Robert E. Peary Football ’71-‘72

May 26

LisaGlory Days , , , , No Comments

A new football season, and with it came hope that I might make the varsity squad. Although I had acquainted myself well the previous season on the junior varsity squad, it had not, in anyway, paved a way for me on such a talented, traditionally rich, powerful team.

I felt once again, as in my sophomore year, inadequate. Even if I could make the squad, it was rare for many juniors to even start. The defense that I aspired to had man-beasts coming back as seniors—the likes of John Cornett, Bear Robinson, the Butcher brothers, just to name a few.

All seemed like grown men to me, but to my credit I had filled out since my sophomore year. I had put on more weight; I believe about 190 pounds now—up 15 pounds from the previous year—and 6 feet tall.

As summer 2-a-day practices began, I was, to my surprise, put to a new position from last year:  Defensive End. Coach Williams (a cool, smooth coach who always carried a 9-iron golf club around) was to be my coach.

During the middle of one particular practice, he pulled me aside and informed me as to his desires of how I could help the team. My speed and reckless-abandon hitting style had to be more controlled if I was to be his right defensive end. He conveyed to me his belief in me to do the job IF, throughout the coming weeks, I would meet these expectations.

With this I had hope to make the squad.

During the coming weeks, I gave over 100% in drills and scrimmage. The control of my high-octane motor became more controlled. In a 6-2 defensive, 6 down lineman and 2 linebackers, I was the last man to contain sweeps.

I could not afford to be sealed off. My job was to contain and turn everything ‘in’ if I could not make the tackle; or as a last resort, string it out to the sideline.

It slowly came. My new assignment came easy, but my intense nature in some scrimmages left me looking foolish more times than I care to remember. Many times I was grabbed by the facemask, both by coach and John Cornet (our captain), and chewed out.

John was one of our two linebackers. He was less than 6 feet tall, but pushed over 220 pounds. Bear, the other linebacker, was well over 6 feet and 235 pounds. Both devastating hitters and I aspired to their abilities. I wanted their approval—that would mean more than the coaches somehow.

As the season approached and summer wound down, the last cut was posted next to Coaches office. I held back as the hopefuls of the previous year clamored to see their name.

I remember our quarterback John Chase from the J.V. squad didn’t even look at the posting. He was the number one back up to Steve Matheson and would be playing safety on defense (he played both ways). I should also say, starting off defense, John was a most gifted athlete about 6’3”, 220 lbs., played all the major sports and started. He played quarterback in football, catcher in baseball and, I believe, the forward position in basketball.

I moved forward as the group found, or did not find as the case may be, their name. Dean Cokas, pulling away, told me I made it and that he had too. I smacked his shoulder and remember not believing him somehow. I had to see my name for myself.

As I scanned the positions, I saw ‘Defense’. There it was! My name! I remember wanting to cry, but didn’t. I also saw I was to be a starter at defensive end.

Unbeknownst to me, Coach Williams had been observing the hopefuls, golf club in hand, in the doorway. As I backed away, giving a audible sigh, I looked over at Coach, he smiled and gave me a ‘well-done’ wink. The he disappeared back into his office.

Water filled my eyes so I went into the bathroom stall to compose myself.

After the dust had settled, only a few juniors, as in past years, were starters. John Chase, Dean Cokas (who the previous year played beside me) at gap guard. At least he would see a lot of time. Jan Zlotnick, a fast, strong tailback and I believe Snyder at center. There might be another, but 37 years ago haze it a little.

We were a formidable looking team, vastly talented, big, even for today’s standards, in 4A/5A schools.

As the season progressed, we were the dominant team except for maybe Richard Montgomery High School, which always fielded good teams in Montgomery County. The Washington Post ranked the Washington, D.C. area schools of Northern Virginia, Southern Maryland teams throughout the season.

We were one, two or three every week.

If you remember the movie “Remember the Titans”, an integrated High School in Virginia, T.C. Williams was that High School and we vied with them that year for #1—the year so famously portrayed on film.

As the last game of season came, it had been mad clear that the championship would be the winner the Peary vs. Montgomery contest.[i] I should say here, Maryland did not have State Championship playoffs then, at least in Football. We were vying for Montgomery County Champions, our Super Bowl.

The week in preparation that would determine the champions, I was acutely aware of the meaning of what was at stake—Championship runs don’t come often. You can be a contender often as Peary was, but for me this was my chance.

Richard Montgomery High had a big, formidable team, much like ours, but they had a back named Summerall—big, powerful, bruising running back—at what I would guess 220 lbs. or more with tree trunk legs. We had to shut him down to be successful.

We knew we could contain the passing game with our D-backs, Chase, Forienger and the others. Even our body pounding linebackers were so very good in covering pass plays.

