Blue Bloods of Bois D’Arc (6 page)

Chapter 14

Two-a-days begin.

“It’s already hot because you pissants took all morning drawing your gear,” Coach Haskins drawled as sweat poured down his brow. The tobacco-chewing, overweight coach paced in front of his newly integrated team gathered at midfield. He wasn’t usually much for speeches, but this wasn’t the usual beginning for the veteran coach of twenty years at Bois D’Arc High School.

“We ain’t going to be here long, but we need to get some things straight. Most of you are going to be playing together for the first time this year and we have some new coaches. Most of you know Coach Gilmore here from Booker T. He’s my new assistant and anything he tells you to do, you damn well better do it. Hear that, Freddy Joe? He coached winners at Booker T. and he won’t take nothin’ but a hundred percent effort. Is that clear?”

A long brown stream of tobacco juice from Coach Haskins splattered on Freddy Joe Clyde’s shoe to emphasize that the coach expected no problems from his big fullback, a bigoted troublemaker.

“I don’t know what your mommas and daddies told you at home, but we are
not
, I repeat,
not,
going to have any problems because of some decision a bunch of old farts in Washington, D.C. made. Is that clear? This is a team with only two goals in mind; win our district, number one, and win the state championship, number two. We’ve got the hosses to do it and I won’t accept anythin’ less. Do you understand? Now, gimme ten good laps around the track and be back here at seven o’clock sharp, ready to butt heads and work your asses off.”

Period of adjustment

The two weeks of two-a-days ran smoothly with only a couple of minor flare-ups between Freddy Joe Clyde and Diron Little, a mammoth right tackle and Junior’s best black friend. Rod and Junior quickly emerged as team leaders. They were the catalyst that bonded the first racially integrated team in Bois D’Arc history into a smoothly working unit, on the field at least.

The City Council seemed to be trying to make the change as painless as possible. The landmark sign read: WELCOME TO BOIS D’ARC — THE BLACKEST LAND AND THE WHITEST PEOPLE had been a source of irritation to the black community for years. It had hung at the main entrance south of town as long as anyone could remember. The original intent referred to the rich black gumbo soil farmed by settlers who immigrated from the devastated South after the Civil War. The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) called for its removal on a regular basis. But a recent photo of the sign in
Life Magazine
inflamed the already restless civil rights movement that was sweeping the nation. The time had come. The landmark sign had to go. And it did. It was taken down before school started.

New beginning

“Hey, man.” Junior caught Rod as he entered the Bois D’Arc High School hallway the first day of integration. “You and Cass are the talk of the school, and the whole town, for that matter. Has old man Worthington gone senile or something? I mean he had a fit every time you got near her last year.”

“Nah, he’s got something up his sleeve. Cass says she told him she was going to date me this year whether he liked it or not. Said he just shook his head and never said a word. He’s a cagey old bird and gets whatever he wants. I’m just not sure what he wants from me yet. Probably trying to obligate me to SMU by letting me date Cass, just like Jack said.

“Jack says every year a bunch of the Bois D’Arc SMU alumni get together and put up a thousand dollars each to see who can recruit the number one Blue Chip pick in the
Dallas Herald
. The winner gets his money back, but the rest is put into a fund to defray expenses
and help the recruit adjust to his new campus and super-star status.”

“Is that legal?” Junior asked.

“Probably not, but Jack told me they’ve been doing it for years. They contribute so much money to the school, the Board of Regents just looks the other way. It’s no big deal. Everybody in the conference does it. Some guys joke about having to take a pay cut in the pro draft if you don’t get picked in the first couple of rounds.”

“Man, I sure hope to get in on some of that, and I don’t plan on taking no pay cut either,” Junior said before he ducked into history class.

“See you at practice, money bags,” Rod called after him, then barely made it to English class before the late bell rang.

The final test

For the most part, the Friday night religion of Texas high school football had overcome the apprehension of the new integration order. The mantra was
No True Texan Would Let Integration Get in the Way of Friday Night Football.
Extra bleachers were added to accommodate the anticipated larger crowd. A bright coat of silver paint made all the superstructure glisten under the bright lights. A fresh coat of forest-green for the bleacher seats and a refurbished concession stand put the finishing touches on the new beginning.

When the long-awaited season opener finally came, a deafening roar greeted the newly branded Armadillos in their new black and gold uniforms. They charged onto the field and pranced to the sidelines of the home team stands—clearly, but not intentionally, divided with the black fans on one end and whites on the other end of the stadium. A rousing rendition of the national anthem was performed by the Glee Club, which revved up an audience of eighty-five hundred fans.

“Boys,” Coach Haskins began in the center of the team huddle, “you are playing together for the first time, but you have worked hard for this night. Concentrate, make good decisions, and play smart football. Now let’s pray to the Almighty. God grant these young men a safe game and victory tonight. Amen.”

