Roughriders on the Storm

Hot August night. 1993. Ames, Iowa. The Theodore Roosevelt Rough Riders from Des Moines, IA exit the bus. Navy blue pants, jerseys and helmets get lost in the dark night. Only white stripes, jersey numbers and the word Riders contrast the Navy of the rest of the uniforms. This is the first football game of my last season of high school football, and it is going to be a tough one. The Ames High School Little Cyclones were last year’s state runners-up. Last year we made great strides in improving from 2-7 to 4-5, but blew a chance at the playoffs by losing our last three games in the fourth quarter. No one gives us a chance to win tonight.

The Rough Riders line up in fours and march to the stadium. Ames’ stadium seems to be in the middle of nowhere. In Des Moines, the two stadiums, which are shared by five public high schools, are in urban areas. There are streetlights, cars, usually police sirens, and skyscrapers in the background. Here, on the edge of Ames, we are surrounded only by fields. The light towers look like a tall crop towering over the corn and soybeans. As we march into the stadium, the home half of the bleachers boos. They are full to the rafters and bustle with activity. Cheerleaders are thrown into the air, children run around in groups, and people of all ages look intently to the field as Ames’ players warm up on the field. I never understood Ames’ school colors. A maroon that is more brown than red, and the dullest ugly yellowish gold. Iowa State, Ames’ hometown University uses bright red and shiny gold. I believe that Ames High School wants to emulate them, but their colors are so dull it puts you to sleep.

In the visitors’ stands, two small bubbles of fans sit apart from each other. To the south, about a dozen students dance and laugh and sing. To the north, about twenty parents sit and watch. Inner city public schools don’t send their marching bands or cheerleaders on road games, but my friend Cade, the lead trumpeter in the high school band is there. As we enter the stadium he begins The TRHS Fight Song. A lone trumpet can’t compete with an entire marching band and Cade’s solo is soon drowned out by "Ames High Aims High."

After group calisthenics the Rough Riders break up by position to warm up. The offensive line groups up in the north end zone. I take the opportunity to pluck some “Touchdown Grass” and slip it in my sock, a tradition I’d followed since freshman year. I go through our drills with exact precision, showing our o-line coach Mr. Nickerson that his decision to switch me from left tackle to left guard was going to prove to be a grave mistake. After running a drill, Nickerson grabs me by the face mask. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

“You’d better be.”

A few minutes before kickoff our team gathers together around captain linebacker D.J. Moore. Moore barks and we chant back.

“Riders!”

“Huah”

“Riders!”

“Huah!”

We place our hands together in the center of the circle. “One, Two, Three!”
“Together!” The next few minutes consist of typical motivational rhetoric being spewed from the mouths of seniors and coaches. “This is the moment we’ve been waiting for!” “Get your game faces on!” If Bill Parcels were here, he’s surely tell us that “This is why [we] lift all those god damned weights.” Hands slap heads, butts and other hands. Then the attention turns to the field as the coin toss goes down.

The Referee doesn’t have a microphone like in the NFL so we have to rely on watching his motions. He taps an Ames player on the shoulder, then waves his hands across his chest. They deferred. The Ref the taps our player on the shoulder, and makes a catching motion with his arms. We’ll be getting the ball first. That means I have to be on kickoff return. This is something I’ve never done before.

Prior to this year, starters didn’t have to play on special teams. I don’t know if we just had less talented bench warmers, or if I had done something wrong, but myself and left tackle T.J. Genzen were both in the front five. We hustled onto the field and huddled up. Return man and starting tailback Matt Casebolt checked the signals from the sidelines, then turned to the huddle and told us “Return Left, Return Left.” We broke the huddle in unison with a “Break” and lined up to receive the kick.

I line up between T.J. and backup center Troy Ferring on the 45 yard line. Ten yards ahead of us, eleven Ames Little Cyclones stand ready to charge. Two our left several thousand voices holler out in unison “Hooooooooe.” The marching band drum rolls and a thousand sets of house keys jingle to create quite a wall of sound attacking our ears and psyche. Number forty-five raises his hand. The kicker begins running up. Boot! The ball sails over my head. I turn around and sprint backwards towards Casebolt, who is deep to receive the kick. “Case” is a junior and this is his first varsity game, time for him to show us what he’s made of. “Case” catches the ball and myself and the other blockers turn around to face the onslaught. A tall, slender player is right in front of me. I plow into him. As we struggle with each other, footsteps rush past me and I hear cheering from our sidelines. I try to disengage from my blockee and get to where the action is, but the whistles start blowing before I can.

“Kick returned my Matt Casebolt to the forty four yard line. A thirty three yard gain. First and ten, Roosevelt”

God’s voice comes down from the P.A. letting me know what happened while I was blocking. Awesome “Case” that’s what I’m talking about! I run to him, pat him on the ass and hustle to the huddle.

I take my place between T.J. and starting center Nelson Armbrester, and grab each of their hands. Oh my God I’m out of breath! Gasp! What happened? Had I slagged off during practice? I did all my wind sprints! Gasp! This is horrible. I hope I can play! Gasp! The hot air sears the inside of my lungs. Gasp! My air sacs are being ripped apart! I must have thought I was hot shit because I am a senior and not gotten myself in football shape!

Miles Curnes, our starting hand-offer comes to the huddle. “I right, 26 trap on one, on one.” He tells us the play and we break the huddle with a unified “break!” I gasp up to the line and take my stance. 26 trap is an easy play for me, I double team the nose guard and the other guard pulls across the center and tries to catch the defensive tackle off guard. We always open up the game with this play, and if Ames has watched our film, they know this. Fullback Bob Annextad will ram straight into my ass. He is a great blocker, but dumb as an ox with the ball in his hands.

