I broke a school record while playing high school football. I am not bragging, just stating a fact. And the fact of the matter is that being a record holder embarrasses me. I have never signed an autograph because of my feat, nor do I ever want to.
Courtes: ACS Football
When I played high school football (I’m #80 in the photo), I was skinny. I mean skinny. Same height as I am now–just a wee bit lighter in the shoulder pads. I weighed 165 lbs. which isn’t bad for a kicker, but I wasn’t the kicker. I was the starting tight end. I enjoyed tight end because I had good hands and could catch the football. I hated blocking because I usually ended up on my butt pad. But the record that I shattered had nothing to do with being a tight end, hauling in the pigskin, or even butt pads. I broke the record for blocked punts returned for a touchdown in a single game, season, or even career.
We were playing a high school from Kenai, Alaska—one of the top teams in the state. We were not. I think we ended up 1-9 that season, although most of our losses were not blowouts.
The weather was ideal for playing football that afternoon in Kenai, Alaska. As the game progressed, the score was close; we had the ball on third down when one of our offensive linemen was injured. He went down like a horse headed for the glue factory. Now it was fourth down, and we needed to punt.
One problem.
Our incapacitated lineman was also our number one punter. Our backup punter was also our starting right guard. Well, the coaches pulled our back up punter Bobby from his guard spot and moved him back to punt.
Sound confusing? Just wait because this is where the broken record comes into play.
I was the up man on the punt team. I was the guy responsible for calling the signals and then blocking for the punter—sort of the last line of defense to impede the onrushing opposition.
Well, when the coaches pulled Bobby from the offensive line, they did not send in a replacement for him. I noticed this and started screaming to the sidelines, “Wefd nerneds a ndinfeother liernwedman feienror Bodbobyfdy.”
What?
Think back to your last dentist visit, the one where Dr. Mo Lar had a plaque digger and saliva sucker stuck in your mouth and found it a great time to ask you a question.
“Did you go anywhere on your summer vacation?”
“Isrp toghy ajd littwenc.”
And then the good doc would nod as if you had just recited the Gettysburg Address perfectly and that he understood you word for word.
That is precisely what was taking place on the gridiron—when you exchange the plaque digger and saliva sucker with a mouth guard.
The coaches couldn’t understand me. So I yelled it again, and again.
Unfortunately, the football folks on the sidelines never responded.
It was right then and there that I should have called a timeout. But alas, I did not. I went back to my position of being lined up in front of the punter. Remember, Bobby was our second-string punter. Rarely did he ever get this opportunity. He was nervous, so he took a couple of extra steps closer to the center. I looked up and realized that I would have to block two guys instead of the normal one since we were short a lineman. I looked to my left and the guy looked wimpy. I looked to my right and there was a guy old enough to be my long-lost brother. Long-lost much older brother! He sported a fu-manchu moustache and looked like he hadn’t showered in months. He was also breathing loudly and grinning.
This was a problem.
I figured my best chance to get both of the Kenai Cardinals blocked on one play was to dive length-wise and get them around the legs. If performed correctly, it would give Bobby enough time to get the punt off. I took a step and a half back to give myself more time to execute the maneuver.
Think about it.
The punter takes a couple of steps closer, and the up man takes a couple of steps back—and there is where the record was broken.
I called the signals. The snap came back, and then I heard “thump.” This was good because it meant the ball had connected with the punter’s foot. Then I heard “thump” again—which was bad—and something hit the back of my head, knocking me forward and off-balance. I glanced up just in time to see Fu-Manchu collect the punt I had blocked with my helmet and run it in for a touchdown.
I had blocked our own punt with my head and had it returned for a touchdown.
I’m not sure how you would even enter that one in the record books. All of which explains whenever I hear anything going “thump”, I duck and grab my head.