“We’re number one, we’re number one,” chanted the team as they broke from the huddle and the kickoff receiving team trotted onto the field. The Bois D’Arc co-captains, Rod and Junior, had won the toss and chose to receive.

“It’s an end-over-end kick coming down to the waiting arms of Junior Jefferson on the ten-yard line,” barked Sid Larson, the announcer of Bois D’Arc High School football games for the last twenty-five years. “Junior’s picking up blockers breaking toward the sideline at the thirty.” His voice raised an octave. “He breaks into the clear at the fifty. Nobody can catch him now,” he shouted into the microphone, “and he has a three-man escort to the Smithgrove end zone for a touchdown! Man, what a kickoff return. Looks like the Armadillos are rarin’ to go tonight.”

The Armadillos’ onslaught of Rod’s passing and Junior’s receiving never relented, and the big Bois D’Arc defense completely shut down the Smithgrove Tigers’ offense. Delirious Bois D’Arc fans gave the Armadillos a standing ovation at the final whistle and poured down onto the field to personally congratulate their warriors for the forty-seven to zero destruction of Smithgrove.

“Hey, Junior,” Rod yelled, trying to make himself heard over the deafening victory celebration in the overcrowded, steamy locker room. He gave up and made his way toward Junior’s locker. A six-feet-four, two-hundred-fifty-pound black body in the person of right tackle Diron Little blocked his path.

“Well if it ain’t Mr. Quarterback? Ain’t you in the wrong huddle? Game’s over now, you can go back up there with your lily-white friends. This end of the locker room is ours.”

The locker-room noise died down as Rod was surrounded by the black members of the team whose lockers were all together at the south end of the locker room. “What’s your problem, Diron? I just want to talk to Junior. You played a hell of a game, giving me time to throw to Junior. You all played a hell of a game.”

“What’s up, man?” Junior stepped between the two players.

“I was just telling Diron what a good game he played.” Rod strained to sound calm and cordial to the big tackle he had known for years playing pick-up games in the Flats. “You too, man, you really burned them good. I just wanted to see if you and Lawanda wanted to meet me and Cass at the Sizzle Burger. She’s waiting for me outside. What do you say?”

“Tonight’s kind of special, know what I’m saying?” Junior mumbled through his sweaty jersey as he pulled it over his head. “Big win calls for a big celebration with my boys, know what I mean?” Junior gestured toward the group of players behind him. “Me and the boys got some celebratin’ to do. Maybe we’ll catch you later.”

“Yeah, later. Good game, man.” Rod’s voice trailed off as he walked away. He hated it when Junior performed for the benefit of his black friends in public. He knew Junior would rather have taken Lawanda to meet him and Cass at the Sizzle Burger. That’s just the way it had always been, and integration wasn’t going to change that any time soon. Even with all the show of togetherness by the town, the last thing Bois D’Arc wanted to see was a black couple and a white couple together on a date. Playing football together was one thing, but mixed dating was something the town wasn’t ready to accept.

Chapter 15

Dream season

Three months later, Bois D’Arc had plowed through their ten-game schedule unbeaten and was crowned District IV champion for the first time in the school’s history. The new shotgun offense had been more effective than Coach Haskins ever dreamed. But by the end of the season, opposing teams stacked their defenses to slow down the Bois D’Arc air attack. Bois D’Arc played all the way to the state semifinals, edged Park Haven thirty-four to twenty-eight in a hard-fought game, and advanced to the state championship game against Tindale. The championship contest matched the only two unbeaten teams left in the state.

Tindale lived up to its name, The Thundering Buffaloes. For most of four quarters, they disrupted the Armadillos’ smooth-working offense with a hard-charging line that outweighed the Armadillos by an average of twenty-five pounds a man. Rod was relentlessly pressured every down, and Junior was double-teamed in the secondary all night.

With less than two minutes in the game, the Armadillos trailed seventeen to thirteen with the ball resting on their own twelve-yard line. Rod looked to sidelines for Coach Haskins to signal the play. Instead, Butch Talbert, a tight end, came running onto the field and poked his head into the huddle. “Coach said run twenty-four, fake left, screen right,” Butch said, panting.

“Hell, they’ll be looking for a pass and a screen is too dangerous this close to our goal line. Okay, here’s what we’re going to run. Quarterback draw on two.”

“But Coach said . . .” Butch objected.

“Quarterback draw, damn it.” Rod put his hand on big Diron Little’s shoulder pad and said, “Take that tackle left and Hoskins, snap the ball on set-hut and push that trash-talking nose guard to the right and drill him into the ground. Let’s do it. Break.”

The stadium fans were on their feet screaming as Rod twisted his way through the surprised Buffaloes’ defense for a first down at the thirty-eight-yard line. The clock was stopped at thirty-five seconds to move the chains. Rod called their final time out and ran to the sideline in response to Coach Haskins’s flailing arms.

