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Letter Jackets as the Double Sided Relic of a Football Star
Almost every time I travel to my hometown for a few days, I find
myself driving the town streets and always pulling through at
least two roads that outline the town square. I never know why
I am doing it or what I am looking for; there is just a pull to
go see and be seen. Concluding his novel Bleachers, John Grisham
writes of the once estranged, and perpetually disillusioned, has-been
high school quarterback, Neely Crenshaw:
He drove around the empty square,
then through the back streets until he found the gravel trail.
He parked on Karr’s Hill, and for an hour sat on the hood,
watching and listening to the [football] game in the distance…The
past was finally gone now…Neely was tired of the memories
and broken dreams. Give it up, he told himself. You’ll never
be the hero again. Those days are gone now.
This fiction novel introduces
a star high school quarterback who accepted a full-ride scholarship
15 years prior and was propelled to national stardom, only to
suffer a career-ending injury in his sophomore year that turned
him into just another regular guy overnight. He spent 15 years
avoiding his hometown and the football memories that haunt its
streets and cafes.
* * *
This spring, retired Sun Times
reporter, Taylor Bell, called me for an interview. He is writing
a book on high school football for University of Illinois Press.
I was happy to oblige and answered his questions, trying to ignore
the knot in my stomach that customarily accompanies such discussion.
I caught him off guard when I began talking about the let down
that inevitably confronts a young man leaving a prominent high
school football career behind. He kept trying to get me back on
track, prodding me with questions he built the desired answers
right into: “But you appreciate the experiences, right?
It was still a great time, right?” Etc. I do, and it was,
yes; but that is only part of the story, and unfortunately the
only one that is usually told. Grisham articulates the uglier
side of the story well, starting with the anticipation a boy experiences
growing up in a football town:
You count the years until you get a varsity jersey, then you’re
a hero, an idol, a cocky bastard because in this town you can
do no wrong. You win and win and you’re the king of your
own little world, then poof, it’s gone. You play your
last game and everybody cries. You can’t believe it’s
over. Then another team comes right behind you and you’re
forgotten.
Walking through his old high school and seeing a football player
wearing a letter jacket, Neely sees the precious garb for the
duality it will come to represent—pride in the past:
[After] your fabulous career is a footnote…the jacket
will still be a source of great personal pride, but you won’t
be able to wear it (emphasis mine).
The quotes above underscore transitions that kids go through
without direction. I was taught to grow up a football player,
act respectful in public, always be willing to smile, shake a
local hand and offer a few humble anecdotes on the team’s
present condition: “Yes sir, if we passed a little more
it certainly would help the offense. But if we play to our potential,
we can play with anyone, regardless. It should be a fun year.
Thanks for your support.” Once I showed promise, I was taught
to be a star, to wear the smile and be important. My hometown
only has 2,700 citizens and the greater Peoria, Illinois area
is far from one of the world’s center stages. But that is
the world I grew up in. That was my arena, and for a time growing
up, I was well known throughout my “world.” It doesn’t
matter how humble I tried to be, before too long I became convinced
that I was, indeed, pretty important. And just as everyone expected,
I rode out of town after graduation on a football-paid, free trip
to a respectable university where I would learn even bigger dreams.
Enter Division 1A football, freshman year: file in, let them tag
your ear and assign your number. Then take your place among 100
other former high school football stars.
Enter class schedules, a football program that is a full-time
job, a tiny room to call home and an annoying roommate.
Enter a nagging injury and the inability to prove yourself on
the playing field.
Enter the insecurity and anxiety of wondering if you will ever
play again.
Enter a world where no one cares if it is you that takes the snaps,
as long as some capable person does.
Enter the end to a once promising career.
Enter the real world, of which you are just one regular member
among billions.
If you never played football in a football town, this all may
seem very melodramatic; and it is. You may also smugly muse about
how you knew all along that us high school football stars were
not anything special in the larger scheme of things, and you are
right. But your musings and prior understanding are irrelevant
to the psyche and emotional conditions of a star athlete whose
world, identity and self-worth drop out from under him. This creates
wounds.
My old teammates and I rarely talk about football at all. We don’t
watch old game film, relive “famous” drives or try
to figure out how we could have won that last state championship.
We don’t relish in the faded glory and we bury more than
we unearth about those fleeting moments we spent in a uniform.
When the topic does come up, it is either deflected altogether
or quickly redirected to tell a funny story about locker room
incidents or activities that have little to do with the games
and glory. I came to terms with the reason for this as I read
Bleachers. On many occasions throughout, I fought off tears and
gradually realized the simple truth: it hurts.
It hurts to lose a part of your life that consumed so many sleepless
nights, grueling days of workouts, and years of preparation and
anticipation. It hurts to lose your role in a community (i.e.
a team) that people respect and revere. It is hard to meet a life
where people no longer care what you are doing, where you are
going and how you will get there. Losing football to a normal
life of grinding indifference is a loss, just as losing a loved
one or a good job is a loss. It takes time to recover, especially
when you are not prepared for the transition. When I was 19 years
old, I was not ready to become just another face in a crowd. I
depended on others for affirmation and self-respect. An unhealthy
arrangement, yes, but it was my reality nonetheless, and when
everything disappeared, I was left to deal with it on my own.
Neely sat on a porch talking to an ex-girlfriend from high school
about his life following football’s conclusion:
“So you became just a regular
person, like the rest of us?”
“I guess, but with a lot of baggage. Being a forgotten hero
is not easy.”
“And you’re still adjusting?”
“When you’re famous at eighteen, you spend the rest
of your life fading away. You dream of glory days, but you know
they’re gone forever. I wish I’d never seen a football.”
Sometimes I wish I had never seen a football. I would have avoided
a lot of disappointment and I’d have two good shoulders
instead of one. But it’s not true. Like the letter jacket,
football remains a great source of pride to me and I will never
forget the accomplishments and the experiences that are sewed
into it. But it hangs neatly in a closet somewhere, draped in
plastic, and I will never be able to wear it again. The memories,
no matter how good, are always accompanied by the grief of disappointment
and loss. Sometimes it is just easier to avoid the good ones too,
so as not to be reminded of the bad.
So what do you do when football no longer offers purpose and popularity?
Learn to play guitar and write songs, of course. Maybe someone
walking through that town square will recognize me for the music
now…
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