-market media. They’ll let the tension run from their shoulders, grip the laces on an official Wilson and try to throw spirals long and accurate.
Just like we all used to do in grade school.