“Coach, they were expecting the screen,” Rod exclaimed before he reached the sidelines.

“All right, son, you lucked out that time, but if you ever do that again, I’ll pull you out of there so fast it’ll make your head spin, you got that? Now, get back in there and run fake sweep right, forty-one pitch deep pass. Got it?” Then he gave Rod two additional pass plays if they had time.

Rod trotted back to the team huddle and dropped to one knee in the center of the cloud of steam rising from the players on the cold December night. “Okay, this is it. Only time for one more play and it’s for our first state championship, fake sweep right, forty-one pitch deep pass.” Rod turned to his fullback, the only other back in the formation. “Freddy Joe, you make damn sure they believe you’re going to run it when you get the handoff. Suck them in on you before you pitch back to me. Junior needs time to get deep. Make it work on a four count and hope they jump offside. On four, break.”

Rod barked the signals, “Hut-one, hut-two, hut-three in quick succession.” The Buffaloes weren’t buying the fast cadence and didn’t move a muscle. At hut-four, he took the direct snap and handed off to Freddy Joe moving to his right. Rod trailed behind Freddy Joe, dropping back a few yards deeper and looked for Junior as he waited for the pitch. Freddy Joe sucked in the defense as planned, but was hit as he attempted the pitch back. The ball bounced on the cold hard turf. Rod had to break his stride to pick up the ball on its second bounce. The Buffaloes’ right defensive end crashed past his blocker. Rod was forced to drop back to his own twenty-yard line with three big Buffaloes in hot pursuit. He saw Junior pulling away from the defensive back that had been dogging him all night, and he fired the pass just as he was hit. That’s the last thing he remembered. Draped with three grunting linemen, Rod found himself driven into the turf under a mountain of sweaty Buffalo beef.

Two hours later, Rod couldn’t focus as he squinted around the room under the glaring lights.
The stadium lights never seemed that bright before
, he thought. And there was stone silence except for a little beeping sound. He reached up to pull his helmet off and grabbed what he thought was his face guard. It didn’t move when he tried to lift it off. Still unable to focus very well at the blur of body shapes around him, Rod asked, “What’s going on? Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital,” Coach Haskins said. “You took a hell of a hit after you threw that pass. Do you remember anything after that?”

“No.” His vision slowly cleared. “Cass, is that you? Mom? Jessica? Mark? Jack? What’s everybody doing here?”

A tall, gray-haired gentleman in a long, white coat parted the crowd gathered around his bed. “Hello, Rod, I’m Dr. Clark, a neurosurgeon. I have some good news and bad news for you. The good news is you aren’t going to be paralyzed, just very sore, and you must do physical therapy for a couple of months. The bad news is you suffered a concussion and a hairline cervical fracture. Your third vertebrae took most of the impact. Fortunately, there was no permanent damage to the spinal cord, but your neck ligaments and that fracture need time to heal,” Dr. Clark said with emphasis.

“Your neck will have to be immobilized in that halo brace until the swelling goes down and the injury is completely healed. That could take as long as ten to twelve weeks, depending on how your therapy progresses. But I’m afraid your football-playing days are over. Another hit like that could paralyze you permanently from the neck down. It’s just too risky. I’m sorry, son. We will keep you here a few days for observation. You can go home by the end of the week. Limit your physical activity, no driving or heavy lifting when you get home. Don’t worry, I’ll give you full instructions and set up your physical therapy schedule when you’re discharged.”

Rod lay helpless in traction with a halo brace attached to his head with screws drilled into his skull, and strapped to his body in a harness restricting any movement of his head in any direction.

“Physical therapy, what’s the point? I can’t play football anymore. Might as well compete in the wheelchair races at the nursing home.” Rod tried to turn his head aside but couldn’t because of is halo brace. He fought back tears, refusing to be embarrassed in front of his coach, friends, and family.

“Look at the bright side,” Coach Haskins said, trying to cheer Rod up. “Junior caught your pass and took it in to score dragging the Buffaloes’ defensive back with him. We won state for the first time in the history of Bois D’Arc High School on that last touchdown throw. You carried us on your back all season, son. You can take your pick of . . .” Coach caught himself before he finished his sentence.

“I’ll help you with your therapy,” Cass chimed in quickly to fill the silent void. “Be your chauffeur and have you out of that halo brace in time for the prom.”

“You mean you’d still want to go to the prom with a cripple?” Rod said, overwhelmed with self-pity.

“I think he has had enough company for now,” Dr. Clark said. “You folks can come back tomorrow, but for now he needs rest.”

Everyone except Cass started for the door. She leaned over and carefully gave Rod a soft kiss on the lips and whispered, “Don’t worry, you’ll be out of that brace by spring and back on the number nine green with me.” She winked as she stepped away. “See you tomorrow. I love you.”