“Down! Set! Hut!”

Nelson and I slam into the nose guard and push him five yards. This domination gives me opportunity not only to avoid an ass slam by Bob, but to slide off and clip the backside linebacker. Footsteps rush past me and the whistle blows. I gasp for breath, try to put on a tough face and get ready to go back to the huddle.

“Bob Annextad the ball carrier. An eleven yard gain. First and ten Roosevelt!”

Holy shit, eleven yards? Nice one Bob! He’s never done that before. As he comes back to the huddle, I slap him on the helmet. Miles comes to the huddle. “I right 36 Iso on one, on one.” Another double team, thank god. I can’t breathe. Can’t let Ames or Coach “Nick” know. Gasp.

“Break!” Run up to the line. Take my stance.

“Down! Set! Hut!”

Footsteps rush past me before I can even block the nose guard. God damn “Case” is a fast mother fucker!”

“Matt Casebolt for 13 yards. First and ten Roosevelt.”

What the hell is going on? We’re slaughtering them! The excitement has made it to my adrenal glands and I’m able to breathe better. I even holler out “Whoo!”

Another huddle. Miles says “I right, 60 pass on one on one.”

“What? Its first down! We’re running all over them! Why pass?”

Miles had been the quarterback on every football team I’d been on since Pop Warner and he sucked. He was the first kid to hit puberty and was an incredible athlete. He couldn’t throw, though, and his passes either hit the ground, or where caught, by the other team. I could only hope that this 60 pass would end up the former, and not the latter, so we could go back to running all over them on the ground.

“Down! Set! Hut!”

No one was lined up against me so I looked to help “Nelly” or T.J. T.J’s man beat him to the inside but ran straight into the impenetrable wall of #50, Matt Mitchell. After I knocked the Little Cyclone on his rear, I heard cheers. Fuck! Another interception. Wait! Those cheers were from our sidelines. What the hell happened while I was blocking? I tried to look downfield but I couldn’t see.

“Touchdown Roosevelt. #80 Robbie Bogguss from Miles Curnes for a twenty yard gain!”

“Wooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”

I had no trouble breathing as I ran to the end-zone faster than I’d ever run before, looking for the sophomore tight end who’d just turned around my football career! Seven other riders were already ganging up on him, so I found Miles. I grabbed him by the neck and almost popped his head clean off.

Back on the sidelines the offense grouped up while the extra point went through. Robbie took his helmet off and I slapped him on top of the head thirteen times while screaming “Superstar” over and over again. This had happened once before. Sophomore year we got out ahead of Dowling, the local Catholic school who seems to win a state title at least twice a year. We ran a reverse and scored on a fluke to take a 7-0 lead. It didn’t last long and we lost 42-7. I expected Ames to score quickly and take the lead, but that didn’t happen.

We barely had time to breathe before Ames was forced to punt. Our defense was hard. These guys were from the streets, the streets of Des Moines yes, but still from the streets. They had an intimidating presence, especially to white bread small town teams like Ames.

The punt went out of bounds and we were back on the field. A couple of runs went no where and a pass hit the ground. We had to punt. The rest of the first half was like this. Three and outs for both sides. Time seemed to lose its meaning. We were holding this lead. We went in to halftime with a 7-0 lead.

I don’t even remember halftime, or the third quarter. It was like a dream. Everyone kept punting, I know this for a fact. Then, in the fourth quarter, something funny started to happen. Ames started to move the ball. They had this weird play where the quarterback would move down the line , find a hole, and bust up the field. It was like an option, but in slow motion, and he never pitched. After getting creamed all game, the play started to work. Once in a while, he wouldn’t bust up the field, but drop back and hit a wide open tight end for a first down. It was cheap, ludicrous and barely football, but it finally started to work.

On our sidelines things got hectic. Coaches tried to get their words to the players by yelling.

“Watch the screen, watch the draw!”

“That’s too much on first down!”

“God Damn it Tice get your ass back there in cover two!”

Ames made it down to the 2 yard line, first and goal. From my spot on the sidelines, the goal line seemed a million miles away. First down, they run that stupid quarterback play. No gain! Second down, same play. No gain! Third down, they run it again, no he’s dropping back. Shit! Tight end’s open. Tie ballgame.

You’d have thought that they just won the Superbowl. The crowd erupted. "Ames High Aims High" went off again. Time regained its meaning, literally. Five minutes left in the fourth quarter. Plenty of time if we could recapture the magic of that first drive. Another Kickoff return. Surely “Case” would break one like he did before. They didn’t even kick it to him. The squib kick bounced along the ground and Chris Crawford picked it up. Chris Crawford? He’s on the field?

The huddle, 26 trap, no gain. Another huddle ,36 Iso, a few yards, not enough. 60 pass on third down. Our play calling was certainly unimaginative. I ran off the field in favor of the punt team. David Reed booted another decent kick. He’d kept us in this one, that’s for sure. Three and a half minutes were left. Too much time.

Ames’ last drive was a mirror image of the one prior. That God Damned quarterback play got them down to the goal line . The quarterback took the snap on first down, went down the line and stuffed his way into all the linemen. From the sidelines we couldn’t see. Whistles blew. The Head Linesman came rushing in. He dived into the pile. It was a scrum. Thirty six seconds were left on the clock, not enough time for us with our shitty quarterback. If Ames scored it was over.

The official came out of the pile. We watched from the sidelines with baited breath. Two arms in the air. Touchdown. Bullshit! It probably wasn’t bullshit. Ames had beat us. We’d go 4-5 again that season, but without the improvement that is a shitty record. My football glory days were behind me the second that shitty Ames quarterback scored on that shitty Ames quarterback play. Luckily I had a few more glory days ahead of me.