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I’ll never forget the day, the summer before my junior year, when Billy Golling had a seizure in the middle of a two-point conversion. Heat stroke.
That’ll never happen to one of my kids. I won’t let it.
But the fundamentals of this game haven’t changed. It’s brotherhood, mentorship, hero worship—it’s dirt and grass, confidence and pain. It’s hard . . . it takes real commitment and real sweat. The best things in life always do.
We spend practice breaking them down, like in the military, then building them up into the champions they can be. And the kids love it. They want us to scream at them, direct them—fucking coach them. Because they know in their hearts if we didn’t care, if we didn’t see their potential, we wouldn’t bother yelling at them.
We treat them like warriors, and on the field . . . they play like kings.
That’s how it worked with me—that’s how it works now.
“No, no, no—god damn it, O’Riley! You drop that ball again, I’ll have you doing suicides until you can’t see straight!”
Dean Walker is my offensive coach. He’s also my second-place best friend, after Snoopy. He was my go-to receiver in high school, and together we were an unbeatable combination. Unlike me, he didn’t play football in college; he majored in math—and is now the AP math teacher at Lakeside.
Dean’s a real Clark Kent kind of guy, depending on the time of year. He’s a drummer in a band—having summers off allows him to tour all the local haunts up and down the Jersey shore. But from the end of August through June, he hangs up the drumsticks, puts on his glasses, and assumes the Mr. Walker, math-teacher-extraordinaire persona.
He grabs O’Riley’s face mask. “You’re pulling a Lenny! Stop squeezing the puppy to death!”
Some players are chokers—they freeze up when a big moment arrives. Others, like our sophomore receiver Nick O’Riley, are what I call clenchers. They’re too eager, too rough, they clasp the ball too hard, making it easy to fumble the minute another player taps them.
“I don’t know what that means, Coach Walker,” O’Riley grunts around his mouthpiece.
“Lenny—Of Mice and Men—read a frigging book once in a while,” Dean shouts back. “You’re holding the ball too tight. What happens if you squeeze an egg too hard?”
“It cracks, Coach.”
“Exactly. Hold the ball like an egg.” Dean demonstrates with the ball in his hands. “Firm and secure—but don’t strangle the bastard.”
I have a better idea. “Snoopy, come here!”
Snoopy loves football practice. He runs around the field and herds the players like a sheepdog. In a white furry blur he runs and leaps into my arms.
Then I put him in O’Riley’s. “Snoopy’s your football. You hold him too tight, or drop him, he’ll bite your ass.” I point down field. “Now run.”
Across the field, my defensive coach barks at my starting line. “What the hell was that?”
Jerry Dorfman is a former all-state defensive back and a decorated marine. “I piss harder than you’re hitting! Get the lead out! Stop acting like pussies!”
He’s also Lakeside’s only guidance counselor and our emotional management therapist.
So . . . yeah.
~ ~ ~
A few hours later, when the air is cooler and the sun is on its downward descent, and the team is hydrating and the field is quieter, I watch my quarterback, Lipinski, throw long passes to my wide receiver, DJ King. I check their feet, their form, every move they make—looking for weakness or error and finding none.
Watching them reminds me of why I love this game. Why I always have.
It’s those seconds of perfect clarity—when time freezes and even your heartbeat stops. The only sound is your own breath echoing in your helmet and the only two people on the field are you and your receiver. Your vision becomes eagle-focused and everything snaps into place. And you know—you feel it in your bones—that now, now is the time. The raw energy, the strength, rushes up your spine, and you step back, pump your arm . . . and throw.
And the ball flies, swirls beautifully, not defying gravity but owning it—landing right where you’ve commanded it to go. Like you’re a master, the god of the air and sky.
And everything about it is perfect.
Perfect throw, perfect choreographed dance . . . the perfect play.
I clap my hands and pat DJ’s back as he comes in. “Nice!” I tap Lipinski’s helmet. “Beautiful! That’s how it’s done.”
And Lipinski . . . rolls his eyes.
It’s quick and shielded by his helmet, but I catch it. And I pause, open my mouth to call the little shit out . . . and then I close it. Because Lipinski is a senior, he’s feeling his oats—that cocksure, adrenaline-fueled superiority that comes with being the best and knowing it. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I was an arrogant little prick myself, and it worked out well for me.