Through the week we prepared. I watched Summerall on film. God, he looked like an offensive guard! Once he got the speed up, which I must say was in the blink of an eye, he reminds me now of a running back that played for Cal. University last year and will be drafted this year.

My whole focus was Summerall. They liked to run the sweep, which would bring me into great importance:  contain him inside or string it out to the sideline till pursuit could close in.

He had a propensity to break off his protection and ‘cowboy’ it and make his own path of destruction. Summerall could also be destructive inside. Although I had no doubt Bear and John were more than a match he had seen before. I remember thinking they would be outside testing the ends on the upcoming Saturday.

As Saturday came round, it was a gorgeous fall afternoon. The bronze cast day that only autumn brings, 60-70 degrees. Game time:  2:00PM.

The guess-timate was 8,000 fans—seats maxed out. The crowd spilled over the hill on the home side of the field. This was Montgomery’s turf, the outskirts of the county seat—Rockville, Maryland. People spread 2-3 deep around the fencing. Being used to loud, large crowds, this was unlike I had been apart of before.

The bus ride to Richard Montgomery High School was only about 15-20 minutes, most of it on Viers Mill Rd. across Rockville Pike Rd. where the battle was to be contended.

During the Civil War a great army had come this way, perhaps on the very ground yet to be battled out that afternoon. The confederacy under General Stuart had flanked the union army and come between Washington, D.C. and the main fighting force, which had been shadowing Robert E. Lee in the Shenandoah Mountains. Stuart, though, had collected booty and such, and then proceeded north to link up via north of Gettysburg to fight an epic battle days later.

On this autumn day, it was two high schools.

We arrived with the usual silence on the bus, which was tradition. As soon as the bus left Peary, quiet was observed and time to contemplate one’s job and conviction of carrying it out.

As I disembarked the bus, I could see the pregame activities, the respective teams, fans, banners, bands. It was something to behold, even in my memory I’ve never been apart of something since.

We disappeared into the locker-room to put our gear on and have a last minute meeting.

I was not nervous, but strangely calm. Previous games I was good and nervous wanting to get that first good hit in. To get my game attitude adjusted. I did not doubt myself for the first time in high school football.

During pregame warm-ups, I saw what was around me for the first time. Previous pregame warm-ups, I never looked into the stands, only the football field. It was awe-inspiring. I felt chills. I thought, this is it, one game, one struggle, nothing would I leave on the field as far as effort.

The game, as a spectator, was boring I’m guessing. It was a supreme struggle between the 30-yard lines for the most part. I was hammered like never before. I yielded, but never broke. Summerall knocked me senseless at least twice.

He drove his knee into the side of my helmet as I strung him out to the sideline and out of bounds. The other time I slammed into him thinking I got lower then he, but he bested me and drove over the top. I heard the crash of his helmet square in the facemask.

I do not know how but as he ran over me I got an ankle and stopped a sure long gainer. As I foggily got up off the turf, I was smacked excitedly by Bear Robinson and heard him congratulating my effort. Summerall had caused the bottom of my facemask, Dick Butkus style—my favorite NFL player of all time) to contort in the shape of a ‘U’.

Bear and Cornet had shut them down inside. The D-backs had done their job. Our offense had struggled against their defense. The day had come down to a blocked field goal. We blocked their point after their touch down.

Score:  7-6, Robert E. Peary High. We were champions. I was a champion, one of my shining moments in the sun. The long cast autumn day at conclusion was glorious. I remember there was a photo taken that was in the paper and the yearbook. I’m sorry to say I do not remember his name, but he was an offensive guard wearing our navy blue jersey with red and white stripes around the bicep, white helmet with the husky emblazed on the side. He held the helmet high with one hand and gesturing with the other, #1.

I was a part of something special, something 2 years before, I never thought I would have been able to achieve. My daddy believed in me. Coach Williams believed in me. Now John Cornet and Bear Robinson now believed in me.

As life moved on, we fell to #2-3 as a team in the D.C. area, but in my heart and mind we were #1.

It was an experience, my first experience really played out in full, in human’s need to have belief in one another to accomplish a common goal.

To those of that year, it’s a gift I cherish to this day. I see your faces clearly at each position and all the supportive players who were cast. Each of you gave me a gift that now is even more special than ever. My life, such as it is, is mostly reflection of days past. Because of you and the dedication that year, it is a warm shining moment of pride in days of constant battle.

Thank you 1971-72 Huskies!

[i] Peary’s defense allowed less than 27 points that year, 1971-72.

Where Are Professional Athletes?

May 04

LisaRants , , , , 7 Comments

I grew up the son of an all around athlete and like him I came to appreciate the skill of a fine athlete—golfer, skier, bowler and, of course, America’s big three as well as all others. I loved to watch Wide World of Sports, the ESPN of the 60s and 70s.

