Clark Coleman

Robert E. Peary Football, ’70-’71

Mar 07

LisaGlory Days, In Memory of Clark Wesley Coleman athlete, football, Glory Days, high school football, Robert E. Peary High School 7 Comments

My high school years were about to begin…year, early 70s we’ll say. Angst, as with most sophomores whether admitted or not, is the norm.

August begins football, nationwide, for high school. My future Alma Mater Robert E. Peary was no different. As it was two junior high schools that fed new sophomores into one high school, Parkland had been mine.

So now potential teammates came together where as the previous year they were foes in sports.

I was somewhat different then most of the boys that summer, gathered to vie for a spot on a powerhouse in sports in the Washington D.C. metro area—an area covering D.C., Northern Virginia and Southern Maryland.

Peary in all manor sports, and even minor ones, were considered favorites each year. This year for football was no different.

The junior varsity, for which I hoped for a spot, was 24-0 over the last 3 years. Sophomores played JV, that was it. Not until the junior year did you play varsity, and then if you made it.

Rare was the junior starter.

So back to the uniqueness of me compared to other hopefuls. While I had always played pick-up games—played all games growing up—my daddy had spent nights after work throwing the ball around, baseball, basketball, football—I had not played organized sports except for one year little league in 6^th grade.

In junior high I was somehow not really interested.

In this year I found a desire to emulate my daddy whom in the late 1940s growing up in Seattle, Washington, had followed his brother Ed. Both were well known for their athletic abilities on the gridiron.

When I told daddy I was going to try out, all he said was, “Give it your best, son!” No coaching, no ‘atta-boys’. Just, give-it-your-best.

Well, after several days of 2-a-days, the Maryland August heat and my perception of my progress, in sizing myself up to the competition, was seemingly not looking good for the son of a good, all-around athlete.

As I had to walk home after morning practice and back again in the mid-day heat for the second practice, a one-way trip was about two miles. This, considering I had to follow streets that wound through two distinct neighborhoods.

On this particular lunch before returning, I rashly decided I did not have the ‘right stuff’. I went downstairs to my room in the basement and put on my records. I lay down on my bed seemingly satisfied with my decision.

As I looked at the clock, the time told me that the candidates for the new football season were sweating, out of breath, doing endless grass drills and sprints, being screamed at. Me, relaxed, cool, lying on my most comfortable bed listening to tunes, my basset hound Brit next to me.

I heard the front door upstairs shut, the noises in the kitchen then steps coming down stairs. I figured it momma; I would tell her first, she feared for my safety. She would be most accepting of my decision.

As the accordion style door to my room slid back, I had sat up to greet momma. But it was daddy home early. With his easy manner and soft, kind eyes he asked, “No football this afternoon?”

I stammered, not yet prepared how I would tell daddy. I thought I had until evening to compose words for him as to my decision. “No!” I stammered, “I mean…I guess I’ve quit, daddy.”

“Quit. Well it’s your decision, son. Is that your best?” “Yeah,” I said. “I’m not good enough, daddy. Most of them have played tackle football since elementary.”

“Well, as long as you have thought it out and it’s what you really want.” He turned toward the door and stopped, turned to me and said, “Clark, will you do me one favor?” “Sure,” I said, glad the last few moments went smoothly. “Son, go back at least one more time, I will drive you, and if tomorrow morning you feel the same, well then it’s your decision.”

My daddy knew my abilities and talents better than I.

I got to practice pretty late, coach Baker giving me hell, but I came back to each succeeding practice. When the final roster was posted, I found my name. I had measured up to my daddy’s yardstick.

(This yardstick that I alone created years before, scanning endlessly at his high school scrapbook, his pictures, running with the ball, scoring touchdowns, his name in every article for his efforts.)

I made the high school J.V. football team at the storied Robert E. Peary High. I had visions as a split-end catching passes, scoring touchdowns, but Coach Baker say my talents differently—defense. Defense?

Gap guard, there were two of them either side of the center. At the snap of the ball, I fill the gap between the offensive guard and the center, fire off the ball, and hopefully get through to tackle the running back or sack the quarterback.

Dean Cokas, a high school friend, was the other gap guard. Together we started every game and wreaked havoc, along with the other phenomenal defensive players of our J.V. team. We continued the tradition, 8-0 undefeated.

The first season over, I looked with optimism towards my junior year and making the varsity squad. My father, my daddy, Clark W. Coleman was responsible for a crucial, pivotal point in my life.

To you daddy, I miss you so very much. God surely has one of his finest back home.

Clark Ron Coleman, son of Clark W. Coleman

Next:  Junior Year