March 18, 2013
9 of 65
SPORTS
I recently heard that we are approaching the 30th anniversary of the release of the Sports album by Huey Lewis and the News. As exciting as that may be, I am writing here about something completely different. Here the word “sports” has its traditional meaning of engaging in athletic activity that requires some skill and involves competition.
Sports were always important in our family, largely because my father was a great fan. When my brothers and I were growing up, we did not have the many youth sports programs that are ubiquitous today. Arvada did have “little league” teams (though not associated with the international Little League – in capital letters – organization), organized by age group, that competed with other Jefferson County communities. There was no youth football or basketball or soccer or lacrosse, etc.
As soon as I was old enough – I believe it was 8 years old at that time – I began playing. For a few years, I really loved baseball. I was not a great athlete. I played outfield sometimes and third base at other times. Some years I was a fairly good hitter while in others I struggled to get my bat near the ball. Once when I was 11 or perhaps 12, I managed to hit a home run, a triple, a double and a single all in one game. More than half a century later, I always think back to that game whenever I pass the field on West Colfax where it was played.
My brother Lonny started playing a year after me, and our father volunteered to coach his team. He also coached my brother Jim’s team a few years later; and after all three of us were grown beyond youth sports, he continued to coach the St. Anne’s School team. He just loved coaching, and was good at it.
When I was in 9th Grade, I tried out for the baseball team at Regis High School, which I attended for one year. I worked very hard, but I was cut before the season started. The most memorable part of the experience was my effort to impress the coaches with a beautiful shoestring catch of a low line drive. Unfortunately, I couldn’t quite get my glove to the ball and the line drive – a hard, low line drive – struck the end of my big toe. My toe nail was broken, it soon fell off and it still has not grown back normally. I don’t think it is going to.
Though we had no organized youth football, my friends and I did play the game regularly at recess and on weekends. In 8th grade, I was attending Drake Junior High, which had both an 8th grade and a 9th grade football team. I went out for the team, as did many other students. There were quite a few more players than there were uniforms or pads. One problem with having a last name beginning with “W” is that it is nearly at the end of the alphabet. I was not one of the players given a uniform. I was allowed to practice as one of the kids who was not wearing pads while others were. I participated in a one-on-one tackling drill in which one player carried the ball toward another who was to tackle the ball carrier. I lined up opposite Tom Brown, who was our starting fullback and whose name began with “B.” He was wearing pads; I was not. When Tom ran at me, I managed to grab him and wrestle him to the ground – after being dragged a short distance. When I ran at him, he tried to tackle me, but I hesitated, changed directions and ran around him. That move impressed the coach and I was given pads and a uniform so I could suit up for our first game. I didn’t even know what position I was going to play, but I was certainly happy to participate. For my first play, I was sent in on the defensive line when the other team was preparing to punt. I blocked that punt! It felt good, even as my hand stung for few minutes. We only played one or two other games. They were fun, though nothing worth writing about 50-some years later.
I went out for football my first year at Arvada West High School, in 10th grade, and learned right away that high school football is fundamentally different than the fun way I had played it all my life. On the very first day of practice, the coach addressed a group of us who had been participating in a drill. He said, “The way you ‘ladies’ are dancing around out there, the only blood you’re going to see this season will be from picking your nose too hard.” I was disappointed. I wasn’t playing to see blood. I wanted to score touchdowns and things. A couple of days later, I injured my ankle and had to sit out for a day or two. That gave me time to realize I didn’t enjoy the going-for-blood brand of football. I quit the team and played sometimes touch, sometimes tackle games with friends on weekends. Sometimes we drew a little blood, it’s true, but the emphasis was on scoring touchdowns and other fun things.
During that sophomore year of high school, I decided that I would like to try distance running. At that time, there was a belief that it would be harmful for a teenager to run what would really qualify as a long distance. The longest race during track season was one mile (and that was just for the boys; girls were not allowed to run at all). I went out for track that year as a miler.
Cross country was run in the Fall, with each race being a mile and a half. The mile in the Spring and the mile and a half in the Fall were the longest races we had. I competed in track all three years of high school and in cross country my last two. I was eventually able to run about a 5 minute mile. That is considered a decent time, nothing outstanding. For me, though, it was an all-out sprint. I have never been very fast. I wanted to run a race that was long enough I could rely on my endurance.
Since graduating from high school, my primary athletic activity has been running – almost always more than a mile, and sometimes longer than a marathon. The next set of stories I relate will focus on running.
Since leaving school, I have played in an adult softball league; I’ve enjoyed skiing; I coached my son Michael’s youth baseball team; I was on a bowling team for a year; I’ve played some tennis. Most people do those things, of course. They are fun. Like most people, I participate for the fun – to score touchdowns and things – not to see the blood.