As to my distain, I will highlight football, but it spreads to all areas in theses times we live, which I refer to as the “Me Era”.

In my private moments I secretly aspired to play pro football, but it ended in college. I would sit down Sunday, Monday and Thursday to watch football. It did not matter who played, I just wanted to watch football.

Yes, I had my favorite team; they being the Kansas City Chiefs. My favorite players were mostly defensive players, linebackers mostly. The top men were Dick Butkus, Chris Hanburger and Willie Lanier—football heros.

In those times you never saw players, or at least it was rare, showing-out after plays. To give a good lick was all that was needed. No Dance to seal-the-deal, as it were.

I watch defensive players of today run out to open ground and dance as they pump fists and contort their bodies—Look at what I did! Did you see that? That was me! See my number, dear fans, aren’t I great to make that tackle?!

Yeah, Sparky, It’s what you’re paid millions to do.

What of the poor performance on the 5 previous plays?? Did you point to yourself, separate yourself form the rest, hang your head and ask forgiveness? Not likely! You stayed hidden and slinked back to the huddle.

The persona of ‘tough guy’, the player who sucks it up and plays hurt is gone albeit a few. Every Sunday it’s  ‘He’s out for a few games for a strain, pull, a fracture this-and-that’ while he still banks millions for not performing!

It does not end there, if it were only so. The crying and whining is most tiring—calls by officials and refs leading to the tirades by players and coaches.

Quite becoming? Not even by a half, Mr. Professional! Today, I rarely watch football except for college. The professional, and I use the term with fingertips, has made me sour for antics of these self-indulgent prima donnas! So-called professionals!

I turn you to a sport steeped in this country’s tradition of the west, the cowboy sport of rodeo.

Within this sport there are athletes at a professional level who embody toughness, skill and mastery of body and beast. All live and perform by the still present code of the cowboy—the working cowboy—respect, courtesy.

They live in a life that’s real with real people, real events that are performed to this day on ranches that dot this country. The sport grew out of cowboy’s daily life.

Cowboy athletes performing in a rodeo event, whether bulldogging, bull riding, roping, saddle-bronc and the others, make their living off these individual event within the sport called rodeo. Cowgirls, too, are expanding beyond just barrel racing—They too, do I include here.

These are highly skilled athletes, and I stress athlete, for like their counter-parts in other sports, cowboys cross-train, lift weights and diets are constructed to maximize performance.

A cowboy pays his entrance fee each week to perform and a chance to earn a portion of the pot. If he performs well, he’s paid well. If he does not, his paychecks reflect the poor performance.

Sound as if something might be amiss in other sports?

A cowboy pays for his gas, meals, etc. to get to the next state, town and event the next week. He loads his horses, feeds and cares for them, maybe better then himself.

Bruises, pains, aches, fractures, strains and pulls must be tended to off his own earnings—And the previous weeks’ injuries must heal fast! Those that don’t, well, he must suck it up, or as it is said in cowboy parlance “Cowboy Up”, and perform well if he’s to make it to the pay window.

On and off the arena floor, a cowboy is expected to comport himself with respect for the judges, the fans, the animals and himself. If he fails in this regard, sanctions are quickly imposed—heavy fines—that can be a half a cowboy’s yearly earnings in some cases.

One cowboy was disqualified from competing for a year for bumping into a ref for what he deemed a poor call. In another case, a bull rider was fined $7,500 for throwing his head gear at a 1-ton bull (who probably thought a fly landed on him).

Bad form, as the Brits call it, is not tolerated and cowboys know that harsh penalties will ensue if they do. I read an article of a cowboy who lost a 3rd world championship and $8,000 to a call by an official.

Consistent calls are sought after, unlike other sports. The meaning of the event matters not as, say, basketball or football. The cowboy who lost the title and the cash didn’t rant and rave afterwards. (And by the way, it mattered not, the call stood in concrete, good or bad)

The cowboy watched the replays and saw as others, the call was so very close and he had met the criteria. As he put it in the cowboy way, “I” put myself in that position. If “I” had performed better the official, in that tough position, would not have had to make the call and “I” would have another world title and be $80,000 richer.

Geesh! Are you kidding me? Do you know the backlash in something similar? If it were football, baseball, basketball the furies of hell would have emerged from every crack in the earth.

America, there IS a pure professional athlete! He can be found in the American Rodeo and real heroes of the American Cowboy—both professional in the arena and out—are so much forgotten.

Robert E. Peary Football, ’70-’71

Mar 07

LisaGlory Days, In Memory of Clark Wesley Coleman , , , , 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 6th 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